_The last in the Book. The Author presents Cecilia De Lancaster to his
Readers, and trusts that he exhibits no unnatural, or ideal, Character._
Cecilia De Lancaster, of whom I am about to speak, was now in her
twenty-ninth year, and three years younger than her brother Philip,
father of our hero John. I have already said, that, since her father
had been a widower, she had persisted in devoting her attention to him,
and to the superintendance of his household.
Convinced that she possessed his entire affection, and sensible that his
happiness in a great degree depended upon her, she had hitherto
withstood every overture for changing her condition. The harmony,
typified in her name, was realized in her nature: it was manifested and
expressed in every movement, every feature of her mind, her temper and
her person. Time, that had robbed her of the freshness of her bloom, had
repaid her by maturing and improving charms more permanent, endowments
more attractive. There was a smile, so characteristically her own, that
it was hard to conceive it could ever be bestowed without being felt,
and, such was her discernment, that perhaps it was very rarely bestowed
where it was not deserved. Her eyes were the genuine interpreters of her
heart: when turned upon the poor or afflicted, they melted into
compassion; when directed towards her friends, they glistened with
affection; when uplifted towards her God, their expression might be
called divine. Her voice came upon the ear like music--There is a
passage in a letter written by our hero to one of his friends, that
describes it in the following terms. “It is,” says he, “of so sweet a
pitch, that, whensoever it is heard, I am struck with wonder how it
comes to pass, that others do not tune their voices to it: for my own
part I may say, that my first efforts of articulation were instinctively
in unison with her tones; and therefore it is, that I have never
entered into argument with loud and boisterous speakers, or elevated my
voice to the annoyance of any man’s ears, since I have been admitted
into society.”
Such was Cecilia De Lancaster, who now in that sweet voice, which we
have been describing--(Oh that ye would imitate it, ye tuneless
talkers!) requested her father to impart to her his commands, not
unaware that they most probably referred to his interview with her
importunate admirer Sir Owen ap Owen, baronet, of Penruth Abbey.
This conjecture was soon confirmed by the recital, which her father now
gave of the baronet’s proposals; he stated them as advantageously for
the proponent, as the case would admit of: his family and fortune were
unexceptionable; he saw no objection to him on the score of temper; he
had the character of being a kind master, an easy landlord and a
hospitable neighbour: it must be owned that the good man was not
overstocked with wit or learning, but he had no conceit or
self-sufficiency to betray him into attempts, that might subject him to
ridicule: his pursuits were not above the level of his understanding, so
that upon the whole he thought his friend Sir Owen might pass muster
with the generality of country gentlemen.
I think of him, said Cecilia, exactly as you do; his pursuits are suited
to his understanding, and his manners are suited to his pursuits: these
are easily counted up, for they consist in little else but his hounds
and his bottle: I can partake of neither; my happiness centers in the
consciousness of possessing the good opinion and affection of my
beloved father: That blessing I enjoy at home; I need not run to Penruth
Abbey in pursuit of it; ’tis here, and ever present whilst I am with
you. As for Sir Owen’s addresses, he has repeated them so often for the
last five years, and has so constantly received the same answer, that I
must suppose he now compliments me with his proposal rather from habit,
than with any serious idea, that it can avail. As a neighbour I shall be
glad to see Sir Owen, even at the tea-table, provided he is sober, but
as a lover I hope to see no more of him, and I flatter myself I shall
not; especially should a certain lady arrive, whom I understand he is
expecting at the Abbey.
Upon De Lancaster’s asking who that lady was, Cecilia informed him that
she was the widow of his brother David, the Spanish merchant, lately
deceased. This lady she understood to be a native of Spain, and that she
was bringing with her from Cadiz a boy, the nephew of Sir Owen, and of
course presumptive heir to his estate and title. Judge then, added she,
if some address will not be employed by Mrs. Owen to keep her son in the
succession, and if my poor lover has nothing but his Welch wits to
oppose to her Spanish finesse, it is easy to conjecture what turn the
politics of Penruth Abbey are likely to take.
Well, cried the father, it was my part to make good my promise to Sir
Owen; it is your’s to decide upon his fate. This you have done, and I
may now say without scruple, you have wisely done; yet recollect my dear
Cecilia, we have as yet but this one infant in our stock, and I do not
expect that Mrs. De Lancaster will prove a very prolific mother.
I trust, replied Cecilia, that this fine boy will live, and then I shall
think Mrs. De Lancaster a very fortunate mother, though she may never
greet us with a second hope.
Heaven grant the child may live! exclaimed De Lancaster; devoutly I
implore it. But oh! my dear Cecilia, where is our stream of ancestry
alive but in yourself? In whose veins but in your’s does the ancient
current of our blood run pure? Look at your brother! _Look at the rock,
from which this child is hewn!_ Is there in that dead mass one spark of
native fire, one quickening ray of genius?--No; not one. Stampt with an
inauspicious name, he is of all the foregone Philips _Philippissimus_.
Look at the hapless mother of the babe! Has she a heart? I know she has
not that, which answers to the name: she had, but it is gone. Alas for
thee, poor babe! being so fathered and so mothered, child, from whom
can’st thou derive or heart or head--?
From you, his grandfather, replied Cecilia: Come, come, my dearest sir,
I’ll not allow of this despondency. Rise from your chair, and come with
me and visit this new scyon of your stock! Look in his lovely face;
contemplate the bright promise of a true De Lancaster, a virtuous hero,
born to crown your name with honour: See him! you’ll own how Providence
has blessed you, and blush for having doubted.
The father rose, took the hand of his daughter, and, whilst the tears
were brimming in his eyes, followed where she led.
Now, my friendly reader, if you have gone patiently along with me
through the pages of this my first book, let me hope that you will
proceed not unpleasantly to the conclusion of the next.
You know that every story must have time to expand itself: characters
must not be hurried into action before they are understood; and a novel,
though it ought to be dramatic, is not absolutely a drama.
My hero is yet in the cradle, and I must keep his grandfather and others
in the foreground, till he is fit to be presented to you: when that time
comes, old age may cease to prattle, philology may fall back and NATURE
step forward to conduct and close the scene.
In the mean time if I take the freedom of saying a few words, whilst the
fable pauses, recollect that I cannot in the course of nature have many
more opportunities of conversing with you, and few have been the
writers, with whom you have had more frequent intercourse, or who have
been more pertinaciously industrious to deserve your favour and esteem,
for I am now striving to amuse and edify even the youngest of my
readers, when I myself am short of fourscore years by less than four;
and I am inclined to believe, that the mere manual operation of writing
these pages, (as I am now doing for the third time with my own hand)
would be found task enough for any person of my age, without engaging in
the labour of inventing, or the risque of fathering them.
Be that as it may, the work is done, and done, not in the evil spirit of
the time, but without a single glance at any living character; conscious
therefore that I have not endangered what is sacred to me as a
gentleman, the critics are most cordially welcome to every thing they
can find about me as an author. However as I know some of them to be
fair and honourable gentlemen, I hope they will recollect how often I
have been useful to them in the sale of their publications, and assist
me now with their good word in the circulation of De Lancaster.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
BOOK THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
_A Country Visit according to the old Costuma._
By peep of day every thing, that had life, in and about Kray Castle,
horses, dogs and cats included, were up and in motion, save only the
lady in the straw, who could not rise, and the gentleman in bed, who did
not chuse to leave it, namely Philip the fisher, who had not got one
perch, and probably not so many _bites_ from beside the banks, as he had
been favoured with from between the blankets.
The two companions, who had pledged themselves to this adventure,
rendezvoused at the same moment, though not exactly under the same
colours; for whilst the scarlet of De Lancaster’s apparel was fiery
bright, the uniform of Wilson had a cast of the campagne in it, having
seen some service, and endured some smoke.
Amongst the numerous personages, who attended these adventurers to the
door of the vehicle, in which they embarked their bodies, our new-born
hero took a conspicuous post, probably more in compliment to the
curiosity of his nurse, than selfishly to gratify his own. Nevertheless
it is recorded, that when the machine, (called in those days a coach)
was put in motion by the joint energy of six fat coach-horses and one
fat driver, little John clapped his hands, and crowed amain for joy: if
he made any speech upon the occasion, there was one more instance of
miraculous prematurity lost to the world, for nobody remembered it.
Though the country they had to travel over was not quite so flat as
Norfolk, nor the road altogether like a gravel walk, yet the journey was
prosperous, for the team was strong, and a persevering amble, now and
then exasperated into an actual trot, brought the travellers within
sight of the mansion, embowered in yew-trees, where dwelt the descendant
of King Lear, father of a daughter less ambitious than Regan, but far
more dutiful.
A forerunner, who without trial of his speed, had outstripped the coach
by some miles, had announced the coming of the lord of Kray Castle, and
the fires in the old conventual kitchen sparkled at the news: the
drunken old warder had got on his fur gown, and the bard of the family
was ready in the gallery of the great hall to give the customary
salutation to so honourable a guest. When Mr. De Lancaster had passed
the abbey-like porch, and found himself in the aforesaid hall, he turned
round, and made a courteous inclination of his head to the harper, who,
like Timotheus, was _placed on high_: noticing the domestics and
retainers, who lined his passage to the receiving room, he said in a
whisper to his friend the colonel--These honest folks don’t look as if
they had suffered by a reduction either of the quantity or quality of
their Welch ale.--When ushered into the room, where the master of the
mansion was, they found him sitting in his gouty chair, with his foot
wrapped in flannel on a stool, in company with a great collection of
Morgans, who hung quietly by the wall: upon sight of De Lancaster his
countenance was lighted up with joy. This is kind indeed, he exclaimed;
this is an honour I could not expect, and a favour I shall never forget,
taking the hand of De Lancaster, and making an effort, as if to press it
to his lips. Turning to Colonel Wilson, he cried--Ah my old friend, I am
happy to see you. Welcome to Glen-Morgan! Why you look bravely, and are
nimbler upon one leg, than I am upon two: you see how I am suffering for
the sins of my youth.--He then called out amain for Mrs. Richards his
housekeeper; he might have spared himself the trouble, for Mrs. Richards
was in the room, and made herself responsible for well-aired beds,
reminding her master, who questioned her very closely, that Captain
Jones had lodged ten nights in the room, which she had prepared for Mr.
De Lancaster, and he had left Glen-Morgan that very morning: the same
good care had been taken of Colonel Wilson’s apartment. Satisfaction
being given upon these points, Mrs. Richards was strictly enjoined to
see that not an individual belonging to his worthy guest wanted for any
thing in his house, nay, if a dog had followed his coach, let it be her
duty to take care that he was welcomed and well fed.--These were the
manners, and such the primitive hospitality of those days.
When dinner was announced, and old Morgan, wheeled in his chair into the
eating-room, the parson in his canonicals at the foot of the table gave
his benediction to an abundant mass of steaming viands, which bespoke a
liberal rather than an elegant provider. A grave and elderly gentleman,
who had the health of the family under his care, pronounced a loud Amen
at the conclusion of the parson’s prayer, and the butler at the
sideboard bowed his head. The family lawyer was also present, having a
dinner retainer ad libitum, and a painter of no small eminence, who was
upon his tour for the purpose of taking sketches of back-grounds for his
portraits, completed the party.
Every guest at table had an attendant at his back in full livery of
green and red with boot-cuffs, on which the tailor of the household had
wantonly bestowed such a bountiful profusion of scarlet plush, that the
hand, which gave a plate, seldom failed to sweep away the bread beside
it, or the knife and fork, as it might happen: some discomposure also
occurred to the wearers of wigs, when a dish was put on or taken off
from the table. The harp would not have been silent, but that Mr. De
Lancaster observed, that the din of the table would probably be louder
than the melody of the serenade, and with much good reason suggested,
that it might be more respectful to the musician, not to call upon him
for his attendance till there was a better chance for hearing his
performance.
When the table at length was cleared, and the health of the new-born
heir had gone round, De Lancaster did not fail to call for the minstrel,
and Mr. Gryffin Gryffin made his entrance with his harp, habited in his
garb of office with his badge of merit pendant on his breast. After a
prelude, calculated to display his powers of execution, he paused to
know if it was the pleasure of the company to honour him with their
choice of any favourite melody; to this De Lancaster with his usual
courtesy made answer, that for himself he should much prefer to hear
some strain of Mr. Gryffin’s own composition, accompanied by the voice.
Gryffin bowed, and confessed that he had been employed upon a simple
melody of a pensive and pathetic cast, adapted to a few valedictory
stanzas, which Captain Jones, who had that morning departed from
Glen-Morgan to embark for the West Indies, had left upon his table,
purposely, as it should seem, to fall into his hands.--
By all means give us those! was the exclamation of more than one person
in the company.
The obedient minstrel again made a graceful reverence, and throwing his
hands upon his harp, sung as follows--
“Hark, hark, tis the bugle! It wafts to my ear
“The signal for parting--Adieu to my dear.
“I go to the isles, where the climate is death,
“And Fate’s pallid hand weaves my funeral wreath.
“When I leave my soul’s treasure forlorn on the shore,
“And I strain my sad eyes, till they see her no more,
“My sorrows unheeded no pity shall move,
“While my cold-hearted comrades cry--Why did you love?
“A soldier, whose sword is his all, should obey
“No mistress but Honor--and truly they say--
“Behold! at her call, to my duty I fly;
“Can a soldier do more for his honor than die?”
When Mr. Gryffin Gryffin had concluded his madrigal, of which the melody
at least was extremely well composed, the painter, who ought to have
been a better critic, than to have overlooked the effect, which it had
had upon the countenance of old Morgan, unadvisedly enquired who the
mistress of the poet was--A poet’s mistress, you may be sure, De
Lancaster instantly replied; every thing is imaginary; the mistress and
the muse are alike ideal beings, and death and dying are only put in to
make out the rhymes; then turning to the master of the table, he
said--Brother Morgan, I perceive you drink no wine; I have had my glass,
and if the company will excuse us, you and I old fellows will leave them
to their claret, and take a cup of coffee tete à tete in the next room.
The motion was seasonable, and so immediately seconded by the man of
medicine, that the mover and the man to be moved soon found themselves
in a situation equally well adapted to the compassionate object of the
one, and the seasonable relief of the other.
Here as soon as they had taken their seats, and were left to
themselves, De Lancaster commenced his lecture _De consolatione_. On
this occasion it so happened, that a fair opportunity was not made use
of, for, except a slight hint at Cicero and his daughter, very little
philology or common-place argument were resorted to: common sense was
found upon trial to answer all purposes quite as well: when the one
lamented that he had not discovered his daughter’s attachment, the other
very naturally demanded, who but the lady was to be blamed for that?
Where there was such a flagrant want of confidence on the part of the
daughter, and no compulsion on that of the father, by what kind of
sophistry could he suggest occasion for any self-reproach?--To this when
Morgan answered, that he feared his daughter had been awed into
concealment, De Lancaster sharply replied, that he defied him to assign
any honourable motive for a disingenuous action: a father could only
recommend the situation, which he thought most eligible and advantageous
for his child, presuming that she had not previously engaged her heart;
in which if he was deceived by her, it only proved that either he was
very unsuspecting, or she extremely cunning. In conclusion Morgan was
driven to confess that his only remaining compunction arose from the
reflection upon what Mr. Philip De Lancaster might suffer by a
connection, so little likely to promote his happiness.
If that be your regret, resumed De Lancaster, dismiss it from your mind
at once. Philip is made at all points for your daughter: no couple can
be better paired. Fondness on either side would destroy their mutual
tranquillity. They have given us, under Providence, a grandson, and if
that blessing be continued to us, you and I must agree to regard the
intermediate generation as a blank, and rest our only hope on what that
child may be.
Heaven grant him life, cried Morgan! You have cured me of the mournfuls.
Let us join our friends.
CHAPTER II.
_Robert De Lancaster returns to Kray-Castle. Another Visit is in
Meditation._
As the porter, who lays down his burden and his knot, has probably a
quicker sense, and greater relish for the pleasure, which that
relaxation gives, than the gentleman, who never carried any thing
heavier than the coat upon his back, so did it fare with the good old
lord paramount of the manor of Glen-Morgan. He was just now the lightest
man in the company, forasmuch as he had got rid of a heavy wallet of
vexations, and in the gaiety of his heart, he declared, that as for any
pain the gout could give (which in fact at that very moment gave no pain
at all) he regarded it as nothing: a man was not to flinch and make wry
faces at a little twinge of the toe, when he had a gallant officer in
his eye, who had undergone the amputation of a leg.
Yes, said the colonel, I have lost one leg; I should not like to lose
another; but in our way of life we must take things as they turn out;
considering how often I have heard the bullets whistle, I think myself
well off.
I perceive, cried the painter, it is your right leg, colonel, which you
have lost: the misfortune I should think would have been greater, had
you been deprived of your right arm.
So the world would think, sir, replied the colonel, had it been your
case; but we poor soldiers sometimes want our legs to save our lives.
Your wounds sometimes, said De Lancaster, will save your lives: the
scars, that Caius Marius bore about him, rendered his visage so
terrible, that the assassinating soldier did not dare to strike him.--I
have painted him in that very crisis, replied the artist; but I confess
I have trusted to his natural expression, and left out the scars.--You
have done right as a painter, rejoined De Lancaster; an historian is
tied down to facts.
After an evening, passed in conversation, cheerful at least, though
little worth recording, and a night consumed in sleep, of which no
record can be taken, Robert De Lancaster rose with the sun, and, after
about five hours travel, was set down in safety with his friend the
colonel at his castle door, where Cecilia met him with a smiling
welcome, and a happy report, that all was well. This report was in a few
minutes after confirmed by Mr. Llewellyn, who had the health of the lady
above stairs under his care. Mr. Philip also presented himself, and our
hero John, (though last and least) exhibited his person, and seemed
perfectly well satisfied with the reception, that was given him.
Llewellyn was a man of information, and had a spirit of enquiry, by
which he became to the full as deep in the secrets of the families he
visited, as in those of the medicines he administered. To Sir Owen at
all times, sick or well, he had free access, and he paid him more than
professional attendance: he now brought the news of Mrs. David Owen’s
arrival at Penruth Abbey. He had seen her, and being as usual in a
communicative vein, he proceeded to launch out into many of those
trivial particulars, which are of easy carriage, and with which
gentlemen of his vocation are apt to enrich their conversation to the
great edification and amusement of their employers.
Mr. Llewellyn would not positively pronounce Mrs. David Owen to be a
beauty, yet he was aware that many people would call her pretty; she was
not however to his taste: there was a want of sensibility and a certain
delicacy of expression, which in his conception of the female character
(and here he addressed himself to Cecilia) was the very _crisis_ of all
that is charming in woman.
You mean _criterion_, my friend, said De Lancaster, but you are _in the
shop_, and there errors are excepted; so go on; proceed with your
description.
Mr. Llewellyn was too well accustomed to these little rubs to be daunted
by them, and finding that he had gained attention, proceeded to describe
Mrs. Owen as a sprightly little woman of a very dark complexion, with an
aquiline nose, quick sparkling eyes and thick arched eyebrows, black as
the raven’s plume: Mr. Llewellyn professed himself no admirer of black
hair; (Cecilia’s was light brown). Her dress, he said, was after the
fashion of the Spanish ladies, as he had seen them represented on the
London stage, when _he walked the hospitals_.--Here Mr. Llewellyn made
another slip, but it was out of De Lancaster’s reach, who had no data
for a comment.--He acknowledged that her style of dress was well
calculated to set off her shape, and display the elegance of her taper
limbs to the best advantage: he would have the company be prepared to
encounter the sight of bare elbows and short petticoats; for his own
part he was no friend to either. She had taken up her guitar at Sir
Owen’s desire, and sung two or three of her Spanish airs, accompanied by
certain twanging strokes on that instrument, which, though it resembled
nothing that could be called playing, had however no unpleasing effect.
She sung in a high shrill tone, and accompanied the words, which he did
not understand, with certain looks and gestures, which he did not wish
to describe.
Their melodies are Moorish, said De Lancaster; they use a great deal of
action when they sing: the Greeks themselves did the same. Does Mrs.
David Owen speak English?
With great fluency, but with a foreign accent. She had her son with her,
about four or five years old, the very picture of herself; extremely
forward, cunning and intelligent beyond what could be expected from a
child of his age. Sir Owen had been rather disconcerted and thrown out
of his bias by his visitors on their first arrival; but he had now
acquiesced, and the lady seemed to have the game in hand. Mr. Llewellyn
concluded by declaring, that if he had not been told she was a Spaniard,
he should verily have suspected her to be a Jewess.
Whether she be Jewess or Christian, said the master of the family, we
must pay her the compliment of a first visit, and without delay.
The next morning, as soon as the sun appeared upon the eastern hills,
and gave the promise of a fair day, order of march was given out for the
afternoon; dinner was announced for an early hour, and again the
body-coach set out with De Lancaster and Cecilia occupying the seat of
honour, and Philip with his back to the great front glass, followed by
two reverend personages grey-headed, and in no respect resembling light
horsemen, save only that they carried arms before them, though not in
holsters of the newest military fashion. The elegant simplicity of
Cecilia’s dress very happily contrasted the splendid drapery of the old
gentleman, who had relieved the scarlet coat, not in the happiest
manner, with a waistcoat of purple satin, richly embroidered with gold,
and not much exceeded by the coat in the length of its flaps, or the
capaciousness of its pockets. Philip was by no means over-studious of
the toilette. Colonel Wilson had gone home to receive his son Edward,
who was now elected off from Westminster school to Trinity College in
Cambridge.
CHAPTER III.
_The Visit to Penruth Abbey. Certain Personages, who will fill
conspicuous Parts in this eventful History, are introduced to our
Readers._
As the cumbrous machine, to which the family of the De Lancasters had
now committed their persons, disdained the novelty of springs, it was
well for the company within that it was provided with a soft lining of
blue velvet and enormous cushions, stuft with swan’s down. It had been
the admiration of the county, when its owner served the office of
sheriff about twenty years past, and though its original splendour was
somewhat faded, it still exhibited on its pannels a vast shield
emblazoned with the device of the harp between a copious expanse of
wings. When it turned the point of the avenue leading to Penruth Abbey,
looming large as an Indiaman in a fog off Beachy Head, it was readily
descried by the porter from his lodge, who, huddling on his tufted gown
of ceremony, rung out the signal on the turret-bell; whereupon all the
waitingmen, drunk or sober, ranged themselves in the hall, and old Robin
ap Rees prepared himself to salute the respected visitor with a
flourish on the harp, as he entered the house.
Robert De Lancaster, followed by his son and daughter, passed through
the domestic files to the tune of Shenkin, and was received at the door
of the saloon by Sir Owen, who presented his sister-in-law in due form,
making her reverences in the style and fashion of Spain, where the
ladies bow, and the men curtsey.
The good old man acquitted himself with all the gallantry of the good
old court, and took his seat with due respect and ceremony beside the
lady. When he had adjusted the tyes of his perriwig and the flaps of his
coat, having drawn off his high-topped gloves to give a due display to
his ruffles, Mrs. Rachel Owen began the conversation by telling him how
much she admired his equipage, which she complimented by saying it was
exactly upon the model of the coaches of the Spanish nobles: the English
carriages, she observed, were generally very ill constructed and in a
bad taste, particularly those she travelled in, drawn by only two
beggarly horses, unmercifully whipped by a brat of a postillion; whereas
in her country no man of distinction could pass from place to place
without his six mules, guided by the voice, unincumbered by either reins
or harness, and ornamented with bells, which in her opinion gave a
cheerful sound, and had a very dignified effect.
Why yes, madam, said De Lancaster, every country is attached to its own
customs. The Spaniard prefers his mule, the Laplander his rein-deer, the
inhabitant of the desart his camel, and some tribes bordering upon
Abyssinia ride their cows. The animals no doubt are adapted to their
several climates: in England we are contented with horses, and as our
vehicles are apt to have a great deal of iron-work about them, we are
satisfied with the jingling they make, and readily dispense with the
amusement of bells.
He then proceeded to pass some high encomiums on the beauty and majesty
of the Castilian language, which he said he could read and understand,
when spoken, though he was not able to keep up a conversation in it. He
remarked upon the excellence of their proverbs, which he said was a
proof both of the fecundity and antiquity of a language. She
acknowledged the justness of his remark, and instanced the romance of
Cervantes as abounding in proverbs. She believed they were frequent in
the Hebrew language, and asked him if they were also common in the
Greek.
Very much so, madam, replied De Lancaster, in the writings of the
Greeks. As to the Hebrews, the wise sayings of Solomon alone furnish a
very copious collection, and are by us specifically called his
_Proverbs_, or as the Greeks would term them his _Paræmiæ_, which some
express by the word proverb, following Cicero’s interpretation; others
by the word adage, preferring the authority of Varro, the most learned
of all the Roman philologists.
The lady, who had drawn this conversation upon herself by an affectation
of talking about what she did not understand, now perceiving the eyes of
the company directed towards her, and a general silence kept whilst De
Lancaster was speaking, felt her vanity so much flattered by having
this learned harangue addressed to her, that, in order to hold it on,
she ventured to ask which of the Greek authors were most famous for
their proverbs.
Madam, replied De Lancaster, your question, though extremely pertinent
for you to ask, is not easy for me to answer with the precision I could
wish. I can only tell you that the Greek oracles were in general adages,
and many of the latter are to be traced even in Homer: the bulk of them
however is to be collected from Aristotle the Peripatetic, and his
disciples Theophrastus and Clearchus of Irlöe, from Chrysippus,
Cleanthes, Theætetus, Aristides, Aristophanes, Æschylus, Mylo,
Aristarchus, and many others, that do not just now occur to me to name
to you.
These are great authorities indeed, cried Mrs. Owen, more and more
delighted with the conversation as it grew more and more unintelligible
to her; and pray, learned sir, added she, condescend to inform me where
the wise sayings of these great men are to be met with.
De Lancaster was not a man to withhold his answer from any question upon
a point of philology, could any such have been put to him by his
cook-maid; whereas Mrs. Owen had fairly hooked him in to believe that
she was interested in his discourse, and solicitous to be informed.
Possessed with this opinion, he replied--Madam, every question that you
put to me is a convincing proof, that the ladies in your country turn
their minds to studies, in which our English women have no ambition to
be instructed (a conclusion falser than which he never made in his
life) and it is with particular satisfaction I have the honour to inform
you, that in Zenobius the sophist, or (as some will have it) Zenodotus,
in Diogenianus of Heraclea, and in the Collectanea of Suidas, you will
find ample store to gratify your very laudable curiosity: I would
recommend to you also to consult Athenæus, Stobæus, Laertius, Michael
Apostolius the sophist, Theophrastus called Logotheta, and others, that
might be pointed out; but for the present perhaps these may suffice.
I dare say they will, cried Sir Owen, and if you find them in this
house, sister Rachel, I’ll give you leave to keep them. Lord bless you,
my good neighbour, she never heard the name of one of them, nor is there
a monk in all Spain, that ever did put a word of theirs under his cowl,
or ever will. I tell you they are as dull as asses, and as obstinate as
mules. Rachel knows no more of what you have been saying to her than I
do.
This side speech of the baronet’s, so unseasonably true, had scarce
passed his lips, when little David bolted into the room, and having
fixed his piercing eyes upon the person of De Lancaster, ran up to his
mother, and in a screaming voice cried out--Look, look, mamma, there’s a
man in a black wig, for all the world like our old governor of
Cadiz!--Hush, hush, saucy child, cried the mother, stopping his mouth
with her hand.--Don’t stop him, I pray you, said the good man; when
children find out likenesses, ’tis a proof that they make observations.
Your son compares me to the governor of Cadiz, and I dare say I am
honoured by the comparison.
That is true politeness, said Mrs. Owen, addressing herself respectfully
to De Lancaster. It is not often that great learning and great urbanity
are found in the same person: when they are, how infinitely they adorn
each other!--a reflection this, so much to the honour of Mrs. David
Owen, that lest I may not have many to record equally to her credit, I
am the more inclined to notice it upon this opportunity.
Addressing herself to Mr. Philip De Lancaster, she said--I take for
granted, sir, you are extremely fond of the beautiful infant, of which I
am to give you joy--Philip bowed and made no answer.--I hear, repeated
she, he is an uncommon fine boy--Philip was of opinion that all infants
were alike: for his part he could mark no difference between
them--Perhaps you have not studied them with quite so much attention as
you have given to your books--Philip was not very fond of reading--Of
country sports perhaps--Still less--Of planting, farming, building?--Not
in the least of either--Mrs. Owen seemed resolved to find his ruling
passion--Did he take pleasure in the wholesome exercise of walking?--He
doubted if it was wholesome, and he never walked, if he could avoid it:
he angled now and then, and had no dislike to a game of chess--I
comprehend you now, said the inquisitive lady; fishing is an amusement,
that accords with meditation, and chess demands reflection and a fixt
attention--I give little or no attention to it, replied Philip; and that
may be the reason, why I never win a game--That certainly may be the
reason, resumed the lady, and I’m persuaded you have struck upon it.
The conversation now took a general turn. Tea was served, and the black
prying eyes of Rachel Owen were at leisure to scrutinize the dress and
person of Cecilia, whom the baronet seemed now disposed to release from
all further solicitation. Master David Owen in the mean time amused
himself with teazing a poor little Spanish lap-dog, which, but for him,
would have quietly reposed its diminutive body in his mother’s muff.
When reprimanded by Sir Owen for tormenting a dumb creature, he set his
nails with a most inveterate resolution into the little creature’s tail,
and to his infinite delight convinced the hearers, that he had no dumb
creature between his fingers. This produced a slight box on the ear
from his uncle, and the yell of the suffering dog was instantly
overpowered by the louder yell of the enraged tormentor--Poor fellow,
said Mrs. Owen, you shall play with little Don when your uncle is not
present: boys must be amused; must they not Mr. De Lancaster?--Not with
cruelty I should hope, he replied; they ought not to be indulged in that
amusement; and it is a very bad prognostic, when they can be amused by
it--The dog is of little value to me, said Mrs. Owen, and I would sooner
wring his nasty neck off with my own hands, than he should annoy my
brother Owen, and expose my darling boy to be punished by him.
The dog, madam, said the old gentleman with a gravity, that was highly
tinctured with displeasure, the dog may be of little value, but humanity
is of the highest; and a more sacred lesson cannot be impressed upon
the mind of your son, whilst it is yet capable of receiving the
impression. Permit me also to observe to you that no lady wrings off the
neck of a dog with her own hands: we should view it as an act of
violence so totally out of character, that I must doubt if she ever
could recover it--I will not suppose that a poor little animal could
provoke your anger, because it cried out when it suffered pain, and your
son excite your pity, when he cried out louder, and suffered nothing.
I am obliged to you, my good friend, cried Sir Owen, that is just what I
would have said, if I could--Rachel Owen said nothing, but answered with
a look, that I am neither able nor ambitious to describe. In that moment
vanished her respect for De Lancaster, and something was adopted in its
stead of a less innocent and gentle quality. She took her sulky sobbing
brat by the hand, and left the room without apology. The coach was
announced, and De Lancaster rose to take his leave--You see how it is
with me, said Sir Owen; I have admired an angel, and henceforth renounce
all hope of her: such a whelp and such a shrew, as I am now coupled to,
will shortly make an end of me.
De Lancaster shook his friend by the hand, walked silently through the
hall to his coach, which conveyed him home in safety, time not having
sufficed for the fat coachman to get more than three parts tipsy, and
the fat horses being, as was usual with them, perfectly sober and
acquainted with the road.
CHAPTER IV.
_The Family of De Lancaster return to Kray-Castle. Our History mends its
Pace._
De Lancaster and his daughter, meditating on the occurrences, that had
passed at their visit, particularly on the expressions, that had fallen
from Sir Owen upon their taking leave, observed a profound silence for
some time after they had left the Abbey. Philip’s thoughts did not in
any degree harmonize with their’s, for he was ruminating on the charms
of Mrs. Owen, and, as the coach was slowly moving up a steep ascent,
promulgated his opinion, that nothing could be more agreeable and
engaging than the very lady, who to them had appeared in so opposite a
character.
No notice was taken of this _dictum_, for Philip had such a muttering
way of delivering his wise sayings, as made them seem like speeches
addressed to nobody in company, and of course entitled to no answer from
any body. Philip however, who had laid down his proposition in general
terms, proceeded now to branch into particulars, and these produced the
following brief dialogue between son and father; the former carrying it
on in the character of proponent, the latter as respondent.
Mrs. Owen is very delicately made. I like slender limbs.
They suit well with slender likings.
She has a great deal of wit, and I am sure you thought so, for you
talked a great deal to her.
And to very little purpose it should seem.
She did not like Sir Owen to correct her child.
Then she should have taken the trouble out of his hands, for the boy
deserved correction, and I am afraid will shortly become incorrigible.
Here the alternation paused, and Cecilia, turning to her father,
said--What is it in the countenance of that boy, which, when I look upon
him, causes me to shudder?
It is, said the father, because you read his character in his features,
and are persuaded, that the child, who sets out by tormenting a poor
helpless dog, will in time grow up to be the tormentor of a poor
helpless man. I own there is something in the boy repulsive to my
nature.
He has fine eyes, said Philip.
They are indications of his mind, and give fair warning, replied De
Lancaster; so far they may merit what you say of them.
I hope, rejoined Cecilia, my dear little nephew in no future time will
form acquaintance or connection with him. He never will be cruel I am
sure; his little hands already are held out to every living thing he
sees, and his sweet smile bespeaks humanity.
Yes, and as surely as he lives, my dear, replied De Lancaster, his hands
will be held out to all his fellow creatures in distress, or I am a
false prophet. As for my friend Sir Owen, I pity him from my heart, poor
man. His last words made a strong impression on me. If he submits to
keep these plagues about him, I fear he will never know another happy
day.
Philip’s opinion of Mrs. Owen was not altered, but his fund of
conversation was exhausted, so he said no more, and the coach discharged
its freight in the port, from which it had set out.
As we hold it matter of conscience not to keep our readers any longer in
the nursery, we must here avail ourselves of our privilege, and pass
very slightly over a period of our hero’s life, which does not furnish
us with matter sufficiently interesting to be recorded in these memoirs.
As we profess to give the history of the human mind, we trust it will be
allowed us to present our John De Lancaster to the reader as a boy,
whose thoughts and actions were no longer merely neutral, but such as
might naturally lead to the developement of that character, which he was
destined to exhibit in his more advanced maturity. For the present we
shall content ourselves with observing that, although the age, when
education ought to have begun, was now gone by, still the question of
what species that education should be, whether public or private, was
not decided.
Within this period the following letters, under different dates from the
West Indies, had reached the hands of Mrs. Philip De Lancaster.
“_From Captain Jones--Letter the first._
“Madam,
“In a few days after I had arrived at my destination I fell ill,
and my disorder soon assumed those appearances, which in this
country are considered to afford but little chance of a recovery.
The wife and daughter of my friend Major Parsons, who came
passengers with me in the same transport, with a benignity, that
exposed their lives to danger, under Providence saved me from
death.
“Unfortunately for the younger of my preservers, she conceived so
strong an attachment, that I must have been the most unfeeling and
the most ungrateful of all men could I have remained insensible to
her partiality. Her health became in danger, and both her father
and mother, well apprised of the cause of it, offered and even
solicited me to accept her hand in marriage, and I did not
withstand their joint appeal.
“Thus, after your example, I have married, and I am persuaded, that
my wife, had she the honour of being known to you, would please you
by the gentleness of her character and the unaffected modesty of
her manners. I have stationed her in a little cottage near
adjoining to the barracks, and in a healthy situation; but her
father Major Parsons is like myself a soldier of fortune, and our
establishment is proportioned to our means.
“I write by this conveyance to lay her jointly with myself at the
feet of my benevolent patron your ever-honoured father. She
presumes to send you a few tropical fruits of her own preserving,
and hopes you will condescend to accept of them together with her
most humble respects and unfeigned good wishes.
I have the honour to be,
Madam, &c. &c.
JOHN JONES.”
The second letter from Captain Jones, of a date posterior by about a
year to the foregoing, is as follows--
“Madam,
“Alas, that I must trouble you with my sorrows! I have lost my
wife; my poor Amelia is no more. She was a being of so mild a
nature, that were I conscious of a single word, which ever passed
my lips to give her pain, I never should have peace of mind again.
The ravages of this exterminating fever are tremendous: she fell
before it almost without a struggle. The affliction of her parents
is extreme, and I am told the sternest soldier in my company, that
followed her body to the grave, could not refrain from tears, for
every soul that knew her, loved and lamented her. She has left an
infant daughter, in whose tender features I trace a perfect
miniature of her whom I have lost. As soon as ever her afflicted
grandmother can be induced to part from her, I mean to rescue her
from this infernal climate, and consign her to the motherly care
and protection of my kind friend and relation Mrs. Jennings, who
resides at Denbigh--
“Oh Madam, you, who know the inmost feelings of my breaking heart,
will you in pity look upon my child, the legacy of my Amelia, my
all in this world, and perhaps before this letter reaches you, the
only relict of your wretched friend?
I have the honour, &c. &c.
JOHN JONES.”
This letter was soon followed by the melancholy tidings of poor Jones’s
death; his infant child Amelia had in the mean time arrived, and was
placed under the care of Mrs. Jennings above-mentioned, who by the
bounty of old Morgan, was liberally rewarded with a pension for her
education of the orphan.
CHAPTER V.
_Puerile Anecdotes of our Hero John De Lancaster._
Although Mr. De Lancaster in one of his prophetic moments had
pronounced, that the mother of our hero would conceive a more than
ordinary love and affection for her infant, the event did not exactly
verify the prediction: sorrow had benumbed her heart: she had so long
fed upon it in secrecy and silence, that all the little energy, which
nature had originally endowed her with, was lost. From her husband she
derived no comfort, and for the maternal duties she was totally unfit.
The accommodating contract she had entered into with Philip for all
nuptial emancipation in future, was so religiously observed on both
sides, that it did not seem in the order of things natural, that the
heir of the family would ever be saddled with a provision for younger
children.
Young John, who had occasioned much trouble and annoyance to his mother
by inadvertently coming into the world, before he was expected, seemed
likely to go out of it without experiencing the care of any other parent
than the benevolent Cecilia; for Mr. Philip De Lancaster, as I have
before hinted, had married without any other moving cause than what
operated upon him through the strainers of his father’s recommendation
and advice, and was not remarkably uxorious. On the contrary, as the
embers of affection were not vivid in his bosom, and as there is reason
to believe he did not take much pains to kindle them in the bosom of his
lady, it may be presumed, that he was as little studious to find
consolation for her sorrows, as she was to interrupt his indolence, or
to resent his indifference.--Amusements she had none, and occupations
extremely few: she discharged herself from all attention to family hours
and family meals; eat and slept by herself, received no company and paid
no visits, alive to little else but the reports, which at stated times
she expected and received from Mrs. Jennings at Denbigh of little
Amelia’s health and improvement, whom at the same time she had not
energy enough to visit, whilst her father was a prisoner at Glen-Morgan
under the coercion of two inexorable keepers, old age and gout. She had
a servant Betty Wood, an ancient maiden and as melancholy as herself,
who now and then read homilies to her, and now and then worked carpeting
and quilted counterpanes, over which she regaled herself with hymns,
sung in a most sleep-inviting key to adagio movements, that scarce moved
at all. This work of hers, like that of the chaste Penelope, was without
end or object; for it rarely failed to happen that, before the task was
finished, Mrs. De Lancaster had changed her fancy as to the pattern, and
destroyed perhaps in a few minutes what patient Betty had been employed
upon for months: her carpets never covered the floor, nor did her
counterpanes ever ornament the beds.
As Mr. Philip De Lancaster had no further punctilios to observe towards
his lady, he seemed to think that nothing more could be required of him
towards his son except to measure his growth from year to year by
notches in the wainscot of the steward’s parlour, which are there
remaining to this hour as records of the extraordinary vegetative
powers, with which dame Nature had endowed the object of these memoirs.
Cecilia would fain have had her little nephew brought into the room
after dinner, but it was not often she was indulged in that wish, as the
old gentleman did not approve of the custom; and once, when the good
aunt was rather more importunate than was usual with her, he told her,
that the practice of introducing noisy children and prattling nurses
into the guest-room was so justly reprobated by all civilized societies,
that the citizens of Abydos became notorious to a proverb for their ill
manners in that particular, and were the laughing-stock of the more
refined Athenians--And should not you and I, said he, like the aforesaid
citizens, deserve to be the ridicule of our neighbours, if, instead of
entertaining them with the conversation of the table, we should treat
them with the din and gabble of a nursery?--From these, or any other
authorities, when abetted by her father, it was not Cecilia’s practice
to appeal, though perhaps she longed to observe to him, that his
neighbours were not in all respects exactly like the _refined
Athenians_.
De Lancaster nevertheless was extremely fond of his grandson, and once
in every forenoon had him brought into his library, where he would hear
him say the little lessons, that his aunt had taught him, and sometimes
with great good humour tell him stories, and repeat fables, which had
always some point of instruction couched under the moral of them, upon
which however the narrator was in the habit of descanting rather longer
than would have answered his purpose, had that been only to amuse the
hearer; but as this history does not undertake to record every incident,
that occurred during the boyish years of our hero, we shall content
ourselves with observing, that, as he advanced in strength and stature,
he gave proofs of a very early aptitude towards all athletic exercises
within the compass of his powers. He scrambled up the crags, forded the
gullies and braved the inclemencies of climate, with any boy of his age,
however bold or hardy.
That the only son and heir of a family so ancient, rich and respectable
should be indulged in these adventures, would not seem very natural,
but that his aunt could not, and his father would not, follow him in
these excursions, whilst every body else about the castle conspired to
encourage him in them, and applauded him for his resolution.
His great ambition was to rival young David Williams, son of the blind
minstrel, in the manly art of horsemanship. This hardy lad performed his
errands to the post office and market of the neighbouring town on a
poney, who yielded to none of Welch extraction in obstinacy and
determined disobedience to controul. He had more ingenious devices to
dislodge young David from his back, than young David had resources at
all times ready to disappoint and thwart him in his contrivances; and
hence it rarely came to pass, that the horse and his rider did not part
company before the expedition was complete and at an end. If David was
by chance encharged with frangible commodities, nobody could ensure upon
a worse bottom. Poney had not a single friend in house or stable; every
soul gave him an ill name; but some enjoyed to witness his malicious
tricks, whilst to others David always set out with an assurance, that he
would master him, and generally came home with tokens, that gave ocular
demonstration to the contrary.
One evening as David was returning home through the park with a cargo of
sundries in a basket, and just then in high good humour with his poney,
he was met by his friend John exactly at the pass, where the two roads
branched off, the one towards the castle, and the other to the stables.
David’s business carried him to the house, but the poney was disposed
to carry him and his business to the stable. This begat a difference of
opinions on the spot, and the dispute soon begat blows, which were
manfully laid on by the rider, and passionately resented by the
receiver. After a sufficient number of indecisive plunges, which brought
the basket of miscellaneous articles to the ground, but left the rider
only a little forwarder on his saddle than was quite convenient, poney
seemed in the humour to compromise the question between the two roads by
taking neither; but bolted forwards at full speed towards the hah-hah,
that bounded the pleasure ground, upon the very brink of which he made a
sudden stop, and throwing up his heels at the same instant with his head
between his knees, he completely effected his purpose by pitching his
jockey into the aforesaid hah-hah, which, luckily for its visitor, was
just then full of water.
When John, who had been spectator of the contest, had assisted his
friend in getting out of the water, and found all bones whole, he
repaired to the stable, where the contumacious poney was still standing
at the door, and, arming himself, with David’s whip, proceeded to mount.
This was a new demand, which the poney could by no means reconcile to
his feelings; the battle instantly commenced; and victory hung between
them for a while without any seeming partiality to either side: many a
time they came to the ground together, but never parted; till at length,
after plenty of restive manœuvres, and a pretty many Welch
remonstrances, poney gave in, and, to the immortal honour of our young
Antæus, ever after became as tractable as a turn-spit.
CHAPTER VI.
_Education stands still. The Seeds of Enmity are sown. The Incident of
the dying Soldier._
Whilst our hero was thus gaining laurels in the field by his bodily
achievements, in mental attainments he made no great progress. His good
aunt Cecilia laboured hard at her English lessons, but his play-fellows
and companions without any labour kept him in such practice with their
Welch, that between both languages he was in danger of speaking neither.
Still his kind instructress persevered in teaching him such things as
she could teach and he could learn, but although he was now advanced
beyond the age, when boys in general turn out to public schools, the
parties, which sate in council on the specific mode of education to be
pursued, were so wide of an adjustment, that it might well be made a
doubt if he was in any way of being educated at all.
Mr. Philip De Lancaster had naturally so little interest in his own
opinions upon this, or any other question, that he parted from them upon
the easiest terms, and took them back again upon the slightest reasons.
He had been heard to say that something should be thought of for him,
but the task of thinking was a task he did not concern himself about. If
the decision between public and private education had rested upon
Philip, his casting vote would have been as mere a matter of chance, as
the cast of the dice.
Mrs. De Lancaster, the mother, who never opened upon this subject,
except once to Cecilia, expressed her opinion that the question was of
no importance: he was his father’s son, and educate him how they would,
he would still be his son, and education could not mend him.
Cecilia was humbly of opinion, that the subject was above her, and
properly belonged to the other sex to consider and decide. She observed
however that Colonel Wilson had given his sons a public education, and
she believed he had no cause to repent of it: this was evidently a lure
to hook him into the debate, and a pretty clear insinuation which way
her judgment and her wishes pointed. But the master-opinion, which alone
could resolve, and carry resolution into effect, was still to be sought
for in the bosom of the grandfather, and he did not seem in haste to
bring it forth.
If it were put to me in the way of question, he said to Cecilia, whether
I am prepared to recommend a public school, I answer, no: if you should
persist to ask what other system I would recommend, I should observe to
you, that system is subordinate to nature, and that none such ought to
be laid down, till it is apparent and made clear to what the genius of
my grandson points. When I make use of the term genius, let me not be
understood as if admitting any inborn influence, which might seem to
favour the absurd chimeras about innate ideas. I am aware that Sophocles
in his Ajax asserts, that the happiness of man consists only in his
ignorance: in his ignorance of such things, as would make man miserable
did he know them, his happiness may indeed be said to consist; and so
far only I can agree with Sophocles; for ignorance, in its proper sense,
can make no man happy; on the contrary I hold it as a truth
incontrovertible, that, if any human being could be perfect in virtue,
he would be perfect in wisdom also; and if such be the test of wisdom,
how can ignorance be said to make him happy? Now if the wisdom of virtue
is to be instilled into the young pupil by the wisdom of books, it must
surely be by other books, than his masters in the dead languages may
always happen to select for his instruction in those languages. Cicero
wrote about the cardinal virtues, as he was pleased to call them, and it
is not quite clear to me, that suicide was not one of the family: in
fact, his book is good for nothing; the man was a follower of the New
Academy, and of course could have no opinion: his ambition was to talk
about every thing, and his maxim to decide upon nothing. You, my
excellent Cecilia, can for the present teach your nephew what he ought
to know, and perhaps if he never learns what you cannot teach, he will
have no loss. You will instil into his heart religion in its purest
principles--in teaching that, you teach him every thing.
When this honest, but eccentric, man had thus unluckily entrenched
himself on the wrong side of a clear question, he could find so many
specious arguments of this sort for doing nothing, that of course
nothing was done; and the mind of the neglected boy, now thirsting for
instruction, found every avenue shut against him, except that only,
which had little new to afford.
It so happened that Colonel Wilson had been called away upon an exchange
of his government for one of rather more emolument in a distant
situation, where he had been obliged to reside for a certain term upon
his first taking possession. This was a heavy loss to young John, who
had the mortification to hear the wit and understanding of David Owen
cried up and applauded, whilst he himself was let to remain in a state
little short of dereliction. Once or twice he was admitted to the honour
of standing by his father, whilst he angled in the canal; but John saw
no amusement in watching a float, that never once gave the signal of a
bite. In Cecilia’s flower garden he took some small delight, but it was
pleasure of too tame a sort to satisfy his ardent mind.
One morning when Sir Owen’s fox hounds were to throw off in Kray wood,
he was permitted to put himself under the convoy of the groom, and go
out to see them find; but alas, he was destined to exhibit himself on
the back of the reformed poney, late the letter-carrier and drudge of
the castle; when the first object, that struck his sight, was the fine
young heir of Penruth Abbey, mounted on a full-sized hunter, and dressed
in a uniform of green and scarlet. He was accompanied by several
gentlemen in the same uniform, and, Sir Owen not being in the field,
seemed to act as master of the hunt. When the hounds began to challenge
in the cover, the sportsmen were in motion, and poor John, conscious of
his unworthiness to enrol himself amongst them, struck down a narrow
lane, that skirted the wood and led towards the castle by the shortest
cut. The country had been drenched with rain, and whilst John and poney
were bustling through this muddy pass, young Owen gallopped swiftly by,
and having spitefully contrived to sluice him, (man and horse,) all over
with the dirty soil, looked back and laughed.--Never mind, master
Johnny, cried the groom: sportsman’s fare--Not aware that the injury,
which the poor little fellow had received, was not confined to his
clothes, for upon drawing up and dismounting, which agony compelled John
to do without delay, not only his face was cut with the flinty rubbish,
that had been thrown up by the heels of Owen’s horse, but his eyes had
suffered much more seriously, so that he was obliged to be led home with
his handkerchief bound over his eyes, suffering the whilst intolerable
pain. What passed on his arrival at the castle need not be described: it
was some weeks before the skill of Mr. Llewellyn, and the tender care of
Cecilia, could be fairly said to have perfected the cure. No
intercourse in the mean time passed between the abbey and the castle,
and, if it was known at the former place (which there is good reason to
think it was) neither enquiry nor apology ever reached the latter.
Whilst the groom enraged the lower regions of Kray Castle with his
account of the malicious feat, John was quite as capable of
distinguishing between design and accident, and with fewer words, but
deeper meditation, laid up the insult in his mind, never to be
forgotten.
During the time that the boy, in consequence of this injury, was
interdicted from resorting to his book, impatient to be learning
something, he turned his thoughts towards blind Williams, who repeated
verses and played to him on the harp; which to enjoy, he would sit for
hours, with the shade over his bloodshot eyes, sympathizing with old
David on the lamentable loss of sight, and enquiring if it was attended
by that misery, which his imagination attached to it.
It chanced one day, whilst sitting in this attitude by the side of the
minstrel, he was solicited for his charity by a worn-out soldier, who
had fallen sick upon his way, and had been admitted into the house by
the servants for the purpose of relieving him in his distress. John
lifted up the shade from off his eyes, to look at him, and the
melancholy spectacle, which, through the misty medium of his feeble
optics, he imperfectly discerned, struck so hard upon his feeling heart,
that he suffered the very keenest pang, that pity could inflict. Food,
clothes, medicine, bed, every thing, that could relieve a suffering
fellow creature at the point to die, was immediately to be prepared. The
soldier’s tale was short; for in the history of his sufferings there was
a mournful uniformity: wounds and hard service in unhealthy climates had
made him old in the mid-stage of life; poverty and privation had
depressed his hardy vigour, and sickness, consequencial of those evils,
had at length broken down a gallant spirit, which, under these
accumulated visitations, could no longer struggle with its destiny.
John heard this sad recital of his woe with sympathizing tears; but when
he came to relate how cruelly he had been threatened and dismissed by
the young lord of a fine great house in the neighbourhood, (describing
Penruth Abbey) whilst begging charity at the door, where he saw the very
dogs fed with bread, for want of which he was starving, our
heart-struck hero started from his seat, and, stamping vehemently on the
floor, exclaimed--Let me but live to bring that Jew-born wretch to
shame, and let me die the death, I care not; tis enough!--Then turning
to the servants, he said--Take notice; my grandfather, your master, has
charity in his heart, and will not suffer this poor man to perish
through the want of any thing, that he can give. Let him therefore want
for nothing; when you have given him what he ought to have, take him to
a well-aired bed in a comfortable room, and send for Mr. Llewellyn to
attend upon him. I’ll answer for my orders--The soldier overpowered with
gratitude, only murmured out his thanks: blind David sung out
loudly--Heaven reward thee, my sweet child! Thou art a true De
Lancaster!
CHAPTER VII.
_The Soldier takes leave of our young Hero. Delivers to him a Pacquet he
was entrusted with, and dies._
Next morning, when the sun had risen, and old Robert De Lancaster was
attended upon, as usual, by David Williams, he enquired after the sick
soldier, which he understood had been taken into the house by the order
of his grand-son John. This drew from Williams a recital, much more
circumstantial, than had yet been made to him of that event. He gave the
very words, that John had uttered in resentment of young Owen’s
inhumanity, and they were deeply felt. De Lancaster remained silent for
a time, and gave no signal to the blind musician; at length he
said--Williams, my mind is agitated: give me something soothing, and
let it be a simple melody--I have hastily put together a kind of
ballad-melody of that very sort, replied the minstrel, which occurred to
me whilst reflecting upon young Mr. Owen’s want of charity to the poor
soldier, and, if it is your pleasure, I will recite it to the harp--Let
me hear it, said the master, and the minstrel sung as follows--
“I’m sick, said the soldier, and cover’d with scars,
“Behold the sad fruit I have reap’d in your wars!
“Have pity, good master, I’m feeble and old,
“I’m weary, and starving with hunger and cold.
“Begone from my door, and appeal to the laws,
“I am not of your country, nor friend to your cause:--
“Thus answer’d the merciless squire in his pride,
“And thus with disdain a young angel replied--
“What ails thee, what ails thee, thou miserly elf,
“To be hoarding and hugging thy rascally pelf?
“See where old father care strews his thorns in thy bed,
“And terrible death waves his dart o’er thy head.
“Let thy cash buy the blessing and pray’r of the poor,
“And let them intercede when death comes to thy door;
“They perhaps may appease that importunate pow’r,
“When thy coffers can’t buy the reprieve of an hour.
“Foolish man, don’t you know ev’ry grain of your gold
“May give food to the hungry and warmth to the cold?
“A purchase in this world shall soon pass away,
“But a treasure in Heaven will never decay.
“Now tell me what pleasure you reap from your hoard,
“And I’ll tell you what rapture your dross might afford;
“Amid numberless joys I will name only these--
“Gay days, happy nights and a conscience at ease.
“Do you think, sordid wretch, when you turn a deaf ear
“To the suit of the orphan that God does not hear?
“Do you hope to escape from the searcher of hearts,
“When the tear of the widow no pity imparts?
“When the ag’d and infirm vainly put up their pray’r
“For that mite, which your mass without missing could spare,
“The angel of vengeance your crime will enroll
“Amongst those of the demons, who murder the soul.
“Give a shilling to-day, and the joy you’ll derive,
“To-morrow shall swell your small tribute to five;
“Progressive delight ev’ry hour shall encrease,
“And at length a few guineas shall purchace your peace.
“If you spurn my advice, you’re a blockhead and dunce,
“You cannot serve God and your Idol at once;
“Who traffics with Mammon will find in the end,
“He has made a bad bargain, and lost a good friend.”
De Lancaster had always a kind word upon his lips for his old blind
minstrel, and having told him that he had added another leaf to his
laurel, went down to his family assembled in the breakfast room with all
that charity in his heart, which the ditty had recommended.
When the story of the soldier had been heard by Mr. Philip De Lancaster,
he coolly observed, that it was a trick to extort money; he would not
take the soldier’s word for a farthing, and did not believe young Owen
capable of any thing cruel or uncharitable.
When it was related to Cecilia, she threw her arms about the neck of the
benevolent boy, pressed him to her bosom, and prayed Heaven to preserve
him from the malice of that spiteful imp, whose evil-boding visage
haunted her both day and night.
When the mother of John was informed of the circumstance, and
understood that the man, who laid sick in the house was a soldier, she
sent Betty Wood to enquire of him what regiment he belonged to, and when
answer was brought that he was invalided from the 15th foot in the West
Indies, and private in the company of the late Captain John Jones, whom
he should ever bewail as the kindest master and the best of friends, it
seemed as if the fountain of her tears was never to be exhausted. An
irresistible desire possessed her to see the man, and, after certain
preparatory manœuvres, conducted by faithful Betty, she actually carried
her resolution into effect, and entered the chamber of the soldier,
planting Betty at the door to prevent interruption. As he had been
selected from the ranks by Captain Jones, as his domestic servant, he
had many anecdotes to relate, highly interesting to the hearer, and
very honourable to his late master: he spoke also warmly in the praise
of his deceased lady, and in raptures of his dear little Amelia, with
whom it seems he had come over to England in the pacquet, and, after
many adventures and misfortunes, was on his way to visit her at Denbigh,
when sickness overtook and reduced him to the condition, in which the
charity of her angel son had found him.
He was now exhausted, and Mrs. De Lancaster forbore to press upon him
any more enquiries: she bade him be assured that he should never want;
she would pension him for life; she would settle him at Glen-Morgan in
the neighbourhood of Denbigh, and, if ever she became possessed of that
estate, he should be taken into her house, and pass the remainder of
his days in ease and competency.
Alas, good lady, feebly he replied, I have but few more days on this
side the grave, and them I must employ in asking mercy of my God, and
imploring blessings on your son, who has been to me as an angel before
death.
This said, she left him, and retired unseen to her chamber. John was
soon after heard, as usual, at her door, and admitted.
Come to my arms, she cried, my dear, my noble boy! Did you but know how
I feel and why I feel your charity to that poor soldier, you would not
wonder at the tears I shed, whilst thus I press you to a breaking heart.
But you will know me after I am dead, and that time is not far off.
Leave me, my child; I shall not often send for you; my sorrows must be
only to myself. Go, go, be happy! I am very ill. Send Wood; and leave
the room.
In the forenoon of the day next ensuing, young John De Lancaster visited
the poor soldier; he was dying, but found strength to say--God bless you
and farewell! Had I been relieved when I begged charity of that
neighbouring gentleman, who turned me from his door, I think I might
have lived, but I fainted soon after, and all your goodness could not
save me. He then reached out his hand, and delivered to John a small
leathern purse, which he prayed him to open. It contained a plain gold
ring, which Captain Jones had given him in charge for his daughter
Amelia, being the wedding ring of her mother: could he have reached
Denbigh, he had delivered it to her: he had been strongly beset by
hunger more than once, but he had resisted every impulse to part from
it, and had fulfilled his trust at the expence of his life: he now
committed the deposit to the care of one, who he was sure would
faithfully convey the legacy to its proper owner, and he devoutly prayed
to heaven, that it might prove a blessing to the wearer--John took the
ring, and assured him it should never pass from any other hands but his
into those of Amelia Jones.
In the evening of that day the soldier died.
* * * * *
Have patience with me, kind and courteous reader! I am not leading you
into the regions of romance: I aim not to surprise you; but I am aiming
to find out, (if haply nature shall direct my hand) that clue, which,
rightly followed, may empower me to unravel the recesses of your heart.
This is my object; in attempting this, success, however short of
triumph, will repay me; but, if I wholly fail, my labour’s lost; I have
no second hope.
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
_Early Efforts of our Hero’s Genius._
John’s attachment to the harp of David Williams inspired him with a
desire for being taught a few easy tunes by so great a master. In this
ambition he was warmly encouraged by his grandfather, who considered it
as the unequivocal characteristic of a true De Lancaster, and boldly
predicted that he would rapidly advance to hereditary celebrity on that
ancient and noble instrument.