CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VI.“Of snowy white the dress, the buskin white,And purest white, the graceful waving plume.”

“Of snowy white the dress, the buskin white,And purest white, the graceful waving plume.”

Inabout six weeks the marriage of Frances and Lord L— took place, and the happy couple set off for Beech Park, his lordship’s seat, near London. Within the following ten days Mrs. Montgomery made all her home arrangements, paid her pensioners, gave orders for the Christmas dinner of the neighbouring poor, placed Edmund in the peculiar care of Mrs. Smyth; and, finally, the day before she set out to join her daughter and son-in-law, dispatchedHenry, under escort of the butler, back to S— B— school. The school, as we have before observed, was an excellent, though a cheap one; but the lodging was such as Mrs. Montgomery certainly would not have selected for her nephew, nor indeed suffered him to occupy, could she have known the scenes and society into which it threw him.

Henry arrived at the village of S— B—, and jumped out of the carriage at the door of a butcher’s house. While the servant was taking out the luggage, Henry addressed, very familiarly, a woman who stood with her back to him; and accommodating his language, as was his custom, to his company, said, “Weel, Katty, and whoo is’t wee aw wee you?” “No mickle the better for yeer axin!” she replied, continuing her washing. The next moment Henry was engaged in a game of romps with afine girl of fourteen, who just then came in from the garden: all the flowers which had lately bloomed there collected in her apron, to be tied up in penny bunches for the ensuing day’s market. On receiving, though not, it must be confessed, without richly deserving it, a smart slap on the ear from his fair antagonist, the young gentleman closed with her, and commenced an absolute boxing-match. At this juncture the butcher himself entered.

“What’s aw this? what’s aw this?” he exclaimed. The angry voice of David Park (such was the butcher’s name) ended the scuffle.

“Mr. Henry and me was no’ but larking, fether,” replied his daughter, adjusting her disordered hair and drapery, and gathering up her scattered flowers.

“Mr. Henry! Mr. Deevil!” said the man, recognising Henry with a scowl.“Bonny larking truly!” he continued; “bonny larking truly! And what business had you, wife, to aloo of ony sic work?” And he sat down sullenly, deterred from taking signal vengeance on the laughing young gentleman, by the dread of losing his lodger. “Bonny larking truly!” he resumed, as, without looking round, he poked the fire before which he had seated himself, and began to light his pipe. “Ye’ll soon be oure aul’, te lark afther that gate wi’ the scholar lads, I can tell yee!” Here he glanced at his daughter, and added, “Git awaw wi’ ye, and don yeer sel’, lass! yeer na fit till stand afoor a man body noo, tho’ he be thee fether! Yeer aw ribbands!”

We shall here leave Henry to keep such society, and to follow such pursuits unmolested, and give our attention again to other and more amiable personages of our history.

CHAPTER VII.“Yes, sweet boy, Clara will be thy mother.Thou hast thus her first of mother’s feelings;Even should there rise, to claim her fondness,Other beings like to thee: innocents,Helpless innocents.”

“Yes, sweet boy, Clara will be thy mother.Thou hast thus her first of mother’s feelings;Even should there rise, to claim her fondness,Other beings like to thee: innocents,Helpless innocents.”

Monthshad rolled away. It was a beautiful evening in the middle of July; and Lodore House, which had been deserted by most of its inhabitants about the latter end of last October, when the trees were almost leafless, and the voice of the fall loud with the swell of wintry torrents, now looked with a cheerful aspect from amid embowering verdure. The lofty head ofSkiddaw arose with great majesty above the woods immediately behind the house, and the calm lake spread abroad in front, and bounded by the wide amphitheatre of the Keswick mountains, filled the mind with pleasing ideas of peace and retirement. The building, in its own outline, was picturesque; running along in light corridors, connecting its principal parts. Numerous glass doors, or French windows, leading out on the lawn, were all standing open. A table, covered with fruit and other refreshments, might be just peeped at through one of these; musical instruments, freed from their cases, appeared through others, and through more might be discerned, sofas, book-stands, work-tables, Turkey carpets, reposé chairs, Italian vases, bronze lamps, cut-glass lustres, hothouse plants, French beds, swing mirrors, &c.: while the intervention of silk and muslin draperies, permitting each object to be but imperfectly seen, left imagination free to deck the whole with the charms of fairy-land. Indeed, from what did appear, it was evident that the sitting-rooms were numerous, and richly furnished; that one corridor was a green house, another a conservatory; and that the wings contained library, music-room, billiard-room, and several sleeping and dressing-rooms, all on the ground floor, all opening on the smooth turf, and displaying, or rather betraying, enough of their arrangements to show that, not only convenience, but luxury had been studied in their fitting up.

On the outside, ever-blowing roses, with jessamine, honeysuckle and clematis, bloomed in abundance, climbing around the casements, and creeping along the palings: while a gay assemblage of the choicest and sweetest flowers occupied plots, scattered irregularly on the velvet green.

The evening song of myriads of birds was pouring from the deep woods with every wild variety of note, rendered the more remarkable by the monotonous sound of the now subdued murmur of the fall, which still went on, on, like the studied sameness of a judicious accompaniment, selected to give effect to the varied excursions of the singer’s voice.

Though the sun was still above the horizon, many bonfires were already lit at various distances along the road. The immediate approach was crouded with people, looking full of expectation. Detached groups were advancing in different directions; and, here and there, individuals had climbed trees, or elevated portions of rock, and seemed looking out for something.Every now and then, Mrs. Smyth, dressed in a holiday suit, came forth from some one or other of the many open doors, held up her hand to shade the glare of light from her eyes, looked towards the lake for a few moments, and returned in again. Then, would some beautiful exotic be seen to change its position on some flower-stand; next a drapery would be let down from the golden pin which had held it, and hung again, we suppose, with more grace, at least in the opinion of good Mrs. Smyth, whose form glided on through long corridors, from time to time appearing, disappearing, and re-appearing; and generally followed by that of a child that seemed, at every step, to leap and gambol for very glee.

At length, a carriage was seen driving, at a rapid pace, along the borders of Derwent-water. Every thing bright about it sparkled in the raysof the setting sun. A universal shout arose, and all became hurry and motion. The carriage approached: it was a barouche thrown open, and, seated in it, were Mrs. Montgomery and Lord and Lady L. They bowed, smiled, and waved their hands on every side. But soon the attention of the latter lady was entirely engrossed by the appearance of a lovely little boy, whom Mrs. Smyth, as she descended the lawn, led by the hand; and in whom, but for one touching expression, imperceptible perhaps to any other eye than Frances’, no one could have recognized poor Edmund. The rich dark locks, the profusion of which had formerly added the look of wild neglect to that of misery, now flew back as he ran against the wind, displaying and giving contrast to a forehead white and open. The late hollow cheeks were now rounded, dimpled, and glowing, at once with exercise anddelight. His mouth, always beautiful in its form, and so very sweet in its movements, had now all the advantages of rosy lips and happy smiles. While his eyes, which from their being large, and adorned by peculiarly long lashes, had once seemed to occupy the chief part of his face, now but served to give soul to the more earthly beauties, which the good cheer of Mrs. Smyth had supplied.

Edmund had got a few paces before his conductress. He stretched forward both hands, and leaped up with a bound towards the door, as he reached the side of the carriage. Lady L. pulled the check-string. The carriage stopped, and Edmund, whom by its rapid motion it had already passed some yards, was brought back by a servant, and lifted in. Such was his joy, that the poor little creature could not speak! He trembled excessively, and, for amoment or two, his features were almost convulsed by his struggles not to cry: he thought it would seem as if he were not glad, and he knew he was very glad. A few tears, however, forced their way; but they only hung in the long lashes, shining like early dew-drops, while happiness sparkled through them: for now, encouraged and caressed, he sat on Lady L.’s knee, and hugged one of her hands. Yet, when he looked up in her face and tried to speak, his little lip trembled again, and his little countenance assumed an expression of feeling beyond his years, which early sorrow had taught the infant features. Lady L. kissed his forehead and passed her hand over it, to wipe away, as it were, the trace of care; while an ardent desire swelled in her heart to screen this object of her tender compassion from every painful vicissitude of life, accompanied, however, by a sigh to think how vain the wish! This sigh was followed by yet another, as, from association, the very natural idea presented itself, that it must be also impossible for her effectually to shelter from the changes and chances of mortal existence, even the babe, that destined to be born under auspices so different, would, in a few months, make her really a mother.

Mrs. Montgomery rallied, and Lord L. complimented her on her discernment; declaring that they never had seen any thing half so beautiful as her unpromising favourite had turned out.

“Do not think me illiberal,” said Lady L.; “but I cannot imagine this the child of coarse, vulgar parents—a creature that seems all soul! See, with what an intelligent countenance he listens to every thing that is said!”

Mrs. Montgomery smiled; and Lord L., anxious to please a wife with whom he was still in love, was about to express himself quite of her opinion.

The discussion was, however, for the present broken off by the stopping of the carriage amid shouts of joyous welcome. While the merry groups around the bonfires drank the healths of our family party, its members seated themselves at a most inviting looking table, which we have long half seen from behind a muslin curtain.

The agreeable summer supper they here found prepared for their entertainment, consisted chiefly of fruit, of which little Edmund, placed between Lady L. and Mrs. Montgomery, was permitted to partake.

“You see,” remarked her partial ladyship, after observing the child for a time, “with all the gentleness of his nature, there is no slavishawe of superiors about him. Do you know, I almost fancy I can discern an innate consciousness of being in his right place when he is with us: it would seem as though, however long he had been in the hands of those wretches, the impressions of absolute infancy, and of the caresses and tender treatment experienced, (if my conjecture is correct,) during that period, were never entirely effaced; for, that though they were not within the reach of memory to recall with any thing like distinctness, association possessed a mysterious power of bringing every thing similar to them home to the feelings. Can you imagine so nice a distinction? I can,” she added, turning to Lord L.

“There are few,” replied his lordship, “who have not, I should think, experienced the feeling of which you speak. Of this class are all the sensations of pleasure or of pain, occasioned bysounds or sights possessing in their own natures no corresponding qualities. How often, for instance, do we hear people say of an air, by no means solemn. ‘That tune always makes me melancholy: it reminds me of something, though I cannot remember what.’”

This sort of conversation naturally led to the subject of Edmund’s future prospects. It seemed tacitly yielded to the evident wishes of Lady L., that his profession should be that of a gentleman.

“I think,” said Lord L., “it will be the best way to give the boy a liberal education: and when he is of an age to judge for himself, let him choose for himself.”

Mrs. Montgomery expressed the same opinion.

“Nothing can be kinder, I am sure!” said Lady L., giving a hand to each, and seemingto take the obligation entirely to herself: then looking at Edmund, she added, after a moment’s pause, “I dare say, he will choose to be a clergyman, the benevolent duties of that sacred office will suit so well with his gentle temper. Should you not like to be a clergyman, my dear—like the gentleman who reads in the church every Sunday.”

“I’d like to be a sailor boy,” said Edmund.

“A sailor boy!” repeated Lady L. “Poor child!”

“That’s right, my brave fellow!” exclaimed Lord L. “You see, Frances, he will not be so very gentle after all! Less than a year of good feeding and kind treatment have already brought out his English spirit. If he continue of this opinion, I can obtain his admittance into the naval college at Portsmouth; after which, I shallput him forward in his profession with all the interest I can command.”

Things being thus arranged, so much to Lady L.’s satisfaction, the family retired for the night.

CHAPTER VIII.“Thou wilt see him.”

“Thou wilt see him.”

Mrs. Montgomeryreceived an account, in the morning, from Mrs. Smyth, of how good Edmund had been, and of his having become so great a favourite, not only with the good doctor, but also with the clergyman, that both had had him to dine and play with their children more than once. She also reported, with great self gratulation, the very uncommon progress he had made in learning, under her tuition; and then proceeded to relate an adventure she had met with one evening, when walking with Edmund.

“We were just returning,” said Mrs. Smyth, “from Keswick, where I had been taking a cup of tea wee a vara discreet neighbour. I carried the boy wee me, for I niver like to let a child that is in my care oot o’ my sight; it’s a thing I nivir did, and Edmund is ne trouble; tack him whar ye will, he awways behaves himsel so prettily. So just as we were walking quietly up the hill, before ye git under the shade o’ the trees, hearing voices, I happened to look ehint me, when I saw following us a dacent, vara gentleman looking man, in earnest conversation with a woman, wha from her rags, and the whiff o’ spirituous liquor I found as she passed, seemed a beggar o’ the maist disreputable kind. They keep’t looking, looking, still at little Edmund, as they spoke; and though, when I think uponit, it seems as though ony body might look at his bonny face, heaven love him! yet at the time I felt within myself parfact sure ’at they were no looking at him for the sake o’ looking at him. As they cam’ past I heard the man say, ‘Well, I suppose she’ll be satisfied, now that I have seen him myself.’ I am quite sure o’ these words, but they went on, and I could hear no more. It seemed so strange like, I thought, to follow and speak wee them, when I felt the bairn pull me by the hand; I looked round, and he was trembling aw over, and as pale as death. By the time I had speered at him what ailed him, and spoken him a word o’ comfort, the man and the woman were bathe gane, and the peur thing talt me, that yon graceless wretch was his mother.”

Much commenting followed, on the part of Mrs. Smyth, which it is unnecessary to repeat;while Mrs. Montgomery could not refrain from expressing great regret, that so favourable an opportunity had been lost for compelling the vagrant to give some account of herself, and of the child. The subject was, of course, discussed in the breakfast-room, but nothing could be made of it, except that it would seem there did exist some one who took an interest in Edmund, and who might yet claim him, when their reasons for mystery were at an end. But then, their choice of such an agent as the drunken beggar, was quite unaccountable; for, had she stolen the child, why should she be in the confidence of the decent man, who, it seems, was to satisfy the child’s friends, by being able to say that he had seen him himself. The most diligent search was made in the neighbourhood, but neither man nor woman could be heard of.

Mrs. Montgomery and Lady L. now undertook the instruction of Edmund themselves, till proper arrangements should be made respecting that point, lest he should acquire too much of good Mrs. Smyth’s accent; yet that discreet lady was far from thinking any such precaution necessary, as she prided herself on reading English with great precision, and indulging in her native idiom only in familiar conversation, for the sake, as she averred, of “Auld lang syne.”

This plan of the lessons brought Edmund much into the sitting-rooms, till, by degrees, it passed into a custom for him to remain all the morning with the ladies. Then, when particularly good, he was indulged with a sort of second dinner at the table: and he was always good, so that there was no opportunity to withdraw an indulgence once granted, and, very shortly, a chair and plate were set for him atevery meal, as a matter of course; while every one grew so fond of him, that it seemed forgotten he was not a child of the family, and even the servants, of their own accord, all began to call him Master Edmund.

CHAPTER IX.“This is thyBirth-day, and thou must be the little idolOf the festival.”

“This is thyBirth-day, and thou must be the little idolOf the festival.”

Inthe mean time preparations of every kind were making for Lady L.’s expected confinement. The doctor had an apartment assigned him, and now lived at Lodore House, lest his attendance should be a moment too late. A respectable woman, of approved abilities, arrived all the way from Edinburgh. She was provided with an assistant under-nurse from Keswick, and both established at Lodore. Offerings too, at the shrine of the expected stranger, made their appearance every day. A splendid set of caudle-cups, of very curious china, was sent from London by Lady Theodosia R., a sister of Lord L. A set of baby-linen, of needle-work the most exquisite, arrived from Scotland, sent by Major Morven, a rather elderly bachelor-brother of Mrs. Montgomery’s. The major mentioned in his letter, that, as he did not understand those things himself, he had had them chosen by a committee of ladies, the best judges in Edinburgh.

Many, indeed, were the little, very little things, which came from various quarters, more than we entirely understand ourselves; but every band-box that was opened produced something little, so that it seemed a sort of importation from the Liliputian world. Little hats of white beaver, like snow-balls, in which, however, little plumes were not forgotten. Little caps, little bonnets, and even little shoes, wrapped in silver paper. In short, there was nothing big, but the good woman from Edinburgh, and Major Morven. The major came to be in time for the christening, as he was to be one of the sponsors.

At length another little arrival took place, and a beautiful little girl commenced her earthly pilgrimage. Quickly was the young stranger dressed in the raiment of needle-work, and carried by its grandmamma, and followed by its nurse, to the drawing-room, there to receive the caresses, and claim the admiration of its happy papa. There also was Edmund, wondering much at the bustle, and at his lessons having been entirely omitted. His ecstacies of delight and astonishment on seeing the baby were so great, and his entreaties so eager, firstto be allowed to look at, then to touch this quite new object of wonder, all the time trying each expedient to add to his height, now leaping straight up, now climbing the chair nearest to Lord L., then the arm of the sofa, and, finally, the sofa-table itself, to the imminent danger of his neck, that Mrs. Montgomery was at length induced, after making him sit down on the said table, to hold the infant, for a second or two, across his knees.

During those seconds it was, we have good reason to believe, that the first idea of self-importance ever entertained by our hero, entered his mind: it accompanied the proud consciousness of fancying that he afforded support to a creature more helpless than himself. He touched its soft cheek, then its miniature hand, which soon began to close itself round his finger, in the manner that infants do. It seemedto Edmund, as though his caresses were kindly returned. His little heart overflowed with fondness. He looked up, his face beaming with delight, and asked if he might kiss the darling little baby.

“A pretty bold request indeed!” said Lord L., laughing, “kiss my eldest daughter, you urchin.”

Mrs. Montgomery, laughing also, told him he might, and Edmund accordingly approached his rosy lips to those of his precious charge, with, however, the greatest gentleness, lest, as he said, he should hurt it.

Mrs. Montgomery, on her return back from the drawing-room, was much surprised to hear the cry of an infant inside her daughter’s apartment, while she herself, if she were not dreaming, held the baby in her own arms, outside the door. The fact was, an occurrence hadtaken place, which, with all their preparation, they were not at all prepared for. A second little girl had made her appearance. Two dress caps, certainly, had been provided, one with a cockade for a boy, the other with a suitable rosette for a girl, in case of such a contingency (and bad enough in all conscience) as that of the child being a girl, after doctor, nurse, servants, tenants, and indeed every one knowing perfectly well that it would be a boy, but two girls never had been so much as thought of. The elder young lady, therefore, by three-quarters of an hour, being already in possession of the girl’s rosette, the younger was obliged to make her first public appearance in this world of vanities, figuring in a boy’s cockade.

To prevent, however, a serious disappointment on the part of Lord L., an explanatorymessage was sent to him before she was permitted to enter the drawing-room. There was but one child’s nurse, too; but what with grandmamma’s help, and good Mrs. Smyth’s assistance, and Edmund’s, which he judicially afforded, by running under every body’s feet who carried a baby, they contrived to manage till a second nurse could be procured.

We speak of nurses under certain limitations; for Lady L. had been too well instructed by her mother, in every right sentiment, to meditate for a moment depriving her infants of the nutriment nature had ordained for them.

The doctor, as soon as he thought he could venture to assert that there would be no more, either boys or girls, frisked into the drawing-room, rubbing his hands, and smiling with perfect satisfaction.

“I give your lordship,” he said, “joy, twicetold! twice told! I believe I am justified in so doing on the present twofold occasion. Twofold, heigh? twofold it certainly is, literally so, and twofold should be our rejoicing; else are we ungrateful for the bounty of Providence, and the liberality of nature! Liberality of nature, heigh?”

“But—,” said his lordship, with a countenance of some anxiety.

“We did not anticipate this, sir,” continued the doctor, “this is a contingency that we did not anticipate.”

“Pray—,” recommenced Lord L., making a fresh effort to be heard; but the doctor proceeded.

“Two beautiful girls, upon my life—beautiful! I already see future conquests sparkling in their eyes!”

“Are you sure, doctor,” asked the major,“there won’t be any more? A boy now, eh? Girls first: all right that—Place aux dames.”

“The next,” proceeded the doctor, still addressing Lord L., “shall be a boy. At present twobelleshave been sent us, and we should make them joybelles! eh? Come, that’s rather good, a’n’t it?” And with his usual pirouette, he flung himself on the sofa beside the major, threw one leg across the other, and with his head a little back, and on one side, looked up and smiled with entire self-complacency.

Mrs. Montgomery now appeared at the door, to give Lord L. the long-wished-for summons; which he obeyed on tip-toe.

“From Scotland, I presume, sir?” said the doctor to his neighbour on the sofa.

“Ee noo, sir,” replied the major; “bit hoo did ye ken I cam frae Scotland? No by my speech, I reckon.”

“Oh, sir, the name—the name,” returned the doctor, a little disconcerted.

“Morven is a weel kent name, dootless,” rejoined the man of war; “and for my speech, I should tack ney sham that it savoured o’ the land o’ my nativity, provided sic was the case; bit it fell oot, that being much wee my regiment, on the sarvice o’ his Majesty, I ha’ been full saxteen year o’ my life oot o’ Scotland; se that noo, when I gang to Lunnon, ne body kens me till be a Scotchman: that is, by my speech. Bit ne’ doot—”

Here the doctor, who had kept silence unusually long (perhaps from admiration of the major’s pure English), interrupted his companion, to descant on use or custom being secondnature, &c. And the major being one of the many who never listen to anybody’s speeches but their own, leaned back on the sofa, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER X.“But not less pious was the ardent pray’rThat rose spontaneously.”“Look at him! Is he not a beauteous boy?”

“But not less pious was the ardent pray’rThat rose spontaneously.”“Look at him! Is he not a beauteous boy?”

“But not less pious was the ardent pray’rThat rose spontaneously.”

“Look at him! Is he not a beauteous boy?”

Thechristening was quite a splendid festival. A number of friends and relations, among whom was Lady Theodosia R., became inmates of Lodore House for the occasion. All the neighbourhood was invited to join their party for the day; and the tenantry and poor people entertained on the lawn and borders of the lake; while the inhabitants of the town of Keswick illuminated their houses to show their respect and affection for the family.

The names of Julia and Frances were given to the little girls. The ceremony was over, and Edmund, who had been dressed very sprucely for the great occasion, was standing near one of the nurses, endeavouring to pacify his baby, as he invariably called the eldest of the twins. The young lady was evincing her displeasure at the drops of cold water which had visited, so suddenly, the nice warm glow produced on her cheek by the full lace border of her cap, and the sheltering shawl of her nurse.

Mrs. Montgomery, who was looking on much amused at the little manœuvres of Edmund, naturally recollected (the whole business being about names) that he, poor fellow, had but one appellation, and though that did very well now, the case would be altered when he began to go among strangers, when some sort of surname would become quite indispensable. She chancedto express her thoughts on the subject (in an under tone of course) to Lady L. and Mr. Jackson, who were standing near her, adding, that as there was no name over which she had so good a right as her own, she thought he had better in future be called Montgomery.

“Are you quite determined, madam?” asked Mr. Jackson.

“Yes, quite,” she replied.

“Come here, then, my dear little fellow!” proceeded the worthy clergyman, addressing Edmund in an elevated tone.

Edmund obeyed timidly, but immediately.

Mr. Jackson still stood opposite to the font, though, his sacred duties being ended, he had descended the steps previous to the foregoing conversation, which took place while the congregation were moving out of church.

The figure and countenance of Mr. Jacksonwere fine and impressive, and his air and carriage lent to them all the dignity which the Ruler of nature intended man to derive from his upright form, when the mind is upright too. The infantine figure at his knee seemed, by contrast, to add nobleness to his stature. His eyes were raised to heaven, those of the child to his face, as laying one hand on Edmund’s head, and extending the other, he pronounced with solemnity the following words:

“May the Almighty Father of the fatherless, and Defender of the orphan’s cause, bless, guide, and protect you, under the name of Edmund Montgomery, till your claim (if you have such) to any other shall be known and acknowledged.”

The tones of his voice were fine; and, on this occasion, a tenderness was blended with their depth, supplied by the growing partialityhe had for some time felt for poor Edmund; while his naturally grave and almost severe deportment, borrowed, when, as now, he had been recently engaged in divine service, a grace from his piety, a humility which yet elevated: it was a consciousness, visible, of standing in the presence of his Maker.

When our party had come out of church, and were waiting under some trees in the little green that surrounded the building, for the carriages to come up in convenient order, Mr. Jackson, who still held Edmund by the hand, turned to Mrs. Montgomery, and, with an enthusiasm peculiar to himself, and the very glow of which prevented his perceiving that he not unfrequently produced a smile on the lips of those who were not capable of entering into his feelings, said, “This child, madam, is a more perfect personification of my ideas ofwhat the angels must be, than any thing I have ever before met with, or even read of.”

“You except the ladies, I hope,” said Lady Theodosia, “or, at least, those of the present company.”

“I make no exceptions, madam,” replied Mr. Jackson, with but little gallantry of voice or manner. Then turning again to Mrs. Montgomery, he was about to proceed; but Lady Theodosia ran on thus:—

“It is certainly customary to say of any fine fat child, that it is quite a cherub; but I cannot see why a perfection so earthly, should lay exclusive claim to the attribute of angels! The Edinburgh sick nurse, in that case, would be the most angelic creature among us, for she must measure, as Sir John Falstaff says of himself, at least three yards round the waist.”

Lady Theodosia was very thin.

“My premises, madam, led to no such monstrous conclusion!” replied Mr. Jackson, with much more severity of tone than the occasion called for.

“Monstrous conclusion!” echoed the doctor. “Come, that’s very good! The person your ladyship has just mentioned, is somewhat monstrous, it cannot be denied.”

Mr. Jackson, meanwhile, with a gravity not to be shaken, proceeded addressing Mrs. Montgomery as follows:—“In my mental visions, I have often indulged in speculations on the possible appearance of angels. I have, ’tis true, always pictured them to myself decked in that freshness of beauty peculiar to extreme youth; yet, on the brow, I have imagined an expression resembling what may be traced here!” and he passed his hand over the forehead of Edmund. Then taking off the little plumedScotch bonnet, and viewing him as he spoke, he continued: “That look, I had almost said of thought, that touch of sentiment, scarcely corresponding with the dimpled and infantine loveliness of the cheek: that smile too, of perfect happiness, emanating from the blissful consciousness of never even wishing wrong! No seeds of jarring passions there, madam! no contentions of spirit: but that absolute harmony of soul, so rarely to be met with on earth, when every impulse of the native will is in unison with the sense of right implanted in all, by the great Author and Source of good!”

Lady Theodosia was dying to laugh, but dare not, Mr. Jackson’s face was so perfectly serious. Edmund looked up at the moment, conscious that he was spoken of, though, of course, not comprehending what was said.

“The eye,” continued Mr. Jackson, “whenit meets yours, certainly conveys a tender appeal, a silent claim on protection, that we scarcely expect in that of a superior intelligence.”

Lady Theodosia philosophically observed, that the child’s hair was black, and that angels were always depicted with golden locks. (Her ladyship’s were auburn, bordering on red.) “And as to supposing,” continued the lady, “that angels must invariably be children,” (Lady Theodosia was no child,) “it is quite an erroneous idea. Milton’s angels were of all ages.”

“But there were no ladies among them, Theodosia!” said Lord L., just coming up. “Lovers call you angels, but brothers and married men may speak the truth; and, it must be confessed, that all the angels upon record are either children or young men.”

“Oh fie! my lord,” ventured the doctor; “is it not recorded every day before our eyes, in the fairest characters,” bowing and smiling to Lady Theodosia, “that the ladies are angels! Fair characters! fair characters! Come, that’s fair, very fair, a’n’t?”

CHAPTER XI.“There is nothing great,Which religion does not teach; nothing good,Of which she is not the eternal source;At once the motive and the recompense.”

“There is nothing great,Which religion does not teach; nothing good,Of which she is not the eternal source;At once the motive and the recompense.”

Fromthe evening of the birth of Lady L.’s babies, it was evident that our hero, though not yet seven years old, no longer thought himself little. He assumed a manly air and carriage, and could not bear the idea of being suspected of wanting assistance or protection. He, indeed, was always ready to give his assistance, if one of the babies stretched a little hand for any thing, or his protection, if thebark of a dog, the sight of a stranger, or any such awful occurrence, alarmed either of them; or his soothings, if they cried.

He would no longer hold by any one’s hand in walking, but would step out in front of the nursery party, with quite a proud air, looking over his shoulder, from time to time, and telling the nurses that he was going first, to see that there was nothing there to hurt the babies. He often asked if they would ever be as big as he was; and always kept alive, by perpetual inquiries, and additional caresses, a perfect recollection of the identity of the eldest baby—the one that had been held across his arms, the evening it was born; and which, at the moment it seemed to clasp his finger, had awakened in his little breast the first emotion of tenderness, that was not accompanied by that almost awe-inspiring feeling—a grateful looking up, asfrom an immeasurable distance, to beings, in whose love and protection he himself sought shelter.

The partiality evinced by Mr. Jackson for our hero, on the day of the christening, encouraged Mrs. Montgomery to put in immediate execution a plan which Lady L. and herself had been for some time meditating; namely, to request that gentleman to undertake the education of Edmund, till he was of an age to be sent to the Naval College.

Mr. Jackson was eminently fitted for the task of instructing youth. He had been a fellow of one of the universities, and distinguished both for his learning and his talents.

Since his retirement from college on his present living, he had enjoyed much leisure, and had devoted it to elegant studies: modern classics, modern languages, the fine arts, latediscoveries in science, &c. &c. In short, to use his own words, he had, since that period, wandered daily through the pleasure-grounds of literature; not suffering his mind to sink into utter indolence, yet giving it no more than the healthful stimulus of gentle exercise. He was born a poet, but had, through life, indulged more in poetical feelings than in poetical effusions; unless, indeed, we admit as such, the energetic overflowing of his spontaneous eloquence in conversation; for his sermons, he took care, should be plain and practical. He was not a shepherd, who, at the instigation of vanity, would turn the green pasture-lands of his flock into beds of tulips. Yet did not the pure and perspicuous style, which good taste, as well as good feeling, taught him to adopt on sacred subjects, want for that true sublime which is derived from simplicity, when thegrandeur of the thought itself leaves laboured language far behind.

The topic on which he was unwearied was, the inseparable connexion between right faith and right practice, and between both and happiness. He proved, by the most beautiful and feeling arguments and illustrations, that, like the root, the blossom, and the fruit, they grew out of, necessarily produced, and, as necessarily, could not exist without each other. He then proceeded to show, that the whole chain of natural causes and effects formed one unbroken, practical revelation of the Almighty will, ordaining virtue and forbidding vice; inasmuch as not only is virtue necessary to make us capable of happiness even here, but out of vice invariably grows suffering, not only moral, but generally physical also, lest the lowest capacity should be slow to comprehend thismanifestation of the sovereign purpose of him who called us into being, but bestows upon us that felicity, towards which, his all-wise government is constituted to lead us; of him who, had it been possible even to infinite power, to bestow a consciousness of individuality of spiritual being, without an equal consciousness of freedom of will, would have rendered it impossible for his creatures to err; or, in other words, to forfeit that bliss which “eye hath not seen, ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.”

“For,” our Christian philosopher would add, as he drew his arguments to their close, “had that emanation of the divinity which is the soul of man, been without choice between good and evil; or, in other words, necessitated to act by no other impulse than that of its great source, the Almighty had created but a material world,all spiritual intelligence, the whole soul of the universe, had still been God himself!”

Mr. Jackson’s imaginings, especially when he walked alone amid the majestic scenery that surrounded his dwelling, certainly were poetry; but he seldom interrupted his pleasing reveries, or checked his nights of fancy, to place them on paper, or even to arrange them in any precise order of words. Indeed, it was one of his favourite positions, (and he was famous for theories of his own,) that a man might be a poet, without possessing one word of any language whatsoever, in which to express his poetic ideas.

In judging a new work, too, he seldom descended to verbal criticism; but, taking an enlarged view of the spirit in which the thing was written, pronounced it, at once, to want, or to possess, that poetical spark, that vivifyingprinciple, which must, he maintained, breathe a soul into every composition, whether prose or verse, worth the trouble of reading.

To complete Mr. Jackson’s qualifications for a preceptor, he himself found a sensible pleasure in imparting knowledge. Let others prove the wonders, the properties, the virtues of all that the material world affords; and, admired be their curious, and respected their useful labours; but the natural philosophy in which he delighted, was the development of the young mind. In his mode, too, of communicating instruction, there was a peculiar felicity. He never required of a pupil an arbitrary act of mere memory: “indeed,” he would say, “there is no such a power as mere memory.” What is commonly called having a good memory, he considered as nothing more than the natural result of fixing the attention, awaking the feelings, and forming the associations. These last, he termed the roots, by which remembrances entwine themselves with our whole constitution, till the very heart vibrates to a sound, a colour, or but the scent of a flower, plucked in the day of joy, or of sorrow. He, therefore, always endeavoured to lead the understanding to facts, through their causes; and, again, to interest the feelings in the consequences of those facts: thus were the lessons he taught never to be effaced. Above all things, he hasted to supply the infant mind with salutary associations, on every subject tending to implant principles and form character; considering every avenue of the soul, not thus timely fortified, as laid open to the incursions of wrong, perhaps, fatal opinions. For instance, whilst others railed, with common-place argument, against bribing children, as they termed it, into goodness; hemaintained that the lowest animal gratification of the infant, (that is, before it can understand any other,) may be so judiciously bestowed, as to become the first seed of that grand principle, a thorough conviction that the virtuous only can enjoy happiness. If the child’s daily and hourly experience prove to it, that when it is good it has all from which it knows how to derive pleasure; and that when it is not good, the reverse is the case; must it not soon learn to connect, so thoroughly, goodness with happiness, that, through after-life, the ideas can never present themselves apart. “As mind is developed,” he would say, “let the sources of the child’s happiness be ennobled: teach it to prize, as its best reward, the love and approval of its parent; to dread, as its greatest punishment, the withholding such. And, to acquire this power, let your tenderest indulgence, theperpetual sunshine of your countenance, be the very atmosphere in which your child is reared; and soon, the sight of features on which no smile appears, will be chastisement sufficient, and you be spared the brutalizing and alienating your offspring, by beating it into forced obedience, and spontaneous hatred.”

That such a man as we have described, was ever found, in the fulfilment of his active duties as a pastor, the conscientious and benevolent Christian, we need scarcely add.

The income arising from Mr. Jackson’s living was considerable; and, as he had also private property, he was quite independent; it was, therefore, entirely as a favour; that Mrs. Montgomery meditated requesting him to take charge of Edmund’s education. He, on his part, came into all her plans and wishes, with as much readiness and warmth, as his enthusiastic praises of our hero had led her to hope.

The parsonage, to which Mr. Jackson had built very elegant additions, stands within a short walk of Lodore House. Its own situation is beautiful. Indeed, it is scarcely possible to choose a spot in this immediate neighbourhood which is not so. Every distance is terminated by magnificent mountains. More or less ample views of the lake, are almost everywhere to be descried through trees that grow with luxuriance to the water’s-edge; the long vista of each opening, carpeted with a velvet sod of the tenderest green; while, where the wooding climbs the feet of the hills, bare rocks, like the sides and turrets of ruined castles, protrude in many parts, giving much beauty and variety to the scenery. One of the highest of these lifts itself conspicuously above the grove whichembowers Mr. Jackson’s dwelling, and stands just in view of his study-windows. It is crowned by a rent and blasted oak, the outer branches of which still bud forth every spring, displaying a partial verdure, while the naked roots are bound around the rock’s hard brow, with a grasp which has maintained its hold from age to age, against the winds and rains of countless winters. Beyond the woods, stupendous Skiddaw rears its lofty head, enveloped in perpetual clouds, in much the same manner, that it backs the view of Lodore House; for in this wild region, that mountain holds so conspicuous a place in every scene, that it may almost be said to be omnipresent.

A window to the south presents some slight traces of human existence, not discernible from any of the others: a curious bridge, roughly constructed, its date unknown, and crossing aspot where there is now no water; and a single chimney, with its blue smoke, peeping from the cleft of a rock, within which is concealed the little habitation to which it belongs. The study itself, from which these prospects are enjoyed, contains an excellent library: it opens with French windows on the lawn, and communicates with the drawing-room by means of a green-house in the corridor form, in imitation of that at Lodore, from which it had been stored with choice plants. Beyond the drawing-room, in the old part of the building, is situated a comfortable dining-room. To this literary Eden, our hero each day repaired, reaping from his visits all the advantages which might be expected. Thus did matters proceed for about four years, except that we omitted to mention that he spent all periods of Mrs. Montgomery’s absence from Lodore House entirelyat Mr. Jackson’s dwelling, by that gentleman’s particular request. Edmund had become the consolation of his worthy preceptor’s lonely hours, the centre of his affections. Those had, indeed, no other object. Within the first three years of Mr. Jackson’s marriage, he had lost a wife to whom he had been attached from early youth; and, more recently, the measles had robbed him of both the boys she had left him.

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