to recollect, that both Hercules and Alexander condescended to take
lessons on the harp, tho’ the former broke his masters head with his
own instrument, and the latter insisted upon his privilege of striking
the wrong string, whenever it suited him better than the right. Robert
therefore found it necessary to caution his grandson against copying
those boisterous scholars, and strictly enjoined him to give close
attention to the instructions of his master, after the example of the
Cretan youths, who were universally educated in music, and remarkably
obedient to their teachers.
John accordingly sate down with eagerness for the undertaking, and in
point of diligence few Cretans could have exceeded him; but when
unexpected difficulties began to stare him in the face, and every lesson
seemed to increase those difficulties, his ardour cooled and despair
possessed him wholly. David Williams at length pronounced _ex
cathedrâ_, that his pupil had positively no genius for the instrument;
the case was hopeless, and the harp was laid aside.
I am sorry for it, said the grandfather, but I am myself no performer on
the harp, though a lover of its melody, and sure I am that no man can
possess a spirit prepared to meet the vicissitudes of fortune with
equanimity and calmness, unless his passions have been disciplined by
music. Let the boy’s genius therefore be watched, and, if it points to
any other instrument, indulge him.
Shortly after the promulgation of this edict the musical propensities of
the discarded harper began to shew themselves in a very different
character, and he now conceived a passion for performing on the
trumpet.
Be it so! said the grandfather; it proves at least his spirit has a
martial cast.
Colonel Wilson was now returned, and heard with infinite delight the
story of the dead soldier, told by Cecilia so greatly to the credit of
his darling boy John; but when his friend De Lancaster told him with an
air of triumph of his reigning passion for the trumpet, he treated it as
a jest, and ridiculed the idea. Disappointed by this reception, and
somewhat piqued, De Lancaster was determined to stand to his defences,
and that Wilson, who had arraigned the trumpet, should be doomed to hear
the trumpet’s advocate.
Sir, said he, you will permit me to remind you, that the trumpet is an
ancient and a venerable instrument. If it be said that the walls of the
city of Thebes were raised by the lute of Amphion, we have better
authority for believing that the walls of Jericho were thrown down by
the trumpets of the Israelitish Priests.
I hope, replied Wilson, the trumpet of my friend John will not be quite
so efficacious. If the castle tumbles down with the blast, we may chance
to be buried in its ruins.
Wilson had better have left this skit alone, for his friend was at no
time guilty of giving his hearers too little information, and he was
just now put upon his mettle to discuss the merits of the insulted
trumpet under its three denominations according to the respective
characters, in which the ancients employed, and have described it. The
first of these, he told him, was the _tuba_, or straight trumpet,
properly so called: the second was the _lituus_, or shrill-toned
trumpet, curved at the extremity: the third and last the _cornuus_, or
deep-toned horn, of natural conformation, curved throughout: of these
the chief was the _tuba_ first named, which he informed him was unknown
to the Greeks, though not to Homer, who did not employ it in his
battles, knowing it was not then in use.
He was right in not doing so, said Wilson; but if he had done otherwise,
I, for one, should never have found him out.
Whether Wilson imagined that his friend had done with his trumpets it is
impossible to say, but it is very easy to believe that he was not aware
how many he had in petto, for he seemed astonished when given to
understand, that there were not less than six different sorts of the
tuba, as classed by Eustathius into that of the Athenians, invented by
Minerva; the Egyptian trumpet, contrived by Osiris, and employed in
their sacrifices; the trumpet of the Gauls, with a peculiar mouthpiece,
of a shrill tone, and by them called Carynx; the Paphlagonian trumpet,
mouthed like a bull and very deep-toned; that of the Medes, blown with a
reed, also of a deep tone, and lastly, the Tyrrhenian trumpet, extremely
acute and high-pitched in conformity to which it is supposed the Romans
modelled their’s.
Scarcely was this edifying dissertation finished, when the hall
resounded with a blast, loud enough, it should seem, to shake its aged
banners into tatters: Wilson hastened to the scene of action, and found
his friend John under the tuition not of any of the great masters
above-mentioned, but of a puppet-show man, who travelled the country,
and recommended himself by the strength, rather than by the sweetness,
of his tones. This gentleman, who had just recruited his lungs with an
emollient dose of sweet Welch ale, blew with might and main in return
for the hospitality he had received, and doubtless for the honour of the
corps he belonged to. The Goddess Fame never gave a louder crack for the
best favourite she had, though he were standing at her back, and, like
the bellows-blower of an organ, had pumped breath into her lungs to let
the people hear his own good deeds. The performer, who was an adept in
more arts than one, had just then played a somerset, to the great
delight of his pupil John, and was standing on his hands with his heels
erect in the air, when Mrs. Elizabeth Wood entering the hall, and seeing
a pair of human legs in an attitude so totally irreconcileable to her
idea of the proper place, which human legs ought to hold in society,
uttered, as in duty bound, a most violent scream, and in the same breath
announced an order for silencing that horrid trumpet; it had nearly
thrown her lady into fits. That ancient and venerable instrument, (so
called by Mr. De Lancaster) was accordingly for ever laid aside, and
Scaramouch was fain to make his retreat without sound of trumpet; but as
he could tumble, conjure and shew tricks, that would give no offence to
the nervous system of the lady above stairs, it is probable that both
the ladies and gentlemen below stairs suffered him to entertain them
before he left the castle; and as he very politely invited them to be
present at the opening of his theatre in the village, when Punch and
his company would present them with the entertaining interlude of the
Rape of the Sabines, with appropriate screamings by the ladies concerned
in the representation, it is presumed, that not a few of them were
prevailed upon to be present at that interesting exhibition.
The shock, that Mrs. De Lancaster had received, was by no means feigned.
She had now become a confirmed hypochondriac, and great alarm was
sounded forth by Mr. Llewellyn of an approaching decay, that he
endeavoured to stem by an unceasing course of medicines, which if they
had suited her case, were certainly not sparingly administered; but, as
she regularly grew worse and worse, it occasioned some to doubt whether
they had even the merit of being innocently neutral.
Thus ended the second abortive effort of our hero’s genius in the
musical department. Not totally discouraged, but cautious of annoying
his unhappy mother, he now betook himself to the humble Jew’s-harp,
whose sibilous strains by long practice and unwearied assiduity he so
contrived to modulate and diversify, as obtained for him the reputation,
amongst the servants at least, of executing some of the familiar Welch
airs in a style, that seemed the very echo of David Williams’s harp.
For this small accomplishment he was indebted to his genius only: There
were however other arts, in which he exercised himself under tuition. By
the favour of the gamekeeper he became an expert shooter at a mark, and,
since Colonel Wilson had returned, he put himself under the command of
his servant, a disabled veteran, who taught him to perform all the
motions of the manual and platoon so correctly, that the effects of this
discipline soon became conspicuous in the firmness of his step, and the
uprightness of his carriage.
When report was made to De Lancaster of his grandson’s wonderful
performances on the Jew’s-harp, he expressed more joy on the occasion
than the meanness of the instrument seemed to merit, and immediately
signified his pleasure, that the young minstrel should be summoned to
the dinner-room, where he was then sitting with Colonel Wilson, and at
the same time ordered the servant to bring the harp after him, for that
he would himself witness his performance.
When the servant had gone out to find the performer, the old gentleman
intimated to Wilson, that he hoped he would have his harp put in order
before he brought it with him, as he did not greatly relish the ceremony
of tuning--I confess, added he, I am curious to see the construction of
this Jewish harp; though I dare say it is the harp with crooked arms,
described by Hyginus, and played upon with the plectrum, which I am bold
to affirm was the practice of king David.
To all this Wilson maliciously made no other reply, but that he believed
the harp had crooked arms.--I was sure of it, said De Lancaster. Upon
the word, young John came in, and being asked where his harp was,
immediately applied it to his lips, and began to twang it in his very
best manner. In the name of wonder, exclaimed De Lancaster, what is the
boy about? Is he playing on the plectrum? No, cried he, I am going to
give you Shenkin.
He went on, and the grandfather heard him out, charmed into silence by
the novelty and ingenuity of the performance. When he had played the
air, which he did with great correctness of imitation, in the style of
David Williams, the old gentleman, turning to him with a smile,
said--Well, my good boy, you have done your part, and though your harp,
I confess, has disappointed me, your art has made up for it. This is the
first time I ever knew the harp was a wind instrument, and if the Jews
have the credit of inventing your machine, you have the credit of making
music out of it. Then, addressing himself to Colonel Wilson, he
observed, that the exact manner, in which he had imitated the style of
David Williams, brought to his recollection Ælian’s anecdote of the
famous Polygnotus of Thasos, whose magnificent paintings were so
correctly copied in miniature by Dionysius of Colophon, as to preserve
the whole spirit and excellence of the original in all its due
proportions, though upon the smallest scale. Having examined the Jew’s
harp, he observed, that this was one more instrument than he had ever
seen, or heard of before, and asked who taught him. Upon his replying
that he had taught himself, he turned to Wilson with an air of triumph,
and said--This proves what I have always maintained, that nature is the
best instructress.
In some things perhaps, said the Colonel. I presume, not in all.
I am not sure, said De Lancaster, that exception should be made of any.
John had a master for the harp: he made nothing of it: he takes up that
paltry scrap of iron, and makes admirable music. Such is the difference
betwixt the natural emanations of genius, and the laboured efforts, that
are extorted from the pupil by the lessons of a teacher.
John, who probably foresaw something coming forward, which he was not
interested to partake of, now stept up to his grandfather, and asked
leave to ride over to Glen-Morgan, and pass a day there.--Why to pass a
day?--Because he would go over to Denbigh, and execute a little
commission, which the poor soldier on his death-bed had requested him to
fulfil.--Of what nature was that commission?--Simply to deliver a little
token to the daughter of Captain Jones, which that officer had entrusted
to the care of his faithful servant the soldier, but which the poor
fellow did not live to execute.--What was the little token he was to
carry?--Pray, don’t ask me that, said the youth, and above all things
don’t let my mother know a word about the matter. It would be very much
to the honour of the poor soldier, if I told you all; but I hope you
won’t require me to do that.--On no account, replied De Lancaster, will
I make any such demand upon you. If you will take my coach, ’tis at your
service; if you had rather ride, let Ben the groom attend you, and give
your orders accordingly.
John took the hand of his grandfather, kissed it, nodded with a smile to
the colonel, and hastened out of the room.
You have a treasure in that noble boy, said Wilson; but I hope, my good
friend, he will not be suffered to go on any longer without education,
because he can play upon the Jew’s-harp without a master. Don’t be
offended with me, if I seem to step out of my office, when I speak to
one of your great knowledge in the learned languages, but I presume you
hardly can expect your grandson to understand Greek and Latin, unless he
has a teacher.
Perhaps not, replied De Lancaster; yet, if it were so to happen, it
would not be the first wonder of the sort, that hath come to pass. It is
well known what prodigies of learning have started up into notice, even
in their infant years, and possessed themselves of arts, sciences and
languages, without being ever put into the trammels of a teacher.
Indeed! cried the colonel.
Assuredly, replied the assertor, though it may not have fallen in your
way to be certified of the fact. I could, if necessary, adduce a host
of witnesses to attest the wonders, that have been effected by the human
genius, unassisted with instruction; but as your profession, Colonel
Wilson, has probably occupied too much of your attention to allow of
your turning your thoughts to enquiries of this cast, the things I might
relate of Lipsius, of Quirino, Alphonsus Tostatus and many others of
equal celebrity might appear to you incredible.
Very likely, interjected the colonel.
Yet are they, every one, supported by irrefragable authorities. The mind
of man, my friend, is in itself a miracle, and persons, who have been
predestined to extraordinary occasions, have been born under
extraordinary circumstances, as was the case with Luther, who, whilst he
was yet an infant at the breast, maintained a Latin thesis against the
Pope’s infallibility, which gave rise to the saying, that he sucked in
controversy with his mother’s milk.
My very good and learned friend, said Wilson, that you have somewhere
crossed upon this idle legend, amongst the boundless mass of books that
you have consulted I am well persuaded; but that you will commit your
excellent understanding by stating it in serious proof of the question
we are upon I am loth to suppose. When I believe your account of
Luther’s coming into the world with a square cap and gown, I will
believe his thesis at the breast, and, when I believe that, I will not
dispute the story of the prolific lady, who was delivered of three
hundred and sixty-five children at a birth.
I dare say you will not dispute it, rejoined De Lancaster, when you
hear the evidences for the truth of it. The prolific lady, you allude
to, was the Countess Herman of Henneberg, daughter of Count Floris, Earl
of Holland, Zealand and Friesland, and son of William of Holland, first
of that name; Floris was treacherously slain by the old Earl of Clermont
at a public triumph, and left behind him this daughter Margaret, who
married the aforesaid Count Herman of Henneberg. She, despising the
petition of a poor widow, who with twins at her breast asked charity,
gave her very reproachful words withal; whereupon the widow, failing on
her knees, appealed to Heaven in vindication of her innocency, and
earnestly prayed, that as she had conceived and brought forth those two
infants lawfully by her husband, even so, if ever that lady should be
pregnant, she might be visited with as many children at a birth as
there were days in the year. Not long after, the lady conceived, and
went into Holland to visit the earl her brother, taking up her abode in
the abbey of religious women at Leyden, where on the Friday before Palm
Sunday in the year 1276 she was delivered of three hundred and
sixty-five children, the one half being sons and the other daughters,
but the odd babe was double-sexed. They were all baptised by Guydon,
suffragan to the bishop of Utrecht, who named all the sons John, and the
daughters Elizabeth, but what name he gave to the odd child, said De
Lancaster with much gravity, I must own to you I do not find recorded.
John-Elizabeth for a certainty, said the Colonel. It may be so, resumed
the narrator; but I hazard no conjectures, I only detail facts. They
were however no sooner baptised than they all died, and the mother
likewise. Their two baptismal basins are still preserved, and have been
by me seen and examined in the said church at Leyden, together with the
inscription on the Countess’s tomb in Latin and in Dutch, the former
beginning thus--_Margareta, Comitis Hennebergiæ uxor, et Florentii
Hollandiæ et Zelandiæ filia, &c. &c._ Underneath is the following
distich, the first line of which has been some how or other curtailed of
its proper metrical proportion, as you will perceive--
--_En tibi monstrosum et memorabile factum,_
_Quale nec a mundi conditione datum._
Here Robert De Lancaster, having closed his narrative, turned a look
upon his friend, that seemed to appeal to him for his judgment on the
case. The colonel made no reply, and it may be presumed that the
appellant set down his silence to the score of his conviction.
CHAPTER II.
_Our Hero’s Visit to Amelia Jones._
John and old Ben, carrying his personals in a pair of saddle bags, were
on their way to Glen-Morgan the next morning before sun-rise. Ben was an
excellent guide across Welch moors and mountains, and did not confine
himself to the roads, that were in use, but had the art of steering to
his point with great œconomy of time and distance. It was a gleam of joy
to poor old Morgan to behold his grandson, for he was fond and John was
affectionate. Every body in the house ran to pay him their respects: the
green and red liveries were taken off their pegs, and dinner was served
up in state as to the heir-apparent. The parson, lawyer and apothecary
were in their places, the old butler in gala, and Mrs. Richards with her
attendant housemaids in high requisition.
After an early breakfast the next morning John set off for Denbigh, and
presented himself at the door of Mrs. Jennings, who received him with
all possible courtesy: when informed of the matter he was charged with,
and of his wish to see Amelia, she was summoned, and ready at the call,
ran down stairs, and was instantly in the room: upon seeing a stranger,
she stopped short, fixed her eyes upon him and made a curtsey: John
rose, bowed, and seized at once with admiration and surprize, (not
expecting to be encountered by an object of such striking beauty) seemed
to have lost all recollection of his errand, and stood as if he had no
other business but to gaze in silence. As the embarrassment was now
becoming reciprocal, Mrs. Jennings thought it was high time to remind
him of the commission he had imparted to her. Having lost the words,
with which he meant to preface the delivery of the little pacquet, he
produced it at once, and having delivered it to Amelia, endeavoured to
relate what it was, and how he came by it. His narrative was not very
distinctly given, and as soon as he perceived the effect it was likely
to produce, he stopped short, and looked to Mrs. Jennings for relief.
The lovely girl received it with a trembling hand, and whilst she
murmured out her thanks, opened the pacquet, snatched a momentary glance
upon the relique it contained, and would have sunk upon the floor, had
not John eagerly interposed, and throwing himself on one knee, supported
her in his arms, her head reclining on his shoulder.
When she had recovered, Amelia followed by Mrs. Jennings left the room,
and John remained in solitary meditation for a few minutes, till the
lady of the house returned and made the joint apologies of Amelia and
herself for having left him so abruptly. As soon as he was certified
that there was no further cause for alarm, he began to describe to Mrs.
Jennings how much he was enchanted and surprised by the uncommon beauty
of her lovely charge, who, when he had prepared himself to see a little
girl running into the room, had presented herself to him with all the
graces of a finished woman, elegant in her manners and charming in her
person.
Perhaps, said Mrs. Jennings, you were not aware that my poor orphan is
but two years younger than yourself. As to the beauty, which you are
pleased to notice, I rather think it is more a promise than an actual
possession; but of her more essential good qualities I can confidently
speak; for a better disposition, greater modesty of nature and
benevolence of heart I never yet contemplated in human creature. To
these virtues she was born; these at least, poor child, she inherits
from her parents, and I think that portrait fronting you, which you are
now looking at, conveys no slight impression of an amiable and noble
character; it is a striking likeness of her father, taken by an eminent
artist, who was a visitor at Glen-Morgan, when Captain Jones passed a
few days with your grandfather, before his embarking for the West
Indies, which I well remember he did on the very day that you were born
at Kray Castle.
And to the very day, on which I cease to live, exclaimed our hero,
raising his voice, and directing his eyes to the portrait, I swear I
will devote myself to the protection of his orphan daughter. Unhappy,
gallant man! I have his history from his faithful soldier. Would he
could hear me! I almost can believe he does; for mark, how tenderly his
eyes are turned upon me. Ah sweet Amelia, what I may be I know not, but
yours in every faithful service I shall be. Our first acquaintance has
commenced in sorrow; Heaven grant, it may grow up and ripen into joy.
This said, he turned his eyes from the picture, and behold they lighted
on Amelia, standing by his side. Surprised, confused, and doubting
whether he beheld a vision or reality, he threw his arms about her,
clasped her to his heart, and in his transport pressed his glowing lips
upon her blushing cheek. Then rushing to the door--Pardon me, he
cried--and vanished with love’s arrow in his heart.
Ah madam, ah my friend, exclaimed the trembling girl, succour me, save
me, or I am undone. If this young heir of two such rich and ancient
families does not at once resolve never to waste a thought on me, what
will become of me? What will his grandfather, whose bread I eat, what
will his mother say? The house of De Lancaster will rise against me,
and I must fly to labour for my living, or involve you in my ruin.
It is even so, my child, and you discern your danger rightly. He is a
noble, generous youth, but he never can be yours in any time to come,
and you must cautiously avoid him. As for what passed just now, you must
think no more of it. Young spirits, taken by surprise, will break out
unawares, and you must forgive him.
Forgive him! cried Amelia; yes, it is easy to forgive him, but when
shall I be able to forget him? Never.
Whilst this conversation was carrying on, a note was delivered to Mrs.
Jennings, in which she read as follows.--
“Madam,
“I cannot leave this place till you assure me that Miss Jones has
recovered from the alarm, which my inconsiderate conduct was the
cause of, and that I have not offended past forgiveness.
I have the honour to be, &c.
“John De Lancaster.”
To this Mrs. Jennings instantly returned the following answer--
“Sir,
You have given no offence to Amelia Jones, but as you know the
delicacy, that is due to a destitute young orphan in her dependant
situation, I am sure your sensibility will remind you how necessary
it will be for her peace, and how consistent with your honour, to
leave her in her obscurity, and suffer me to hope this interview
will be the last.
“&c. &c.”
CHAPTER III.
_Business, long postponed, is at length concluded to the Satisfaction of
all Parties._
We have before observed, that opposition of opinions made no breach in
friendship between the worthy parties, who were in the habit of carrying
on the debates, that occurred at Kray Castle. In the first place it is
not certain that Robert De Lancaster was in all cases tenacious of his
argument merely from conviction of its strength, but partly perhaps from
attachment to it for its singularity, and the occasion it afforded him
oftentimes of displaying that fund of philological erudition, which he
indisputably possessed: in the second place, it is not to be denied,
that whenever he was absolutely convinced of the opinion he defended,
he was not apt to think the worse of it, because his friend Wilson could
not be brought to adopt it.
As his researches had chiefly carried him to those authorities, of which
the classical scholar takes no account, so by arming himself with them
in the lists of controversy, he fought with weapons, and made
left-handed thrusts, that even literary men could rarely parry, and
Colonel Wilson never. So equipped, he could lay down a proposition,
which nobody would dispute, and draw inferences from it which nobody
could admit: but let this be considered rather as an exercise of his
ingenuity, than as a defect in his understanding.
Colonel Wilson, who loved the man, and understood his character, saw
with infinite regret his indecision as to the education of his
grandson, whose strong natural understanding demanded cultivation, and
whose handsome person was now ripening into early manhood. Edward, the
younger son of Colonel Wilson had now left the university, having
obtained every honour, that either his classical or academical exercises
could procure for him. He had been ordained deacon, and was now of age
to take priest’s orders. He also contemplated our neglected hero with
compassionate regret, and had taken up a very favourable impression both
of his talents and disposition. He thought with his father on the side
of public education in general, but he did not consider himself upon
those terms with Mr. De Lancaster, which would warrant him to volunteer
any opinion upon the subject.
The opportunity, which he did not venture to seek, one day presented
itself, when De Lancaster, sitting after dinner, addressed himself to
the colonel, and said--I believe I am aware of most of the arguments,
that are usually adduced in favour of a public school, and am so far
from questioning the good sense of those parents, who make that system
of education their choice, that I could almost admit, that out of a
hundred cases it is the wisest course, which can be taken in ninety and
nine: the only question with me is, whether mine be not exactly that
single exception. If I wished to cherish in my grandson’s heart that
early spirit of emulation, which might urge him to the pursuits of fame
and fortune in either of the liberal professions, a public school would
be the proper nursery for his ambition; but that is not my wish. If he
can creditably support the independent station, which his ancestors have
held for many generations past, I aim at nothing more; and surely, when
I admit that public schools are the fittest nurseries for public
characters, I may be allowed to say that private education is properest
for those, who are destined to fill private stations. If John De
Lancaster survives to be the owner of Kray-Castle (which Heaven grant!)
I hope he will there establish his abode, and be found the protector of
merit, the friend of his tenants and the father of the poor. He might do
this without the help of any of the heathen writers, either Greeks or
Romans; but I don’t wish to exclude them; a gentleman should not be
unacquainted with them; though I am painfully and penitently convinced
he may bestow too large a portion of his time upon them. Plutarch in his
treatise, that Grotius has prefixed to his edition of Stobæus, debates
the question how young students are to read the poets, to what extent
and under what exceptions: It is a heavy and Bœotian work, that talks of
many things, and teaches nothing. In this country we manufacture our
children, male and female, and by the labour of the workman attempt to
give them all the same polish, let the materials they are composed of be
ever so inert and heavy. Nobody taught the nightingale to sing, yet
every foolish father and mother conceive they can teach their jackdaw to
carol like that heaven-born songstress. It is lost labour to manure and
dress a soil, in which there is no principle of vegetation. This I trust
is not the case with my grandson John: He is a manly, sensible,
honorable boy, and has given striking proof of a benevolent heart in his
conduct towards the poor soldier, who died in my house; this he did
without instruction from his Horace or his Juvenal, and this perhaps he
would not have had an opportunity of doing at a public school; at all
events I should not have had the opportunity of witnessing it. I
therefore give my preference to a private and domestic education. Now,
Mr. Edward Wilson, you, who are covered with laurels, worthily bestowed
upon you by your venerable Alma Mater, if you think I am in error,
convince me of my error, and you will not find me backward to retract my
opinion and adopt a better.
To give my opinion, replied Edward Wilson, in a question of such
magnitude would in all cases be presumptuous, but to obtrude it in
contradiction to your superior judgment would be unpardonable.
Circumstanced however as your grandson is in point of age and
understanding, I hold him so unfitted for a station at the very bottom
of a public school, that even without adverting to the very strong
motives, which you assign for education under your own eye, I answer
without hesitation, that my sentiments perfectly agree and coincide with
yours.
I am made very happy by your approbation, said De Lancaster, and now I
must tell you, Mr. Wilson, that an event has been announced to me by
this letter, which in one sense I must consider as a loss, in another as
a gain. My loss is that of an old acquaintance and contemporary, the
late Reverend Dr. Mathew Philips; my gain is the opportunity it affords
me of tendering to you the benefice, which he held by my gift--I
perceive you are about to thank me, but I must request that neither you
nor your father will oppress me on this occasion--for in making you this
offer I do it from my firm persuasion of your fitness, and not merely
through my friendship for your worthy father, which, great and sincere
although it be, would never bias me against my conscience to commit the
charge of souls into the hands of any man, of whose sufficiency I had
cause to doubt. Spare yourselves therefore and me the needless ceremony
of bestowing thanks, where in reality they are not due; for what would
you say, if it should turn out, that I have an object in my view, which
would at once convince you, that in serving you I have not overlooked
myself?
Name the object, I beseech you, Sir, said Edward; and if you hold me
capable of the undertaking, command me!
I perceive you have anticipated my suit, resumed De Lancaster. John, my
grandson, is as yet the only stay and support of an antient and not
ignoble family. Your father has remonstrated with me on the subject of
his neglected education. His motives were friendly, and he made them
known: mine for my seeming negligence had reference to the event, which
I knew to be impending, and has now come to pass, though I could not in
delicacy impart it to him. It was the wish of my heart, dear Edward, to
commit the education of my boy to you; but I confess, such is my nature,
and so am I constituted, that, until I had it in my power to confer a
small favour upon you, I could not ask you to bestow a very great one
upon me.
I am deeply sensible, said Edward, of the honour I derive from your good
opinion, but I am also aware of the importance and difficulty of the
undertaking. That I can teach your grandson Greek and Latin, if he is
disposed to learn, there is little doubt; but when I consider that
amongst my many duties this perhaps will be the lightest, I must look to
you for advice as to the system of education, which you would recommend
me to pursue as we advance in what may be called the beaten track of
school-learning. I confess to you I see no danger in those studies to
the man of deep erudition, but much to the superficial and shallow
scholar, for the morality of the heathen writers is not in all respects
the morality of the gospel, and the philosophy of the Greeks is in no
respect the religion of a christian.
Your observation, said De Lancaster, is perfectly just; but as this is a
subject that will require some fore-thought, I will turn it in my mind,
and give you my opinion upon the first opportunity, that shall occur.
Mr. Philip de Lancaster is now from home, and I think he should by all
means be present at our discussion, that if he does not interest himself
in what so materially concerns his son, he may at least be convinced
that we do.
The topic being thus adjourned, their conversation turned to other
subjects, not important to record.
CHAPTER IV.
_Our young Hero accidentally meets Sir Arthur Floyd, and Mr. Philip De
Lancaster visits a certain Lady at Penruth Abbey._
In the morning of the third day young John De Lancaster left
Glen-Morgan, and set out on his return to Kray Castle. As he was passing
through part of the grounds belonging to Sir Arthur Floyd, whose house
was within sight from his road, he chanced to meet that gentleman, as he
was taking his ride about his demesne. Sir Arthur accosted him with much
civility, and adverting to the accident, that had befallen him in the
field, when he was out with Sir Owen’s hounds, expressed his concern for
the unpleasant consequences that had ensued, and hoped it would not
discourage him from coming out again.
I shall not easily be tempted to come out when Mr. David Owen is in the
field.
I hope, returned the baronet, you do not consider it as a purposed
injury on the part of that young gentleman.
I don’t suppose the gentleman could exactly instruct the horse he rode
to throw dirt in my face, and almost put my eyes out; but I am not
obliged to the gentleman for looking back and laughing at me, when he
discovered the condition I was in.
I trust, resumed Sir Arthur, he did not know the extent of the mischief
he had done, and when he did know it, I hope he made those enquiries,
which it behoved him to make in such a case.
I don’t suppose, said John, Mr. Owen thought that necessary. He had
enjoyed his joke, and was not curious to enquire how I had relished
it--but I have simply answered your questions, Sir Arthur; when I have
serious cause to resent Mr. Owen’s treatment of me, I shall look to him
only for redress.
I hope, young gentleman, said Sir Arthur gravely, you will not consider
me as a busy body in this affair between you, for though my habits of
intimacy are chiefly with the house of Owen, I have all possible respect
for your worthy grandfather, and every one, that bears his name. If I
seem to intrude upon you therefore with any further questions, believe
me it is only in the hope of setting matters straight, which at present
appear to be rather out of course, and accordingly I beg leave to ask
you as to the truth of a report, that circulates about the neighbourhood
respecting a poor distressed soldier, who received charity from you at
your house, and is said to have been very harshly treated at the abbey
door, when supplicating for relief, by young Owen in person.
Such I believe to be the fact, was the answer.
It tells much to the dishonour of the party in question, that being the
fact; but if the soldier be still within reach, I hope you will allow me
to tender you these few guineas for his use on the part of my young
friend David Owen, as an atonement for his oversight.
A piece of bread and a draught of beer might have been of use, but the
money is of none. The man is dead.
My God!--cried Sir Arthur; turned a look of marked regard upon our hero,
bowed and rode off.
Mr. Philip De Lancaster had of late stepped a little out of his
non-elastic character, and been rambling from the castle every forenoon
between the hours of breakfast and dinner. Nobody was curious to trace
him in these excursions, but it could not fail to be discovered, that
his visits were to the Spanish lady at the abbey house of Penruth. To
say that Philip was in love with Mrs. Owen might be to mistake a habit
for a passion; he was in the habit of turning his poney’s head
abbey-ward, as soon as he had sallied from the castle-gate, and poney
was in the habit of going on without any turn at all till he stopped at
the aforesaid abbey door. When Philip dismounted, Mrs. Owen’s lacquey
was also in the habit of ushering him to his lady’s sitting-room, where
he silently took his chair and his chance for being spoken to, when the
lady was in the humour and at leisure to speak to him.
The first remark, that had ever dropped from Mr. De Lancaster with
respect to Philip’s absence, occurred in his discourse with the Wilsons
about John’s education, and it so happened that Mrs. Owen in her tete à
tete that very morning had been rather more disposed to extort a
conversation than was usual with her, when the following very
interesting dialogue ensued.
I conclude, said the lady, that this extraordinary melancholy, which
seems to hang eternally upon you, my good friend, can only be accounted
for by your concern for Mrs. De Lancaster’s dismal state of health and
spirits.
Not at all, said Philip: that’s not it.
What is it then? What in the name of wonder can it be?
I can’t tell. It comes of its own accord.
I don’t know how to believe you. There must be some cause: as sure as
can be you have caught the hip of your hypochondriac wife.
I have nothing to do with any hip of hers. I never go near her: that’s
agreed between us.
A happy release, if what I hear be true. Then you have no domestic
troubles.
None at all: quite free.
Why then so gloomy? What annoys you, what possesses you so wholly, that
you seem almost to have lost the very use of speech? Are you in love, my
friend?
Not with my wife.
With any body else?
With any body rather than with her.
With me, for instance--
Oh, with you sooner than with any body. I visit nobody but you.
True, but I thought you visited me from habit, not from liking.
I like you very much.
What shall I do to encrease your liking?
Nothing. It encreases quite fast enough without your help.
Bless me! That’s lucky; for to say the truth I have not been aware of
it. But I am so surprised, and so flattered by it, that I would fain
take some pains to cultivate so agreeable an impression.
You need not. There’s no occasion to trouble yourself about it.
Should not I contrive to make myself a little younger?
I don’t wish it.
A good deal handsomer?
It is not possible.
A great deal fairer?
That would entirely spoil the beauty of your complexion.
Well! that is charming. I protest you make me the politest speeches; but
alas! they go for nothing. No woman of discretion should encourage the
attachment of a man that’s married.
I may not always be a married man.
That’s true; but then perhaps you’d change your tone.
Never.
Were I quite sure of that, I would not listen to Sir Arthur Floyd; nor
indeed to any body in Sir Owen’s life time--but recollect we have each a
son. What must we do with them? They’ll never set their horses up
together. What is the reason that they don’t agree? I doubt your
youngster is a little proud. Isn’t it so?
I know nothing of him.
My David does not like him, I assure you. He says he is certain you are
not his father.
I know nothing of that also.
He never speaks of him by the name of John De Lancaster; he calls him
Jack Jones after the name of your wife’s favourite lover Captain Jones,
for whom she is so inconsolable.
Why now that’s wonderful--I can’t think how that secret could get out.
Secret, my friend! You are much mistaken if you think it is any secret.
They say he is as like that Jones as ever son was like a father--but I
am talking treason, and you must not betray me--People you know will be
censorious, and it is rather remarkable, that since Jones’s death she
has never added to your family stock.
There’s nothing remarkable in that, if the talking people knew what they
talked about.
Why certainly, were the case as they give out, one son of that sort is
quite enough, and were I in your place I should be apt to think him one
more than was welcome.
I am at no trouble about him. His grandfather and his aunt are at all
the pains of spoiling him.
Not by overmuch education I should think. Begging the young gentleman’s
pardon, I take him to be a most egregious dunce.
Oh! if you take him to be that, I shall take him to be my own son. But
with your leave we’ll say no more about him.
Agreed! Besides I know your time is nearly out. This however I must tell
you in secret--Sir Owen’s life is despaired of, and his whole estate is
settled and entailed upon my son: David will soon be of age, and
probably I shall then have some other residence to seek. Your father I
understand is in his seventy-fifth year, and your son in his fifteenth.
A short time according to the course of nature may set us both free. In
the mean time let me see you as frequently as you can contrive, and if I
have been fortunate enough to make an impression on your heart, be
assured you have interested mine no less; and so long as you continue to
persuade me that I am agreeable in your eyes, neither Sir Arthur Floyd,
nor any man, shall be other than indifferent to me.
Having said this, she reached out her hand, the gallant Philip pressed
it to his lips, made his reverence, and departed.
CHAPTER V.
_Mr. De Lancaster descants upon the Duties of a Preceptor in the learned
Languages._
It is probably in the reader’s recollection, that De Lancaster in his
last conversation with the Reverend Edward Wilson, had promised to
collect his thoughts, and offer his opinion on the duties of a preceptor
in the learned languages. There was little danger of his forgetting that
promise, nor any likelihood of his being unprepared to execute it, for
his mind was fully stored with all the several systems of the Greek
philosophers.
After breakfast the next morning he desired Philip to accompany him and
the Wilsons, father and son, into his library. This was not exactly the
thing, that Philip had meditated to do, but it was what he could not
escape from. He was not however hooked without a small struggle to get
free, for as soon as he understood it was to be a cabinet council on the
topic of his son’s education, he humbly moved for exemption on the plea
of his entire acquiescence in his father’s will and pleasure, modestly
declaring that he did not hold himself entitled to form any opinion in
the case--besides, he should be glad to take a little air, for his
health’s sake.
I hope, son Philip, said the old gentleman gravely, neither your health,
nor happiness, and give me leave to add--nor your honour can suffer, if
you bestow one hour upon your duty to your son, even at the expence of
your accustomed devoirs to the lady at the abbey.
This was answer quite enough for Philip, who walked doggedly into the
lecture room, and took his seat in a corner of it, as far out of the
reach of instruction or notice, as he could devise. Edward Wilson took
the left hand seat by De Lancaster’s arm-chair, and the colonel seated
himself on the other side of the fire place, in front of the old
gentleman; Philip, as I before observed, falling into the back-ground,
and behind his father.
After two or three preparatory hums, like the tap of the first fiddle,
as a signal for attention, De Lancaster commenced his harangue, as
follows--Mr. Edward Wilson, I address myself to you in particular,
because what you remarked at the close of our late conversation is
perfectly in my recollection, and convinces me, that my opinions can
only tend to confirm what your own judgment and observation have pointed
out. I am now assured, that when you commit your pupil to the reading of
those heathen authors, whose writings yet exist, though their languages
be dead, you will not suffer his principles to come into collision with
theirs, till they are fundamentally and firmly established upon faith in
revelation; for where that does not reach, all must be error, seeing
that the human understanding, how acute so ever, cannot upon mere
conjecture account for the operations of divine wisdom unless by the aid
of a divine communication. All, who without that aid have attempted to
discuss the question of _first causes_, have puzzled and perplexed
themselves and others. A sound scholar can readily confute their
systems; a shallow one, as you well observed, may be entangled by their
subtilties. In short, they are at the best but blind guides; most of
them are mischievous logicians, and many of them systematic atheists;
for collect their several tenets, and I am warranted to say you shall
find they are all to be classed, either amongst those, who hold the
world to be eternal both as to matter and form, or those, who hold the
matter to be eternal, whilst the form is not. You are no doubt aware,
that neither Aristotle nor Plato admit a creation of the world, or
acknowledge any time when it was not: Aristotle maintaining that it was
an eternal and necessary emanation from the divine nature; Plato, that
it was an eternal and voluntary effect. Now if what God must have willed
from all time he must from all time have done, where is the distinction
betwixt Plato’s volition and Aristotle’s necessity? In these opinions
are to be found all the component parts of modern atheism. The monstrous
system of Spinosa is principally to be traced in the doctrines of the
Eleatic school, of which Xenophanes was the founder; he was succeeded by
Parmenides, Melissus and Zeno of Elea: his doctrines, which were
delivered in verse and with great obscurity, were adopted by Hilpo and
the Megaric philosophers, and these were supposed to be the eternity and
immutability of the world. Strato of Lampsacus, whom Plutarch calls the
greatest of the Peripatetics, made nature inanimate, and at the same
time owned no God but nature. The Stoics had their dogma of the soul of
the world; the Epicureans held that God is matter, or not distinct from
matter; that all things are essentially God, that forms are imaginary
accidents, which have no real existence, and that all things are
substantially the same. I believe I need go no further with the Greek
philosophers, for in these you have nearly the abstract amount of their
opinions, and the sources of all modern infidelity. As for the
cosmogonies of the Phœnicians, Egyptians and Babylonians, which derive
the world from mechanical principles only, they are immediately
introductive of atheism, as Eusebius of Cæsarea observes of
Sanchoniatho, whose fragment he preserved, and Berosus of the Babylonian
cosmogony, of which nation he himself was. To the doctrines of Orpheus
the theologer I have no objection; with him your pupil will be safe.
Hesiod is only fanciful. Of Thales the hylopathian, whose principle of
things was water, I should doubt whether he was theist or atheist; but
of his scholar Anaximander no doubt can be entertained; his system is
professedly atheistical; the same principle descends and may be traced
through Anaximenes, Anaxagoras and Diogenes of Apollonia, in a word,
through all the masters of the Ionic school. Turn to Leucippus and
Democritus, to Epicurus and all, who held the doctrine of atoms, what do
you discover but the blindest ignorance and the grossest atheism? As for
their celebrated physician Hippocrates, who, following the example of
Hippasus and Heraclitus the obscure, held heat or fire to be immortal
and omniscient, in one word God himself, I can only say it would have
been safer to have taken his physic than his philosophy--but I have too
long intruded on your patience, and forbear the rest.
When Edward Wilson perceived that De Lancaster had done speaking, being
unable to discover how this harangue could be brought into use for any
present purpose, and conceiving himself not called upon to say that he
would not put a pupil to read the Greek philosophers, who had not yet
read the first leaf of his Latin grammar, he bowed and was silent.
Philip sate with his hands upon his knees in the attitude of a hearer,
and seemed employed upon a very close examination of his boots, as if in
search of information from them; but they knew just as much, and no
more, of the subject than he himself did.--I wonder why I was called in
to hear all this, he said to himself, who know no more what he has been
talking about than if he had expressed himself in the Hebrew language.
The colonel on the contrary was under no reserve, but turning to De
Lancaster, said, I cannot doubt, my good sir, but that all, which you
have been saying, would be excellent advice to a student far advanced in
his knowledge of the learned languages, but in the instance of my friend
John I presume the time, when it can apply to him, lies yet at a
considerable distance.
You are right, replied De Lancaster, and therefore as I cannot expect to
say it then, I take the liberty to say it now.
The man, whose ridicule could not have been disarmed by the candour of
this temperate reply, must have had a heart very differently made from
that of Colonel Wilson; and as for Edward he immediately found his
voice, and was liberal of his thanks for the instruction he had
received. I shall hardly expect, he said, to do more for my pupil, than
to make him acquainted with some of the best and purest classics, so as
to form his taste, and qualify him to take his part in those circles, in
which he ought to be found: But if he should contract a passion for
literature, I shall bear in mind what you have been inculcating, and
hope it will be my good fortune to find his understanding stored with
such defences, as no false reasoning shall be likely to undermine. This
object will be ever nearest to my heart, and as I am sure I have an
excellent disposition to work upon, I trust your grandson will grow up,
if God gives him life, to be an honour to his name and nation.
I am satisfied, said De Lancaster, and have not another word to offer.
That is lucky, quoth Philip, as his father walked out of the room; for I
am yet in time to take my ride. This was overheard by Colonel Wilson,
and provoked him to say to Philip--If you are going to take your usual
ride to the Abbey, I hope you will recollect by the way your obligations
to a father, the matter of whose discourse may have seemed tedious to
you, but whose motive being zeal for the welfare of your son, ought to
be held in honour and respect.
CHAPTER VI.
_Mr. De Lancaster proposes to revive certain ancient Modes of curing
Diseases._
A project had been conceived by Mr. De Lancaster for calling together an
assembly of the chief neighbouring minstrels on Saint Cecilia’s day, in
which he had the double purpose of patronizing that ancient British
instrument, which he had so much at heart, and at the same time paying a
side-way compliment to his daughter, named after that harmonious saint.
Great preparations were now going forward for celebrating that musical
festival (which was a kind of revival of the ancient eisteddfods) with
becoming splendour. Invitations had been circulated to all the
neighbouring gentry; notices were dispersed over the country for
assembling the most celebrated harpers, and David Williams was warmly
engaged in making daily libations of metheglin to propitiate his muse
for that grand occasion.
The castle hall in the mean time resounded with the hammers of the
workmen, employed in erecting a stage for the minstrels, and in fitting
up seats and benches for the company. The banners were overhauled, taken
down and cleaned, and a great display of these and warlike weapons was
disposed in groups and trophies under the direction of Colonel Wilson.
Cecilia’s province was to superintend supplies, and adapt the several
entertainments to the several degrees of guests, to whom they were
allotted.
Philip De Lancaster still maintained his natural tranquillity, though
from some cause, or it might be from none, he had abated of the
frequency of his visits to the abbey. He gave himself however no trouble
in a business perfectly indifferent to him: the utmost stretch of his
exertions went no further than to the making of an artificial fly for
angling in a stream, where there were no trout, and Wilson had but
little time to spare for chess. Two qualifications Philip had to boast
of; the one was that of being an excellent and unwearied hearer, so long
as any other person would take the trouble of talking; the other, that
of an everlasting sleeper, provided nobody would put him to the trouble
of waking. Between these two happy properties he could dispose both of
day and of night passably well.
His lady in the meanwhile contrived to fill up her hours with sighs and
groans, which were echoed back to her in groans and sighs by
sympathizing Betty. Cecilia visited her at leisure times; her son
occasionally, when called for, and her husband by her desire very
rarely, and of his own accord never. Llewellyn was in regular attendance
and full confidence; he pronounced her case to be atrabilious and
hypochondriac in an extreme degree, and as there could be no doubt of
his being right in deciding on the nature of her complaint, it seemed
rather unlucky that he was so unsucessful in removing it. As far however
as the frequency of attendances and repetition of medicines went, Mr.
Llewellyn was clear in conscience.
One evening, whilst the Colonel and Squire Philip were engaged at chess,
and De Lancaster was tracing out for the edification of Edward Wilson
the route of Solomon’s ships to Ophir for gold, Llewellyn came into the
room to announce his bulletin of the patient above stairs. Philip’s game
was lost, and he had quitted the field; the colonel put the chess-board
by, and all ears were open to the report, of which the sage’s
countenance augured nothing favourable. The question was put to him by
more than one, the answer was--The lady my patient is by no means as I
could wish her.--Then I am afraid, observed the colonel, she is by no
means well.
I hope that does not absolutely follow, said De Lancaster.
She is extremely ill, repeated Llewellyn--She is incurable, cried Philip
with an emphasis and in a tone above his usual pitch.
I think not, replied the father.
She is the most decided hypochondriac I ever met with, resumed the man
of medicine.
Pooh! repeated De Lancaster, if my daughter-in-law has no other
complaint than what is caused by melancholy humours and impeded
circulation, she may be cured at once; the remedy is immediate.
Why; what should cure her? demanded the colonel.
That, which alone can heal the mind and its diseases, said De Lancaster;
music.
Whuh! cried Llewellyn, (whistling out his admiration and contempt in an
under-note, not meant to reach the ears of the old gentleman) This is a
new discovery in medicine, and one more than the dispensary has yet
taken notice of.
Pardon me, resumed De Lancaster, it is no new discovery, but the very
doctrine held by Theophrastus, Aristoxenus and by Pythagoras himself;
the last of whom depended almost entirely on the flute or flagelet for
the expulsion of melancholy; and, as I am no dealer in assertions
without authorities, I shall take the liberty of quoting the very words
of Martianus Capella in his ninth book, which to Mr. Edward Wilson at
least I have no doubt will be familiar, and these they are--_Pythagorei
enim, ferociam animi tibiis aut fidibus mollientes, docuerunt cum
corporibus adhærere nexum fædus animarum_. In this practice however I
must beg leave slightly to differ from the Pythagoreans, and recommend
the harp or lyre in preference, forasmuch as these were the proper
instruments of Apollo, the god of healing, whereas the flute or flagelet
belonged to Tritonia, whose attributes we all know were of a different
description. Let me however do Pythagoras the justice to acknowledge,
that he recommends the lute also as a sedative in the paroxysms of rage
and anger.
Here the colonel interposed, by observing, that what effect a flute, or
a lute, or a flagelet might have upon the passions of mankind he could
not pretend to say, but he apprehended neither one nor the other could
have any thing to do with their diseases, and to this Llewellyn assented
with a significant nod of approbation. De Lancaster had now got amongst
his sophists and grammarians, and committed himself much too far to halt
upon a nod; he proceeded therefore as follows--
Whilst there subsists a sympathy between the senses and the soul, the
intellectual remedy for man must be sought for in harmony. All the
nations under heaven, whether civilized or not, have borne witness to
the powers and effects of music. The Mariandyni, a wild people
inhabiting the confines of Bithynia, made their national music from
pipes, which they formed of the reeds, that grew upon the borders of the
lake Acherusia. The pipe was also the favourite of those mountain
shepherds of Bœotia, called Aonians; whilst the Egyptians with more
ingenuity struck out the complex instrument called Pandura, which was
composed of no less than seven pipes.
We have in our practice, said Llewellyn, an instrument with one pipe,
but I can’t for my soul conceive the use, that can be made of seven.
It was doubtless an instrument of no inconsiderable difficulty to the
performer, replied De Lancaster gravely.
I should not chuse to perform upon it, said the apothecary.
The good old gentleman was in the high road of philology, and kept
steadily on--The characters of nations, said he, are to be traced in the
different characters of their warlike instruments. The Cretans marched
in compact and orderly phalanx to the solemn sound of the harp: the
Lacedemonians rushed into battle to the high-pitched screaming notes of
the shrill-toned fife; whilst the effeminate Sybarites would not move
without the soft accompaniment of their melodious flutes.
But which of all these instruments, said the colonel, is to cure Mrs. De
Lancaster?
Refer that question to Asclepiades, replied De Lancaster, and he will
answer you; Asclepiades will tell you, when the citizens of Prusa were
in actual insurrection, and the city on the point of being laid in
ashes, how he contrived to appease the tumult, and sent them all to
their homes in peace.
But Mrs. De Lancaster is at home already, said Llewellyn, and peaceable
enough, Heaven knows. How does the case of these rioters apply to her?
The colonel saw his friend was staggered, and handsomely turned out to
his relief--It is impossible, he said, to foresee what turn a case may
take, therefore it is well to be armed against accidents. I should be
glad if our good friend would tell us how it was that Asclepiades, whom
I have no means of resorting to, contrived to disperse the mob of
incendiaries at Prusa.
By a song, replied the old gentleman; he dispersed them by the sweet
and soothing melody of a pathetic strain, which assuaged their fury,
and lulled them into peace, as an obstreperous child (for men are only
children of a larger growth) is hushed to sleep by the humming of its
nurse.
I am perfectly satisfied, said the colonel.
CHAPTER VII.
_Mr. Philip De Lancaster determines to adopt the Regimen recommended by
his Father._
The decisive tone, with which Colonel Wilson, at the close of our last
chapter, avowed his perfect satisfaction in De Lancaster’s explanation
of Asclepiades’s receipt for quieting a mob, occasioned such a pause, as
might very probably have put an end to this topic, had not the Reverend
Edward Wilson availed himself of the general silence to revive it. He
had been closely attentive to the progress of this whimsical
dissertation, and sensibly annoyed by the frequent interruptions it had
met with, whereupon, having watched his opportunity, he said--Permit me
to observe, that I, for one of Mr. De Lancaster’s hearers, can never be
perfectly satisfied so long as he shall be pleased to continue to us the
gratification of a discourse, at once so new, and, to me at least, so
highly entertaining and instructive. In several passages of it even my
small share of reading enables me to recognize some of the authorities
he has referred to, and I have no doubt but he is equally warranted in
all others, where I am not able to follow him; and allow me to remark,
that if his information does not in every point apply to the particular
case of the hypochondriac lady, for whose recovery we are interested,
yet even in those points of occasional aberration from the subject,
there is matter well worthy of our attention, and I therefore hope Mr.
De Lancaster will have the goodness to proceed with his dissertation on
the effects of music, as recorded and attested by the ancient writers.
Reverend sir, said Robert De Lancaster, your remarks are at once so
candid, and your request so flattering to me, that I will contract what
I have further to say in such a manner as shall not weary you, and I
will ground it upon such authorities as shall not mislead you. Damon,
the Pythagorean philosopher, a man not less to be relied upon for his
veracity, than for his friendship and fidelity, by the simple recitation
of the spondean hymn allayed a drunken fray in the streets of Syracuse,
when raging at the height, in an instant, and as it were by magic.
And pray, said the colonel, what kind of composition was the spondean
hymn?
It was a hymn, replied De Lancaster, performed by the priests and
minstrels in the heathen temples as a prelude to the ceremony of
sacrifice, and it was called spondean, as consisting of such syllables
only, which gives us to understand the solemn character of the
composition, the object of which was to engage the attention, and
conciliate the favour of their deities, whilst the incense was in
operation.
If it could do that, said the colonel, and make dead idols serviceable,
I can’t wonder it should make drunken insurgents sober.
Sir--replied the expounder, (lengthening out the word into a note of
something like asperity) You have not heard me out, else I should have
told you, that ancient sages cured fevers, fits of melancholy, phrensy,
nay, even bodily wounds, by the sanative and enchanting power of song.
Who, that has but dipped into their remedies, can be ignorant, that soft
airs, well executed on the flute, were found to be a never-failing cure
for the sciatica, or hip-gout, as it is called? A host of witnesses
conspire to testify to the truth of what I tell you. Can it have escaped
the notice of any well-read scholar by what means Theophrastus found a
remedy for every malady, every molestation, that could disorder and
disturb the health and temperature of the human mind? Sir, he had an
instrument appropriated to every mental complaint, a pipe tuned to the
pitch of every passion, high or low, flat or sharp. Xenocrates brought
men stark mad to their senses. Thales of Crete drove away fevers, nay,
even the plague itself, by music. Erophilus regulated the pulsation of
the hearts of his patients by the cadences and time-keeping of his lyre.
We do that quite as correctly by our watches, said Llewellyn.
De Lancaster took no notice of this, but proceeded--Can you any longer
wonder that the sage, who has made sympathy his study, and is versed in
the science of these harmonious modulations and their respective
energies, should effect those cures, which are recorded of them, and
which, when explained and understood, are no longer hard to be believed?
As for what is fabled of Amphion, Orpheus and others, who by the united
powers of music and legislative poetry succeeded in reforming and
civilizing their barbarous contemporaries, I would not have you to
suppose I cannot distinguish allegory from fact. In the same light I
regard the account, which Suidas gives us of the philosopher Plato, who
was reported to have been begotten of his mother in a vision by the
melody of the harp of Apollo.
I should be inclined to doubt that, said the colonel.
Nay, resumed De Lancaster, there is no occasion to debate what nobody
wishes you to believe. You cannot but perceive it is merely an
allegorical compliment to the genius of that extraordinary person, whose
deep researches into the mysterious theory of sounds and numbers having
enabled him to speculate in a very ingenious manner upon the doctrine
of harmony, as connected with the movements of the celestial spheres,
and also with the human soul even after death, was feigned to have been
the very offspring of that harmony, which he developed and applied.
These legends, and the like of these, I know how to appreciate, and with
what latitude they are to be received; at the same time I am not to be
shaken in my confidence, when relying on the ancients, who studied music
as a science, whilst we do little more than practise it as an art, and
of course stand in the like relation to them as fiddlers do to
philosophers. In short, my friends, it is not man alone that is the
slave of harmony, but the whole brute creation also: if stags can be
allured by the pipe; if the fishes in the Alexandrian lake will
surrender themselves to the song of the fisherman; if the hyperborean
swan, if the birds of the air, at once so fearful and so free; nay, if
even the wild elephant of India, and the ear-stricken inhabitants of the
ocean, will yield themselves up to the minstrel, who will tell me, that
a mere moping hypochondriac, like my poor daughter-in-law, might not be
cured of her distempered fancy by the harp of David Williams?
De Lancaster having closed his argument, and dismissed his witnesses,
the audience broke up; Llewellyn repaired to his patient, Edward Wilson
to his pupil, and Philip whispered to the colonel, that he should be
glad to have a few minutes talk with him in private. This was instantly
complied with, and Philip opened the important conference, as follows--
I should wish to know, colonel, if you attended to what my father has
been saying?
The colonel had attended.
I am glad of it, said Philip, for I was a little absent now and then,
and have not carried much of it away. But do you believe all those
wonderful things, that he has told us, about music?
I perfectly believe that your father has told nothing about music, but
what he has vouchers for, though I don’t know where to look for them.
Nor I neither, Heaven knows, said Philip, for I have no taste for music,
nor can distinguish between one tune and another, except as it is either
loud or soft: if it is the first, it deafens and distracts me; if the
latter, it puts me to sleep. I don’t suppose it is in the art of man to
teach me to sing or play a single tune, though it were to save my life.
That won’t quite decide the question however, my good friend; for music
certainly can charm others, though it has no charms for you. What I have
seen and witnessed I believe; what I am told I pause upon. Martial music
will animate martial men, and not them only, but the horses also, which
they ride to battle: hounds are sensible to the shouts of the hunter,
and the whole race of dogs to the voices of their masters: birds can be
taught tunes, though you and I cannot, and there are doubtless great and
extraordinary powers in musical sounds, though perhaps all that is said
of those powers may not be exactly as it is stated.
I should suppose not; for if I was to believe that David Williams with
his harp could cure my melancholy dame of her megrims, don’t you think I
ought in conscience to make the trial?
I think at least, friend Philip, that the trial would do her no harm;
for if she did not like to hear his music, she could easily put a stop
to it.
But suppose, colonel, that she should like to hear it; and suppose also
for a moment it should have the same effect upon her as Apollo’s harp
had upon Plato’s mother, whereabouts should I be with a whole nursery of
harp-begotten brats to provide for, conscious at the same time that I
had not touched a single string of the instrument?
That would be rather hard upon you I confess.
Lord love you, colonel, even worse things than that might come to pass.
I am very comfortable as I am, but who can tell what a few merry jigs
upon the harp may do? They might be the ruin of my peace for ever.
Never fear, my good friend, replied the colonel. Depend upon it, you are
in no danger.
Well! if you think so, said Philip, I will go to David Williams, and put
my wife under a course of serenades directly: It may perhaps please the
Lord, that they shall do her neither good nor harm.
So saying, Philip left the room, and Wilson went to superintend his
workmen in the hall.
* * * * *
I here close the third book and first volume of my history, and,
availing myself of the licence I have assumed in the two preceding
books, I stop progress to look back upon what hitherto has been done: no
mighty matter I confess; yet it has put me to the labour of turning over
many a crabbed antiquated author to furnish out materials for these
pages; and to what purpose? Wiser perhaps I had been to have followed
the example of those easy gentlemen, who write without any pains what
you read without any profit.
What recommendation would it be of this book, if humbly I should say, it
can do no harm? But if vainly I avowed that it was my object and
endeavour to do good, I might indeed speak the truth as to my wishes,
but I should palpably disguise my expectations. It will do no good.
Reformers are as unpopular as informers; the medicine, which nobody will
take, can do nobody any service. When I witness the avidity, with which
men will read a thing called a novel, wherein the characters of their
friends are libelled, what folly would it be to suppose they will
countenance an attempt to impress them with more kindness for their
fellow-creatures than they are disposed to entertain, or will suffer
themselves to be persuaded, that their fellow-creatures merit?
I have been too long acquainted with you, my dear candid readers, to
trouble you with any compliments, or solicit you for any favours. I have
only to say, that I am doing my utmost to amuse you, and if you shall
lay down this volume with any appetite for the second, I hope you will
not find that my exertions flag.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
WRIGHT, Printer, St. John’s Square.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
been mispent=> been misspent {pg 24}
vaulted casmate so fortified=> vaulted casemate so fortified {pg 57}
the same tranport=> the same transport {pg 166}
bodily acheivements=> bodily achievements {pg 182}
had recieved=> had received {pg 215}