A Private History of Happiness (15 page)

This private happiness in a moment of leisure contributed to her educational vision of introducing young women to “that art, which obliges us to study Nature, in order to imitate her [and] often enkindles the latent spark of taste—of sensibility for her beauties, till it glows to adoration for their Author, and a refined love of all His works.” She had gone beyond the kind of technical appreciation that would have been the educational orthodoxy of her time. This was the artistic vision that she wanted to share with her female students.

Jane Knox, belated honeymooner, writing in her diary

ROME
• APRIL 11,
1819

Went to see High Mass performed at St. Peter’s [Basilica], but were unable to stay all the time. But we saw the Pope give the Benediction from the front window, and he threw down two indulgences. This sight was an impressive one, the crowd being immense. In the evening we went to see St. Peter’s illuminated. We took up a position in our carriages. At first the partial illumination was not striking, but at eight o’clock the change took place almost instantaneously to a scene of the most dazzling brilliancy. It was done by machinery most ingeniously contrived by Michelangelo. Each lamp had been covered with oiled paper; this is removed, and the torches placed between are suddenly lighted. Directly after we had seen this we moved towards the Castle of San Angelo, but the crowd was so great that we could not reach it till near ten, when we got to a window and saw the fireworks of the Castle. They were more magnificent than I can describe; impossible to imagine anything more beautiful. We next walked to the Trinita dei Monti [Renaissance church] to see the illumination from that height. The moonlight was bright, but it did not spoil the effect in the least.

Jane Knox was from a Scottish aristocratic family. Her husband, Edmond Knox, was the second son of aristocratic parents. Born Jane Sophia Hope-Vere in around 1790, she had experienced a difficult childhood despite her privileged background, since she was sent by her parents to be cared for by strangers who treated her harshly. When she encountered Edmond on a visit to London, she was soon won over by the young naval officer, recording on June 13, 1813: “I had an interview with Captain Knox before church. Engaged myself to him.” They married the same year, but due to his seafaring career, it was only in the autumn of 1818 that they embarked together on their extended “honeymoon” tour of the continent.

This April evening in 1819 comes from their travels in Italy. To begin with, the Knoxes were in rather a hurry. They were “unable to stay” for the whole of high mass at St. Peter’s. It was perhaps longer than they anticipated.

When evening fell, they returned to St. Peter’s, to see it illuminated. Their carriage was carefully parked to give the right view. But to start with, Jane Knox was surprised and disappointed at “the partial illumination.” They had come to see the magnificent lights. They expected something grand, but instead it all seemed rather dim and ordinary.

Eight o’clock struck. In an instant, the basilica burst into light, shining with “the most dazzling brilliancy.” That transformation brought about an equally instant change in her mood. Suddenly, the world was lit up, inside and out. Instead of being rushed and dissatisfied, prepared for potential disappointment, she was entranced.

Then, already happy, the couple set off to find a different spectacle—the fireworks at Castel Sant’Angelo. Once again, a note of complaint returned when people got in their way and “the crowd was so great that we could not reach it till near ten.” Eventually, Jane Knox found a good spot from which to see the promised fireworks, “more magnificent” than she had words to express. A world that so often fell below her expectations had for once surpassed them.

The couple then walked to the church Trinità dei Monti, atop the Spanish Steps. From here they could see the city lights below and also the moonlight up above. The shadow of a complaint passed through her mind as she wondered if the moonlight might “spoil the effect,” but it did not do so “in the least” on that happy evening.

After her uneasy childhood and the years of separation from her seafaring husband, Jane Knox was at peace, able to enjoy the sights and sounds of the great city on an evening of companionable exploration.

George Head, army officer and explorer, writing in his travel journal

PENETANGUISHENE, ONTARIO
• MARCH 6, 1815

In the morning the aspect of the country was altogether and totally changed. The snow was covered with a glassy coating of ice, and the whole of the bay was nearly frozen over. The pools of clear water the day before had been so large and numerous [. . .] and as there had been no wind in the night, the ice upon them was clear and good. Instead of my moccasins, I put on a pair of shoes, to which I had been for a long time unused, and going down to the bay, sat down upon a large stone to put on my skates. It was a lovely morning; the sun shone quite bright, while the frost was remarkably keen; and in a very few minutes I was carried rapidly along towards the opposite shore. The glow of exercise, the lively rattle of the skates, and the sensation produced by the fresh air, combined to embellish the novelty of the scene before me, as I ranged with unlimited freedom [over] the clear ice which extended all across the bay. Every object around me was unexplored, while I had the means of being conveyed, as it were on wings, from one to the other. I had been confined for many weeks, either sitting still half frozen in a carriage the whole of the day, or, since my arrival in the forest, completely weather-bound. For a long period I had never been thoroughly warm, only barely able to subdue cold, and had seldom during the whole day felt a dry stocking on my foot.

My blood was now in full circulation, and the interest I felt in every thing around me was so great, that the sun had nearly reached the tops of the trees before I thought of returning to my dwelling.

George Head was in his thirties, a British army officer who had served under General Wellington in the Peninsular War against Napoleon. He had been promoted to assistant commissary general in 1814 and put in charge of supplies for Wellington’s Third Army in Spain. Then, in October 1814, he was sent to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where he arrived in late November. The “passage of the river St. Lawrence
being already closed for the winter,” he journeyed overland to wintry Quebec and York (Toronto). His destination was the small settlement of Penetanguishene, on Georgian Bay, “where it was the object of Government to establish a naval and military post.”

On February 28, 1815, he and his party “came upon Gloucester Bay, and from there we reached that of Penetanguishene.” It was a day of satisfaction and relief: “Here, then, I was arrived!” They had covered many miles in one day’s travel across the icy land. But the relief soon gave way to further discomfort: “On stepping out of the sleigh I was immediately wet through, owing to sinking half way up my legs in melted snow.” They came to a cluster of cabins where he began, over the following days, the construction of his own cabin. He worked hard with an axe cutting down the trees himself alongside the workmen.

Having spent the preceding days in such toil, George Head awoke on March 6 to find the world transfigured by “a glassy coating of ice.” Sensing the special quality of this day, he took a break from his labors and, “going down to the bay, sat down upon a large stone” in order to put on his skates. Appreciation for the unique atmosphere of that “lovely morning” filled his journal entry. He set off skating across the ice where all sense of effort fell from him, as “in a very few minutes I was carried rapidly along,” making for the far shore. Liberated for a short while from his military duties, he could enjoy “the glow of exercise.” Small things made an intense impression, like the rattling of the skates. The conscientious officer felt for an interval the pure joy of “unlimited freedom.”

Gilbert White, curate and naturalist, writing in his diary

SELBORNE, HAMPSHIRE
• AUGUST 27, 1791

A fern owl this evening showed off in a very unusual and entertaining manner, by hawking round and round the circumference of my great spreading oak for twenty times following, keeping mostly close to the grass, but occasionally glancing up amidst the boughs of the tree. This amusing bird was then in pursuit of a brood of some particular Phalaena [moths] belonging to the oak, of which there are several sorts; and exhibited on the occasion a command of wing superior, I think, to that of the swallow itself.

When a person approaches the haunt of fern owls in an evening, they continue flying round the head of the obtruder; and by striking their wings together above their backs, in the manner that the pigeons called smiters are known to do, make a smart snap: perhaps at that time they are jealous for their young; and this noise and gesture are intended by way of menace.

Fern owls have attachment to oaks, no doubt on account of food; for the next evening we saw one again several times among the boughs of the same tree; but it did not skim round its stem over the grass, as on the evening before. In May these birds find the Scarabeus Melolontha [scarab beetle] on the oak; and the Scarabeus Solstitialis [scarab beetle] at midsummer. These peculiar birds can only be watched and observed for two hours in the twenty-four; and then in a dubious twilight an hour after sunset and an hour before sunrise.

Gilbert White was the curate of Selborne, a village in southern England. In earlier years, he had been a fellow of Oriel College, Oxford University, and a curate in several parishes. Now he was an elderly man who had lived in one place for three decades. He was a notable amateur naturalist, recording for many years the birds and other wildlife of his area. Although his book,
The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne
, later became a celebrated classic of nature writing, it is in his vast personal diary that he left a
most original and complete record of the day-to-day changes in the world around him.

On this August evening in 1791, the light was fading. This was a good time of day for him because he loved, above all things, to watch the birds on the trees, in the fields, and hedges of the countryside he had come to know so well. He had been keeping a careful record of the comings and goings of different species.

This evening he strolled down toward a favorite tree, “my great spreading oak,” that stood in his field at a distance from his house. There he noticed the owl. Expertly, he recognized the species—a fern owl. He knew all about them and their habits, like the way they swooped on intruders.

But he was not interested only in classifying various birds. He even recognized individuals and their personalities, like the “amusing bird” he encountered on this summer evening. He found character in this particular owl, without humanizing it or forgetting its true nature.

He stood quiet and watched as the bird went “hawking round and round,” encircling the trunk of the great oak as if it had been enchanted, staying mostly close to the ground, then suddenly dipping up.