As we rose from table, I noted Argus pearcht on y'e window-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh for as punctuallie as if he c'd tell the diall; and to please the good, patient bird, till the scullion broughte him his mess of garden-stuff, I fetched him some pulse, which he took from mine hand, taking good heede not to hurt me with his sharp beak. While I was feeding him, Erasmus came up, and asked me concerning Mercy Giggs; and I tolde him how that she was a friendlesse orphan, to whom deare father afforded protection and the run of y'e house; and tolde him of her gratitude, her meekness, her patience, her docilitie, her aptitude for alle goode works and alms-deeds; and how, in her little chamber, she improved eache spare moment in y'e way of studdy and prayer. He repeated "Friendlesse? she cannot be called friendlesse, who hath More for her protector, and his children for companions;' and then woulde heare more of her parents' sad story. Alsoe, would hear somewhat of Rupert Allington, and how father gained his law-suit. Alsoe, of Daisy, whose name he tooke to be y'e true abbreviation for Margaret, but I tolde him how that my step-sister, and Mercy, and I, being all three of a name, and I being alwaies called Meg, we had in sport given one the significative of her characteristic virtue, and the other that of y'e French Marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either pearl or daisy. And Chaucer, speaking of our English daisy, saith

"Si douce est la Marguerite."

* * * * *

Since y'e little wisdom I have capacitie to acquire, soe oft gives me y'e headache to distraction, I marvel not at Jupiter's payn in his head, when the goddess of wisdom sprang therefrom full growne.

This morn, to quiet y'e payn brought on by too busie application, Mr. Gunnell would have me close my book and ramble forth with Cecy into y'e fields. We strolled towards Walham Greene; and she was seeking for shepherd's purses and shepherd's needles, when she came running back to me, looking rather pale. I askt what had scared her, and she made answer that Gammer Gurney was coming along y'e hedge. I bade her set aside her fears; and anon we come up with Gammer, who was puling at y'e purple blossoms of y'e deadly night-shade. I sayd, "Gammer, to what purpose gather that weed? knowest not 'tis evill?"

She sayth, mumbling, "What God hath created, that call not thou evill."

"Well, but," quo' I, "'tis poison."

"Aye, and medicine, too," returns Gammer, "I wonder what we poor souls might come to, if we tooke nowt for our ails and aches but what we could buy o' the potticary. We've got noe Dr. Clement, we poor folks, to be our leech o' the household."

"But hast no feare," quo' I, "of an overdose?"

"There's manie a doctor," sayth she, with an unpleasant leer, "that hath given that at first. In time he gets his hand in; and I've had a plenty o' practice—thanks to self and sister."

"I knew not," quoth I, "that thou hadst a sister."

"How should ye, mistress," returns she, shortlie, "when ye never comes nigh us? We've grubbed on together this many a year."

"'Tis soe far," I returned, half ashamed.

"Why, soe it be," answers Gammer; "far from neighbours, far from church, and far from priest; howbeit, my old legs carries me to your house o' Fridays; but I know not whether I shall e'er come agayn—the rye bread was soe hard last time; it may serve for young teeth, and for them as has got none; but mine, you see, are onlie on the goe;" and she opened her mouth with a ghastly smile. "'Tis not," she added, "that I'm ungratefulle; but thou sees, mistress, I really can't eat crusts."

After a moment, I asked, "Where lies your dwelling?"

"Out by yonder," quoth she, pointing to a shapeless mass like a huge bird's nest in y'e corner of the field. "There bides poor Joan and I. Wilt come and looke within, mistress, and see how a Christian can die?"

I mutelie complyed, in spite of Cecy's pulling at my skirts. Arrived at y'e wretched abode, which had a hole for its chimney, and another for door at once and window, I found, sitting in a corner, propped on a heap of rushes, dried leaves, and olde rags, an aged sick woman, who seemed to have but a little while to live. A mug of water stoode within her reach; I saw none other sustenance; but, in her visage, oh, such peace!... Whispers Gammer with an awfulle look, "She sees 'em now!"

"Sees who?" quoth I.

"Why, angels in two long rows, afore y'e throne of God, a bending of themselves, this way, with theire faces to th' earth, and arms stretched out afore 'em."

"Hath she seen a priest?" quoth I.

"Lord love ye," returns Gammer, "what coulde a priest doe for her? She's is in heaven alreadie. I doubte if she can heare me." And then, in a loud, distinct voyce, quite free from her usuall mumping, she beganne to recite in English, "Blessed is every one that feareth y'e Lord, and walketh in his ways," etc.; which y'e dying woman hearde, although alreadie speechlesse; and reaching out her feeble arm unto her sister's neck, she dragged it down till their faces touched; and then, looking up, pointed at somewhat she aimed to make her see ... and we alle looked up, but saw noughte. Howbeit, she pointed up three severall times, and lay, as it were, transfigured before us, a gazing at some transporting sighte, and ever and anon turning on her sister looks of love; and, the while we stoode thus agaze, her spiritt passed away without even a thrill or a shudder. Cecy and I beganne to weepe; and, after a while, soe did Gammer; then, putting us forthe, she sayd, "Goe, children, goe; 'tis noe goode crying; and yet I'm thankfulle to ye for your teares."

I sayd, "Is there aught we can doe for thee?"

She made answer, "Perhaps you can give me tuppence, mistress, to lay on her poor eyelids and keep 'em down. Bless 'ee, bless 'ee! You're like y'e good Samaritan—he pulled out two-pence. And maybe, if I come to 'ee to-morrow, you'll give me a lapfulle of rosemarie, to lay on her poor corpse.... I know you've plenty. God be with 'ee, children; and be sure ye mind how a Christian can die."

Soe we left, and came home sober enow. Cecy sayth, "To die is not soe fearfulle, Meg, as I thoughte, but shoulde you fancy dying without a priest? I shoulde not; and yet Gammer sayd she wanted not one. Howbeit, for certayn, Gammer Gurney is noe witch, or she woulde not so prayse God."

To conclude, father, on hearing alle, hath given Gammer more than enow for her present needes; and Cecy and I are y'e almoners of his mercy.

* * * * *

June 24.

Yesternighte, being St. John's Eve, we went into town to see y'e mustering of y'e watch. Mr. Rastall had secured us a window opposite y'e King's Head, in Chepe, where theire M'ys. went in state to see the show. The streets were a marvell to see, being like unto a continuation of fayr bowres or arbours, garlanded acrosse and over y'e doors with greene birch, long fennel, orpin, St. John's wort, white lilies, and such like; with innumerable candles intersperst, the which, being lit up as soon as 'twas dusk, made the whole look like enchanted land; while at y'e same time, the leaping over bon-fires commenced, and produced shouts of laughter. The youths woulde have father goe downe and joyn 'em; Rupert, speciallie, begged him hard, but he put him off with, "Sirrah, you goosecap, dost think 'twoulde befitt y'e Judge of the Sheriffs' Court?"

At length, to y'e sound of trumpets, came marching up Cheapside two thousand of the watch, in white fustian, with the City badge; and seven hundred cressett bearers, eache with his fellow to supplie him with oyl, and making, with theire flaring lights, the night as cleare as daye. After 'em, the morris-dancers and City waites; the Lord Mayor on horseback, very fine, with his giants and pageants: and the Sheriff and his watch, and his giants and pageants. The streets very uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage delicious; the nighte ayre cool; and the stars shining brightly. Father and Erasmus had some astronomick talk; howbeit, methoughte Erasmus less familiar with y'e heavenlie bodies than father is. Afterwards, they spake of y'e King, but not over-freelie, by reason of y'e bargemen overhearing. Thence, to y'e ever-vext question of Martin Luther, of whome Erasmus spake in terms of earneste, yet qualifyde prayse.

"If Luther be innocent," quoth he, "I woulde not run him down by a wicked faction; if he be in error, I woulde rather have him reclaymed than destroyed; for this is most agreeable to the doctrine of our deare Lord and Master, who woulde not bruise y'e broken reede, nor quenche y'e smoaking flax." And much more to same purpose.

We younger folks felle to choosing our favourite mottoes and devices, in which y'e elders at length joyned us. Mother's was loyal—"Cleave to y'e crown though it hang on a bush." Erasmus's pithie—"Festina lente." William sayd he was indebted for his to St. Paul—"I seeke not yours, but you." For me, I quoted one I had seene in an olde countrie church, "Mieux etre que paroitre," which pleased father and Erasmus much.

* * * * *

Poor Erasmus caughte colde on y'e water last nighte, and keeps house to-daye, taking warm possets. 'Tis my week of housekeeping under mother's guidance, and I never had more pleasure in it: delighting to suit his taste in sweete things, which, methinks, all men like. I have enow of time left for studdy, when alle's done.

He hathe beene the best part of the morning in our academia, looking over books and manuscripts, taking notes of some, discoursing with Mr. Gunnell and others; and, in some sorte, interrupting our morning's work; but how pleasantlie! Besides, as father sayth, "varietie is not always interruption. That which occasionallie lets and hinders our accustomed studdies, may prove to y'e ingenious noe less profitable than theire studdies themselves."

They beganne with discussing y'e pronunciation of Latin and Greek, on which Erasmus differeth much from us, though he holds to our pronunciation of y'e theta. Thence, to y'e absurde partie of the Ciceronians now in Italie, who will admit noe author save Tully to be read nor quoted, nor anie word not in his writings to be used. Thence, to y'e Latinitie of y'e Fathers, of whose style he spake slightlie enow, but rated Jerome above Augustine. At length, to his Greek and Latin Testament, of late issued from y'e presse, and y'e incredible labour it hath cost him to make it as perfect as possible: on this subject he soe warmed, that Bess and I listened with suspended breath. "May it please God," sayth he, knitting ferventlie his hands, "to make it a blessing to all Christendom! I look for noe other reward. Scholars and believers yet unborn, may have reason to thank, and yet may forget Erasmus." He then went on to explain to Gunnell what he had much felt in want of, and hoped some scholar might yet undertake; to wit, a sort of Index Bibliorum, showing in how manie passages of holy writ occurreth anie given word, etc.; and he e'en proposed it to Gunnell, saying 'twas onlie y'e work of patience and industry, and mighte be layd aside, and resumed as occasion offered, and completed at leisure, to y'e great thankfullenesse of scholars. But Gunnell onlie smiled and shooke his head. Howbeit, Erasmus set forth his scheme soe playnlie, that I, having a pen in hand, did privilie note down alle y'e heads of y'e same, thinking, if none else w'd undertake it, why s'd not I? since leisure and industrie were alone required, and since 'twoulde be soe acceptable to manie, 'speciallie to Erasmus.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Continued from the April Number.



THE STOLEN FRUIT.—A STORY OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD.

On the 15th of August, 1777, two little girls of seven or eight years old were playing in a garden near Ajaccio in Corsica. After running up and down among the trees and flowers, one of them stopped the other at the entrance to a dark grotto under a rock.

"Eliza," she said, "don't go any further: it frightens me to look into that black cave."

"Nonsense! 'Tis only Napoleon's Grotto."

"This garden belongs to your uncle Fesch: has he given this dark hole to Napoleon?"

"No, Panoria; my great-uncle has not given him this grotto. But as he often comes and spends hours in it by himself, we all call it Napoleon's Grotto."

"And what can he be doing there?"

"Talking to himself."

"What about?"

"Oh, I don't know: a variety of things. But come, help me to gather a large bunch of flowers."

"Just now, when we were on the lower walk, you told me not to pull any, although there was abundance of sweet ones."

"Yes; but that was in my uncle the canon's garden.

"And are his flowers more sacred than those of uncle Fesch?"

"They are indeed, Panoria."

"And why?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but when any one wants to prevent our playing, they say, 'That will give your uncle the canon a headache!' When we are not to touch something, 'tis always, 'That belongs to the canon!' If we want to eat some fine fruit, 'Don't touch that; 'tis for your uncle the canon!' And even when we are praised or rewarded, 'tis always because the canon is pleased with us!"

"Is it because he is archdeacon of Ajaccio that people are so much afraid of him?"

"Oh, no, Panoria; but because he is our tutor. Papa is not rich enough to pay for masters to teach us, and he has not time to look after our education himself; so our uncle the canon teaches us every thing. He is not unkind, but he is very strict. If we don't know our lessons, he slaps us smartly."

"And don't you call that unkind, Eliza?"

"Not exactly. Do you never get a whipping yourself, Panoria?"

"No, indeed, Eliza. It is the Corsican fashion to beat children; but our family is Greek, and mamma says Greeks must not be beaten."

"Then I'm sure, Panoria, I wish I were a Greek; for 'tis very unpleasant to be slapped!"

"I dare say your brother Napoleon does not like it either."

"He is the only one of my brothers who does not cry or complain when he is punished. If you heard what a noise Joseph and Lucien make, you would fancy that uncle was flaying them alive!"

"But about Napoleon. What can he be talking about alone in the grotto?"

"Hush! Here he is! Let us hide ourselves behind this lilac-tree, and you'll hear."

"I see Severia coming to call us."

"Ah! it will take her an hour to gather ripe fruit for uncle the canon. We shall have time enough. Come!"

And the little girls, gliding between the rock and the overhanging shrubs, took up their position in perfect concealment.

The boy who advanced toward the grotto differed from the generality of children of his age in the size of his head, the massive form of his noble brow, and the fixed examining expression of his eyes. He walked slowly—looking at the bright blue sea—and unconscious that his proceedings were closely watched by two pair of little bright black eyes.

"Here I am my own master!" he said as he entered the grotto. "No one commands me here!" And seating himself royally on a bench within the dark entrance, he continued, "This is my birthday. I am eight years old to-day. I wish I lived among the Spartans, then I should be beyond the control of women; but now I have to obey such a number of people—old Severia among the rest. Ah, if I were the master!"

"Well, and if you were the master, what would you do?" cried Eliza, thrusting forward her pretty little head.

"First of all, I'd teach you not to come listening at doors," replied Napoleon, disconcerted at being overheard.

"But, brother, there's no door that I can see."

"No matter, you have been eaves-dropping all the same."

"Eliza!—Panoria!" cried a loud voice. "Where can these children have gone to?"

The young ladies came out of their leafy lurking-place in time to meet the little Bonapartes' nurse, Severia—a tall old woman, who carried on her arm a basket filled with the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and figs.

"A pear, Severia!" cried Napoleon, darting forward, and thrusting his hand into the basket.

"The saints forbid, child!" exclaimed Severia. "They are for your uncle the canon!"

"Ah!" said Napoleon, drawing back his hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung him.

Panoria burst out laughing.

"I never saw such people!" she said, as soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. "My uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the whole family. Is Severia afraid of him, too?"

"Not more than I am," said Napoleon, boldly.

"And yet you were afraid to take a pear?"

"Because I did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"Did not dare do it, Napoleon!"

"Did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"And if you wished it, would you do it?"

"Certainly I would."

"I think you are a boaster, Napoleon; and in your uncle's presence would be just as great a coward as Eliza or Pauline?"

"Come, children, follow me," said Severia, walking on.

"You think I am a coward?" whispered Eliza to her little friend. "Come into the house, and see if I don't eat as much of uncle's fruit as I please. Mamma is gone out to pay a visit, and will not be home until to-morrow."

"Then I'll help you," said Panoria. And the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the tempting fruit, followed Severia to the house.

Napoleon remained some time longer in his grotto; and when supper-time approached, he went into the house. Feeling very thirsty, he entered the dining-room, in which was a large cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept. Just as he was going in, he heard a noise: the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappearing through the open window. Instead, however, of looking after the fugitive, he went quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard. Then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket of fruit half empty! While, forgetting his thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit, considering who could have been the hardy thief, a voice behind him roused him from his reverie.

"What are you doing there, Napoleon? You know you are not permitted to help yourself to supper."

This was uncle the canon himself—a short, stout old man with a bald head, whose otherwise ordinary features were lighted up with the eagle glance which afterward distinguished his grand-nephew.

"I was not taking any thing, uncle," replied Napoleon. And then suddenly the idea occurring to him that he might be accused of having taken the fruit, the blood rushed hotly to his cheeks.

His confusion was so evident, that the canon said, "I hope you are not telling a falsehood, Napoleon?"

"I never tell falsehoods," said the boy, proudly.

"What were you doing?"

"I was thirsty; I came to get some water."

"No harm in that—and then, my boy?"

"That was all, uncle."

"Have you drunk the water?"

"No, uncle; not yet."

The archdeacon shook his head. "You came to drink, and you did not drink; that does not hang well together. Napoleon, take care. If you frankly confess your fault, whatever it may be, you shall be forgiven; but if you tell a lie, and persist in it, I warn you that I shall punish you severely."

The entrance of M. Bonaparte, M. Fesch, and Joseph, Napoleon's eldest brother, interrupted the conversation; and for some minutes the elder gentlemen spoke to each other on political subjects; when a sudden exclamation from Severia, as she opened the cupboard, attracted the attention of all.

"Santa Madona! who has taken the fruit?"

"This is the mystery discovered!" said the canon, turning toward Napoleon. "So you stole the fruit?"

"I never touched it," replied the boy.

"Call in the other children," said the archdeacon.

In a few minutes five beautiful children, three boys and two girls, formed a group round their father, who, looking at each one in turn, asked, "Which of you has taken the fruit that was gathered in your uncle the canon's garden?"

"I did not!" "Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried they all. But Eliza's voice was lower and less assured than those of the others.

"And you, Napoleon?"

"I have said, papa, that I did not do it."

"That's a falsehood!" exclaimed Severia, who, being an old domestic, took great liberties.

"If you were not a woman!" said Napoleon, shaking his small clenched hand at her.

"Silence! Napoleon," said his father, sternly.

"It must have been you, Napoleon," said Severia; "for after putting the fruit into the cupboard, I never left the ante-room, and not a soul passed through except the archdeacon and yourself. If he has not taken them—"

"I wish truly I had," said the old gentleman, "and then I should not have the grief of seeing one of my children persist in a lie."

"Uncle, I am not guilty," repeated Napoleon firmly.

"Do not be obstinate, but confess," said his father.

"Yes," added the canon; "'tis the only way to escape punishment."

"But I never touched the fruit—indeed, I did not."

"Napoleon," said his uncle, "I can not believe you. I shall give you five minutes; and if, at the end of that time, you do not confess, and ask for pardon, I shall whip you."

"A whip is for horses and dogs, not for children!" said the boy.

"A whip is for disobedient, lying children," replied his father.

"Then 'tis unjust to give it me, for I am neither a liar nor disobedient." So saying, Napoleon crossed his arms on his chest, and settled himself in a firm attitude.

Meantime his brothers and his sister Pauline came close to him, and whispered good-natured entreaties that he would confess.

"But how can I, when I have not done wrong?"

"So you are still obstinate?" said his uncle. And taking him by the arm, he led him into the next room. Presently the sound of sharp repeated blows was heard, but not a cry or complaint from the little sufferer.

Madame Bonaparte was away from home, and in the evening her husband went to meet her, accompanied by Joseph, Lucien, and Eliza. M. Fesch and the canon were also about to depart, and in passing through the ante-room, they saw Napoleon standing, pale and grave, but proud, and firm-looking as before.

"Well, my child," said his father, "I hope you will now ask your uncle's pardon?"

"I did not touch the fruit, papa."

"Still obstinate! As the rod will not do, I shall try another method. Your mother, brothers, Eliza, and I, will be away for three days, and during that time you shall have nothing but bread and water, unless you ask your uncle's forgiveness."

"But, papa, won't you let him have some cheese with his bread?" whispered little Pauline.

"Yes, but not broccio."

"Ah do, papa, please let him have broccio 'tis the nicest cheese in Corsica!"

"That's the reason he does not deserve it," said his father, looking at the boy with an anxious expression, as if he hoped to see some sign of penitence on his face. But none such appearing, he proceeded toward the carriage.

Joseph and Lucien took a kind leave of their brother, but Eliza seemed unwilling and afraid to go near or look at him.

The three days passed on, heavily enough for poor Napoleon, who was in disgrace, and living on bread, water, and cheese, which was not broccio. At length the party returned, and little Panoria, who was watching for her friend Eliza, came with them into the house.

"Good-morning, uncle," said Madame Bonaparte to the archdeacon, "how are you? And where are Napoleon and Pauline?"

"Here I am, mamma," said the latter throwing her arms around her mother's neck.

"And Napoleon?"

"He is here," said the canon.

"Has he confessed?" asked his father.

"No," replied the uncle. "I never before witnessed such obstinacy."

"What has he done?" asked his mother.

The canon, in reply, related the story of the fruit; but before he could finish it, Panoria exclaimed—

"Of course, poor fellow, he would not confess what he never did!"

"And who did take the fruit?" asked the canon.

"I and Eliza," replied the little girl without hesitation.

There was a universal exclamation.

"My poor child," said the archdeacon, embracing Napoleon tenderly, "why did you not undeceive us?"

"I suspected it was Eliza," replied Napoleon; "but I was not sure. At all events, I would not have told, for Panoria's sake, who is not a liar."

The reader may imagine how Napoleon was caressed and rewarded to make him amends for the pain he had unjustly suffered. As to Eliza, she was severely and rightly punished: first for her gluttony; and then for what was much worse—her cowardice and deceit in allowing her innocent brother to suffer for her fault.



WILBERFORCE AND CHALMERS.

I have seldom observed a more amusing and pleasing contrast between two great men than between Wilberforce and Chalmers. Chalmers is stout and erect, with a broad countenance—Wilberforce minute, and singularly twisted: Chalmers, both in body and mind, moves with, a deliberate step—Wilberforce, infirm as he is in his advanced years, flies about with astonishing activity, and while, with nimble finger, he seizes on every thing that adorns or diversifies his path, his mind flits from object to object with unceasing versatility. I often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy to particular animals: Chalmers is like a good-tempered lion—Wilberforce is like a bee: Chalmers can say a pleasant thing now and then, and laugh when he has said it, and he has a strong touch of humor in his countenance, but in general he is grave, his thoughts grow to a great size before they are uttered—Wilberforce sparkles with life and wit, and the characteristic of his mind is "rapid productiveness." A man might be in Chalmers's company for an hour, especially in a party, without knowing who or what he was—though in the end he would be sure to be detected by some unexpected display of powerful originality. Wilberforce, except when fairly asleep, is never latent. Chalmers knows how to vail himself in a decent cloud—Wilberforce is always in sunshine. Seldom, I believe, has any mind been more strung to a perpetual tune of love and praise. Yet these persons, distinguished as they are from the world at large, and from each other, present some admirable points of resemblance. Both of them are broad thinkers, and liberal feelers; both of them are arrayed in humility, meekness, and charity: both appear to hold self in little reputation: above all, both love the Lord Jesus Christ, and reverently acknowledge him to be their only Saviour.—Hanna's Memoirs of Chalmers.



MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

(Continued from page 698.)

CHAPTER XIII.

Mr. Dale had been more than a quarter of an hour conversing with Mrs. Avenel, and had seemingly made little progress in the object of his diplomatic mission, for now, slowly drawing on his gloves, he said,

"I grieve to think, Mrs. Avenel, that you should have so hardened your heart—yes—you must pardon me—it is my vocation to speak stern truths. You can not say that I have not kept faith with you, but I must now invite you to remember that I specially reserved to myself the right of exercising a discretion to act as I judged best, for the child's interests, on any future occasion; and it was upon this understanding that you gave me the promise, which you would now evade, of providing for him when he came into manhood."

"I say I will provide for him. I say that you may 'prentice him in any distant town, and by-and-by we will stock a shop for him. What would you have more, sir, from folks like us, who have kept shop ourselves? It ain't reasonable what you ask, sir?"

"My dear friend," said the Parson, "what I ask of you at present is but to see him—to receive him kindly—to listen to his conversation—to judge for yourselves. We can have but a common object—that your grandson should succeed in life, and do you credit. Now, I doubt very much whether we can effect this by making him a small shopkeeper."

"And has Jane Fairfield, who married a common carpenter, brought him up to despise small shopkeepers?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, angrily.

"Heaven forbid! Some of the first men in England have been the sons of small shopkeepers. But is it a crime in them, or their parents, if their talents have lifted them into such rank or renown as the haughtiest duke might envy? England were not England if a man must rest where his father began."

"Good!" said, or rather grunted, an approving voice, but neither Mrs. Avenel nor the Parson heard it.

"All very fine," said Mrs. Avenel, bluntly. "But to send a boy like that to the university—where's the money to come from?"

"My dear Mrs. Avenel," said the Parson, coaxingly, "the cost need not be great at a small college at Cambridge; and if you will pay half the expense, I will pay the other half. I have no children of my own, and can afford it."

"That's very handsome in you, sir," said Mrs. Avenel, somewhat touched, yet still not graciously. "But the money is not the only point."

"Once at Cambridge," continued Mr. Dale, speaking rapidly, "at Cambridge, where the studies are mathematical—that is, of a nature for which he has shown so great an aptitude—and I have no doubt he will distinguish himself; if he does, he will obtain, on leaving, what is called a fellowship—that is a collegiate dignity accompanied by an income on which he could maintain himself until he made his way in life. Come, Mrs. Avenel, you are well off; you have no relations nearer to you in want of your aid. Your son, I hear, has been very fortunate."

"Sir," said Mrs. Avenel, interrupting the Parson, "it is not because my son Richard is an honor to us, and is a good son, and has made his fortin, that we are to rob him of what we have to leave, and give it to a boy whom we know nothing about, and who, in spite of what you say, can't bring upon us any credit at all."

"Why? I don' see that."

"Why?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, fiercely—"why? you know why. No, I don't want him to rise in life: I don't want folks to be speiring and asking about him. I think it is a very wicked thing to have put fine notions in his head, and I am sure my daughter Fairfield could not have done it herself. And now, to ask me to rob Richard, and bring out a great boy—who's been a gardener, or plowman, or such like—to disgrace a gentleman who keeps his carriage, as my son Richard does—I would have you to know, sir, no! I won't do it, and there's an end to the matter."

During the last two or three minutes, and just before that approving "good" had responded to the Parson's popular sentiment, a door communicating with an inner room had been gently opened, and stood ajar; but this incident neither party had even noticed. But now the door was thrown boldly open, and the traveler whom the Parson had met at the inn walked up to Mr. Dale, and said, "No! that's not the end of the matter. You say the boy's a 'cute clever lad?"

"Richard, have you been listening?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel.

"Well, I guess, yes—the last few minutes."

"And what have you heard?"

"Why, that this reverend gentleman thinks so highly of my sister Fairfield's boy that he offers to pay half of his keep at college. Sir, I'm very much obliged to you, and there's my hand, if you'll take it."

The Parson jumped up, overjoyed, and, with a triumphant glance toward Mrs. Avenel, shook hands heartily with Mr. Richard.

"Now," said the latter, "just put on your hat, sir, and take a stroll with me, and we'll discuss the thing business-like. Women don't understand business; never talk to women on business."

With these words, Mr. Richard drew out a cigar-case, selected a cigar, which he applied to the candle, and walked into the hall.

Mrs. Avenel caught hold of the Parson. "Sir, you'll be on your guard with Richard. Remember your promise."

"He does not know all, then?"

"He? No! And you see he did not overhear more than what he says. I'm sure you're a gentleman, and won't go agin your word."

"My word was conditional; but I will promise you never to break the silence without more reason than I think there is here for it. Indeed, Mr. Richard Avenel seems to save all necessity for that."

"Are you coming, sir?" cried Richard, as he opened the street door.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Parson joined Mr. Richard Avenel on the road. It was a fine night, and the moon clear and shining.

"So, then," said Mr. Richard thoughtfully, "poor Jane, who was always the drudge of the family, has contrived to bring up her son well; and the boy is really what you say, eh?—could make a figure at college?"

"I am sure of it," said the Parson, hooking himself on to the arm which Mr. Avenel proffered.

"I should like to see him," said Richard. "Has he any manner? Is he genteel? or a mere country lout?"

"Indeed he speaks with so much propriety, and has so much modest dignity, I might say, about him, that there's many a rich gentleman who would be proud of such a son."

"It is odd," observed Richard, "what difference there is in families. There's Jane now—who can't read nor write, and was just fit to be a workman's wife—had not a thought above her station; and when I think of my poor sister Nora—you would not believe it, sir, but she was the most elegant creature in the world—yes, even as a child (she was but a child when I went off to America). And often, as I was getting on in life, often I used to say to myself, 'My little Nora shall be a lady after all.' Poor thing—but she died young."

Richard's voice grew husky.

The Parson kindly pressed the arm on which he leaned, and said, after a pause,

"Nothing refines us like education, sir. I believe your sister Nora had received much instruction, and had the talents to profit by it; it is the same with your nephew."

"I'll see him," said Richard, stamping his foot firmly on the ground, "and if I like him, I'll be as good as a father to him. Look you, Mr. —— what's your name, sir?"

"Dale."

"Mr. Dale, look you, I'm a single man. Perhaps I may marry some day; perhaps I shan't. I'm not going to throw myself away. If I can get a lady of quality, why—but that's neither here nor there; meanwhile, I should be glad of a nephew whom I need not be ashamed of. You see, sir, I'm a new man, the builder of my own fortunes; and, though I have picked up a little education—I don't well know how—as I scrambled on, still, now I come back to the old country I'm well aware that I am not exactly a match for those d——d aristocrats; don't show so well in a drawing-room as I could wish. I could be a Parliament man if I liked, but I might make a goose of myself; so, all things considered, if I can get a sort of junior partner to do the polite work, and show off the goods, I think the house of Avenel & Co. might become a pretty considerable honor to the Britishers. You understand me, sir?"

"Oh, very well," answered Mr. Dale smiling, though rather gravely.

"Now," continued the New Man, "I'm not ashamed to have risen in life by my own merits; and I don't disguise what I've been. And, when I'm in my own grand house, I'm fond of saying, 'I landed at New York with L10 in my purse, and here I am!' But it would not do to have the old folks with me. People take you with all your faults, if you're rich; but they won't swallow your family into the bargain. So if I don't have my own father and mother, whom I love dearly, and should like to see sitting at table, with my servants behind their chairs, I could still less have sister Jane. I recollect her very well, and she can't have got genteeler as she's grown older. Therefore I beg you'll not set her on coming after me; it won't do by any manner of means. Don't say a word about me to her. But send the boy down here to his grandfather, and I'll see him quietly, you understand."

"Yes, but it will be hard to separate her from the boy."

"Stuff! all boys are separated from their parents when they go into the world. So that's settled! Now, just tell me. I know the old folks always snubbed Jane—that is, mother did. My poor dear father never snubbed any of us. Perhaps mother has not behaved altogether well to Jane. But we must not blame her for that; you see this is how it happened. There were a good many of us, while father and mother kept shop in the High-street, so we were all to be provided for anyhow; and Jane, being very useful and handy at work, got a place when she was a little girl, and had no time for learning. Afterward my father made a lucky hit, in getting my Lord Lansmere's custom after an election, in which he did a great deal for the Blues (for he was a famous electioneerer, my poor father). My Lady stood godmother to Nora; and then most of my brothers and sisters died off, and father retired from business; and when he took Jane from service, she was so common-like that mother could not help contrasting her with Nora. You see Jane was their child when they were poor little shop-people, with their heads scarce above water; and Nora was their child when they were well off, and had retired from trade, and lived genteel: so that makes a great difference. And mother did not quite look on her as her own child. But it was Jane's own fault; for mother would have made it up with her if she had married the son of our neighbor the great linendraper, as she might have done; but she would take Mark Fairfield, a common carpenter. Parents like best those of their children who succeed best in life. Natural. Why, they did not care for me till I came back the man I am. But to return to Jane: I'm afraid they've neglected her. How is she off?"

"She earns her livelihood, and is poor, but contented."

"Ah, just be good enough to give her this," (and Richard took a bank-note of L50 from his pocket-book). "You can say the old folks sent it to her; or that it is a present from Dick, without telling her he had come back from America."

"My dear sir," said the Parson, "I am more and more thankful to have made your acquaintance. This is a very liberal gift of yours; but your best plan will be to send it through your mother. For, though I don't want to betray any confidence you place in me, I should not know what to answer if Mrs. Fairfield began to question me about her brother. I never had but one secret to keep, and I hope I shall never have another. A secret is very like a lie!"

"You had a secret, then," said Richard, as he took back the bank-note. He had learned, perhaps, in America, to be a very inquisitive man. He added point-blank, "Pray what was it?"

"Why, what it would not be if I told you," said the Parson, with a forced laugh—"a secret!"

"Well, I guess we're in a land of liberty—do as you like. Now, I dare say you think me a very odd fellow to come out of my shell to you in this off-hand way. But I liked the look of you, even when we were at the inn together. And just now I was uncommonly pleased to find that, though you are a Parson, you don't want to keep a man's nose down to a shop-board, if he has any thing in him. You're not one of the aristocrats—"

"Indeed," said the Parson, with imprudent warmth, "it is not the character of the aristocracy of this country to keep people down. They make way among themselves for any man, whatever his birth, who has the talent and energy to aspire to their level. That's the especial boast of the British constitution, sir!"

"Oh, you think so, do you?" said Mr. Richard, looking sourly at the Parson. "I dare say those are the opinions in which you have brought up the lad. Just keep him yourself, and let the aristocracy provide for him!"

The Parson's generous and patriotic warmth evaporated at once, at this sudden inlet of cold air into the conversation. He perceived that he had made a terrible blunder; and, as it was not his business at that moment to vindicate the British constitution, but to serve Leonard Fairfield, he abandoned the cause of the aristocracy with the most poltroon and scandalous abruptness. Catching at the arm which Mr. Avenel had withdrawn from him, he exclaimed:

"Indeed, sir, you are mistaken; I have never attempted to influence your nephew's political opinions. On the contrary, if, at his age, he can be said to have formed any opinion, I am greatly afraid—that is, I think his opinions are by no means sound—that is, constitutional. I mean, I mean—" And the poor Parson, anxious to select a word that would not offend his listener, stopped short in lamentable confusion of idea.

Mr. Avenel enjoyed his distress for a moment, with a saturnine smile, and then said,

"Well, I calculate he's a Radical. Natural enough, if he has not got a sixpence to lose—all come right by-and-by. I'm not a Radical—at least not a destructive—much too clever a man for that, I hope. But I wish to see things very different from what they are. Don't fancy that I want the common people, who've got nothing, to pretend to dictate to their betters, because I hate to see a parcel of fellows, who are called lords and squires, trying to rule the roast. I think, sir, that it is men like me who ought to be at the top of the tree! and that's the long and short of it. What do you say?"

"I've not the least objection," said the crest-fallen Parson, basely. But, to do him justice, I must add that he did not the least know what he was saying!

CHAPTER XV.

Unconscious of the change in his fate which the diplomacy of the Parson sought to effect, Leonard Fairfield was enjoying the first virgin sweetness of fame; for the principal town in his neighborhood had followed the then growing fashion of the age, and set up a Mechanics' Institute; and some worthy persons interested in the formation of that provincial Athenaeum had offered a prize for the best Essay on the Diffusion of Knowledge—a very trite subject, on which persons seem to think they can never say too much, and on which there is, nevertheless, a great deal yet to be said. This prize Leonard Fairfield had recently won. His Essay had been publicly complimented by a full meeting of the Institute; it had been printed at the expense of the Society, and had been rewarded by a silver medal—delineative of Apollo crowning Merit (poor Merit had not a rag to his back; but Merit, left only to the care of Apollo, never is too good a customer to the tailor!) And the County Gazette had declared that Britain had produced another prodigy in the person of Dr. Riccabocca's self-educated gardener.

Attention was now directed to Leonard's mechanical contrivances. The Squire, ever eagerly bent on improvements, had brought an engineer to inspect the lad's system of irrigation, and the engineer had been greatly struck by the simple means by which a very considerable technical difficulty had been overcome. The neighboring farmers now called Leonard "Mr. Fairfield," and invited him on equal terms to their houses. Mr. Stirn had met him on the high road, touched his hat, and hoped that "he bore no malice." All this, I say, was the first sweetness of fame; and if Leonard Fairfield comes to be a great man, he will never find such sweets in the after fruit. It was this success which had determined the Parson on the step which he had just taken, and which he had long before anxiously meditated. For, during the last year or so, he had renewed his old intimacy with the widow and the boy; and he had noticed, with great hope and great fear, the rapid growth of an intellect, which now stood out from the lowly circumstances that surrounded it in bold and unharmonizing relief.

It was the evening after his return home that the Parson strolled up to the Casino. He put Leonard Fairfield's Prize Essay in his pocket. For he felt that he could not let the young man go forth into the world without a preparatory lecture, and he intended to scourge poor Merit with the very laurel wreath which it had received from Apollo. But in this he wanted Riccabocca's assistance: or rather, he feared that, if he did not get the Philosopher on his side, the Philosopher might undo all the work of the Parson.

CHAPTER XVI.

A sweet sound came through the orange boughs, and floated to the ears of the Parson, as he wound slowly up the gentle ascent—so sweet, so silvery, he paused in delight—unaware, wretched man! that he was thereby conniving at Papistical errors. Soft it came, and sweet: softer and sweeter—"Ave Maria!" Violante was chanting the evening hymn to the Virgin Mother. The Parson at last distinguished the sense of the words, and shook his head with the pious shake of an orthodox Protestant. He broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy step. Gaining the terrace, he found the little family seated under an awning. Mrs. Riccabocca knitting; the Signor with his arms folded on his breast: the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen on the ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy. Violante had finished her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two, pillowing her head on her step-mother's lap, but with her hand resting on her father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face.

"Good evening," said Mr. Dale. Violante stole up to him, and, pulling him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, "Talk to papa, do—and cheerfully; he is sad."

She escaped from him, as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. But she kept her swimming, lustrous eyes wistfully on her father.

"How fares it with you, my dear friend?"' said the Parson, kindly, as he rested his hand on the Italian's shoulder. "You must not let him get out of spirits, Mrs. Riccabocca."

"I am very ungrateful to her if I ever am so," said the poor Italian, with all his natural gallantry. Many a good wife, who thinks it is a reproach to her if her husband is ever "out of spirits," might have turned peevishly from that speech more elegant than sincere, and so have made bad worse. But Mrs. Riccabocca took her husband's proffered hand affectionately, and said with great naivete—

"You see I am so stupid, Mr. Dale; I never knew I was so stupid till I married. But I am very glad you are come. You can get on some learned subject together, and then he will not miss so much his—"

"His what?" asked Riccabocca inquisitively.

"His country. Do you think that I can not sometimes read your thoughts?"

"Very often. But you did not read them just then. The tongue touches where the tooth aches, but the best dentist can not guess at the tooth unless one opens one's mouth.—Basta! Can we offer you some wine of our own making, Mr. Dale? it is pure."

"I'd rather have some tea," quoth the Parson hastily.

Mrs. Riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. And the Parson, sliding into her chair, said:

"But you are dejected, then? Fie! If there's a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness."

"I don't dispute it," said Riccabocca, with a heavy sigh. "But though it is said by some Greek, who, I think, is quoted by your favorite Seneca, that a wise man carries his country with him at the soles of his feet, he can't carry also the sunshine."

"I tell you what it is," said the Parson, bluntly. "You would have a much keener sense of happiness if you had much less esteem for philosophy."

"Cospetto!" said the Doctor, rousing himself. "Just explain, will you?"

"Does not the search after wisdom induce desires not satisfied in this small circle to which your life is confined? It is not so much your country for which you yearn, as it is for space to your intellect, employment for your thoughts, career for your aspirations."

"You have guessed at the tooth which aches," said Riccabocca, with admiration.

"Easy to do that," answered the Parson. "Our wisdom teeth come last, and give us the most pain. And if you would just starve the mind a little, and nourish the heart more, you would be less of a philosopher, and more of a—" The Parson had the word "Christian" at the tip of his tongue: he suppressed a word that, so spoken, would have been exceedingly irritating, and substituted, with inelegant antithesis, "and more of a happy man!"

"I do all I can with my heart," quoth the Doctor.

"Not you! For a man with such a heart as yours should never feel the want of the sunshine. My friend, we live in an age of over mental cultivation. We neglect too much the simple, healthful outer life, in which there is so much positive joy. In turning to the world within us, we grow blind to this beautiful world without; in studying ourselves as men, we almost forget to look up to heaven, and warm to the smile of God."

The philosopher mechanically shrugged his shoulders, as he always did when another man moralized—especially if the moralizer were a priest; but there was no irony in his smile, as he answered thoughtfully;

"There is some truth in what you say. I own that we live too much as if we were all brain. Knowledge has its penalties and pains, as well as its prizes."

"That is just what I want you to say to Leonard."

"How have you settled the object of your journey?"

"I will tell you as we walk down to him after tea. At present, I am rather too much occupied with you."

"Me? The tree is formed—try only to bend the young twig!"

"Trees are trees, and twigs twigs," said the Parson, dogmatically; "but man is always growing till he falls into the grave. I think I have heard you say that you once had a narrow escape of a prison?"

"Very narrow."

"Just suppose that you were now in that prison, and that a fairy conjured up the prospect of this quiet home in a safe land; that you saw the orange-trees in flower, felt the evening breeze on your cheek; beheld your child gay or sad, as you smiled or knit your brow; that within this phantom home was a woman, not, indeed all your young romance might have dreamed of, but faithful and true, every beat of her heart all your own—would you not cry from the depth of the dungeon, 'O fairy! such a change were a paradise.' Ungrateful man! you want interchange for your mind, and your heart should suffice for all!"

Riccabocca was touched and silent.

"Come hither, my child," said Mr. Dale, turning round to Violante, who still stood among the flowers, out of hearing, but with watchful eyes. "Come hither," he said, opening his arms.

Violante bounded forward, and nestled to the good man's heart.

"Tell me, Violante, when you are alone in the fields or the garden, and have left your father looking pleased and serene, so that you have no care for him at your heart—tell me, Violante, though you are all alone, with the flowers below and the birds singing overhead, do you feel that life itself is happiness or sorrow?"

"Happiness!" answered Violante, half shutting her eyes, and in a measured voice.

"Can you explain what kind of happiness it is?"

"Oh, no, impossible! and it is never the same. Sometimes it is so still—so still—and sometimes so joyous, that I long for wings to fly up to God, and thank him!"

"O, friend," said the Parson, "this is the true sympathy between life and nature, and thus we should feel ever, did we take more care to preserve the health and innocence of a child. We are told that we must become as children to enter into the kingdom of heaven; methinks we should also become as children to know what delight there is in our heritage of earth!"

CHAPTER XVII.

The maid-servant (for Jackeymo was in the fields) brought the table under the awning, and, with the English luxury of tea, there were other drinks as cheap and as grateful on summer evenings—drinks which Jackeymo had retained and taught from the customs of the south—unebriate liquors, pressed from cooling fruits, sweetened with honey, and deliciously iced; ice should cost nothing in a country in which one is frozen up half the year! And Jackeymo, too, had added to our good, solid, heavy English bread, preparations of wheat much lighter, and more propitious to digestion—with those crisp grissins, which seem to enjoy being eaten, they make so pleasant a noise between one's teeth.

The Parson esteemed it a little treat to drink tea with the Riccaboccas. There was something of elegance and grace in that homely meal, at the poor exile's table, which pleased the eye as well as taste. And the very utensils, plain Wedgewood though they were, had a classical simplicity, which made Mrs. Hazeldean's old India delf, and Mrs. Dale's best Worcester china, look tawdry and barbarous in comparison. For it was Flaxman who gave designs to Wedgewood, and the most truly refined of all our manufactures in porcelain (if we do not look to the mere material) is in the reach of the most thrifty.

The little banquet was at first rather a silent one; but Riccabocca threw off his gloom, and became gay and animated. Then poor Mrs. Riccabocca smiled, and pressed the grissins; and Violante, forgetting all her stateliness, laughed and played tricks on the Parson, stealing away his cup of warm tea when his head was turned, and substituting iced cherry-juice. Then the Parson got up and ran after Violante, making angry faces, and Violante dodged beautifully, till the Parson, fairly tired out, was too glad to cry "Peace," and come back to the cherry-juice. Thus time rolled on, till they heard afar the stroke of the distant church-clock, and Mr. Dale started up and cried, "But we shall be too late for Leonard. Come, naughty little girl, get your father his hat."

"And umbrella!" said Riccabocca, looking up at the cloudless moonlit sky.

"Umbrella against the stars?" asked the Parson, laughing.

"The stars are no friends of mine," said Riccabocca, "and one never knows what may happen!"

The Philosopher and the Parson walked on amicably.

"You have done me good," said Riccabocca, "but I hope I am not always so unreasonably melancholic as you seem to suspect. The evenings will sometimes appear long, and dull too, to a man whose thoughts on the past are almost his sole companions."

"Sole companions?—your child?"

"She is so young."

"Your wife?"

"She is so—," the bland Italian appeared to check some disparaging adjective, and mildly added, "so good, I allow; but you must own that we can not have much in common."

"I own nothing of the sort. You have your house and your interests, your happiness and your lives, in common. We men are so exacting, we expect to find ideal nymphs and goddesses when we condescend to marry a mortal; and if we did, our chickens would be boiled to rags, and our mutton come up as cold as a stone."

"Per Bacco, you are an oracle," said Riccabocca, laughing. "But I am not so skeptical as you are. I honor the fair sex too much. There are a great many women who realize the ideal of men to be found in—the poets!"

"There's my dear Mrs. Dale," resumed the Parson, not heeding this sarcastic compliment to the sex, but sinking his voice into a whisper, and looking round cautiously—"there's my dear Mrs. Dale, the best woman in the world—an angel I would say, if the word was not profane; BUT—"

"What's the BUT" asked the Doctor demurely.

"BUT I too might say that 'we have not much in common,' if I were only to compare mind to mind, and, when my poor Carry says something less profound than Madame de Stael might have said, smile on her in contempt from the elevation of logic and Latin. Yet, when I remember all the little sorrows and joys that we have shared together, and feel how solitary I should have been without her—oh, then, I am instantly aware that there is between us in common something infinitely closer and better than if the same course of study had given us the same equality of ideas; and I was forced to brace myself for a combat of intellect, as I am when I fall in with a tiresome sage like yourself. I don't pretend to say that Mrs. Riccabocca is a Mrs. Dale," added the Parson, with lofty candor—"there is but one Mrs. Dale in the world; but still, you have drawn a prize in the wheel matrimonial! Think of Socrates, and yet he was content even with his—Xantippe!"

Dr. Riccabocca called to mind Mrs. Dale's "little tempers," and inly rejoiced that no second Mrs. Dale had existed to fall to his own lot. His placid Jemima gained by the contrast. Nevertheless, he had the ill grace to reply, "Socrates was a man beyond all imitation!—Yet I believe that even he spent very few of his evenings at home. But, revenons a nos moutons, we are nearly at Mrs. Fairfield's cottage, and you have not yet told me what you have settled as to Leonard."

The Parson halted, took Riccabocca by the button, and informed him, in very few words, that Leonard was to go to Lansmere to see some relations there, who had the fortune, if they had the will, to give full career to his abilities.

"The great thing, in the mean while," said the Parson, "would be to enlighten him a little as to what he calls—enlightenment."

"Ah!" said Riccabocca, diverted, and rubbing his hands, "I shall listen with interest to what you say on that subject."

"And must aid me; for the first step in this modern march of enlightenment is to leave the poor Parson behind; and if one calls out, 'Hold! and look at the sign-post,' the traveler hurries on the faster, saying to himself, 'Pooh, pooh!—that is only the cry of the Parson!' But my gentleman, when he doubts me, will listen to you—you're a philosopher!"

"We philosophers are of some use now and then, even to Parsons!"

"If you were not so conceited a set of deluded poor creatures already, I would say 'Yes,'" replied the Parson generously; and, taking hold of Riccabocca's umbrella, he applied the brass handle thereof, by way of a knocker, to the cottage door.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Certainly it is a glorious fever that desire To Know! And there are few sights in the moral world more sublime than that which many a garret might afford, if Asmodeus would bare the roofs to our survey—viz., a brave, patient, earnest human being, toiling his own arduous way, athwart the iron walls of penury, into the magnificent Infinite, which is luminous with starry souls.

So there sits Leonard, the self-taught, in the little cottage alone; for, though scarcely past the hour in which great folks dine, it is the hour in which small folks go to bed, and Mrs. Fairfield has retired to rest, while Leonard has settled to his books. He had placed his table under the lattice, and from time to time he looked up and enjoyed the stillness of the moon. Well for him that, in reparation for those hours stolen from night, the hardy physical labor commenced with dawn. Students would not be the sad dyspeptics they are, if they worked as many hours in the open air as my scholar-peasant. But even in him you could see that the mind had begun a little to affect the frame. They who task the intellect must pay the penalty with the body. Ill, believe me, would this work-day world get on if all within it were hard-reading, studious animals, playing the deuce with the ganglionic apparatus.

Leonard started as he heard the knock at the door; the Parson's well-known voice reassured him. In some surprise, he admitted his visitors.

"We are come to talk to you, Leonard," said Mr. Dale, "but I fear we shall disturb Mrs. Fairfield."

"Oh, no, sir! the door to the staircase is shut, and she sleeps soundly."

"Why, this is a French book—do you read French, Leonard?" asked Riccabocca.

"I have not found French difficult, sir. Once over the grammar, and the language is so clear; it seems the very language for reasoning."

"True. Voltaire said justly, 'Whatever is obscure is not French,'" observed Riccabocca.

"I wish I could say the same of English," muttered the Parson.

"But what is this?—Latin too?—Virgil?"

"Yes, sir. But I find I make little way there without a master. I fear I must give it up" (and Leonard sighed).

The two gentlemen exchanged looks and seated themselves. The young peasant remained standing modestly, and in his air and mien there was something that touched the heart while it pleased the eye. He was no longer the timid boy who had sunk from the frown of Mr. Stirn, nor that rude personation of simple physical strength, roused to undisciplined bravery, which had received its downfall on the village-green of Hazeldean. The power of thought was on his brow—somewhat unquiet still, but mild and earnest. The features had attained that refinement which is often attributed to race, but comes, in truth, from elegance of idea, whether caught from our parents or learned from books. In his rich brown hair, thrown carelessly from his temples, and curling almost to the shoulders in his large blue eye, which was deepened to the hue of the violet by the long dark lash—in that firmness of lip which comes from the grapple with difficulties, there was considerable beauty, but no longer the beauty of the mere peasant. And yet there was still about the whole countenance that expression of goodness and purity which a painter would give to his ideal of the peasant lover—such as Tasso would have placed in the Aminta, or Fletcher have admitted to the side of the Faithful Shepherdess.

"You must draw a chair here, and sit down between us, Leonard," said the Parson.

"If any one," said Riccabocca "has a right to sit, it is the one who is to hear the sermon; and if any one ought to stand, it is the one who is about to preach it."

"Don't be frightened, Leonard," said the Parson, graciously; "it is only a criticism, not a sermon," and he pulled out Leonard's Prize Essay.

CHAPTER XIX.

PARSON.—"You take for your motto this aphorism[8]—'Knowledge is Power.—Bacon.'"

RICCABOCCA.—"Bacon make such an aphorism! The last man in the world to have said any thing so pert and so shallow."

LEONARD (astonished).—"Do you mean to say, sir, that that aphorism is not in Lord Bacon! Why, I have seen it quoted as his in almost every newspaper, and in almost every speech in favor of popular education."

RICCABOCCA.—"Then that should be a warning to you never again to fall into the error of the would-be scholar—viz., quote second-hand. Lord Bacon wrote a great book to show in what knowledge is power, how that power should be defined, in what it might be mistaken. And, pray, do you think so sensible a man would ever have taken the trouble to write a great book upon the subject, if he could have packed up all he had to say into the portable dogma, 'Knowledge is power?' Pooh! no such aphorism is to be found in Bacon from the first page of his writings to the last."

PARSON (candidly).—"Well, I supposed it was Lord Bacon's, and I am very glad to hear that the aphorism has not the sanction of his authority."

LEONARD (recovering his surprise).—"But why so?"

PARSON.—"Because it either says a great deal too much, or just—nothing at all."

LEONARD.—"At least, sir, it seems to me undeniable."

PARSON.—"Well, grant that it is undeniable. Does it prove much in favor of knowledge? Pray, is not ignorance power too?"

RICCABOCCA.—"And a power that has had much the best end of the quarter-staff."

PARSON.—"All evil is power, and does its power make it any thing the better?"

RICCABOCCA.—"Fanaticism is power—and a power that has often swept away knowledge like a whirlwind. The Mussulman burns the library of a world—and forces the Koran and the sword from the schools of Byzantium to the colleges of Hindostan."

PARSON (bearing on with a new column of illustration).—"Hunger is power. The barbarians, starved out of their energy by their own swarming population, swept into Italy and annihilated letters. The Romans, however degraded, had more knowledge, at least, than the Gaul and the Visigoth."

RICCABOCCA (bringing up the reserve).—"And even in Greece, when Greek met Greek, the Athenians—our masters in all knowledge—were beat by the Spartans, who held learning in contempt."

PARSON.—"Wherefore you see, Leonard, that though knowledge be power, it is only one of the powers of the world; that there are others as strong, and often much stronger; and the assertion either means but a barren truism, not worth so frequent a repetition, or it means something that you would find it very difficult to prove."

LEONARD.—"One nation may be beaten by another that has more physical strength and more military discipline; which last, permit me to say, sir, is a species of knowledge—"

RICCABOCCA.—"Yes; but your knowledge-mongers at present call upon us to discard military discipline, and the qualities that produce it, from the list of the useful arts. And in your own essay, you insist upon knowledge as the great disbander of armies, and the foe of all military discipline."

PARSON.—"Let the young man proceed. Nations, you say, may be beaten by other nations less learned and civilized?"

LEONARD.—"But knowledge elevates a class. I invite my own humble order to knowledge, because knowledge will lift them into power."

RICCABOCCA.—"What do you say to that, Mr. Dale?"

PARSON.—"In the first place, is it true that the class which has the most knowledge gets the most power? I suppose philosophers, like my friend Dr. Riccabocca, think they have the most knowledge. And pray, in what age have philosophers governed the world? Are they not always grumbling that nobody attends to them?"

"Per Bacco," said Riccabocca, "if people had attended to us, it would have been a droll sort of world by this time!"

PARSON.—"Very likely. But, as a general rule, those have the most knowledge who give themselves up to it the most. Let us put out of the question philosophers (who are often but ingenious lunatics), and speak only of erudite scholars, men of letters and practical science, professors, tutors, and fellows of colleges. I fancy any member of Parliament would tell us that there is no class of men which has less actual influence on public affairs. They have more knowledge than manufacturers and ship-owners, squires and farmers; but, do you find that they have more power over the Government and the votes of the House of Commons?"

"They ought to have," said Leonard.

"Ought they?" said the Parson: "we'll consider that later. Meanwhile, you must not escape from your own proposition, which is, that knowledge is power—not that it ought to be. Now, even granting your corollary, that the power of a class is therefore proportioned to its knowledge—pray, do you suppose that while your order, the operatives, are instructing themselves, all the rest of the community are to be at a stand-still? Diffuse knowledge as you may, you will never produce equality of knowledge. Those who have most leisure, application, and aptitude for learning, will still know the most. Nay, by a very natural law, the more general the appetite for knowledge, the more the increased competition would favor those most adapted to excel by circumstance and nature. At this day, there is a vast increase of knowledge spread over all society, compared with that in the Middle Ages; but is there not a still greater distinction between the highly-educated gentleman and the intelligent mechanic, than there was then between the baron who could not sign his name and the churl at the plow? between the accomplished statesman, versed in all historical lore, and the voter whose politics are formed by his newspaper, than there was between the legislator who passed laws against witches, and the burgher who defended his guild from some feudal aggression? between the enlightened scholar and the dunce of to-day, than there was between the monkish alchemist and the block head of yesterday? Peasant, voter, and dunce of this century are no doubt wiser than the churl, burgher, and blockhead of the twelfth. But the gentleman, statesman, and scholar of the present age are at least quite as favorable a contrast to the alchemist, witch-burner, and baron of old. As the progress of enlightenment has done hitherto, so will it ever do. Knowledge is like capital: the more there is in a country, the greater the disparities in wealth between one man and another. Therefore, if the working class increase in knowledge, so do the other classes; and if the working class rise peacefully and legitimately into power, it is not in proportion to their own knowledge alone, but rather according as it seems to the knowledge of the other orders of the community, that such augmentation of proportional power is just, and safe, and wise."

Placed between the Parson and the Philosopher, Leonard felt that his position was not favorable to the display of his forces. Insensibly he edged his chair somewhat away, and said mournfully—

"Then, according to you, the reign of knowledge would be no great advance in the aggregate freedom and welfare of man?"

PARSON.—"Let us define. By knowledge, do you mean intellectual cultivation?—by the reign of knowledge, the ascendency of the most cultivated minds?"

LEONARD, (after a pause.)—"Yes."

RICCABOCCA.—"Oh indiscreet young man, that is an unfortunate concession of yours: for the ascendency of the most cultivated minds would be a terrible oligarchy!"

PARSON.—"Perfectly true; and we now reply to your exclamation, that men who, by profession, have most learning ought to have more influence than squires and merchants, farmers and mechanics. Observe, all the knowledge that we mortals can acquire, is not knowledge positive and perfect, but knowledge comparative, and subject to all the errors and passions of humanity. And suppose that you could establish, as the sole regulators of affairs, those who had the most mental cultivation, do you think they would not like that power well enough to take all means their superior intelligence could devise to keep it to themselves? The experiment was tried of old by the priests of Egypt; and in the empire of China, at this day, the aristocracy are elected from those who have most distinguished themselves in learned colleges. If I may call myself a member of that body, 'the people,' I would rather be an Englishman, however much displeased with dull Ministers and blundering Parliaments, than I would be a Chinese under the rule of the picked sages of the Celestial Empire. Happily, therefore, my dear Leonard, nations are governed by many things besides what is commonly called knowledge; and the greatest practical ministers, who, like Themistocles, have made small states great—and the most dominant races who, like the Romans, have stretched their rule from a village half over the universe—have been distinguished by various qualities which a philosopher would sneer at, and a knowledge-monger would call 'sad prejudices,' and 'lamentable errors of reason.'"

LEONARD (bitterly.)—"Sir, you make use of knowledge itself to argue against knowledge."

PARSON.—"I make use of the little I know to prove the foolishness of idolatry. I do not argue against knowledge; I argue against knowledge-worship. For here, I see in your Essay, that you are not contented with raising human knowledge into something like divine omnipotence, you must also confound her with virtue. According to you, we have only to diffuse the intelligence of the few among the many, and all at which we preachers aim is accomplished.—Nay more; for whereas we humble preachers have never presumed to say, with the heathen Stoic, that even virtue is sure of happiness be low (though it be the best road to it), you tell us plainly that this knowledge of yours gives not only the virtue of a saint, but bestows the bliss of a god. Before the steps of your idol, the evils of life disappear. To hear you, one has but 'to know,' in order to be exempt from the sins and sorrows of the ignorant. Has it ever been so? Grant that you diffuse among the many all the knowledge ever attained by the few. Have the wise few been so unerring and so happy? You supposed that your motto was accurately cited from Bacon. What was Bacon himself? The poet tells you—

'The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.'

Can you hope to bestow upon the vast mass of your order the luminous intelligence of this 'Lord Chancellor of nature?' Grant that you do so—and what guarantee have you for the virtue and the happiness which you assume as the concomitants of the gift? See Bacon himself; what black ingratitude! what miserable self-seeking! what truckling servility! what abject and pitiful spirit! So far from intellectual knowledge, in its highest form and type, insuring virtue and bliss, it is by no means uncommon to find great mental cultivation combined with great moral corruption." (Aside to Riccabocca)—"Push on, will you?"

RICCABOCCA.—"A combination remarkable in eras as in individuals. Petronius shows us a state of morals at which a commonplace devil would blush, in the midst of a society more intellectually cultivated than certainly was that which produced Regulus or the Horatii. And the most learned eras in modern Italy were precisely those which brought the vices into the most ghastly refinement."

LEONARD (rising in great agitation, and clasping his hands.)—"I can not contend with you, who produce against information so slender and crude as mine the stores which have been locked from my reach. But I feel that there must be another side to this shield—a shield that you will not even allow to be silver. And oh, if you thus speak of knowledge, why have you encouraged me to know?"

CHAPTER XX.

"Ah, my son!" said the Parson, "if I wished to prove the value of Religion, would you think I served it much, if I took as my motto, 'Religion is power?' Would not that be a base and sordid view of its advantages? And would you not say he who regards religion as a power, intends to abuse it as a priestcraft?"

"Well put!" said Riccabocca.

"Wait a moment—let me think. Ah—I see, sir!" said Leonard.

PARSON.—"If the cause be holy, do not weigh it in the scales of the market; if its objects be peaceful, do not seek to arm it with the weapons of strife; if it is to be the cement of society, do not vaunt it as the triumph of class against class."

LEONARD (ingenuously.)—"You correct me nobly, sir. Knowledge is power, but not in the sense in which I have interpreted the saying."

PARSON.—"Knowledge is one of the powers in the moral world, but one that, in its immediate result, is not always of the most worldly advantage to the possessor. It is one of the slowest, because one of the most durable, of agencies. It may take a thousand years for a thought to come into power; and the thinker who originated it might have died in rags or in chains."

RICCABOCCA.—"Our Italian proverb saith that 'the teacher is like the candle, which lights others in consuming itself.'"

PARSON.—"Therefore he who has the true ambition of knowledge should entertain it for the power of his idea, not for the power it may bestow on himself; it should be lodged in the conscience, and, like the conscience, look for no certain reward on this side the grave. And since knowledge is compatible with good and with evil, would it not be better to say, 'Knowledge is a trust?'"

"You are right, sir," said Leonard, cheerfully, "pray proceed."

PARSON.—"You ask me why we encourage you to KNOW. First, because (as you say yourself in your Essay) knowledge, irrespective of gain, is in itself a delight, and ought to be something far more. Like liberty, like religion, it may be abused; but I have no more right to say that the poor shall be ignorant, than I have to say that the rich only shall be free, and that the clergy alone shall learn the truths of redemption. You truly observe in your treatise that knowledge opens to us other excitements than those of the senses, and another life than that of the moment. The difference between us is this, that you forget that the same refinement which brings us new pleasures exposes us to new pains—the horny hand of the peasant feels not the nettles which sting the fine skin of the scholar. You forget also, that whatever widens the sphere of the desires, opens to them also new temptations. Vanity, the desire of applause, pride, the sense of superiority—gnawing discontent where that superiority is not recognized—morbid susceptibility, which comes with all new feelings—the underrating of simple pleasures apart from the intellectual—the chase of the imagination, often unduly stimulated, for things unattainable below—all these are surely among the first temptations that beset the entrance into knowledge."

Leonard shaded his face with his hand.

"Hence," continued the Parson, benignantly—"hence, so far from considering that we do all that is needful to accomplish ourselves as men, when we cultivate only the intellect, we should remember that we thereby continually increase the range of our desires, and, therefore, of our temptations; and we should endeavor, simultaneously, to cultivate both those affections of the heart, which prove the ignorant to be God's children no less than the wise, and those moral qualities which have made men great and good when reading and writing were scarcely known—to wit, patience and fortitude under poverty and distress; humility and beneficence amidst grandeur and wealth: and, in counteraction to that egotism, which all superiority, mental or worldly, is apt to inspire, Justice, the father of all the more solid virtues, softened by Charity, which is their loving mother. Thus accompanied, knowledge, indeed, becomes the magnificent crown of humanity—not the imperious despot, but the checked and tempered sovereign of the soul."

The Parson paused, and Leonard, coming near him, timidly took his hand, with a child's affectionate and grateful impulse.

RICCABOCCA.—"And if, Leonard, you are not satisfied with our Parson's excellent definitions, you have only to read what Lord Bacon himself has said upon the true ends of knowledge, to comprehend at once how angry the poor great man, whom Mr. Dale treats so harshly, would have been with those who have stinted his elaborate distinctions and provident cautions, into that, coxcombical little aphorism, and then misconstrued all he designed to prove in favor of the commandant, and authority of learning. For," added the sage, looking up as a man does when he is tasking his memory, "I think it is thus that, after saying the greatest error of all is the mistaking or misplacing the end of knowledge, and denouncing the various objects for which it is vulgarly sought;—I think it is thus that he proceeds.... 'Knowledge is not a shop for profit or sale, but a rich storehouse for the glory of the Creator, and the relief of men's estate.'"[9]

PARSON (remorsefully.)—"Are those Lord Bacon's words? I am very sorry I spoke so uncharitably of his life. I must examine it again. I may find excuses for it now, that I could not when I first formed my judgment. I was then a raw lad at Oxford. But I see, Leonard, there is still something on your mind."

LEONARD.—"It is true, sir. I would but ask whether it is not by knowledge that we arrive at the qualities and virtues you so well describe, but which you seem to consider as coming to us through channels apart from knowledge?"

PARSON.—"If you mean by the word knowledge something very different from what you express in your essay—and which those contending for mental instruction, irrespective of religion and ethics, appear also to convey by the word—you are right;—but, remember, we have already agreed that by the word knowledge we mean culture purely intellectual."

LEONARD.—"That is true—we so understood it."

PARSON.—"Thus, when this great Lord Bacon erred, you may say that he erred from want of knowledge—the knowledge that moralists and preachers would convey. But Lord Bacon had read all that moralists and preachers could say on such matters; and he certainly did not err from want of intellectual cultivation. Let me here, my child, invite you to observe, that He who knew most of our human hearts and our immortal destinies, did not insist on this intellectual culture as essential to the virtues that form our well-being here, and conduce to our salvation hereafter. Had it been essential, the All-wise One would not have selected humble fishermen for the teachers of his doctrine, instead of culling his disciples from Roman Portico, or Athenian Academy. And this, which distinguishes so remarkably the Gospel from the ethics of heathen philosophy, wherein knowledge is declared to be necessary to virtue, is a proof how slight was the heathen sage's insight into the nature of mankind, when compared with the Saviour's; for hard, indeed, would it be to men, whether high or low, rich or poor, if science and learning, or contemplative philosophy, were the sole avenues to peace and redemption; since, in this state of ordeal, requiring active duties, very few, in any age, whether they be high or low, rich or poor, ever are or can be devoted to pursuits merely mental. Christ does not represent heaven as a college for the learned. Therefore the rules of the Celestial Legislator are rendered clear to the simplest understanding as to the deepest."

RICCABOCCA.—"And that which Plato and Zeno, Pythagoras and Socrates, could not do, was done by men whose ignorance would have been a by-word in the schools of the Greek. The gods of the vulgar were dethroned; the face of the world was changed! This thought may make us allow, indeed, that there are agencies more powerful than mere knowledge, and ask, after all, what is the mission which knowledge should achieve?"

PARSON.—"The Sacred Book tells us even that; for, after establishing the truth that, for the multitude, knowledge is not essential to happiness and good, it accords still to knowledge its sublime part in the revelation prepared and announced. When an instrument of more than ordinary intelligence was required for a purpose divine—when the Gospel, recorded by the simple, was to be explained by the acute, enforced by the energetic, carried home to the doubts of the Gentile—the Supreme Will joined to the zeal of the earlier apostles the learning and genius of St. Paul—not holier than the others—calling himself the least, yet laboring more abundantly than them all—making himself all things unto all men, so that some might be saved. The ignorant may be saved no less surely than the wise; but here comes the wise man who helps to save! And how the fullness and animation of this grand Presence, of this indomitable Energy, seem to vivify the toil, and to speed the work! 'In journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils of mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren.' Behold, my son! does not Heaven here seem to reveal the true type of Knowledge—a sleepless activity, a pervading agency, a dauntless heroism, an all-supporting faith?—a power—a power, indeed—a power apart from the aggrandizement of self—a power that brings to him who owns and transmits it but 'weariness and painfulness; in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness'—but a power distinct from the mere circumstance of the man, rushing from him as rays from a sun;—borne through the air, and clothing it with light—piercing under earth, and calling forth the harvest! Worship not knowledge—worship not the sun, O my child! Let the sun but proclaim the Creator; let the knowledge but illumine the worship!"