A full and happy hour passed away in Harley's questions and
Leonard's answers; the dialogue that naturally ensued between the
two, on the first interview after an absence of years so eventful to
the younger man.
The history of Leonard during this interval was almost solely
internal, the struggle of intellect with its own difficulties, the
wanderings of imagination through its own adventurous worlds.
The first aim of Norreys, in preparing the mind of his pupil for
its vocation, had been to establish the equilibrium of its powers,
to calm into harmony the elements rudely shaken by the trials and
passions of the old hard outer life.
The theory of Norreys was briefly this. The education of a superior
human being is but the development of ideas in one for the benefit
of others. To this end, attention should be directed--1st, To the
value of the ideas collected; 2dly, To their discipline; 3dly, To
their expression. For the first, acquirement is necessary; for
the second, discipline; for the third, art. The first comprehends
knowledge, purely intellectual, whether derived from observation,
memory, reflection, books or men, Aristotle or Fleet Street. The
second demands _training_, not only intellectual, but moral; the
purifying and exaltation of motives; the formation of habits; in
which method is but a part of a divine and harmonious symmetry--a
union of intellect and conscience. Ideas of value, stored by the
first process; marshalled into force, and placed under guidance, by
the second; it is the result of the third, to place them before the
world in the most attractive or commanding form. This may be done by
actions no less than words; but the adaptation of means to end, the
passage of ideas from the brain of one man into the lives and souls
of all, no less in action than in books, requires study. Action has
its art as well as literature. Here Norreys had but to deal with
the calling of the scholar, the formation of the writer, and so to
guide the perceptions towards those varieties in the sublime and
beautiful, the just combination of which is at once CREATION. Man
himself is but a combination of elements. He who combines in nature,
creates in art.
Such, very succinctly and inadequately expressed, was the system
upon which Norreys proceeded to regulate and perfect the great
native powers of his pupil; and though the reader may perhaps
say that no system laid down by another can either form genius
or dictate to its results, yet probably nine-tenths at least
of those in whom we recognise the luminaries of our race, have
passed, unconsciously to themselves, (for self-education is rarely
conscious of its phases,) through each of these processes. And
no one who pauses to reflect will deny, that according to this
theory, illustrated by a man of vast experience, profound knowledge,
and exquisite taste, the struggles of genius would be infinitely
lessened; its vision cleared and strengthened, and the distance
between effort and success notably abridged.
Norreys, however, was far too deep a reasoner to fall into the error
of modern teachers, who suppose that education can dispense with
labour. No mind becomes muscular without rude and early exercise.
Labour should be strenuous, but in right directions. All that we can
do for it is to save the waste of time in blundering into needless
toils.
The master had thus first employed his neophyte in arranging and
compiling materials for a great critical work in which Norreys
himself was engaged. In this stage of scholastic preparation,
Leonard was necessarily led to the acquisition of languages,
for which he had great aptitude--the foundations of a large and
comprehensive erudition were solidly constructed. He traced by the
plough-share the walls of the destined city. Habits of accuracy
and of generalisation became formed insensibly; and that precious
faculty which seizes, amidst accumulated materials, those that
serve the object for which they are explored,--(that faculty which
quadruples all force, by concentrating it on one point)--once roused
into action, gave purpose to every toil and quickness to each
perception. But Norreys did not confine his pupil solely to the mute
world of a library, he introduced him to some of the first minds in
arts, science, and letters--and active life. "These," said he, "are
the living ideas of the present, out of which books for the future
will be written: study them; and here, as in the volumes of the
past, diligently amass and deliberately compile."
By degrees Norreys led on that young ardent mind from the selection
of ideas to their æsthetic analysis--from compilation to criticism;
but criticism severe, close, and logical--a reason for each word of
praise or of blame. Led in this stage of his career to examine into
the laws of beauty, a new light broke upon his mind; from amidst the
masses of marble, he had piled around him, rose the vision of the
statue.
And so, suddenly one day Norreys said to him, "I need a compiler no
longer--maintain yourself by your own creations." And Leonard wrote,
and a work flowered up from the seed deep buried, and the soil
well cleared to the rays of the sun and the healthful influence of
expanded air.
That first work did not penetrate to a very wide circle of readers,
not from any perceptible fault of its own--there is luck in these
things; the first anonymous work of an original genius is rarely
at once eminently successful. But the more experienced recognised
the promise of the book. Publishers, who have an instinct in
the discovery of available talent, which often forestalls the
appreciation of the public, volunteered liberal offers. "Be fully
successful this time," said Norreys; "think not of models nor of
style. Strike at once at the common human heart--throw away the
corks--swim out boldly. One word more--never write a page till you
have walked from your room to Temple Bar, and, mingling with men,
and reading the human face, learn why great poets have mostly passed
their lives in cities."
Thus Leonard wrote again, and woke one morning to find himself
famous. So far as the chances of all professions dependent on health
will permit, present independence, and, with foresight and economy,
the prospects of future competence were secured.
"And, indeed," said Leonard, concluding a longer but a simpler
narrative than is here told--"indeed, there is some chance that
I may obtain at once a sum that will leave me free for the rest
of my life to select my own subjects and write without care for
remuneration. This is what I call the true (and, perhaps, alas!
the rare) independence of him who devotes himself to letters.
Norreys, having seen my boyish plan for the improvement of certain
machinery in the steam-engine, insisted on my giving much time to
mechanics. The study that once pleased me so greatly, now seemed
dull; but I went into it with good heart; and the result is, that
I have improved so far on my original idea, that my scheme has met
the approbation of one of our most scientific engineers; and I am
assured that the patent for it will be purchased of me upon terms
which I am ashamed to name to you, so disproportioned do they seem
to the value of so simple a discovery. Meanwhile, I am already rich
enough to have realised the two dreams of my heart--to make a home
in the cottage where I had last seen you and Helen--I mean Miss
Digby; and to invite to that home her who had sheltered my infancy."
"Your mother, where is she? Let me see her."
Leonard ran out to call the widow, but, to his surprise and
vexation, learned that she had quitted the house before L'Estrange
arrived.
He came back perplexed how to explain what seemed ungracious and
ungrateful, and spoke with hesitating lip and flushed cheek of the
widow's natural timidity and sense of her own homely station. "And
so over-powered is she," added Leonard, "by the recollection of all
that we owe to you, that she never hears your name without agitation
or tears, and trembled like a leaf at the thought of seeing you."
"Ha!" said Harley, with visible emotion. "Is it so?" And he bent
down, shading his face with his hand. "And," he renewed, after a
pause, but not looking up--"and you ascribe this fear of seeing me,
this agitation at my name, solely to an exaggerated sense of--of the
circumstances attending my acquaintance with yourself?"
"And, perhaps, to a sort of shame that the mother of one you have
made her proud of is but a peasant."
"That is all," said Harley, earnestly, now looking up and fixing
eyes in which stood tears, upon Leonard's ingenuous brow.
"Oh, my dear lord, what else can it be? Do not judge her harshly."
L'Estrange rose abruptly, pressed Leonard's hand, muttered something
not audible, and then drawing his young friend's arm in his, led
him into the garden, and turned the conversation back to its former
topics.
Leonard's heart yearned to ask after Helen, and yet something
withheld him from doing so, till, seeing Harley did not volunteer
to speak of her, he could not resist his impulse. "And Helen--Miss
Digby--is she much changed?"
"Changed, no--yes; very much."
"Very much!" Leonard sighed.
"I shall see her again?"
"Certainly," said Harley, in a tone of surprise. "How can you
doubt it? And I reserve to you the pleasure of saying that you are
renowned. You blush; well, I will say that for you. But you shall
give her your books."
"She has not yet read them, then?--not the last? The first was not
worthy of her attention," said Leonard, disappointed.
"She has only just arrived in England; and, though your books
reached me in Germany, she was not then with me. When I have settled
some business that will take me from town, I shall present you to
her and my mother." There was a certain embarrassment in Harley's
voice as he spoke; and, turning round abruptly, he exclaimed, "But
you have shown poetry even here. I could not have conceived that
so much beauty could be drawn from what appeared to me the most
commonplace of all suburban gardens. Why, surely where that charming
fountain now plays stood the rude bench in which I read your verses."
"It is true; I wished to unite all together my happiest
associations. I think I told you, my lord, in one of my letters,
that I had owed a very happy, yet very struggling time in my boyhood
to the singular kindness and generous instructions of a foreigner
whom I served. This fountain is copied from one that I made in his
garden, and by the margin of which many a summer day I have sat and
dreamt of fame and knowledge."
"True, you told me of that; and your foreigner will be pleased to
hear of your success, and no less so of your graceful recollections.
By the way, you did not mention his name."
"Riccabocca."
"Riccabocca! My own dear and noble friend!--is it possible? One of
my reasons for returning to England is connected with him. You shall
go down with me and see him. I meant to start this evening."
"My dear lord," said Leonard, "I think that you may spare yourself
so long a journey. I have reason to suspect that Signor Riccabocca
is my nearest neighbour. Two days ago I was in the garden, when
suddenly lifting my eyes to yon hillock I perceived the form of a
man seated amongst the bushwood; and, though I could not see his
features, there was something in the very outline of his figure and
his peculiar position, that irresistibly reminded me of Riccabocca.
I hastened out of the garden and ascended the hill, but he was
gone. My suspicions were so strong that I caused inquiry to be made
at the different shops scattered about, and learned that a family
consisting of a gentleman, his wife, and daughter, had lately come
to live in a house that you must have passed in your way hither,
standing a little back from the road, surrounded by high walls; and
though they were said to be English, yet from the description given
to me of the gentleman's person by one who had noticed it, by the
fact of a foreign servant in their employ, and by the very name
'Richmouth,' assigned to the new comers, I can scarcely doubt that
it is the family you seek."
"And you have not called to ascertain?"
"Pardon me, but the family so evidently shunning observation,
(no one but the master himself ever seen without the walls),
the adoption of another name too--lead me to infer that Signor
Riccabocca has some strong motive for concealment; and now, with
my improved knowledge of life, I cannot, recalling all the past,
but suppose that Riccabocca was not what he appeared. Hence, I have
hesitated on formally obtruding myself upon his secrets, whatever
they be, and have rather watched for some chance occasion to meet
him in his walks."
"You did right, my dear Leonard; but my reasons for seeing my old
friend forbid all scruples of delicacy, and I will go at once to his
house."
"You will tell me, my lord, if I am right."
"I hope to be allowed to do so. Pray, stay at home till I return.
And now, ere I go, one question more: You indulge conjectures as to
Riccabocca, because he has changed his name--why have you dropped
your own?"
"I wished to have no name," said Leonard, colouring deeply, "but
that which I could make myself."
"Proud poet, this I can comprehend. But from what reason did you
assume the strange and fantastic name of Oran?"
The flush on Leonard's face became deeper. "My lord," said he, in a
low voice, "it is a childish fancy of mine; it is an anagram."
"Ah!"
"At a time when my cravings after knowledge were likely much to
mislead, and perhaps undo me, I chanced on some poems that suddenly
affected my whole mind, and led me up into purer air; and I was
told that these poems were written in youth, by one who had beauty
and genius--one who was in her grave--a relation of my own, and her
familiar name was Nora--"
"Ah!" again ejaculated Lord L'Estrange, and his arm pressed heavily
upon Leonard's.
"So, somehow or other," continued the young author, falteringly, "I
wished that if ever I won to a poet's fame, it might be to my own
heart, at least, associated with this name of Nora--with her whom
death had robbed of the fame that she might otherwise have won--with
her who--"
He paused, greatly agitated.
Harley was no less so. But as if by a sudden impulse, the soldier
bent down his manly head and kissed the poet's brow; then he
hastened to the gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away.