"'This jargon,' said my orthodox reviewer, 'might be excused in an alderman of London, but not in a Fellow elect of Oriel,' or something to the same purpose, evidently designing to recall to memory the most painful passage of a life not over happy. But perhaps it is as well to let it alone. The writer might be some one in whom my kindred are interested; for I am as much alone in my revolt as Abdiel in his constancy."
"'This jargon,' said my orthodox reviewer, 'might be excused in an alderman of London, but not in a Fellow elect of Oriel,' or something to the same purpose, evidently designing to recall to memory the most painful passage of a life not over happy. But perhaps it is as well to let it alone. The writer might be some one in whom my kindred are interested; for I am as much alone in my revolt as Abdiel in his constancy."
We are glad to see valuable testimony borne by Mr. James Spedding as to his habits having left unimpaired his moral and spiritual sensibility:
"Of his general character and way of life I might have been able to say something to the purpose, if I had seen more of him. But though he was a person so interesting to me in himself, and with so many subjects of interest in common with me, that a little intercourse went a great way; so that I feel as if I knew him much better than many persons of whom I have seen much more; yet I have in fact been very seldom in his company. If I should say ten times altogether, Ishould not be understating the number; and this is not enough to qualify me for a reporter, when there must be so many competent observers living, who really knew him well. One very strong impression, however, with which I always came away from him, may be worth mentioning; I mean, that his moral and spiritual sensibilities seemed to be absolutely untouched by the life he was leading. The error of his life sprung, I suppose, from moral incapacity of some kind—his way of life seemed in some things destructive of self-respect; and was certainly regarded by himself with a feeling of shame, which in his seasons of self-communion became passionate; and yet it did not at all degrade his mind. It left, not his understanding only, but also his imagination and feelings, perfectly healthy,—free, fresh, and pure. His language might be sometimes what some people would call gross, but that I think was not from any want of true delicacy, but from a masculine disdain of false delicacy; and his opinions, and judgment, and speculations, were in the highest degree refined and elevated—full of chivalrous generosity, and purity, and manly tenderness. Such, at least, was my invariable impression. It always surprised me, but fresh observations always confirmed it."
"Of his general character and way of life I might have been able to say something to the purpose, if I had seen more of him. But though he was a person so interesting to me in himself, and with so many subjects of interest in common with me, that a little intercourse went a great way; so that I feel as if I knew him much better than many persons of whom I have seen much more; yet I have in fact been very seldom in his company. If I should say ten times altogether, Ishould not be understating the number; and this is not enough to qualify me for a reporter, when there must be so many competent observers living, who really knew him well. One very strong impression, however, with which I always came away from him, may be worth mentioning; I mean, that his moral and spiritual sensibilities seemed to be absolutely untouched by the life he was leading. The error of his life sprung, I suppose, from moral incapacity of some kind—his way of life seemed in some things destructive of self-respect; and was certainly regarded by himself with a feeling of shame, which in his seasons of self-communion became passionate; and yet it did not at all degrade his mind. It left, not his understanding only, but also his imagination and feelings, perfectly healthy,—free, fresh, and pure. His language might be sometimes what some people would call gross, but that I think was not from any want of true delicacy, but from a masculine disdain of false delicacy; and his opinions, and judgment, and speculations, were in the highest degree refined and elevated—full of chivalrous generosity, and purity, and manly tenderness. Such, at least, was my invariable impression. It always surprised me, but fresh observations always confirmed it."
When Wordsworth heard of his death, he was much affected, and gave the touching direction to his brother:—"Let him lie by us: he would have wished it." It was accordingly so arranged.
"The day following he walked over with me to Grasmere—to the churchyard, a plain enclosure of the olden time, surrounding the old village church, in which lay the remains of his wife's sister, his nephew, and his beloved daughter. Here, having desired the sexton to measure out the ground for his own and for Mrs. Wordsworth's grave, he bade him measure out the space of a third grave for my brother, immediately beyond."'When I lifted up my eyes from my daughter's grave,' he exclaimed, 'he was standing there!' pointing to the spot where my brother had stood on the sorrowful occasion to which he alluded. Then turning to the sexton, he said, 'Keep the ground for us,—we are old people, and it cannot be for long.'""In the grave thus marked out, my brother's remains were laid on the following Thursday, and in little more than a twelvemonth his venerable and venerated friend was brought to occupy his own. They lie in the south-east angle of the churchyard, not far from a group of trees, with the little beck, that feeds the lake with its clear waters, murmuring by their side. Around them are the quiet mountains."
"The day following he walked over with me to Grasmere—to the churchyard, a plain enclosure of the olden time, surrounding the old village church, in which lay the remains of his wife's sister, his nephew, and his beloved daughter. Here, having desired the sexton to measure out the ground for his own and for Mrs. Wordsworth's grave, he bade him measure out the space of a third grave for my brother, immediately beyond.
"'When I lifted up my eyes from my daughter's grave,' he exclaimed, 'he was standing there!' pointing to the spot where my brother had stood on the sorrowful occasion to which he alluded. Then turning to the sexton, he said, 'Keep the ground for us,—we are old people, and it cannot be for long.'"
"In the grave thus marked out, my brother's remains were laid on the following Thursday, and in little more than a twelvemonth his venerable and venerated friend was brought to occupy his own. They lie in the south-east angle of the churchyard, not far from a group of trees, with the little beck, that feeds the lake with its clear waters, murmuring by their side. Around them are the quiet mountains."
We have often expressed a high opinion of Hartley Coleridge's poetical genius. It was a part of the sadness of his life that he could not concentrate his powers, in this or any other department of his intellect, to high and continuous aims—but we were not prepared for such rich proof of its exercise, within the limited field assigned to it, as these volumes offer. They largely and lastingly contribute to the rare stores of true poetry. In the sonnet Hartley Coleridge was a master unsurpassed by the greatest. To its "narrow plot of ground" his habits, when applied in the cultivation of the muse, most naturally led him—and here he may claim no undeserved companionship even with Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth. We take a few—with affecting personal reference in all of them.
Hast thou not seen an aged rifted tower,Meet habitation for the Ghost of Time,Where fearful ravage makes decay sublime,And destitution wears the face of power?Yet is the fabric deck'd with many a flowerOf fragrance wild, and many-dappled hues,Gold streak'd with iron-brown and nodding blue,Making each ruinous chink a fairy bower.E'en such a thing methinks I fain would be,Should Heaven appoint me to a lengthen'd age;So old in look, that Young and Old may seeThe record of my closing pilgrimage:Yet, to the last, a rugged wrinkled thingTo which young sweetness may delight to cling!Pains I have known, that cannot be again,And pleasures too that never can be more:For loss of pleasure I was never sore,But worse, far worse is to feel no pain.The throes and agonies of a heart explainIts very depth of want at inmost core;Prove that it does believe, and would adore,And doth with ill for ever strive and strain.I not lament for happy childish years,For loves departed, that have had their day,Or hopes that faded when my head was gray;For death hath left me last of my compeers:But for the pain I felt, the gushing tearsI used to shed when I had gone astray.A lonely wanderer upon the earth am I,The waif of nature—like uprooted weedBorne by the stream, or like a shaken reed,A frail dependent of the fickle sky.Far, far away, are all my natural kin;The mother that erewhile hath hush'd my cry,Almost hath grown a mere fond memory.Where is my sister's smile? my brother's boisterous din?Ah! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage,A holy mother is that sister sweet.And that bold brother is a pastor meetTo guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age,Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet;So far astray hath been my pilgrimage.How shall a man fore-doom'd to lone estate,Untimely old, irreverently gray,Much like a patch of dusky snow in May,Dead sleeping in a hollow—all too late—How shall so poor a thing congratulateThe blest completion of a patient wooing,Or how commend a younger man for doingWhat ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate?There is a fable, that I once did read.Of a bad angel that was someway good,And therefore on the brink of Heaven he stood,Looking each way, and no way could proceed;Till at the last he purged away his sinBy loving all the joy he saw within.
Hast thou not seen an aged rifted tower,Meet habitation for the Ghost of Time,Where fearful ravage makes decay sublime,And destitution wears the face of power?Yet is the fabric deck'd with many a flowerOf fragrance wild, and many-dappled hues,Gold streak'd with iron-brown and nodding blue,Making each ruinous chink a fairy bower.E'en such a thing methinks I fain would be,Should Heaven appoint me to a lengthen'd age;So old in look, that Young and Old may seeThe record of my closing pilgrimage:Yet, to the last, a rugged wrinkled thingTo which young sweetness may delight to cling!
Pains I have known, that cannot be again,And pleasures too that never can be more:For loss of pleasure I was never sore,But worse, far worse is to feel no pain.The throes and agonies of a heart explainIts very depth of want at inmost core;Prove that it does believe, and would adore,And doth with ill for ever strive and strain.I not lament for happy childish years,For loves departed, that have had their day,Or hopes that faded when my head was gray;For death hath left me last of my compeers:But for the pain I felt, the gushing tearsI used to shed when I had gone astray.
A lonely wanderer upon the earth am I,The waif of nature—like uprooted weedBorne by the stream, or like a shaken reed,A frail dependent of the fickle sky.Far, far away, are all my natural kin;The mother that erewhile hath hush'd my cry,Almost hath grown a mere fond memory.Where is my sister's smile? my brother's boisterous din?Ah! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage,A holy mother is that sister sweet.And that bold brother is a pastor meetTo guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age,Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet;So far astray hath been my pilgrimage.
How shall a man fore-doom'd to lone estate,Untimely old, irreverently gray,Much like a patch of dusky snow in May,Dead sleeping in a hollow—all too late—How shall so poor a thing congratulateThe blest completion of a patient wooing,Or how commend a younger man for doingWhat ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate?There is a fable, that I once did read.Of a bad angel that was someway good,And therefore on the brink of Heaven he stood,Looking each way, and no way could proceed;Till at the last he purged away his sinBy loving all the joy he saw within.
Here is another poem of very touching reference to his personal story:
"When I received this volume small,My years were barely seventeen;When it was hoped I should be allWhich once, alas! I might have been."And now my years are thirty-five,And every mother hopes her lamb,And every happy child alive,May never be what now I am."But yet should any chance to lookOn the strange medley scribbled here.I charge thee, tell them, little book,I am not vile as I appear."Oh! tell them though thy purpose lameIn fortune's race, was still behind,—Though earthly blots my name defiled,They ne'er abused my better mind."Of what men are, and why they areSo weak, so wofully beguiled,Much I have learned, but better far,I know my soul is reconciled."
"When I received this volume small,My years were barely seventeen;When it was hoped I should be allWhich once, alas! I might have been.
"And now my years are thirty-five,And every mother hopes her lamb,And every happy child alive,May never be what now I am.
"But yet should any chance to lookOn the strange medley scribbled here.I charge thee, tell them, little book,I am not vile as I appear.
"Oh! tell them though thy purpose lameIn fortune's race, was still behind,—Though earthly blots my name defiled,They ne'er abused my better mind.
"Of what men are, and why they areSo weak, so wofully beguiled,Much I have learned, but better far,I know my soul is reconciled."
Before we shut the volumes—which will often and often be re-opened by their readers—we may instance, in proof of the variety ofhis verse, some masterly heroic couplets on the character of Dryden, which will be seen in a series of admirable "sketches of English poets" found written on the fly-leaves and covers of his copy ofAnderson's British Poets. The successors of Dryden are not less admirably handled, and there are some sketches of Wilkie, Dodsley, Langhorne, and rhymers of that class, inimitable for their truth and spirit.
FOOTNOTES:[J]Poems by Hartley Coleridge. With a Memoir of his Life. By his Brother. Two vols. Moxon.
[J]Poems by Hartley Coleridge. With a Memoir of his Life. By his Brother. Two vols. Moxon.
[J]Poems by Hartley Coleridge. With a Memoir of his Life. By his Brother. Two vols. Moxon.
Maidens, whose tresses shine,Crowned with daffodil and eglantine,Or, from their stringed buds of brier-roses,Bright as the vermeil closesOf April twilights, after sobbing rains,Fall down in rippled skeinsAnd golden tangles, lowAbout your bosoms, dainty as new snow;While the warm shadows blow in softest galesFair hawthorn flowers and cherry blossoms whiteAgainst your kirtles, like the froth from pailsO'er brimmed with milk at night,When lowing heifers bury their sleek flanksIn winrows of sweet hay, or clover banks—Come near and hear, I pray,My plained roundelay:Where creeping vines o'errun the sunny leas,Sadly, sweet souls, I watch your shining bandsFilling with stained handsYour leafy cups with lush red strawberries;Or deep in murmurous glooms,In yellow mosses full of starry blooms,Sunken at ease—each busied as she likes,Or stripping from the grass the beaded dews,Or picking jagged leaves from the slim spikesOf tender pinks—with warbled interfuseOf poesy divine,That haply long agoSome wretched borderer of the realm of woWrought to a dulcet line:If in your lovely yearsThere be a sorrow that may touch with tearsThe eyelids piteously, they must be shedFor Lyra, dead.The mantle of the MayWas blown almost within summer's reach,And all the orchard trees,Apple, and pear, and peach,Were full of yellow bees,Flown from their hives away.The callow dove upon the dusty beamFluttered its little wings in streaks of light,And the gray swallow twittered full in sight—Harmless the unyoked teamBrowsed from the budding elms, and thrilling laysMade musical prophecies of brighter days;And all went jocundly; I could but say.Ah! well-a-day!What time spring thaws the wold,And in the dead leaves come up sprouts of gold,And green and ribby blue, that after hoursEncrown with flowers;Heavily lies my heartFrom all delights apart,Even as an echo hungry for the wind,When fail the silver-kissing waves to unbindThe music bedded in the drowsy stringsOf the sea's golden shells—That, sometimes, with their honeyed murmuringsFill all its underswells:For o'er the sunshine fell a shadow wideWhen Lyra died.When sober Autumn, with his mist-bound brows,Sits drearily beneath the fading boughs,And the rain, chilly cold,Wrings from his beard of gold,And as some comfort for his lonesome hours,Hides in his bosom stalks of withered flowers,I think about what leaves are drooping roundA smoothly shapen mound;And if the wild wind criesWhere Lyra lies,Sweet shepherds, softly blowDitties most sad and low—Piping on hollow reeds to your pent sheep—Calm be my Lyra's sleep.Unvexed with dream of the rough briers that pullFrom his strayed lambs the wool!O, star, that tremblest dimUpon the welkin's rim,Send with thy milky shadows from aboveTidings about my love;If that some envious waveMade his untimely grave,Or if, so softening half my wild regrets,Some coverlid of bluest violetsWas softly put aside,What time he died!Nay, come not, piteous maids,Out of the murmurous shades;But keep your tresses crowned as you mayWith eglantine and daffodillies gay,And with the dews of myrtles wash your cheek,When flamy streaks,Uprunning the gray orient, tell of morn—While I, forlorn,Pour all my heart in tears and plaints, instead,For Lyra, dead.
Maidens, whose tresses shine,Crowned with daffodil and eglantine,Or, from their stringed buds of brier-roses,Bright as the vermeil closesOf April twilights, after sobbing rains,Fall down in rippled skeinsAnd golden tangles, lowAbout your bosoms, dainty as new snow;While the warm shadows blow in softest galesFair hawthorn flowers and cherry blossoms whiteAgainst your kirtles, like the froth from pailsO'er brimmed with milk at night,When lowing heifers bury their sleek flanksIn winrows of sweet hay, or clover banks—Come near and hear, I pray,My plained roundelay:Where creeping vines o'errun the sunny leas,Sadly, sweet souls, I watch your shining bandsFilling with stained handsYour leafy cups with lush red strawberries;Or deep in murmurous glooms,In yellow mosses full of starry blooms,Sunken at ease—each busied as she likes,Or stripping from the grass the beaded dews,Or picking jagged leaves from the slim spikesOf tender pinks—with warbled interfuseOf poesy divine,That haply long agoSome wretched borderer of the realm of woWrought to a dulcet line:If in your lovely yearsThere be a sorrow that may touch with tearsThe eyelids piteously, they must be shedFor Lyra, dead.The mantle of the MayWas blown almost within summer's reach,And all the orchard trees,Apple, and pear, and peach,Were full of yellow bees,Flown from their hives away.The callow dove upon the dusty beamFluttered its little wings in streaks of light,And the gray swallow twittered full in sight—Harmless the unyoked teamBrowsed from the budding elms, and thrilling laysMade musical prophecies of brighter days;And all went jocundly; I could but say.Ah! well-a-day!What time spring thaws the wold,And in the dead leaves come up sprouts of gold,And green and ribby blue, that after hoursEncrown with flowers;Heavily lies my heartFrom all delights apart,Even as an echo hungry for the wind,When fail the silver-kissing waves to unbindThe music bedded in the drowsy stringsOf the sea's golden shells—That, sometimes, with their honeyed murmuringsFill all its underswells:For o'er the sunshine fell a shadow wideWhen Lyra died.When sober Autumn, with his mist-bound brows,Sits drearily beneath the fading boughs,And the rain, chilly cold,Wrings from his beard of gold,And as some comfort for his lonesome hours,Hides in his bosom stalks of withered flowers,I think about what leaves are drooping roundA smoothly shapen mound;And if the wild wind criesWhere Lyra lies,Sweet shepherds, softly blowDitties most sad and low—Piping on hollow reeds to your pent sheep—Calm be my Lyra's sleep.Unvexed with dream of the rough briers that pullFrom his strayed lambs the wool!O, star, that tremblest dimUpon the welkin's rim,Send with thy milky shadows from aboveTidings about my love;If that some envious waveMade his untimely grave,Or if, so softening half my wild regrets,Some coverlid of bluest violetsWas softly put aside,What time he died!Nay, come not, piteous maids,Out of the murmurous shades;But keep your tresses crowned as you mayWith eglantine and daffodillies gay,And with the dews of myrtles wash your cheek,When flamy streaks,Uprunning the gray orient, tell of morn—While I, forlorn,Pour all my heart in tears and plaints, instead,For Lyra, dead.
Mr. Dale had been more than a quarter of an hour conversing with Mrs. Avenel, and had seemingly made little progress in the object of his diplomatic mission, for now, slowly drawing on his gloves, he said,—
"I grieve to think, Mrs. Avenel, that you should have so hardened your heart—yes—you must pardon me—it is my vocation to speak stern truths. You cannot say that I have not kept faith with you, but I must now invite you to remember that I specially reserved to myself the right of exercising a discretion to act as I judged best, for the child's interests, on any future occasion; and it was upon this understanding that you gave me the promise, which you would now evade, of providing for him when he came into manhood."
"I say I will provide for him. I say that you may 'prentice him in any distant town, and by-and-by we will stock a shop for him. What would you have more, sir, from folks like us, who have kept shop ourselves? It ain't reasonable what you ask, sir!"
"My dear friend," said the Parson, "what I ask of you at present is but to see him—to receive him kindly—to listen to his conversation—to judge for yourselves. We can have but a common object—that your grandson should succeed in life, and do you credit. Now, I doubt very much whether we can effect this by making him a small shopkeeper."
"And has Jane Fairfield, who married a common carpenter, brought him up to despise small shopkeepers?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, angrily.
"Heaven forbid! Some of the first men in England have been the sons of small shopkeepers. But is it a crime in them, or their parents, if their talents have lifted them into such rank or renown as the haughtiest duke might envy? England were not England if a man must rest where his father began."
"Good!" said, or rather grunted, an approving voice, but neither Mrs. Avenel nor the Parson heard it.
"All very fine," said Mrs. Avenel, bluntly. "But to send a boy like that to the university—where's the money to come from?"
"My dear Mrs. Avenel," said the Parson, coaxingly, "the cost need not be great at a small college at Cambridge; and if you will pay half the expense, I will pay the other half. I have no children of my own, and can afford it."
"That's very handsome in you, sir," said Mrs. Avenel, somewhat touched, yet still not graciously, "But the money is not the only point."
"Once at Cambridge," continued Mr. Dale, speaking rapidly, "at Cambridge, where the studies are mathematical—that is, of a nature for which he has shown so great an aptitude—and I have no doubt he will distinguish himself; if he does, he will obtain, on leaving, what is called a fellowship—that is a collegiate dignity accompanied by an income on which he could maintain himself until he made his way in life. Come, Mrs. Avenel, you are well off; you have no relations nearer to you in want of your aid. Your son, I hear, has been very fortunate."
"Sir," said Mrs. Avenel, interrupting the Parson, "it is not because my son Richard is an honor to us, and is a good son, and has made his fortin, that we are to rob him of what we have to leave, and give it to a boy whom we know nothing about, and who, in spite of what you say, can't bring upon us any credit at all."
"Why? I don't see that."
"Why?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, fiercely—"why? you know why. No, I don't want him to rise in life; I don't want folks to be speiring and asking about him. I think it is a very wicked thing to have put fine notions in his head, and I am sure my daughter Fairfield could not have done it herself. And now, to ask me to rob Richard, and bring out a great boy—who's been a gardener, or ploughman, or such like—to disgrace a gentleman who keeps his carriage, as my son Richard does—I would have you to know, sir, no! I won't do it, and there's an end to the matter."
During the last two or three minutes, and just before that approving "good" had responded to the Parson's popular sentiment, a door communicating with an inner room had been gently opened, and stood ajar; but this incident neither party had even noticed. But now the door was thrown boldly open, and the traveller whom the Parson had met at the inn walked up to Mr. Dale, and said, "No! that's not the end of the matter. You say the boy's a cute, clever lad?"
"Richard, have you been listening?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel.
"Well, I guess, yes—the last few minutes."
"And what have you heard?"
"Why, that this reverend gentleman thinks so highly of my sister Fairfield's boy that he offers to pay half of his keep at college. Sir, I'm very much obliged to you, and there's my hand, if you'll take it."
The Parson jumped up, overjoyed, and, with a triumphant glance towards Mrs. Avenel, shook hands heartily with Mr. Richard.
"Now," said the latter, "just put on your hat, sir, and take a stroll with me, and we'll discuss the thing business-like. Women don't understand business; never talk to women on business."
With these words, Mr. Richard drew out a cigar-case, selected a cigar, which he applied to the candle, and walked into the hall.
Mrs. Avenel caught hold of the Parson. "Sir, you'll be on your guard with Richard. Remember your promise."
"He does not know all, then?"
"He? No! And you see he did not overhear more than what he says. I'm sure you're a gentleman, and won't go agin your word."
"My word was conditional; but I will promise you never to break the silence without more reason than I think there is here for it. Indeed, Mr. Richard Avenel seems to save all necessity for that."
"Are you coming, sir?" cried Richard, as he opened the street door.
The Parson joined Mr. Richard Avenel on the road. It was a fine night, and the moon clear and shining.
"So, then," said Mr. Richard, thoughtfully, "poor Jane, who was always the drudge of the family, has contrived to bring up her son well; and the boy is really what you say, eh?—could make a figure at college?"
"I am sure of it," said the Parson, hooking himself on to the arm which Mr Avenel proffered.
"I should like to see him," said Richard. "Has he any manner? Is he genteel, or a mere country lout?"
"Indeed, he speaks with so much propriety, and has so much modest dignity, I might say, about him, that there's many a rich gentleman who would be proud of such a son."
"It is odd," observed Richard, "what difference there is in families. There's Jane now—who can't read nor write, and was just fit to be a workman's wife—had not a thought above her station; and when I think of my poor sister Nora—you would not believe it, sir, butshewas the most elegant creature in the world—yes, even as a child, (she was but a child when I went off to America.) And often, as I was getting on in life, often I used to say to myself, 'My little Nora shall be a lady after all. Poor thing—but she died young.'"
Richard's voice grew husky.
The Parson kindly pressed the arm on which he leaned, and said, after a pause—
"Nothing refines us like education, sir. I believe your sister Nora had received much instruction, and had the talents to profit by it. It is the same with your nephew."
"I'll see him," said Richard, stamping his foot firmly on the ground, "and if I like him, I'll be as good as a father to him. Look you, Mr.—what's your name, sir?"
"Dale."
"Mr. Dale, look you, I'm a single man. Perhaps I may marry some day; perhaps I shan't. I'm not going to throw myself away. If I can get a lady of quality, why—but that's neither here nor there; meanwhile, I should be glad of a nephew whom I need not be ashamed of. You see, sir, I'm a new man, the builder of my own fortunes; and, though I have picked up a little education—I don't well know how—as I scrambled on, still, now I come back to the old country, I'm well aware that I am not exactly a match for those d——d aristocrats—don't show so well in a drawing-room as I could wish. I could be a Parliament man if I liked, but I might make a goose of myself; so, all things considered, if I can get a sort of junior partner to do the polite work, and show off the goods, I think the house of Avenel & Co. might become a pretty considerable honor to the Britishers. You understand me, sir?"
"Oh, very well," answered Mr. Dale, smiling, though rather gravely.
"Now," continued the New Man, "I'm not ashamed to have risen in life by my own merits; and I don't disguise what I've been. And, when I'm in my own grand house, I'm fond of saying, 'I landed at New-York with ten pounds in my purse, and here I am!' But it would not do to have the old folks with me. People take you with all your faults, if you're rich, but they won't swallow your family into the bargain. So, if I don't have my own father and mother, whom I love dearly, and should like to see sitting at table, with my servants behind their chairs, I could still less have sister Jane. I recollect her very well, and she can't have got genteeler as she's grown older. Therefore I beg you'll not set her on coming after me; it won't do by any manner of means. Don't say a word about me to her. But send the boy down here to his grandfather, and I'll see him quietly, you understand."
"Yes, but it will be hard to separate her from the boy."
"Stuff! all boys are separated from their parents when they go into the world. So that's settled. Now, just tell me. I know the old folks always snubbed Jane—that is, mother did. My poor dear father never snubbed any of us. Perhaps mother has not behaved altogether well to Jane. But we must not blame her for that; you see this is how it happened. There were a good many of us, while father and mother kept shop in the High Street, so we were all to be provided for, anyhow; and Jane, being very useful and handy at work, got a place when she was a little girl, and had no time for learning. Afterwards my father made a lucky hit, in getting my Lord Lansmere's custom after an election, in which he did a great deal for the Blues, (for he was a famous electioneerer, my poor father.) My Lady stood godmother to Nora; and then most of my brothers and sisters died off, and father retired from business; and when he took Jane from service, she was so common-like that mother could not help contrasting her with Nora. You see Jane was their child when they were poor little shop people, with their heads scarce above water; and Nora was their child when they were well off, and had retired from trade, and lived genteel: so that makes a great difference. And mother did not quite look on her as on her own child. But it was Jane's own fault; for mother would have made it up with her if she had married the son of our neighbor the great linen-draper, as she might have done; but she would take Mark Fairfield, a common carpenter. Parents like best those of their children who succeed best in life. Natural. Why, they did not care for me until I came back the man I am. But to return to Jane: I'm afraid they've neglected her. How is she off?"
"She earns her livelihood, and is poor, but contented."
"Ah, just be good enough to give her this," and Richard took a bank-note of fifty pounds from his pocket-book. "You can say the old folks sent it to her; or that it is a present from Dick, without telling her he had come back from America."
"My dear sir," said the Parson, "I am more and more thankful to have made your acquaintance. This is a very liberal gift of yours; but your best plan will be to send it through your mother. For, though I don't want to betray any confidence you place in me, I should not know what to answer if Mrs. Fairfield began to question me about her brother. I never had but one secret to keep, and I hope I shall never have another. A secret is very like a lie!"
"You had a secret, then," said Richard, as he took back the bank-note. He had learned, perhaps, in America, to be a very inquisitive man. He added point-blank, "Pray what was it?"
"Why, what it would not be if I told you," said the Parson, with a forced laugh,—"a secret!"
"Well, I guess we're in a land of liberty. Do as you like. Now, I daresay you think me a very odd fellow to come out of my shell to you in this off-hand way. But I liked the look of you, even when we were at the inn together. And just now I was uncommonly pleased to find that, though you are a parson, you don't want to keep a man's nose down to a shop-board, if he has any thing in him. You're not one of the aristocrats—"
"Indeed," said the Parson with imprudent warmth, "it is not the character of the aristocracy of this country to keep people down. They make way amongst themselves for any man, whatever his birth, who has the talent and energy to aspire to their level. That's the especial boast of the British constitution, sir!"
"Oh, you think so do you!" said Mr. Richard,looking sourly at the Parson. "I daresay those are the opinions in which you have brought up the lad. Just keep him yourself, and let the aristocracy provide for him!"
The parson's generous and patriotic warmth evaporated at once, at this sudden inlet of cold air into the conversation. He perceived that he had made a terrible blunder; and, as it was not his business at that moment to vindicate the British constitution, but to serve Leonard Fairfield, he abandoned the cause of the aristocracy with the most poltroon and scandalous abruptness. Catching at the arm which Mr. Avenel had withdrawn from him, he exclaimed:
"Indeed, sir, you are mistaken; I have never attempted to influence your nephew's political opinions. On the contrary, if, at his age, he can be said to have formed any opinion, I am greatly afraid—that is, I think his opinions are by no means sound—that is constitutional. I mean, I mean—" And the poor Parson, anxious to select a word that would not offend his listener, stopped short in lamentable confusion of idea.
Mr. Avenel enjoyed his distress for a moment, with a saturnine smile, and then said:
"Well, I calculate he's a Radical. Natural enough, if he has not got a sixpence to lose—all come right by-and-by. I'm not a Radical—at least not a destructive—much too clever a man for that, I hope. But I wish to see things very different from what they are. Don't fancy that I want the common people, who've got nothing, to pretend to dictate to their betters, because I hate to see a parcel of fellows, who are called lords and squires, trying to rule the roast. I think, sir, that it is men like me who ought to be at the top of the tree! and that's the long and short of it. What do you say?"
"I've not the least objection," said the crestfallen Parson basely. But, to do him justice, I must add that he did not the least know what he was saying!
Unconscious of the change in his fate which the diplomacy of the Parson sought to effect, Leonard Fairfield was enjoying the first virgin sweetness of fame; for the principal town in his neighborhood had followed the then growing fashion of the age, and set up a Mechanic's Institute; and some worthy persons interested in the formation of that provincial Athenæum had offered a prize for the best Essay on the Diffusion of Knowledge,—a very trite subject, on which persons seem to think they can never say too much, and on which there is, nevertheless, a great deal yet to be said. This prize Leonard Fairfield had recently won. His Essay had been publicly complimented by a full meeting of the Institute; it had been printed at the expense of the Society, and had been rewarded by a silver medal—delineative of Apollo crowning Merit, (poor Merit had not a rag to his back; but Merit, left only to the care of Apollo, never is too good a customer to the tailor!) And the County Gazette had declared that Britain had produced another prodigy in the person of Dr. Riccabocca's self-educated gardener.
Attention was now directed to Leonard's mechanical contrivances. The Squire, ever eagerly bent on improvements, had brought an engineer to inspect the lad's system of irrigation, and the engineer had been greatly struck by the simple means by which a very considerable technical difficulty had been overcome. The neighboring farmers now called Leonard "Mr.Fairfield," and invited him on equal terms, to their houses. Mr. Stirn had met him on the high road, touched his hat, and hoped that "he bore no malice." All this, I say, was the first sweetness of fame; and if Leonard Fairfield comes to be a great man, he will never find such sweets in the after fruit. It was this success which had determined the Parson on the step which he had just taken, and which he had long before anxiously meditated. For, during the last year or so, he had renewed his old intimacy with the widow and the boy; and he had noticed, with great hope and great fear, the rapid growth of an intellect, which now stood out from the lowly circumstances that surrounded it in bold and unharmonizing relief.
It was the evening after his return home that the Parson strolled up to the Casino. He put Leonard Fairfield's Prize Essay in his pocket. For he felt that he could not let the young man go forth into the world without a preparatory lecture, and he intended to scourge poor Merit with the very laurel wreath which it had received from Apollo. But in this he wanted Riccabocca's assistance; or rather he feared that, if he did not get the Philosopher on his side, the Philosopher might undo all the work of the Parson.
A sweet sound came through the orange boughs, and floated to the ears of the Parson, as he wound slowly up the gentle ascent—so sweet, so silvery, he paused in delight—unaware, wretched man! that he was thereby conniving at Papistical errors. Soft it came, and sweet: softer and sweeter—"Ave Maria!" Violante was chanting the evening hymn to the Virgin Mother. The Parson at last distinguished the sense of the words, and shook his head with the pious shake of an orthodox Protestant. He broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy step. Gaining the terrace he found the little family seated under an awning. Mrs. Riccabocca knitting; the Signor with his arms folded on his breast: the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen on the ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy. Violante had finished her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two, pillowing her head on her step-mother's lap, but with her hand resting on her father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face.
"Good evening," said Mr. Dale. Violante stole up to him, and, pulling him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered,—"Talk to papa, do—and cheerfully; he is sad."
She escaped from him, as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. But she kept her swimming lustrous eyes wistfully on her father.
"How fares it with you, my dear friend?" said the Parson kindly, as he rested his hand on the Italian's shoulder. "You must not let him get out of spirits, Mrs. Riccabocca."
"I am very ungrateful to her if I ever am so," said the poor Italian, with all his natural gallantry. Many a good wife, who thinks it is a reproach to her if her husband is ever 'out of spirits,' might have turned peevishly from that speech more elegant than sincere, and so have made bad worse. But Mrs. Riccabocca took her husband's proffered hand affectionately, and said with greatnaïveté:
"You see I am so stupid, Mr. Dale; I never knew I was so stupid till I married. But I am very glad you are come. You can get on some learned subject together, and then he will not miss so much his—"
"His what?" asked Riccabocca, inquisitively.
"His country. Do you think that I cannot sometimes read your thoughts?"
"Very often. But you did not read them just then. The tongue touches where the tooth aches, but the best dentist cannot guess at the tooth unless one opens one's mouth.Basta!Can we offer you some wine of our own making, Mr. Dale?—it is pure."
"I'd rather have some tea," quoth the Parson hastily.
Mrs. Riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. And the Parson, sliding into her chair, said—
"But you are dejected, then? Fie! If there's a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness."
"I don't dispute it," said Riccabocca, with a heavy sigh. "But though it is said by some Greek, who, I think, is quoted by your favorite Seneca, that a wise man carries his country with him at the soles of his feet, he can't carry also the sunshine."
"I tell you what it is," said the Parson bluntly, "you would have a much keener sense of happiness if you had much less esteem for philosophy."
"Cospetto!" said the Doctor, rousing himself. "Just explain, will you?"
"Does not the search after wisdom induce desires not satisfied in this small circle to which your life is confined? It is not so much your country for which you yearn, as it is for space to your intellect, employment for your thoughts, career for your aspirations."
"You have guessed at the tooth which aches," said Riccabocca with admiration.
"Easy to do that," answered the Parson. "Our wisdom teeth come last, and give us the most pain. And if you would just starve the mind a little, and nourish the heart more, you would be less of a philosopher, and more of a—" The Parson had the word "Christian" at the tip of his tongue: he suppressed a word that, so spoken, would have been exceedingly irritating, and substituted, with inelegant antithesis, "and more of a happy man!"
"I do all I can with my heart," quoth the Doctor.
"Not you! For a man with such a heart as yours should never feel the want of the sunshine. My friend, we live in an age of over mental cultivation. We neglect too much the simple healthful outer life, in which there is so much positive joy. In turning to the world within us, we grow blind to this beautiful world without; in studying ourselves as men, we almost forget to look up to heaven, and warm to the smile of God."
The philosopher mechanically shrugged his shoulders, as he always did when another man moralised—especially if the moraliser were a priest; but there was no irony in his smile, as he answered thoughtfully—
"There is some truth in what you say. I own that we live too much as if we were all brain. Knowledge has its penalties and pains, as well as its prizes."
"That is just what I want you to say to Leonard."
"How have you settled the object of your journey?"
"I will tell you as we walk down to him after tea. At present, I am rather too much occupied with you."
"Me? The tree is formed—try only to bend the young twig!"
"Trees are trees, and twigs twigs," said the Parson dogmatically; "but man is always growing till he falls into the grave. I think I have heard you say that you once had a narrow escape of a prison?"
"Very narrow."
"Just suppose that you were now in that prison, and that a fairy conjured up the prospect of this quiet home in a safe land; that you saw the orange trees in flower, felt the evening breeze on your cheek; beheld your child gay or sad, as you smiled or knit your brow; that within this phantom home was a woman, not, indeed, all your young romance might have dreamed of, but faithful and true, every beat of her heart all your own—would you not cry from the depth of the dungeon, "O fairy! such a change were a paradise." Ungrateful man! you want interchange for your mind, and your heart should suffice for all!"
Riccabocca was touched and silent.
"Come hither, my child," said Mr. Dale, turning round to Violante, who still stood among the flowers, out of hearing, but with watchful eyes. "Come hither," he said, opening big arms.
Violante bounded forward, and nestled to the good man's heart.
"Tell me, Violante, when you are alone in the fields or the garden, and have left your father looking pleased and serene, so that you have no care for him at your heart,—tell me, Violante, though you are all alone, with the flowers below and the birds singing overhead, do you feel that life itself is happiness or sorrow?"
"Happiness!" answered Violante, half shutting her eyes, and in a measured voice.
"Can you explain what kind of happiness it is?"
"Oh no, impossible! and it is never the same. Sometimes it is so still—so still—and sometimes so joyous, that I long for wings to fly up to God, and thank him!"
"O friend," said the Parson, "this is the true sympathy between life and nature, and thus we should feel ever, did we take more care to preserve the health and innocence of a child. We are told that we must become as children to enter into the kingdom of heaven; methinks we should also become as children to know what delight there is in our heritage of earth!"
The maid servant (for Jackeymo was in the fields) brought the table under the awning, and, with the English luxury of tea, there were other drinks as cheap and as grateful on summer evenings—drinks which Jackeymo had retained and taught from the customs of the south—unebriate liquors, pressed from cooling fruits, sweetened with honey, and deliciously iced; ice should cost nothing in a country in which one is frozen up half the year! And Jackeymo, too, had added to our good, solid, heavy English bread, preparations of wheat much lighter, and more propitious to digestion—with those crispgrissins, which seem to enjoy being eaten, they make so pleasant a noise between one's teeth.
The Parson esteemed it a little treat to drink tea with the Riccaboccas. There was something of elegance and grace in that homely meal, at the poor exile's table, which pleased the eye as well as taste. And the very utensils, plain Wedgewood though they were, had a classical simplicity, which made Mrs. Hazeldean's old India delf, and Mrs. Dale's best Worcester china look tawdry and barbarous in comparison. For it was a Flaxman who gave designs to Wedgewood, and the most truly refined of all our manufactures in porcelain (if we do not look to the mere material) is in the reach of the most thrifty.
The little banquet was at first rather a silent one; but Riccabocca threw off his gloom, and became gay and animated. Then poor Mrs. Riccabocca smiled, and pressed thegrissins; and Violante, forgetting all her stateliness, laughed and played tricks on the Parson, stealing away his cup of warm tea when his head was turned, and substituting iced cherry juice. Then the Parson got up and ran after Violante, making angry faces, and Violante dodged beautifully, till the Parson, fairly tired out, was too glad to cry "Peace," and come back to the cherry juice. Thus time rolled on, till they heard afar the stroke of the distant church clock, and Mr. Dale started up and cried, "But we shall be too late for Leonard. Come, naughty little girl, get your father his hat."
"And umbrella!" said Riccabocca, looking up at the cloudless moonlit sky.
"Umbrella against the stars?" asked the Parson laughing.
"The stars are no friends of mine," said Riccabocca, "and one never knows what may happen!"
The Philosopher and the Parson walked on amicably.
"You have done me good," said Riccabocca, "but I hope I am not always so unreasonably melancholic as you seem to suspect. The evenings will sometimes appear long, and dull too, to a man whose thoughts on the past are almost his sole companions."
"Sole companions?—your child?"
"She is so young."
"Your wife?"
"She is so—," the bland Italian appeared to check some disparaging adjective, and mildly added, "so good, I allow; but you must own that we cannot have much in common."
"I own nothing of the sort. You have your house and your interests, your happiness and your lives, in common. We men are so exacting, we expect to find ideal nymphs and goddesses when we condescend to marry a mortal; and if we did, our chickens would be boiled to rags, and our mutton come up as cold as a stone."
"Per Bacco, you are an oracle," said Riccabocca, laughing. "But I am not so sceptical you are. I honor the fair sex too much. There are a great many women who realize the ideal of men to be found in—the poets!"
"There's my dear Mrs. Dale," resumed the Parson, not heeding this sarcastic compliment to the sex, but sinking his voice into a whisper, and looking round cautiously—"there's my dear Mrs. Dale, the best woman in the world—an angel I would say, if the word was not profane;BUT—"
"What's theBUT?" asked the Doctor, demurely.
"ButI too might say that 'we have not much in common,' if I were only to compare mind to mind, and, when my poor Carry says something less profound than Madame de Staël might have said, smile on her in contempt from the elevation of logic and Latin. Yet, when I remember all the little sorrows and joys that we have shared together, and feel how solitary I should have been without her—oh, then I am instantly aware that thereisbetween us in common something infinitely closer and better than if the same course of study had given us the same equality of ideas; and I was forced to brace myself for a combat of intellect, as I am when I fall in with a tiresomesage like yourself. I don't pretend to say that Mrs. Riccabocca is a Mrs. Dale," added the Parson, with lofty candor—"there is but one Mrs. Dale in the world; but still, you have drawn a prize in the wheel matrimonial! Think of Socrates, and yet he was content even with his—Xantippe!"
Dr. Riccabocca called to mind Mrs. Dale's "little tempers," and inly rejoiced that no second Mrs. Dale had existed to fall to his own lot. His placid Jemima gained by the contrast. Nevertheless, he had the ill grace to reply, "Socrates was a man beyond all imitation!—Yet I believe that even he spent very few of his evenings at home. But,revenons à nos moutons, we are nearly at Mrs. Fairfield's cottage, and you have not yet told me what you have settled as to Leonard."
The Parson halted, took Riccabocca by the button, and informed him, in very few words, that Leonard was to go to Lansmere to see some relations there, who had the fortune, if they had the will, to give full career to his abilities.
"The great thing, in the meanwhile," said the Parson, "would be to enlighten him a little as to what he calls—enlightenment."
"Ah!" said Riccabocca, diverted, and rubbing his hands, "I shall listen with interest to what you say on that subject."
"And must aid me; for the first step in this modern march of enlightenment is to leave the poor Parson behind; and if one calls out, 'Hold! and look at the sign-post.' the traveller hurries on the faster, saying to himself, 'Pooh, pooh!—that is only the cry of the Parson!' But my gentleman, when he doubts me, will listen to you—you're a philosopher!"
"We philosophers are of some use now and then, even to Parsons!"
"If you were not so conceited a set of deluded poor creatures already, I would say 'Yes,'" replied the Parson generously; and, taking hold of Riccabocca's umbrella, he applied the brass handle thereof, by way of a knocker, to the cottage door.
Certainly it is a glorious fever that desire To Know! And there are few sights in the moral world more sublime than that which many a garret might afford, if Asmodeus would bare the roofs to our survey—viz., a brave, patient, earnest human being, toiling his own arduous way, athwart the iron walls of penury, into the magnificent Infinite, which is luminous with starry souls.
So there sits Leonard the Self-taught in the little cottage alone; for though scarcely past the hour in which great folks dine, it is the hour in which small folks go to bed, and Mrs. Fairfield has retired to rest, while Leonard has settled to his books.
He had placed his table under the lattice, and from time to time he looked up and enjoyed the stillness of the moon. Well for him that, in reparation for those hours stolen from night, the hardy physical labor commenced with dawn. Students would not be the sad dyspeptics they are if they worked as many hours in the open air as my scholar-peasant. But even in him you could see that the mind had begun a little to affect the frame. They who task the intellect must pay the penalty with the body. Ill, believe me, would this work-day world get on if all within it were hard-reading, studious animals, playing the deuce with the ganglionic apparatus.
Leonard started as he heard the knock at the door; the Parson's well-known voice reassured him. In some surprise he admitted his visitors.
"We are come to talk to you, Leonard," said Mr. Dale, "but I fear we shall disturb Mrs. Fairfield."
"Oh no, sir! the door to the staircase is shut, and she sleeps soundly."
"Why, this is a French book—do you read French, Leonard?" asked Riccabocca.
"I have not found French difficult, sir. Once over the grammar, and the language is so clear; it seems the very language for reasoning."
"True. Voltaire said justly, 'Whatever is obscure is not French,'" observed Riccabocca.
"I wish I could say the same of English," muttered the Parson.
"But what is this?—Latin too?—Virgil?"
"Yes, sir. But I find I make little way there without a master. I fear I must give it up," (and Leonard sighed.)
The two gentlemen exchanged looks and seated themselves. The young peasant remained standing modestly, and in his air and mien there was something that touched the heart while it pleased the eye. He was no longer the timid boy who had sunk from the frown of Mr. Stirn, nor that rude personation of simple physical strength, roused to undisciplined bravery, which had received its downfall on the village-green of Hazeldean. The power of thought was on his brow—somewhat unquiet still, but mild and earnest. The features had attained that refinement which is often attributed to race, but comes, in truth, from elegance of idea, whether caught from our parents or learned from books. In his rich brown hair, thrown carelessly from his temples, and curling almost to the shoulders—in his large blue eye, which was deepened to the hue of the violet by the long dark lash—in that firmness of lip, which comes from the grapple with difficulties, there was considerable beauty, but no longer the beauty of the mere peasant. And yet there was still about the whole countenance that expression of goodness and purity which the painter would give to his ideal of the peasant lover—such as Tasso would have placed in theAminta, or Fletcher have admitted to the side of the Faithful Shepherdess.
"You must draw a chair here, and sit down between us, Leonard," said the Parson.
"If any one," said Riccabocca, "has a rightto sit, it is the one who is to hear the sermon; and if any one ought to stand, it is the one who is about to preach it."
"Don't be frightened, Leonard," said the Parson, graciously; "it is only a criticism, not a sermon," and he pulled out Leonard's Prize Essay.
Parson.—"You take for your motto this aphorism[K]—'Knowledge is Power.'—Bacon."
Riccabocca.—"Bacon make such an aphorism! The last man in the world to have said any thing so pert and so shallow."
Leonard(astonished).—"Do you mean to say, sir, that that aphorism is not in Lord Bacon! Why, I have seen it quoted as his in almost every newspaper, and in almost every speech in favor of popular education."
Riccabocca.—"Then that should be a warning to you never again to fall into the error of the would-be scholar—viz. quote second-hand. Lord Bacon wrote a great book to show in what knowledge is power, how that power should be defined, in what it might be mistaken. And, pray, do you think so sensible a man would ever have taken the trouble to write a great book upon the subject, if he could have packed up all he had to say into the portable dogma, 'Knowledge is power?' Pooh! no such aphorism is to be found in Bacon from the first page of his writings to the last."
Parson(candidly).—"Well, I supposed it was Lord Bacon's, and I am very glad to hear that the aphorism has not the sanction of his authority."
Leonard(recovering his surprise).—"But why so?"
Parson.—"Because it either says a great deal too much, or just—nothing at all."
Leonard.—"At least, sir, it seems to be undeniable."
Parson.—"Well, grant that it is undeniable. Does it prove much in favor of knowledge? Pray, is not ignorance power too?"
Riccabocca.—"And a power that has had much the best end of the quarter-staff."
Parson.—"All evil is power, and does its power make it any thing the better?"
Riccabocca.—"Fanaticism is power—and a power that has often swept away knowledge like a whirlwind. The Mussulman burns the library of a world—and forces the Koran and the sword from the schools of Byzantium to the colleges of Hindostan."
Parson(bearing on with a new column of illustration).—"Hunger is power. The barbarians, starved out of their energy by their own swarming population, swept into Italy and annihilated letters. The Romans, however degraded, had more knowledge, at least, than the Gaul and the Visigoth."
Riccabocca(bringing up the reserve).—"And even in Greece, when Greek met Greek, the Athenians—our masters in all knowledge—were beat by the Spartans, who held learning in contempt."
Parson.—"Wherefore you see, Leonard, that though knowledge be power, it is onlyoneof the powers of the world; that there are others as strong, and often much stronger; and the assertion either means but a barren truism, not worth so frequent a repetition, or it means something that you would find it very difficult to prove."
Leonard.—"One nation may be beaten by another that has more physical strength and more military discipline; which last, permit me to say, sir, is a species of knowledge;—"
Riccabocca.—"Yes; but your knowledge-mongers at present call upon us to discard military discipline, and the qualities that produce it, from the list of the useful arts. And in your own essay, you insist upon knowledge as the great disbander of armies, and the foe of all military discipline."
Parson.—"Let the young man proceed. Nations, you say, may be beaten by other nations less learned and civilized?"
Leonard.—"But knowledge elevates a class. I invite my own humble order to knowledge, because knowledge will lift them into power."
Riccabocca.—"What do you say to that, Mr. Dale?"
Parson.—"In the first place, is it true that the class which has the most knowledge gets the most power? I suppose philosophers, like my friend Dr. Riccabocca, think they have the most knowledge. And pray, in what age have philosophers governed the world? Are they not always grumbling that nobody attends to them?"
"Per Bacco," said Riccabocca, "if people had attended to us, it would have been a droll sort of world by this time!"
Parson.—"Very likely. But, as a general rule, those have the most knowledge who give themselves up to it the most. Let us put out of the question philosophers (who are often but ingenious lunatics), and speak only of erudite scholars, men of letters and practical science, professors, tutors, and fellows of colleges. I fancy any member of Parliament would tell us that there is no class of men which has less actual influence on public affairs. They have more knowledge than manufacturers and ship-owners, squires and farmers; but, do you find that they have more power over the Government and the votes of the House of Commons!"
"They ought to have," said Leonard.
"Ought they?" said the Parson: "we'llconsider that later. Meanwhile, you must not escape from your own proposition, which is that knowledgeispower—not that itoughtto be. Now, even granting your corollary, that the power of a class is therefore proportioned to its knowledge—pray, do you suppose that while your order, the operatives, are instructing themselves, all the rest of the community are to be at a stand-still? Diffuse knowledge as you may, you will never produce equality of knowledge. Those who have most leisure, application, and aptitude for learning, will still know the most. Nay, by a very natural law, the more general the appetite for knowledge, the more the increased competition would favor those most adapted to excel by circumstances and nature. At this day, there is a vast increase of knowledge spread over all society, compared with that in the Middle Ages; but is there not a still greater distinction between the highly-educated gentleman and the intelligent mechanic, than there was then between the baron who could not sign his name and the churl at the plough? between the accomplished statesman, versed in all historical law, and the voter whose politics are formed by his newspaper, than there was between the legislator who passed laws against witches, and the burgher who defended his guild from some feudal aggression? between the enlightened scholar and the dunce of to-day, than there was between the monkish alchemist and the blockhead of yesterday? Peasant, voter, and dunce of this century are no doubt wiser than the churl, burgher, and blockhead of the twelfth. But the gentleman, statesman, and scholar of the present age are at least quite as favorable a contrast to the alchemist, witch-burner, and baron of old. As the progress of enlightenment has done hitherto, so will it ever do. Knowledge is like capital: the more there is in a country, the greater the disparities in wealth between one man and another. Therefore, if the working class increase in knowledge, so do the other classes; and if the working class rise peacefully and legitimately into power, it is not in proportion to their own knowledge alone, but rather according as it seems to the knowledge of the other orders of the community, that such augmentation of proportional power is just, and safe, and wise."
Placed between the Parson and the Philosopher, Leonard felt that his position was not favorable to the display of his forces. Insensibly he edged his chair somewhat away, and said mournfully:
"Then, according to you, the reign of knowledge would be no great advance in the aggregate freedom and welfare of man?"
Parson.—"Let us define. By knowledge, do you mean intellectual cultivation?—by the reign of knowledge, the ascendency of the most cultivated minds?"
Leonard(after a pause).—"Yes."
Riccabocca.—"Oh indiscreet young man, that is an unfortunate concession of yours; for the ascendency of the most cultivated minds would be a terrible obligarchy!"
Parson.—"Perfectly true; and we now reply to your exclamation, that men who, by profession, have most learning ought to have more influence than squires and merchants, farmers and mechanics. Observe, all the knowledge that we mortals can acquire is not knowledge positive and perfect, but knowledge comparative, and subject to all the errors and passions of humanity. And suppose that you could establish, as the sole regulators of affairs, those who had the most mental cultivation, do you think they would not like that power well enough to take all means their superior intelligence could devise to keep it to themselves? The experiment was tried of old by the priests of Egypt; and in the empire of China, at this day, the aristocracy are elected from those who have most distinguished themselves in learned colleges. If I may call myself a member of that body, 'the people,' I would rather be an Englishman, however much displeased with dull Ministers and blundering Parliaments, than I would be a Chinese under the rule of the picked sages of the Celestial Empire. Happily, therefore, my dear Leonard, nations are governed by many things besides what is commonly called knowledge; and the greatest practical ministers, who, like Themistocles, have made small states great—and the most dominant races who, like the Romans, have stretched their rule from a village half over the universe—have been distinguished by various qualities which a philosopher would sneer at, and a knowledge-monger would call 'sad prejudices,' and 'lamentable errors of reason.'"
Leonard(bitterly).—"Sir, you make use of knowledge itself to argue against knowledge."
Parson.—"I make use of the little I know to prove the foolishness of idolatry. I do not argue against knowledge; I argue against knowledge-worship. For here, I see in your Essay, that you are not contented with raising human knowledge into something like divine omnipotence, you must also confound her with virtue. According to you, we have only to diffuse the intelligence of the few among the many, and all at which we preachers aim is accomplished. Nay more; for whereas we humble preachers have never presumed to say, with the heathen Stoic, that even virtue is sure of happiness below (though it be the best road to it), you tell us plainly that this knowledge of yours gives not only the virtue of a saint, but bestows the bliss of a God. Before the steps of your idol the evils of life disappear. To hear you, one has but 'to know,' in order to be exempt from the sins and sorrows of the ignorant. Has it ever been so? Grant that you diffuse amongst the many all the knowledge ever attained by the few. Have the wise few been so unerring and so happy? You supposed that your motto was accurately cited from Bacon. What was Bacon himself? The poet tells you: