About this period the dean had just published a pamphlet in his own name,
and in which that of his friend the bishop was only mentioned with thanks
for hints, observations, and condescending encouragement to the author.
This pamphlet glowed with the dean's love for his country; and such a
country as he described, it was impossible _not_ to love. "Salubrious
air, fertile fields, wood, water, corn, grass, sheep, oxen, fish, fowl,
fruit, and vegetables," were dispersed with the most prodigal hand;
"valiant men, virtuous women; statesmen wise and just; tradesmen
abounding in merchandise and money; husbandmen possessing peace, ease,
plenty; and all ranks liberty." This brilliant description, while the
dean read the work to his family, so charmed poor Henry, that he
repeatedly cried out,
"I am glad I came to this country."
But it so happened that a few days after, Lady Clementina, in order to
render the delicacy of her taste admired, could eat of no one dish upon
the table, but found fault with them all. The dean at length said to
her,
"Indeed, you are too nice; reflect upon the hundreds of poor creatures
who have not a morsel or a drop of anything to subsist upon, except bread
and water; and even of the first a scanty allowance, but for which they
are obliged to toil six days in the week, from sun to sun."
"Pray, uncle," cried Henry, "in what country do these poor people live?"
"In this country," replied the dean.
Henry rose from his chair, ran to the chimney-piece, took up his uncle's
pamphlet, and said, "I don't remember your mentioning them here."
"Perhaps I have not," answered the dean, coolly.
Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book, but he could meet only
with luxurious details of "the fruits of the earth, the beasts of the
field, the birds of the air, and the fishes of the sea."
"Why, here is provision enough for all the people," said Henry; "why
should they want? why do not they go and take some of these things?"
"They must not," said the dean, "unless they were their own."
"What, uncle! does no part of the earth, nor anything which the earth
produces, belong to the poor?"
"Certainly not."
"Why did not you say so, then, in your pamphlet?"
"Because it is what everybody knows."
"Oh, then, what you have said in your pamphlet is only what--nobody
knows."
There appeared to the dean, in the delivery of this sentence, a satirical
acrimony, which his irritability as an author could but ill forgive.
An author, it is said, has more acute feelings in respect to his works
than any artist in the world besides.
Henry had some cause, on the present occasion, to think this observation
just; for no sooner had he spoken the foregoing words, than his uncle
took him by the hand out of the room, and, leading him to his study,
there he enumerated his various faults; and having told him "it was for
all those, too long permitted with impunity, and not merely for the
_present_ impertinence, that he meant to punish him," ordered him to
close confinement in his chamber for a week.
In the meantime, the dean's pamphlet (less hurt by Henry's critique than
_he_ had been) was proceeding to the tenth edition, and the author
acquiring literary reputation beyond what he had ever conferred on his
friend the bishop.
The style, the energy, the eloquence of the work was echoed by every
reader who could afford to buy it--some few enlightened ones excepted,
who chiefly admired the author's _invention_.