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.