"He talks to me, who never had a son."--KING JOHN.
We remember to have been shown once upon a time, as a marvellous
curiosity, the stump of a large bay-tree, which had been cut down to
make way for certain architectural improvements, and actually converted
into a chopping-block, in which capacity it was employed during several
years; but at length the family, to whom it appertained, quitted their
dwelling, and the aforesaid stump, which had not been defunct, but only
slumbering, was cast into a heap of earth, where, fertilized by the
beams of the sun and the dews of the morning, it struck root amid the
garden rubbish, and sent forth branches which flourished proudly, and
spread their verdant foliage to the wondering skies. What joyful
surprise would this neglected trunk have expressed had power of speech
been granted! and with what grateful pride would it not have called on
the admiring universe to behold and glorify its transformation!
Some such sentiments as we are supposing to have emanated from our bay
tree, glowed in the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Hartland as they gazed in
rapture on a boy of uncommon symmetry and beauty; and, forgetful of the
lavish prodigality of that vivifying principle which is employed at
every moment in giving life from the palace to the cottage, the cottage
to the kennel, and the kennel downwards to the lowest grade of
organised existence, thanked Heaven with such alacrity of transport as
seemed to intimate that they considered the effort of nature which
animated the vital energies of Henbury as astonishing and unexpected as
that which caused the chopping-block to put forth leaves and blossoms.
The innocent vanity which Mrs. Hartland had formerly felt at finding
herself a wife, dwindled into insignificance in comparison with the
elation of her spirits when the dignity of mother was added to her
former honours; and the words "_son and heir_" might be read in
every look, and traced in every gesture in characters which seemed to
say, that none but herself had ever produced this mighty combination.
We have formerly stated, that literature was not the prevailing taste
of the neighbourhood in which Henbury was planted, and as it is a
common rule "to do as the Romans do while one is at Rome," Mr. and Mrs.
Hartland may, for all we can tell to the contrary, have suppressed
their own inclination to accommodate their manners and habits to the
fashion of those amongst whom they dwelt. Certain it is that, from
whatever cause it proceeded, there was an abstinence from books at
Henbury till the birth of Algernon Robinson Goodman Hartland, and
though his father had gone through school and university, and his
mother played well enough for carpet dancers, sang a little, painted
birds and flowers on velvet, and worked like a Moravian, neither the
one or the other found time, amid the multiplicity of their daily
pursuits, for reading.
The revolution which was effected by the little stranger's arrival was
therefore the more striking. Every thing now was made subservient to
the one great leading object. During the first year after this
agreeable surprise, Henbury appeared a temple dedicated to Lucina, in
which all the insignia of a new birth were displayed in cradle and
pillows, saucepans and panada, blankets and wraps. Whichever way the
eye were turned, the present deity of the place reigned from the attic
to the basement story; and all distinct purposes, and applications of
the several apartments were set aside for a season, to render the
dwelling a universal nursery. Then came on the time of go-carts and
corals; and every publication on teething, vaccination, and each
disease to which infant flesh is heir, poured from the press by all the
coaches, as if authors and printers were in league to pay their court
to Mr. and Mrs. Hartland.
Three years passed away, and with them the scaffolding which, becoming
unnecessary, was now thrown aside. The young Algernon, who, it must be
confessed, was beautiful as we are taught to believe the little god of
love, happily surmounted the host of enemies who take their stand at
the entrance-gate of life to oppose the mortal wayfarer, and was the
admiration of all beholders, as well as the centre of all joy and pride
to his parents. He was a child of extraordinary loveliness and most
noble bearing; and fortunately for him his father and mother had often
remarked, that the peasant children were a healthier race than the
offspring of a higher class, which procured for him the inestimable
privilege of breathing fresh air, and exercising his little limbs out
of doors.
The cares of home became gradually so engrossing as to wean Mr. and
Mrs. Hartland from the social circle, of which they had hitherto been
the chief pillar and support, in their neighbourhood. They were now
employed from morning till night in studying plans of education,
mooting the comparative merits and demerits of schools, canvassing the
question of public and private instruction, discussing the respective
characters of Oxford and Cambridge, and laying schemes for futurity, as
though time were to have no end.
The natural consequence of these things was a considerable loss of
popularity. People began to think both Mr. and Mrs. Hartland, who had
been prime and general favourites, grown dull and selfish, forgetting
that it was selfishness which passed the rigorous decree in adjudging
that disagreeable quality to them. Mrs. Hartland, who never till now
talked of books, soon obtained the opprobrious appellation of a Blue,
and all Miss Ferret's efforts were unavailing to conciliate those who
could not bear to think that the Hartlands were happy enough to do
without them.
Jemima, however, though she did her best to obtain forgiveness for her
friends, did not fail to warn them in private of their improvidence.
"Out of sight out of mind," was an apothegm which she urged with
reiterated pathos, to deter the inhabitants of Henbury from renouncing
the world, which she assured them "could not be drawn on and off like a
glove." Nothing, in fact, could be more hostile to Miss Ferret's views
than divisions and schisms, which, by splitting a neighbourhood into
parties, diminished its general hospitality; or those withdrawings from
society through sickness or sorrow, which lessened the gregarious
tendencies of the people amongst whom she lived. We may therefore give
her full credit for not leaving, as she herself expressed it, "a stone
unturned" to bring our pair of recluses to reason, and induce them to
seek their felicity where she found her own, namely, in the festive
coterie. But Mrs. Hartland in the course of her new studies had, some
how or other, stumbled upon the remarkable sentence which Charles the
Twelfth of Sweden, when a boy, wrote with a pencil at the bottom of a
map of Riga, demonstrative of those talents which were one day to
astonish the world: "Dieu me l'a donnée et le diable ne me l'otera
pas," and with maternal energy she replied in these celebrated words,
intimating by their appropriation to her own case, the same heroic
resolutions which inspired the Swede, to preserve that which had been
granted to _her_ arms.
"My dear Jemima," added she, unconsciously drawing up her head as she
spoke, "there is nothing easier than for people to talk who are not
mothers. I cannot perform by halves, the momentous duty which it has
pleased heaven to devolve upon me. The sacred task can only be
fulfilled by an entire devotion, and we must give ourselves up to the
faithful discharge of this awful trust. Lady Goodman, too, has never
known what it is to be a mother (raising her head still higher); and
really, my dear, it is impossible, even for the best intentioned of
one's friends who are _inexperienced_, to enter into the tremendous
responsibilities of a parent."
"No, thank heaven," answered Miss Ferret; "I know only by hearsay of
the great pangs and perils, through the martyrdom of which you boast
your new title; though our curate Mr. Pew, who had been but just
appointed before your confinement, seeing me at your side when I
accompanied you to the communion-table, stupidly churched me also, and
gave me a share in all your thanksgivings for a son and heir. But
depend upon it, my dear friend, that you will be tired of all this
sort of thing by and by, and wish that you had not affronted your
neighbours. Remember, after all said and done, that there cannot be any
_great_ distinction in bringing a bantling into the world, when every
beggar-woman in the parish has a troop at her heels. Your child will
fare the better for not being thought so much of. I always say that
'the watched pot never boils,' and people are constantly disappointed
themselves, besides being intolerable to others, when they make too
great a fuss about any thing that belongs to them."
Mrs. Hartland was deeply offended, and thus ended an intercourse which
had ceased to please on either side, and the _go-between_ quitted
Henbury and its inhabitants for ever, enlisting herself from that
moment amongst the most active of the oppositionists, who ridiculed
their folly and resented their pretensions.
Matters proceeded in this train till our once social pair had scarcely
a neighbour with whom they interchanged the usual hospitalities. They
were, however, so absorbed by their domestic interests, that no void
was felt, and the only serious grief which disturbed their happiness
was the want of a companion about his own age for their idol Algernon,
who improved in beauty as he advanced in growth, and gave evidence of
talents at five years old which might have been deemed uncommon at
double that age.
As may be imagined, Algernon experienced the very worst effects of the
spoiling system. Every possible error in education seemed likely to
lend its aid in making the child selfish, and the man, if he lived to
become one, insignificant and disagreeable. Mrs. Hartland read every
treatise which had ever been published on her favourite theme, and
endeavoured to put every theory in practice. Like all late converts to
any thing from its opposite, she was mad upon the subject of reading.
Literature, next to the love of young Algernon, became her ruling
passion, and the most tiresome pedantry of language succeeded her
natural manner of expressing herself. Exercising a limited capacity on
topics new to her understanding, and often above its calibre, our good
dame's mind became the strangest mass that could be conceived of
ill-digested systems, the principles of which she could not comprehend,
but the practical results of which, however contradictory, she
attempted to realize. Algernon was to be a miracle of early knowledge;
yet his mind was not to be over-wrought. He was to be a prodigy of
courage, while every living animal was banished from his presence, lest
any injury should reach the child. Of self-denial he was to be a
shining example, because Mrs. Hartland found that quality much insisted
upon in the works which were now her chief delight; but at the same
time her son's spirit was not to be broken by opposition, nor his
temper soured by contradiction. From this specimen it is easy to judge
of the whole, and the reader has no need of further insight into the
chaos which we have sufficiently described.
Mr. Hartland, though Greek and Latin had been driven into his cranium,
and he was rather proud of his skill in prosody, was a person of still
flatter intellect than his wife. Constitutional indolence also added
lead to the dullness of his faculties. It is therefore not to be
wondered at, that, mistaking his fair partner's activity for genius,
and her dictatorial harangues, delivered in words, each of which was as
long as a tape-worm, for the profoundest wisdom; he honestly believed
that Minerva herself had stepped down from her niche in the celestial
Pantheon, to assume the outward similitude of his better half.
Now it so happened that, about the period of which we are speaking, a
monstrous quarto, with prodigious margins, which professed to impart
the newest and most approved method of teaching the young idea how to
shoot like a vine along the march of modern intellect, arrived at
Henbury-lodge. Mrs. Hartland flew at the prize, and disinterring the
volume from the superincumbent mass of brown paper and twine by which
it was environed, hastened to her sanctum, and opening at random, after
the manner of the Virgilian lots, she chanced to light upon the
following paragraph, which struck upon her eye and understanding as
especially directed to her peculiar case:
"Nothing is more essential to the healthful developement of infant
mind, than congenial society. A child should associate with his
_fellows_, and while the bodily organs are kept in wholesome exercise,
the mental energies are thus directed to the natural objects of
childish pursuit. To this end children should be allowed to consort
together, and exhibit the true bearings of individual character,
uncontrolled by the bias which is given to youth by a constant and
injurious companionship with adults. In fine, a child should always be
provided with at least one playmate of his own age."
This paragraph rested on the mother's mind, and was the Mordecai of her
peace. Her intercourse with the neighbouring gentry was reduced to an
occasional exchange of morning visits, which afforded no opportunity of
introducing her boy to the children of her acquaintance, and there
seemed to be no probability of his having brother or sister with whom
to associate at home. In this dilemma Mrs. Hartland often turned in her
mind the temporary adoption of a peasant-child, who might serve the
desired purpose; but as frequently rejected the idea, through dread of
vulgar habits and low thoughts coming in contact with the mind of her
son.
While anxiously ruminating on what was best to be done, it happened
that Mr. Ackland, a gentleman who lived a few miles distant from
Henbury, called to enquire for the family, and in the course of
conversation of that miscellaneous kind which morning visits usually
supply, turned to Mrs. Hartland, and asked whether she had been to
Hazle-moor?
"Why to that desolate heath?" replied she. "I should not prefer a drive
to Hazle-moor for any beauty which that part of the country can boast."
"No," said Mr. Ackland, "the landscape is certainly not very alluring;
but you have heard of the lovely little Spaniard. Have you not?"
"I have not the least idea of what you allude to," answered Mrs.
Hartland. "What Spaniard do you speak of?"
"Oh!" replied Mr. Ackland, "I thought that every one within a circuit
of twenty miles at least had heard of our beautiful infant stranger. It
is upwards of a week since a troop of gipsies appeared upon Hazle-moor,
and there they might have held their station ever since without
exciting particular attention, were it not for the extraordinary
perfections of a child, who has in some mysterious manner fallen into
their hands. Two or three portrait-painters have already come to take
likenesses of the fascinating little creature; and the wild community
to which she belongs having discovered the profit which may be realized
through her means, are daily making money by exhibiting the symmetry of
her baby-form to all who are prompted by curiosity to visit this tiny
enchantress."
"Who is she?" said Mrs. Hartland.
"That is precisely the question which every body asks, and none can
answer," replied Mr. Ackland. "If her owners are acquainted with her
parentage, they do not choose to tell more than that they purchased her
from a soldier's wife, who seemed a worthless sort of person. Her
little mantle, hat, and plume, together with her country's dialect,
proclaim the land which gave her birth. She speaks fluently, though
with lisping tongue, and calls herself Zoé, as the nearest
approximation which she can make to the more difficult pronunciation of
Zorilda, which is the name she bears."
"Dear babe!" exclaimed Mrs. Hartland, "what will become of her?"
"Alas!" said Mr. Ackland, "the parents who have been robbed of such a
child are objects of one's tenderest commiseration; and as to the
little one herself, it is but too easy to foretell that her course
cannot prosper. She is now only three years old or thereabouts; and for
a short time to come may not imbibe the poison of personal flattery,
but a race of vanity will terminate in destruction. Were I not the
father of a family, and fearful of introducing perhaps the murderer of
future repose amongst my children by bringing a dangerous non-descript
under my roof, I would certainly purchase Zorilda from her present
possessors, and take her home to Newlands, in the hope of being able to
restore her some day or other to her relations. Yet, on the other hand,
she may be the property of people who are not desirous to reclaim her,
and might entail a weighty responsbility on my head. Such a romantic
importation into my household could not fail of working mischief in the
fulness of time, and therefore I have resolved silencing all the
_yearnings_ of impulse; but I recommend both you and Mr. Hartland
to go and see her, as the wandering group who are intent on showing her
to all who will pay them for the sight, will speedily pack up in all
probability for some other scene."
A sudden thought, which she refrained from promulging, darted across
the mind of Mrs. Hartland, and she pondered intently on what had fallen
from Mr. Ackland till the following day, when, ordering her carriage
immediately after breakfast, she set out, accompanied by her husband,
young Algernon, and his nurse, for Hazle-moor.