A NEW DANGER.
“Beware of the flatterer. As is the saying of the wise
man, so we have found it this day, ‘A man that flattereth
his neighbour, spreadeth a net for his feet’ (Prov. xxix.
5).”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
It was some time before Ernest could regain his usual cheerfulness;
constant occupation was what, perhaps, had the most effect in restoring
it. Not only did he turn with ardour to his studies, bending all the
powers of a most intelligent mind to master the difficulties of learning,
but he was never idle in his hours of leisure; and so well employed his
time, that Charles once observed, with a smile, that the sands in his
hour-glass were all of gold!
We are commanded to _let_ our _light so shine before men, that they may
see_ our _good works, and glorify_ our _Father which is in heaven_.
The light of the young Lord of Fontonore shone brightly, enlightening
some and cheering many. Until his little school could be finished, he
assembled the poor children in an outhouse of the castle, and not
only contributed, almost beyond his power, to pay the salary of a
schoolmaster, but himself assisted in the task of tuition, and spoke to
the little ones with such heart-fervour of the duties of a pilgrim and
the love of the Saviour, that the cottagers said that the children never
learned so much as when the young lord himself was their teacher. Ernest
was often to be seen beneath the widow’s lowly roof: he would carry to
the sick poor little comforts from his own table, and none knew how often
he went without pleasures to himself, that he might afford to help those
who needed his assistance. Large as was his allowance, his charity so
drained it that self appeared almost forgotten; and the Lord of Fontonore
was scarcely ever known to purchase anything for his own gratification.
It was his habit, his privilege, his delight, to lay his treasures at the
feet of his Lord; and thus, though the possessor of great wealth, the
pilgrim pressed on, unclogged and unburdened by it.
Nor, in attending to the wants of the poor, did Ernest neglect his
home duties. The affection between him and his brother was a source of
happiness to both, and appeared to grow stronger every day; and Ernest
sometimes ventured to hope that he might in time exert a slight influence
even on the frivolous mind of Clementina. She was, quite unconsciously
to herself, less inclined to utter words of folly or ill-nature when
in the presence of her cousin, and felt the quiet glance of his eye a
greater restraint than a serious reproof from another. At a time when she
suffered from weakness in her eyes, Ernest, busy as he was, seemed always
to find time to read to her and amuse her: the book was sometimes her
choice, but more often his; and he gradually led the weak, worldly girl,
to take some interest in his favourite Pilgrim.
It may well be imagined that Ernest became exceedingly beloved in the
castle. His uncle, indeed, called him an enthusiast, and Mrs. Hope
complained that he was too much of a missionary; but what she would have
ridiculed in any one else, she had great indulgence for in a peer. There
was but one being, of all those who lived at Fontonore, who seemed rooted
in dislike towards the young lord; and that was the envious, insolent
Jack Lawless, whom no benefits softened, no kindnesses won.
I must not omit to mention the arrival of Mr. Sligo, the new tutor,
who came to Fontonore about ten days after the departure of Mr. Ewart.
Seldom has a new instructor been introduced to his pupils under greater
disadvantages as regards their feelings.
“I am certain that I shall dislike him,” said Charles to his brother the
evening before Mr. Sligo made his appearance. “It will seem to me as
though he usurped the place of my friend.”
[Illustration: THE NEW TUTOR.]
“I confess that I feel a prejudice against any tutor recommended by Lady
Fitzwigram. But then such a prejudice may be neither kind nor just: he
never taught in her family, therefore has nothing to do with any of the
faults of her sons. We must meet Mr. Sligo in a fair, candid spirit. Mr.
Ewart would have been the first to tell us to treat our new tutor as we
would wish to be treated in his position ourselves.”
Mr. Sligo proved quite a different kind of person from what his pupils
had expected. Instead of a proud, opinionative scholar, bearing the stamp
of one familiar with the _haut-ton_—a walking peerage, a follower of the
world and its fashions—they beheld a mild-looking, delicate little man,
with a manner quick but gentle, who spoke in low, soft tones, with an
almost timid air, as if afraid of giving offence. To such a person it
was impossible for a generous spirit to be unkind. The brothers did all
in their power to put him at his ease; and they were flattered by the
grateful deferential manner, in which he received the smallest attention.
Mr. Sligo was soon found to be not only an intelligent tutor, but a very
agreeable companion. He was ready for anything, either business or play;
could do anything, from setting a drawing for Charles to assisting in the
construction of the school: he entered with pleasure into every project,
especially such as had charity for their object, listened to pious
sentiments with an approving smile, and delighted in helping forward
every good work.
With such a companion, with such occupations and such encouragements, was
not our pilgrim almost at the gate of heaven?
Had Ernest been an angel, free from human frailty, perhaps it might have
been so with him now. Never had he walked onwards with a firmer step,
never had he been such a blessing to others, never had he kept his lips
more pure, nor been more watchful over every action; and yet he was,
perhaps, in more danger of falling than when passing through Vanity Fair!
To a mind like his, the society of a worldly companion might have been
less dangerous than that of Mr. Sligo. And why so? His tutor never taught
him evil, never set him an evil example. But there was silent flattery in
his admiring look, the attention with which he listened, the heartiness
with which he approved. With all his quickness of perception, there was
one thing which he seemed to lack—the power of discovering a fault in his
pupil.
Ernest had endured, without injury, the flattery of the world—he
attributed it all to his title. The praises of Charles had nothing
dangerous in them—he set them down to a brother’s partiality; but it was
something new to him to be admired for the very qualities for which,
a few months before, he had suffered persecution; it was something
delightful to be looked up to by so many, and viewed as a model of
Christian benevolence! We may wonder that, after his last sad fall,
Ernest could have entertained a thought of spiritual pride; but our
enemy is ever watchful and insidious and human nature infirm. We do not
willingly dwell upon what gives us pain; and often, too often, deceive
our own hearts from the pleasure which it gives us to be thus deceived.
Ernest had often remarked, that the worldly are constantly engaged in
raising pedestals on which to elevate self; he had seen the ambitious
build his of popular applause;—such was Mr. Hope’s, and it had crumbled
into dust. The proud woman had raised herself by fashion, the vain beauty
by the admiration of society. But while Ernest could thus observe the
failings of others, he would have been startled and alarmed indeed had he
known that he was now raising such a pedestal himself! His very prayers,
his alms, his good works, were turned into a stumbling-block in his path;
whatever exalts _self_, stands between us and the Saviour, and we are
never safe but when our pride lies humbled in the dust before Him.
I would especially direct the attention of my reader to this last most
subtle device of Satan to keep back the pilgrim from heaven. As God draws
good out of evil, Satan draws evil out of good, and sometimes makes us
deem ourselves most near the celestial city when we are actually turning
our faces from it. The most experienced pilgrims may be taken in this
snare; the most zealous, the most devoted Christians are perhaps in the
greatest danger from it. We are so ready to forget when the mirror shines
brightly, that it is in itself but dust and ashes, borrowing all its
radiance from heaven.
The tender leaves were now beginning to appear on the shrubs, and the
dark branches of the trees were spangled with the light green buds which
told the approach of spring. The crocus lifted its golden cup from the
sod, and the snow-drop trembled on its slender stem. On the day when
Ernest would complete his thirteenth year, his school-house was to be
opened for the first time. A number of friends were asked to be present
on the occasion,—Mr. Searle, his daughter, and a son from college amongst
the rest, Ernest’s often-expressed wish having at length overcome the
reluctance of his aunt to invite them. There was to be a band and a
collation in honour of the occasion; and the children were abroad early
in the sunny morning to gather flowers to decorate the school-room.
The spirits of the young Lord Fontonore rose high, there was so much to
gratify and elate him. Never had he more admired his beautiful home,
or more rejoiced in the power to do good. Mr. Sligo had written an ode
to celebrate the day, in which flattery was so delicately mingled with
truth, that it could hardly fail to gratify and please.
One by one the company assembled, each with a kind wish or well-turned
compliment. Ernest was of course the hero of the day; and as everything
in the school-house was now prepared, the tide of silk and velvet,
feathers and lace, moved on towards the little edifice.
The school children lined the path on either side, in clean frocks, with
nosegays of wild-flowers in their hands, their ruddy little faces beaming
with pleasure at the thought of their expected feast. Passing between the
lines, with feelings of natural pleasure, perhaps not quite unmingled
with pride, Lord Fontonore, accompanied by his guests, proceeded to the
door, which he unlocked and threw open. In a few minutes the school-room
was filled. It had been decorated with a good deal of taste by the school
children under Mr. Sligo’s direction, and Charles had fastened two blue
banners above the entrance. There were books for school use judiciously
selected, maps on a large scale hung round the room; but every eye in
the gay assembly was at once directed to a large black board hung over
the fire-place. This was designed for the use of classes in arithmetic,
as sums or figures could be chalked upon it of a size to be seen by
the whole school. But it was neither sum nor diagram upon it now that
drew the attention of every one present, but a coarse sketch, evidently
chalked by an untutored hand, though not wanting in spirit or fun, of a
boy sitting astride on the top of a wall, with a gigantic peach in his
grasp; and as the picture might not be understood by all, beneath it was
written, in a round schoolboy hand, legible from the furthest end of the
room, “_The pious Lord Fontonore robbing Farmer Joyce_.”
Ernest was taken by surprise, when quite off his guard; insulted and
exposed in the very hour of his triumph, and he needed not the sight
of Jack’s insolent face at the door to tell him by whom. A few months
before, he would have struck the boy to the earth; now the feelings of
the Christian, perhaps the dignity of the noble, prevented any such
violent display of his anger; but he clinched his hand, and with an
expression of fierceness in his flashing eye, which no one present but
the offender himself had ever seen on his countenance before, Ernest
exclaimed in a voice of fury, “Insolent liar, this is your work!”
A scene of brief confusion ensued. Mr. Sligo sprang to the obnoxious
board, and in a few moments every trace of the sketch was removed; but
the impression which it had left on the spectators was not so readily
taken away.
“This comes of bringing up such a wolf’s cub!” exclaimed Mrs. Hope.
“What an extraordinary piece of impertinence,” said the baronet, on whose
arm she leaned. “Surely,” he added, in a lower tone, “such a story had
never any foundation in truth.”
Some recommended a severe thrashing to the offender, some that he should
at once be turned adrift on the world. Ernest felt the whole subject
intolerably painful; annoyed as he was at Jack, he was more annoyed
at himself for having been overcome by sudden passion. Charles, with
the quick eye of affection, read his wish in his look; and springing
on the table to raise himself above the throng, he began an extempore
questioning of the children, conducting his examination with so much
spirit and fun as quite to change the current of general conversation.
But though the disagreeable subject was dropped and apparently forgotten,
the school-room duly admired, and the children’s progress applauded,
every word of praise and compliment now fell flat upon the ear of
Fontonore. The discipline had been bitter, but it was just what he had
required. A veil had been suddenly drawn from his eyes; he had been
thrown from his pedestal of pride. He had been reminded of what he had
been, what he had done, and shown what he still continued to be—a weak,
infirm child of dust, subject to passion and sin, having nothing whereof
he could boast.
“I was not only angry,” thought Ernest to himself, “but uncandid. I gave
an impression to all who heard me that I denied that of which I was
accused. He who but declared unpleasant truth, in my passion I called a
liar. Oh! how greatly have I of late been deceiving myself when believing
my conduct to be more consistent than that of others. One thing, however,
remains to be done. I can yet make some amends; and I will do so,
whatever it may cost my feelings, however it may wound my pride.”
As he showed his guests over the castle and grounds, Fontonore was
remarkably silent and absent. Charles wondered to himself that the
insolence of a boy should have such an effect upon his brother; but he
did not guess what deeper feelings were stirring in the breast of the
pilgrim. At last Ernest, as if in reply to some question from Clementina,
whose sound had fallen upon his ear, but whose sense he had not taken in,
proposed that they should all go and see the children at their feast on
the lawn.
“I should have thought that we had had enough of those children,” said
Clementina, with affectation. “I cannot conceive the pleasure of watching
them eating, and our presence can be nothing but a restraint.”
Towards the lawn, however, the whole party moved, where a long table
had been laid out by Ernest’s desire, well furnished with a comfortable
meal. Sounds little befitting a scene of mirth were heard as the visitors
approached. The schoolmaster, who presided at the top of the table,
was in an angry indignant voice denying to Jack the right of sitting
at it, after openly insulting the provider of the feast. The general
feeling of the children ran in the same current; some were loudly calling
out, “Shame, shame, turn him out!” But Lawless, with his own insolent
self-assurance, appeared inclined to defy them all.
At the appearance of Fontonore and the ladies there was a sudden
silence, and all the party at the feast turned towards him to decide the
disputed question. Ernest walked firmly up to the head of the table, very
pale, for what he had resolved to do went sorely against human nature;
and few efforts are so painful as to trample down pride, and humble
ourselves in the sight of the world.
[Illustration: THE APOLOGY.]
“Let him sit down,” said Ernest to the schoolmaster. The children
silently made room for their companion. “Jack Lawless,” continued the
peer, turning towards the boy, and speaking rapidly, whilst he could not
raise his own eyes from the ground, “I regret that I unjustly called you
a liar; I recall the word now before all who heard it.”
Nothing can describe the astonishment of the whole assembly as they
listened to this apology from the young lord. “Brave boy, well done! He’s
a soldier that will not flinch!” muttered old Mr. Searle, with cordial
approbation.
“He must be wild,” exclaimed Mrs. Hope, “to expose himself so before a
company like this! To acknowledge such a fact! Why, I would rather have
died than have disgraced myself so before the world!” The lady, however
experienced in the concerns of this life, in spiritual things was more
ignorant than a child, or she would have known that disgrace is in the
commission of a fault, but never in the frank avowal of it.