John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. I.

De Lancaster had always a kind word upon his lips for his old blind minstrel, and having told him that he had added another leaf to his laurel, went down to his family assembled in the breakfast room with all that charity in his heart, which the ditty had recommended.

When the story of the soldier had been heard by Mr. Philip De Lancaster, he coolly observed, that it was a trick to extort money; he would not take the soldier’s word for a farthing, and did not believe young Owen capable of any thing cruel or uncharitable.

When it was related to Cecilia, she threw her arms about the neck of the benevolent boy, pressed him to her bosom, and prayed Heaven to preserve him from the malice of that spiteful imp, whose evil-boding visage haunted her both day and night.

When the mother of John was informed of the circumstance, and understood that the man, who laid sick in the house was a soldier, she sent Betty Wood to enquire of him what regiment he belonged to, and when answer was brought that he was invalided from the 15th foot in the West Indies, and private in the company of the late Captain John Jones, whom he should ever bewail as the kindest master and the best of friends, it seemed as if the fountain of her tears was never to be exhausted. An irresistible desire possessed her to see the man, and, after certain preparatory manœuvres, conducted by faithful Betty, she actually carried her resolution into effect, and entered the chamber of the soldier, planting Betty at the door to prevent interruption. As he had been selected from the ranks by Captain Jones, as his domestic servant, he had many anecdotes to relate, highly interesting to the hearer, and very honourable to his late master: he spoke also warmly in the praise of his deceased lady, and in raptures of his dear little Amelia, with whom it seems he had come over to England in the pacquet, and, after many adventures and misfortunes, was on his way to visit her at Denbigh, when sickness overtook and reduced him to the condition, in which the charity of her angel son had found him.

He was now exhausted, and Mrs. De Lancaster forbore to press upon him any more enquiries: she bade him be assured that he should never want; she would pension him for life; she would settle him at Glen-Morgan in the neighbourhood of Denbigh, and, if ever she became possessed of that estate, he should be taken into her house, and pass the remainder of his days in ease and competency.

Alas, good lady, feebly he replied, I have but few more days on this side the grave, and them I must employ in asking mercy of my God, and imploring blessings on your son, who has been to me as an angel before death.

This said, she left him, and retired unseen to her chamber. John was soon after heard, as usual, at her door, and admitted.

Come to my arms, she cried, my dear, my noble boy! Did you but know how I feel and why I feel your charity to that poor soldier, you would not wonder at the tears I shed, whilst thus I press you to a breaking heart. But you will know me after I am dead, and that time is not far off. Leave me, my child; I shall not often send for you; my sorrows must be only to myself. Go, go, be happy! I am very ill. Send Wood; and leave the room.

In the forenoon of the day next ensuing, young John De Lancaster visited the poor soldier; he was dying, but found strength to say—God bless you and farewell! Had I been relieved when I begged charity of that neighbouring gentleman, who turned me from his door, I think I might have lived, but I fainted soon after, and all your goodness could not save me. He then reached out his hand, and delivered to John a small leathern purse, which he prayed him to open. It contained a plain gold ring, which Captain Jones had given him in charge for his daughter Amelia, being the wedding ring of her mother: could he have reached Denbigh, he had delivered it to her: he had been strongly beset by hunger more than once, but he had resisted every impulse to part from it, and had fulfilled his trust at the expence of his life: he now committed the deposit to the care of one, who he was sure would faithfully convey the legacy to its proper owner, and he devoutly prayed to heaven, that it might prove a blessing to the wearer—John took the ring, and assured him it should never pass from any other hands but his into those of Amelia Jones.

In the evening of that day the soldier died.

Have patience with me, kind and courteous reader! I am not leading you into the regions of romance: I aim not to surprise you; but I am aiming to find out, (if haply nature shall direct my hand) that clue, which, rightly followed, may empower me to unravel the recesses of your heart. This is my object; in attempting this, success, however short of triumph, will repay me; but, if I wholly fail, my labour’s lost; I have no second hope.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

Early Efforts of our Hero’s Genius.

Upon this occasion we should have been sorry if De Lancaster had failed to recollect, that both Hercules and Alexander condescended to take lessons on the harp, tho’ the former broke his masters head with his own instrument, and the latter insisted upon his privilege of striking the wrong string, whenever it suited him better than the right. Robert therefore found it necessary to caution his grandson against copying those boisterous scholars, and strictly enjoined him to give close attention to the instructions of his master, after the example of the Cretan youths, who were universally educated in music, and remarkably obedient to their teachers.

John accordingly sate down with eagerness for the undertaking, and in point of diligence few Cretans could have exceeded him; but when unexpected difficulties began to stare him in the face, and every lesson seemed to increase those difficulties, his ardour cooled and despair possessed him wholly. David Williams at length pronounced ex cathedrâ, that his pupil had positively no genius for the instrument; the case was hopeless, and the harp was laid aside.

I am sorry for it, said the grandfather, but I am myself no performer on the harp, though a lover of its melody, and sure I am that no man can possess a spirit prepared to meet the vicissitudes of fortune with equanimity and calmness, unless his passions have been disciplined by music. Let the boy’s genius therefore be watched, and, if it points to any other instrument, indulge him.

Shortly after the promulgation of this edict the musical propensities of the discarded harper began to shew themselves in a very different character, and he now conceived a passion for performing on the trumpet.

Be it so! said the grandfather; it proves at least his spirit has a martial cast.

Colonel Wilson was now returned, and heard with infinite delight the story of the dead soldier, told by Cecilia so greatly to the credit of his darling boy John; but when his friend De Lancaster told him with an air of triumph of his reigning passion for the trumpet, he treated it as a jest, and ridiculed the idea. Disappointed by this reception, and somewhat piqued, De Lancaster was determined to stand to his defences, and that Wilson, who had arraigned the trumpet, should be doomed to hear the trumpet’s advocate.

Sir, said he, you will permit me to remind you, that the trumpet is an ancient and a venerable instrument. If it be said that the walls of the city of Thebes were raised by the lute of Amphion, we have better authority for believing that the walls of Jericho were thrown down by the trumpets of the Israelitish Priests.

I hope, replied Wilson, the trumpet of my friend John will not be quite so efficacious. If the castle tumbles down with the blast, we may chance to be buried in its ruins.

Wilson had better have left this skit alone, for his friend was at no time guilty of giving his hearers too little information, and he was just now put upon his mettle to discuss the merits of the insulted trumpet under its three denominations according to the respective characters, in which the ancients employed, and have described it. The first of these, he told him, was the tuba, or straight trumpet, properly so called: the second was the lituus, or shrill-toned trumpet, curved at the extremity: the third and last the cornuus, or deep-toned horn, of natural conformation, curved throughout: of these the chief was the tuba first named, which he informed him was unknown to the Greeks, though not to Homer, who did not employ it in his battles, knowing it was not then in use.

He was right in not doing so, said Wilson; but if he had done otherwise, I, for one, should never have found him out.

Whether Wilson imagined that his friend had done with his trumpets it is impossible to say, but it is very easy to believe that he was not aware how many he had in petto, for he seemed astonished when given to understand, that there were not less than six different sorts of the tuba, as classed by Eustathius into that of the Athenians, invented by Minerva; the Egyptian trumpet, contrived by Osiris, and employed in their sacrifices; the trumpet of the Gauls, with a peculiar mouthpiece, of a shrill tone, and by them called Carynx; the Paphlagonian trumpet, mouthed like a bull and very deep-toned; that of the Medes, blown with a reed, also of a deep tone, and lastly, the Tyrrhenian trumpet, extremely acute and high-pitched in conformity to which it is supposed the Romans modelled their’s.

Scarcely was this edifying dissertation finished, when the hall resounded with a blast, loud enough, it should seem, to shake its aged banners into tatters: Wilson hastened to the scene of action, and found his friend John under the tuition not of any of the great masters above-mentioned, but of a puppet-show man, who travelled the country, and recommended himself by the strength, rather than by the sweetness, of his tones. This gentleman, who had just recruited his lungs with an emollient dose of sweet Welch ale, blew with might and main in return for the hospitality he had received, and doubtless for the honour of the corps he belonged to. The Goddess Fame never gave a louder crack for the best favourite she had, though he were standing at her back, and, like the bellows-blower of an organ, had pumped breath into her lungs to let the people hear his own good deeds. The performer, who was an adept in more arts than one, had just then played a somerset, to the great delight of his pupil John, and was standing on his hands with his heels erect in the air, when Mrs. Elizabeth Wood entering the hall, and seeing a pair of human legs in an attitude so totally irreconcileable to her idea of the proper place, which human legs ought to hold in society, uttered, as in duty bound, a most violent scream, and in the same breath announced an order for silencing that horrid trumpet; it had nearly thrown her lady into fits. That ancient and venerable instrument, (so called by Mr. De Lancaster) was accordingly for ever laid aside, and Scaramouch was fain to make his retreat without sound of trumpet; but as he could tumble, conjure and shew tricks, that would give no offence to the nervous system of the lady above stairs, it is probable that both the ladies and gentlemen below stairs suffered him to entertain them before he left the castle; and as he very politely invited them to be present at the opening of his theatre in the village, when Punch and his company would present them with the entertaining interlude of the Rape of the Sabines, with appropriate screamings by the ladies concerned in the representation, it is presumed, that not a few of them were prevailed upon to be present at that interesting exhibition.

The shock, that Mrs. De Lancaster had received, was by no means feigned. She had now become a confirmed hypochondriac, and great alarm was sounded forth by Mr. Llewellyn of an approaching decay, that he endeavoured to stem by an unceasing course of medicines, which if they had suited her case, were certainly not sparingly administered; but, as she regularly grew worse and worse, it occasioned some to doubt whether they had even the merit of being innocently neutral.

Thus ended the second abortive effort of our hero’s genius in the musical department. Not totally discouraged, but cautious of annoying his unhappy mother, he now betook himself to the humble Jew’s-harp, whose sibilous strains by long practice and unwearied assiduity he so contrived to modulate and diversify, as obtained for him the reputation, amongst the servants at least, of executing some of the familiar Welch airs in a style, that seemed the very echo of David Williams’s harp.

For this small accomplishment he was indebted to his genius only: There were however other arts, in which he exercised himself under tuition. By the favour of the gamekeeper he became an expert shooter at a mark, and, since Colonel Wilson had returned, he put himself under the command of his servant, a disabled veteran, who taught him to perform all the motions of the manual and platoon so correctly, that the effects of this discipline soon became conspicuous in the firmness of his step, and the uprightness of his carriage.

When report was made to De Lancaster of his grandson’s wonderful performances on the Jew’s-harp, he expressed more joy on the occasion than the meanness of the instrument seemed to merit, and immediately signified his pleasure, that the young minstrel should be summoned to the dinner-room, where he was then sitting with Colonel Wilson, and at the same time ordered the servant to bring the harp after him, for that he would himself witness his performance.

When the servant had gone out to find the performer, the old gentleman intimated to Wilson, that he hoped he would have his harp put in order before he brought it with him, as he did not greatly relish the ceremony of tuning—I confess, added he, I am curious to see the construction of this Jewish harp; though I dare say it is the harp with crooked arms, described by Hyginus, and played upon with the plectrum, which I am bold to affirm was the practice of king David.

To all this Wilson maliciously made no other reply, but that he believed the harp had crooked arms.—I was sure of it, said De Lancaster. Upon the word, young John came in, and being asked where his harp was, immediately applied it to his lips, and began to twang it in his very best manner. In the name of wonder, exclaimed De Lancaster, what is the boy about? Is he playing on the plectrum? No, cried he, I am going to give you Shenkin.

He went on, and the grandfather heard him out, charmed into silence by the novelty and ingenuity of the performance. When he had played the air, which he did with great correctness of imitation, in the style of David Williams, the old gentleman, turning to him with a smile, said—Well, my good boy, you have done your part, and though your harp, I confess, has disappointed me, your art has made up for it. This is the first time I ever knew the harp was a wind instrument, and if the Jews have the credit of inventing your machine, you have the credit of making music out of it. Then, addressing himself to Colonel Wilson, he observed, that the exact manner, in which he had imitated the style of David Williams, brought to his recollection Ælian’s anecdote of the famous Polygnotus of Thasos, whose magnificent paintings were so correctly copied in miniature by Dionysius of Colophon, as to preserve the whole spirit and excellence of the original in all its due proportions, though upon the smallest scale. Having examined the Jew’s harp, he observed, that this was one more instrument than he had ever seen, or heard of before, and asked who taught him. Upon his replying that he had taught himself, he turned to Wilson with an air of triumph, and said—This proves what I have always maintained, that nature is the best instructress.

In some things perhaps, said the Colonel. I presume, not in all.

I am not sure, said De Lancaster, that exception should be made of any. John had a master for the harp: he made nothing of it: he takes up that paltry scrap of iron, and makes admirable music. Such is the difference betwixt the natural emanations of genius, and the laboured efforts, that are extorted from the pupil by the lessons of a teacher.

John, who probably foresaw something coming forward, which he was not interested to partake of, now stept up to his grandfather, and asked leave to ride over to Glen-Morgan, and pass a day there.—Why to pass a day?—Because he would go over to Denbigh, and execute a little commission, which the poor soldier on his death-bed had requested him to fulfil.—Of what nature was that commission?—Simply to deliver a little token to the daughter of Captain Jones, which that officer had entrusted to the care of his faithful servant the soldier, but which the poor fellow did not live to execute.—What was the little token he was to carry?—Pray, don’t ask me that, said the youth, and above all things don’t let my mother know a word about the matter. It would be very much to the honour of the poor soldier, if I told you all; but I hope you won’t require me to do that.—On no account, replied De Lancaster, will I make any such demand upon you. If you will take my coach, ’tis at your service; if you had rather ride, let Ben the groom attend you, and give your orders accordingly.

John took the hand of his grandfather, kissed it, nodded with a smile to the colonel, and hastened out of the room.

You have a treasure in that noble boy, said Wilson; but I hope, my good friend, he will not be suffered to go on any longer without education, because he can play upon the Jew’s-harp without a master. Don’t be offended with me, if I seem to step out of my office, when I speak to one of your great knowledge in the learned languages, but I presume you hardly can expect your grandson to understand Greek and Latin, unless he has a teacher.

Perhaps not, replied De Lancaster; yet, if it were so to happen, it would not be the first wonder of the sort, that hath come to pass. It is well known what prodigies of learning have started up into notice, even in their infant years, and possessed themselves of arts, sciences and languages, without being ever put into the trammels of a teacher.

Indeed! cried the colonel.

Assuredly, replied the assertor, though it may not have fallen in your way to be certified of the fact. I could, if necessary, adduce a host of witnesses to attest the wonders, that have been effected by the human genius, unassisted with instruction; but as your profession, Colonel Wilson, has probably occupied too much of your attention to allow of your turning your thoughts to enquiries of this cast, the things I might relate of Lipsius, of Quirino, Alphonsus Tostatus and many others of equal celebrity might appear to you incredible.

Very likely, interjected the colonel.

Yet are they, every one, supported by irrefragable authorities. The mind of man, my friend, is in itself a miracle, and persons, who have been predestined to extraordinary occasions, have been born under extraordinary circumstances, as was the case with Luther, who, whilst he was yet an infant at the breast, maintained a Latin thesis against the Pope’s infallibility, which gave rise to the saying, that he sucked in controversy with his mother’s milk.

My very good and learned friend, said Wilson, that you have somewhere crossed upon this idle legend, amongst the boundless mass of books that you have consulted I am well persuaded; but that you will commit your excellent understanding by stating it in serious proof of the question we are upon I am loth to suppose. When I believe your account of Luther’s coming into the world with a square cap and gown, I will believe his thesis at the breast, and, when I believe that, I will not dispute the story of the prolific lady, who was delivered of three hundred and sixty-five children at a birth.

I dare say you will not dispute it, rejoined De Lancaster, when you hear the evidences for the truth of it. The prolific lady, you allude to, was the Countess Herman of Henneberg, daughter of Count Floris, Earl of Holland, Zealand and Friesland, and son of William of Holland, first of that name; Floris was treacherously slain by the old Earl of Clermont at a public triumph, and left behind him this daughter Margaret, who married the aforesaid Count Herman of Henneberg. She, despising the petition of a poor widow, who with twins at her breast asked charity, gave her very reproachful words withal; whereupon the widow, failing on her knees, appealed to Heaven in vindication of her innocency, and earnestly prayed, that as she had conceived and brought forth those two infants lawfully by her husband, even so, if ever that lady should be pregnant, she might be visited with as many children at a birth as there were days in the year. Not long after, the lady conceived, and went into Holland to visit the earl her brother, taking up her abode in the abbey of religious women at Leyden, where on the Friday before Palm Sunday in the year 1276 she was delivered of three hundred and sixty-five children, the one half being sons and the other daughters, but the odd babe was double-sexed. They were all baptised by Guydon, suffragan to the bishop of Utrecht, who named all the sons John, and the daughters Elizabeth, but what name he gave to the odd child, said De Lancaster with much gravity, I must own to you I do not find recorded.

John-Elizabeth for a certainty, said the Colonel. It may be so, resumed the narrator; but I hazard no conjectures, I only detail facts. They were however no sooner baptised than they all died, and the mother likewise. Their two baptismal basins are still preserved, and have been by me seen and examined in the said church at Leyden, together with the inscription on the Countess’s tomb in Latin and in Dutch, the former beginning thus—Margareta, Comitis Hennebergiæ uxor, et Florentii Hollandiæ et Zelandiæ filia, &c. &c. Underneath is the following distich, the first line of which has been some how or other curtailed of its proper metrical proportion, as you will perceive—

Here Robert De Lancaster, having closed his narrative, turned a look upon his friend, that seemed to appeal to him for his judgment on the case. The colonel made no reply, and it may be presumed that the appellant set down his silence to the score of his conviction.

CHAPTER II.

Our Hero’s Visit to Amelia Jones.

John and old Ben, carrying his personals in a pair of saddle bags, were on their way to Glen-Morgan the next morning before sun-rise. Ben was an excellent guide across Welch moors and mountains, and did not confine himself to the roads, that were in use, but had the art of steering to his point with great œconomy of time and distance. It was a gleam of joy to poor old Morgan to behold his grandson, for he was fond and John was affectionate. Every body in the house ran to pay him their respects: the green and red liveries were taken off their pegs, and dinner was served up in state as to the heir-apparent. The parson, lawyer and apothecary were in their places, the old butler in gala, and Mrs. Richards with her attendant housemaids in high requisition.

After an early breakfast the next morning John set off for Denbigh, and presented himself at the door of Mrs. Jennings, who received him with all possible courtesy: when informed of the matter he was charged with, and of his wish to see Amelia, she was summoned, and ready at the call, ran down stairs, and was instantly in the room: upon seeing a stranger, she stopped short, fixed her eyes upon him and made a curtsey: John rose, bowed, and seized at once with admiration and surprize, (not expecting to be encountered by an object of such striking beauty) seemed to have lost all recollection of his errand, and stood as if he had no other business but to gaze in silence. As the embarrassment was now becoming reciprocal, Mrs. Jennings thought it was high time to remind him of the commission he had imparted to her. Having lost the words, with which he meant to preface the delivery of the little pacquet, he produced it at once, and having delivered it to Amelia, endeavoured to relate what it was, and how he came by it. His narrative was not very distinctly given, and as soon as he perceived the effect it was likely to produce, he stopped short, and looked to Mrs. Jennings for relief. The lovely girl received it with a trembling hand, and whilst she murmured out her thanks, opened the pacquet, snatched a momentary glance upon the relique it contained, and would have sunk upon the floor, had not John eagerly interposed, and throwing himself on one knee, supported her in his arms, her head reclining on his shoulder.

When she had recovered, Amelia followed by Mrs. Jennings left the room, and John remained in solitary meditation for a few minutes, till the lady of the house returned and made the joint apologies of Amelia and herself for having left him so abruptly. As soon as he was certified that there was no further cause for alarm, he began to describe to Mrs. Jennings how much he was enchanted and surprised by the uncommon beauty of her lovely charge, who, when he had prepared himself to see a little girl running into the room, had presented herself to him with all the graces of a finished woman, elegant in her manners and charming in her person.

Perhaps, said Mrs. Jennings, you were not aware that my poor orphan is but two years younger than yourself. As to the beauty, which you are pleased to notice, I rather think it is more a promise than an actual possession; but of her more essential good qualities I can confidently speak; for a better disposition, greater modesty of nature and benevolence of heart I never yet contemplated in human creature. To these virtues she was born; these at least, poor child, she inherits from her parents, and I think that portrait fronting you, which you are now looking at, conveys no slight impression of an amiable and noble character; it is a striking likeness of her father, taken by an eminent artist, who was a visitor at Glen-Morgan, when Captain Jones passed a few days with your grandfather, before his embarking for the West Indies, which I well remember he did on the very day that you were born at Kray Castle.

And to the very day, on which I cease to live, exclaimed our hero, raising his voice, and directing his eyes to the portrait, I swear I will devote myself to the protection of his orphan daughter. Unhappy, gallant man! I have his history from his faithful soldier. Would he could hear me! I almost can believe he does; for mark, how tenderly his eyes are turned upon me. Ah sweet Amelia, what I may be I know not, but yours in every faithful service I shall be. Our first acquaintance has commenced in sorrow; Heaven grant, it may grow up and ripen into joy.

This said, he turned his eyes from the picture, and behold they lighted on Amelia, standing by his side. Surprised, confused, and doubting whether he beheld a vision or reality, he threw his arms about her, clasped her to his heart, and in his transport pressed his glowing lips upon her blushing cheek. Then rushing to the door—Pardon me, he cried—and vanished with love’s arrow in his heart.

Ah madam, ah my friend, exclaimed the trembling girl, succour me, save me, or I am undone. If this young heir of two such rich and ancient families does not at once resolve never to waste a thought on me, what will become of me? What will his grandfather, whose bread I eat, what will his mother say? The house of De Lancaster will rise against me, and I must fly to labour for my living, or involve you in my ruin.

It is even so, my child, and you discern your danger rightly. He is a noble, generous youth, but he never can be yours in any time to come, and you must cautiously avoid him. As for what passed just now, you must think no more of it. Young spirits, taken by surprise, will break out unawares, and you must forgive him.

Forgive him! cried Amelia; yes, it is easy to forgive him, but when shall I be able to forget him? Never.

Whilst this conversation was carrying on, a note was delivered to Mrs. Jennings, in which she read as follows.—

To this Mrs. Jennings instantly returned the following answer—

CHAPTER III.

Business, long postponed, is at length concluded to the Satisfaction of all Parties.

We have before observed, that opposition of opinions made no breach in friendship between the worthy parties, who were in the habit of carrying on the debates, that occurred at Kray Castle. In the first place it is not certain that Robert De Lancaster was in all cases tenacious of his argument merely from conviction of its strength, but partly perhaps from attachment to it for its singularity, and the occasion it afforded him oftentimes of displaying that fund of philological erudition, which he indisputably possessed: in the second place, it is not to be denied, that whenever he was absolutely convinced of the opinion he defended, he was not apt to think the worse of it, because his friend Wilson could not be brought to adopt it.

As his researches had chiefly carried him to those authorities, of which the classical scholar takes no account, so by arming himself with them in the lists of controversy, he fought with weapons, and made left-handed thrusts, that even literary men could rarely parry, and Colonel Wilson never. So equipped, he could lay down a proposition, which nobody would dispute, and draw inferences from it which nobody could admit: but let this be considered rather as an exercise of his ingenuity, than as a defect in his understanding.

Colonel Wilson, who loved the man, and understood his character, saw with infinite regret his indecision as to the education of his grandson, whose strong natural understanding demanded cultivation, and whose handsome person was now ripening into early manhood. Edward, the younger son of Colonel Wilson had now left the university, having obtained every honour, that either his classical or academical exercises could procure for him. He had been ordained deacon, and was now of age to take priest’s orders. He also contemplated our neglected hero with compassionate regret, and had taken up a very favourable impression both of his talents and disposition. He thought with his father on the side of public education in general, but he did not consider himself upon those terms with Mr. De Lancaster, which would warrant him to volunteer any opinion upon the subject.

The opportunity, which he did not venture to seek, one day presented itself, when De Lancaster, sitting after dinner, addressed himself to the colonel, and said—I believe I am aware of most of the arguments, that are usually adduced in favour of a public school, and am so far from questioning the good sense of those parents, who make that system of education their choice, that I could almost admit, that out of a hundred cases it is the wisest course, which can be taken in ninety and nine: the only question with me is, whether mine be not exactly that single exception. If I wished to cherish in my grandson’s heart that early spirit of emulation, which might urge him to the pursuits of fame and fortune in either of the liberal professions, a public school would be the proper nursery for his ambition; but that is not my wish. If he can creditably support the independent station, which his ancestors have held for many generations past, I aim at nothing more; and surely, when I admit that public schools are the fittest nurseries for public characters, I may be allowed to say that private education is properest for those, who are destined to fill private stations. If John De Lancaster survives to be the owner of Kray-Castle (which Heaven grant!) I hope he will there establish his abode, and be found the protector of merit, the friend of his tenants and the father of the poor. He might do this without the help of any of the heathen writers, either Greeks or Romans; but I don’t wish to exclude them; a gentleman should not be unacquainted with them; though I am painfully and penitently convinced he may bestow too large a portion of his time upon them. Plutarch in his treatise, that Grotius has prefixed to his edition of Stobæus, debates the question how young students are to read the poets, to what extent and under what exceptions: It is a heavy and Bœotian work, that talks of many things, and teaches nothing. In this country we manufacture our children, male and female, and by the labour of the workman attempt to give them all the same polish, let the materials they are composed of be ever so inert and heavy. Nobody taught the nightingale to sing, yet every foolish father and mother conceive they can teach their jackdaw to carol like that heaven-born songstress. It is lost labour to manure and dress a soil, in which there is no principle of vegetation. This I trust is not the case with my grandson John: He is a manly, sensible, honorable boy, and has given striking proof of a benevolent heart in his conduct towards the poor soldier, who died in my house; this he did without instruction from his Horace or his Juvenal, and this perhaps he would not have had an opportunity of doing at a public school; at all events I should not have had the opportunity of witnessing it. I therefore give my preference to a private and domestic education. Now, Mr. Edward Wilson, you, who are covered with laurels, worthily bestowed upon you by your venerable Alma Mater, if you think I am in error, convince me of my error, and you will not find me backward to retract my opinion and adopt a better.

To give my opinion, replied Edward Wilson, in a question of such magnitude would in all cases be presumptuous, but to obtrude it in contradiction to your superior judgment would be unpardonable. Circumstanced however as your grandson is in point of age and understanding, I hold him so unfitted for a station at the very bottom of a public school, that even without adverting to the very strong motives, which you assign for education under your own eye, I answer without hesitation, that my sentiments perfectly agree and coincide with yours.

I am made very happy by your approbation, said De Lancaster, and now I must tell you, Mr. Wilson, that an event has been announced to me by this letter, which in one sense I must consider as a loss, in another as a gain. My loss is that of an old acquaintance and contemporary, the late Reverend Dr. Mathew Philips; my gain is the opportunity it affords me of tendering to you the benefice, which he held by my gift—I perceive you are about to thank me, but I must request that neither you nor your father will oppress me on this occasion—for in making you this offer I do it from my firm persuasion of your fitness, and not merely through my friendship for your worthy father, which, great and sincere although it be, would never bias me against my conscience to commit the charge of souls into the hands of any man, of whose sufficiency I had cause to doubt. Spare yourselves therefore and me the needless ceremony of bestowing thanks, where in reality they are not due; for what would you say, if it should turn out, that I have an object in my view, which would at once convince you, that in serving you I have not overlooked myself?

Name the object, I beseech you, Sir, said Edward; and if you hold me capable of the undertaking, command me!

I perceive you have anticipated my suit, resumed De Lancaster. John, my grandson, is as yet the only stay and support of an antient and not ignoble family. Your father has remonstrated with me on the subject of his neglected education. His motives were friendly, and he made them known: mine for my seeming negligence had reference to the event, which I knew to be impending, and has now come to pass, though I could not in delicacy impart it to him. It was the wish of my heart, dear Edward, to commit the education of my boy to you; but I confess, such is my nature, and so am I constituted, that, until I had it in my power to confer a small favour upon you, I could not ask you to bestow a very great one upon me.

I am deeply sensible, said Edward, of the honour I derive from your good opinion, but I am also aware of the importance and difficulty of the undertaking. That I can teach your grandson Greek and Latin, if he is disposed to learn, there is little doubt; but when I consider that amongst my many duties this perhaps will be the lightest, I must look to you for advice as to the system of education, which you would recommend me to pursue as we advance in what may be called the beaten track of school-learning. I confess to you I see no danger in those studies to the man of deep erudition, but much to the superficial and shallow scholar, for the morality of the heathen writers is not in all respects the morality of the gospel, and the philosophy of the Greeks is in no respect the religion of a christian.

Your observation, said De Lancaster, is perfectly just; but as this is a subject that will require some fore-thought, I will turn it in my mind, and give you my opinion upon the first opportunity, that shall occur. Mr. Philip de Lancaster is now from home, and I think he should by all means be present at our discussion, that if he does not interest himself in what so materially concerns his son, he may at least be convinced that we do.

The topic being thus adjourned, their conversation turned to other subjects, not important to record.

CHAPTER IV.

Our young Hero accidentally meets Sir Arthur Floyd, and Mr. Philip De Lancaster visits a certain Lady at Penruth Abbey.

In the morning of the third day young John De Lancaster left Glen-Morgan, and set out on his return to Kray Castle. As he was passing through part of the grounds belonging to Sir Arthur Floyd, whose house was within sight from his road, he chanced to meet that gentleman, as he was taking his ride about his demesne. Sir Arthur accosted him with much civility, and adverting to the accident, that had befallen him in the field, when he was out with Sir Owen’s hounds, expressed his concern for the unpleasant consequences that had ensued, and hoped it would not discourage him from coming out again.

I shall not easily be tempted to come out when Mr. David Owen is in the field.

I hope, returned the baronet, you do not consider it as a purposed injury on the part of that young gentleman.

I don’t suppose the gentleman could exactly instruct the horse he rode to throw dirt in my face, and almost put my eyes out; but I am not obliged to the gentleman for looking back and laughing at me, when he discovered the condition I was in.

I trust, resumed Sir Arthur, he did not know the extent of the mischief he had done, and when he did know it, I hope he made those enquiries, which it behoved him to make in such a case.

I don’t suppose, said John, Mr. Owen thought that necessary. He had enjoyed his joke, and was not curious to enquire how I had relished it—but I have simply answered your questions, Sir Arthur; when I have serious cause to resent Mr. Owen’s treatment of me, I shall look to him only for redress.

I hope, young gentleman, said Sir Arthur gravely, you will not consider me as a busy body in this affair between you, for though my habits of intimacy are chiefly with the house of Owen, I have all possible respect for your worthy grandfather, and every one, that bears his name. If I seem to intrude upon you therefore with any further questions, believe me it is only in the hope of setting matters straight, which at present appear to be rather out of course, and accordingly I beg leave to ask you as to the truth of a report, that circulates about the neighbourhood respecting a poor distressed soldier, who received charity from you at your house, and is said to have been very harshly treated at the abbey door, when supplicating for relief, by young Owen in person.

Such I believe to be the fact, was the answer.

It tells much to the dishonour of the party in question, that being the fact; but if the soldier be still within reach, I hope you will allow me to tender you these few guineas for his use on the part of my young friend David Owen, as an atonement for his oversight.

A piece of bread and a draught of beer might have been of use, but the money is of none. The man is dead.

My God!—cried Sir Arthur; turned a look of marked regard upon our hero, bowed and rode off.

Mr. Philip De Lancaster had of late stepped a little out of his non-elastic character, and been rambling from the castle every forenoon between the hours of breakfast and dinner. Nobody was curious to trace him in these excursions, but it could not fail to be discovered, that his visits were to the Spanish lady at the abbey house of Penruth. To say that Philip was in love with Mrs. Owen might be to mistake a habit for a passion; he was in the habit of turning his poney’s head abbey-ward, as soon as he had sallied from the castle-gate, and poney was in the habit of going on without any turn at all till he stopped at the aforesaid abbey door. When Philip dismounted, Mrs. Owen’s lacquey was also in the habit of ushering him to his lady’s sitting-room, where he silently took his chair and his chance for being spoken to, when the lady was in the humour and at leisure to speak to him.

The first remark, that had ever dropped from Mr. De Lancaster with respect to Philip’s absence, occurred in his discourse with the Wilsons about John’s education, and it so happened that Mrs. Owen in her tete à tete that very morning had been rather more disposed to extort a conversation than was usual with her, when the following very interesting dialogue ensued.

I conclude, said the lady, that this extraordinary melancholy, which seems to hang eternally upon you, my good friend, can only be accounted for by your concern for Mrs. De Lancaster’s dismal state of health and spirits.

Not at all, said Philip: that’s not it.

What is it then? What in the name of wonder can it be?

I can’t tell. It comes of its own accord.

I don’t know how to believe you. There must be some cause: as sure as can be you have caught the hip of your hypochondriac wife.

I have nothing to do with any hip of hers. I never go near her: that’s agreed between us.

A happy release, if what I hear be true. Then you have no domestic troubles.

None at all: quite free.

Why then so gloomy? What annoys you, what possesses you so wholly, that you seem almost to have lost the very use of speech? Are you in love, my friend?

Not with my wife.

With any body else?

With any body rather than with her.

With me, for instance—

Oh, with you sooner than with any body. I visit nobody but you.

True, but I thought you visited me from habit, not from liking.

I like you very much.

What shall I do to encrease your liking?

Nothing. It encreases quite fast enough without your help.

Bless me! That’s lucky; for to say the truth I have not been aware of it. But I am so surprised, and so flattered by it, that I would fain take some pains to cultivate so agreeable an impression.

You need not. There’s no occasion to trouble yourself about it.

Should not I contrive to make myself a little younger?

I don’t wish it.

A good deal handsomer?

It is not possible.

A great deal fairer?

That would entirely spoil the beauty of your complexion.

Well! that is charming. I protest you make me the politest speeches; but alas! they go for nothing. No woman of discretion should encourage the attachment of a man that’s married.

I may not always be a married man.

That’s true; but then perhaps you’d change your tone.

Never.

Were I quite sure of that, I would not listen to Sir Arthur Floyd; nor indeed to any body in Sir Owen’s life time—but recollect we have each a son. What must we do with them? They’ll never set their horses up together. What is the reason that they don’t agree? I doubt your youngster is a little proud. Isn’t it so?

I know nothing of him.

My David does not like him, I assure you. He says he is certain you are not his father.

I know nothing of that also.

He never speaks of him by the name of John De Lancaster; he calls him Jack Jones after the name of your wife’s favourite lover Captain Jones, for whom she is so inconsolable.

Why now that’s wonderful—I can’t think how that secret could get out.

Secret, my friend! You are much mistaken if you think it is any secret. They say he is as like that Jones as ever son was like a father—but I am talking treason, and you must not betray me—People you know will be censorious, and it is rather remarkable, that since Jones’s death she has never added to your family stock.

There’s nothing remarkable in that, if the talking people knew what they talked about.

Why certainly, were the case as they give out, one son of that sort is quite enough, and were I in your place I should be apt to think him one more than was welcome.

I am at no trouble about him. His grandfather and his aunt are at all the pains of spoiling him.

Not by overmuch education I should think. Begging the young gentleman’s pardon, I take him to be a most egregious dunce.

Oh! if you take him to be that, I shall take him to be my own son. But with your leave we’ll say no more about him.

Agreed! Besides I know your time is nearly out. This however I must tell you in secret—Sir Owen’s life is despaired of, and his whole estate is settled and entailed upon my son: David will soon be of age, and probably I shall then have some other residence to seek. Your father I understand is in his seventy-fifth year, and your son in his fifteenth. A short time according to the course of nature may set us both free. In the mean time let me see you as frequently as you can contrive, and if I have been fortunate enough to make an impression on your heart, be assured you have interested mine no less; and so long as you continue to persuade me that I am agreeable in your eyes, neither Sir Arthur Floyd, nor any man, shall be other than indifferent to me.

Having said this, she reached out her hand, the gallant Philip pressed it to his lips, made his reverence, and departed.

CHAPTER V.

Mr. De Lancaster descants upon the Duties of a Preceptor in the learned Languages.

It is probably in the reader’s recollection, that De Lancaster in his last conversation with the Reverend Edward Wilson, had promised to collect his thoughts, and offer his opinion on the duties of a preceptor in the learned languages. There was little danger of his forgetting that promise, nor any likelihood of his being unprepared to execute it, for his mind was fully stored with all the several systems of the Greek philosophers.

After breakfast the next morning he desired Philip to accompany him and the Wilsons, father and son, into his library. This was not exactly the thing, that Philip had meditated to do, but it was what he could not escape from. He was not however hooked without a small struggle to get free, for as soon as he understood it was to be a cabinet council on the topic of his son’s education, he humbly moved for exemption on the plea of his entire acquiescence in his father’s will and pleasure, modestly declaring that he did not hold himself entitled to form any opinion in the case—besides, he should be glad to take a little air, for his health’s sake.

I hope, son Philip, said the old gentleman gravely, neither your health, nor happiness, and give me leave to add—nor your honour can suffer, if you bestow one hour upon your duty to your son, even at the expence of your accustomed devoirs to the lady at the abbey.

This was answer quite enough for Philip, who walked doggedly into the lecture room, and took his seat in a corner of it, as far out of the reach of instruction or notice, as he could devise. Edward Wilson took the left hand seat by De Lancaster’s arm-chair, and the colonel seated himself on the other side of the fire place, in front of the old gentleman; Philip, as I before observed, falling into the back-ground, and behind his father.

After two or three preparatory hums, like the tap of the first fiddle, as a signal for attention, De Lancaster commenced his harangue, as follows—Mr. Edward Wilson, I address myself to you in particular, because what you remarked at the close of our late conversation is perfectly in my recollection, and convinces me, that my opinions can only tend to confirm what your own judgment and observation have pointed out. I am now assured, that when you commit your pupil to the reading of those heathen authors, whose writings yet exist, though their languages be dead, you will not suffer his principles to come into collision with theirs, till they are fundamentally and firmly established upon faith in revelation; for where that does not reach, all must be error, seeing that the human understanding, how acute so ever, cannot upon mere conjecture account for the operations of divine wisdom unless by the aid of a divine communication. All, who without that aid have attempted to discuss the question of first causes, have puzzled and perplexed themselves and others. A sound scholar can readily confute their systems; a shallow one, as you well observed, may be entangled by their subtilties. In short, they are at the best but blind guides; most of them are mischievous logicians, and many of them systematic atheists; for collect their several tenets, and I am warranted to say you shall find they are all to be classed, either amongst those, who hold the world to be eternal both as to matter and form, or those, who hold the matter to be eternal, whilst the form is not. You are no doubt aware, that neither Aristotle nor Plato admit a creation of the world, or acknowledge any time when it was not: Aristotle maintaining that it was an eternal and necessary emanation from the divine nature; Plato, that it was an eternal and voluntary effect. Now if what God must have willed from all time he must from all time have done, where is the distinction betwixt Plato’s volition and Aristotle’s necessity? In these opinions are to be found all the component parts of modern atheism. The monstrous system of Spinosa is principally to be traced in the doctrines of the Eleatic school, of which Xenophanes was the founder; he was succeeded by Parmenides, Melissus and Zeno of Elea: his doctrines, which were delivered in verse and with great obscurity, were adopted by Hilpo and the Megaric philosophers, and these were supposed to be the eternity and immutability of the world. Strato of Lampsacus, whom Plutarch calls the greatest of the Peripatetics, made nature inanimate, and at the same time owned no God but nature. The Stoics had their dogma of the soul of the world; the Epicureans held that God is matter, or not distinct from matter; that all things are essentially God, that forms are imaginary accidents, which have no real existence, and that all things are substantially the same. I believe I need go no further with the Greek philosophers, for in these you have nearly the abstract amount of their opinions, and the sources of all modern infidelity. As for the cosmogonies of the Phœnicians, Egyptians and Babylonians, which derive the world from mechanical principles only, they are immediately introductive of atheism, as Eusebius of Cæsarea observes of Sanchoniatho, whose fragment he preserved, and Berosus of the Babylonian cosmogony, of which nation he himself was. To the doctrines of Orpheus the theologer I have no objection; with him your pupil will be safe. Hesiod is only fanciful. Of Thales the hylopathian, whose principle of things was water, I should doubt whether he was theist or atheist; but of his scholar Anaximander no doubt can be entertained; his system is professedly atheistical; the same principle descends and may be traced through Anaximenes, Anaxagoras and Diogenes of Apollonia, in a word, through all the masters of the Ionic school. Turn to Leucippus and Democritus, to Epicurus and all, who held the doctrine of atoms, what do you discover but the blindest ignorance and the grossest atheism? As for their celebrated physician Hippocrates, who, following the example of Hippasus and Heraclitus the obscure, held heat or fire to be immortal and omniscient, in one word God himself, I can only say it would have been safer to have taken his physic than his philosophy—but I have too long intruded on your patience, and forbear the rest.

When Edward Wilson perceived that De Lancaster had done speaking, being unable to discover how this harangue could be brought into use for any present purpose, and conceiving himself not called upon to say that he would not put a pupil to read the Greek philosophers, who had not yet read the first leaf of his Latin grammar, he bowed and was silent. Philip sate with his hands upon his knees in the attitude of a hearer, and seemed employed upon a very close examination of his boots, as if in search of information from them; but they knew just as much, and no more, of the subject than he himself did.—I wonder why I was called in to hear all this, he said to himself, who know no more what he has been talking about than if he had expressed himself in the Hebrew language. The colonel on the contrary was under no reserve, but turning to De Lancaster, said, I cannot doubt, my good sir, but that all, which you have been saying, would be excellent advice to a student far advanced in his knowledge of the learned languages, but in the instance of my friend John I presume the time, when it can apply to him, lies yet at a considerable distance.

You are right, replied De Lancaster, and therefore as I cannot expect to say it then, I take the liberty to say it now.

The man, whose ridicule could not have been disarmed by the candour of this temperate reply, must have had a heart very differently made from that of Colonel Wilson; and as for Edward he immediately found his voice, and was liberal of his thanks for the instruction he had received. I shall hardly expect, he said, to do more for my pupil, than to make him acquainted with some of the best and purest classics, so as to form his taste, and qualify him to take his part in those circles, in which he ought to be found: But if he should contract a passion for literature, I shall bear in mind what you have been inculcating, and hope it will be my good fortune to find his understanding stored with such defences, as no false reasoning shall be likely to undermine. This object will be ever nearest to my heart, and as I am sure I have an excellent disposition to work upon, I trust your grandson will grow up, if God gives him life, to be an honour to his name and nation.

I am satisfied, said De Lancaster, and have not another word to offer.

That is lucky, quoth Philip, as his father walked out of the room; for I am yet in time to take my ride. This was overheard by Colonel Wilson, and provoked him to say to Philip—If you are going to take your usual ride to the Abbey, I hope you will recollect by the way your obligations to a father, the matter of whose discourse may have seemed tedious to you, but whose motive being zeal for the welfare of your son, ought to be held in honour and respect.

CHAPTER VI.

Mr. De Lancaster proposes to revive certain ancient Modes of curing Diseases.

Great preparations were now going forward for celebrating that musical festival (which was a kind of revival of the ancient eisteddfods) with becoming splendour. Invitations had been circulated to all the neighbouring gentry; notices were dispersed over the country for assembling the most celebrated harpers, and David Williams was warmly engaged in making daily libations of metheglin to propitiate his muse for that grand occasion.

The castle hall in the mean time resounded with the hammers of the workmen, employed in erecting a stage for the minstrels, and in fitting up seats and benches for the company. The banners were overhauled, taken down and cleaned, and a great display of these and warlike weapons was disposed in groups and trophies under the direction of Colonel Wilson. Cecilia’s province was to superintend supplies, and adapt the several entertainments to the several degrees of guests, to whom they were allotted.

Philip De Lancaster still maintained his natural tranquillity, though from some cause, or it might be from none, he had abated of the frequency of his visits to the abbey. He gave himself however no trouble in a business perfectly indifferent to him: the utmost stretch of his exertions went no further than to the making of an artificial fly for angling in a stream, where there were no trout, and Wilson had but little time to spare for chess. Two qualifications Philip had to boast of; the one was that of being an excellent and unwearied hearer, so long as any other person would take the trouble of talking; the other, that of an everlasting sleeper, provided nobody would put him to the trouble of waking. Between these two happy properties he could dispose both of day and of night passably well.

His lady in the meanwhile contrived to fill up her hours with sighs and groans, which were echoed back to her in groans and sighs by sympathizing Betty. Cecilia visited her at leisure times; her son occasionally, when called for, and her husband by her desire very rarely, and of his own accord never. Llewellyn was in regular attendance and full confidence; he pronounced her case to be atrabilious and hypochondriac in an extreme degree, and as there could be no doubt of his being right in deciding on the nature of her complaint, it seemed rather unlucky that he was so unsucessful in removing it. As far however as the frequency of attendances and repetition of medicines went, Mr. Llewellyn was clear in conscience.

One evening, whilst the Colonel and Squire Philip were engaged at chess, and De Lancaster was tracing out for the edification of Edward Wilson the route of Solomon’s ships to Ophir for gold, Llewellyn came into the room to announce his bulletin of the patient above stairs. Philip’s game was lost, and he had quitted the field; the colonel put the chess-board by, and all ears were open to the report, of which the sage’s countenance augured nothing favourable. The question was put to him by more than one, the answer was—The lady my patient is by no means as I could wish her.—Then I am afraid, observed the colonel, she is by no means well.

I hope that does not absolutely follow, said De Lancaster.

She is extremely ill, repeated Llewellyn—She is incurable, cried Philip with an emphasis and in a tone above his usual pitch.

I think not, replied the father.

She is the most decided hypochondriac I ever met with, resumed the man of medicine.

Pooh! repeated De Lancaster, if my daughter-in-law has no other complaint than what is caused by melancholy humours and impeded circulation, she may be cured at once; the remedy is immediate.

Why; what should cure her? demanded the colonel.

That, which alone can heal the mind and its diseases, said De Lancaster; music.

Whuh! cried Llewellyn, (whistling out his admiration and contempt in an under-note, not meant to reach the ears of the old gentleman) This is a new discovery in medicine, and one more than the dispensary has yet taken notice of.

Pardon me, resumed De Lancaster, it is no new discovery, but the very doctrine held by Theophrastus, Aristoxenus and by Pythagoras himself; the last of whom depended almost entirely on the flute or flagelet for the expulsion of melancholy; and, as I am no dealer in assertions without authorities, I shall take the liberty of quoting the very words of Martianus Capella in his ninth book, which to Mr. Edward Wilson at least I have no doubt will be familiar, and these they are—Pythagorei enim, ferociam animi tibiis aut fidibus mollientes, docuerunt cum corporibus adhærere nexum fædus animarum. In this practice however I must beg leave slightly to differ from the Pythagoreans, and recommend the harp or lyre in preference, forasmuch as these were the proper instruments of Apollo, the god of healing, whereas the flute or flagelet belonged to Tritonia, whose attributes we all know were of a different description. Let me however do Pythagoras the justice to acknowledge, that he recommends the lute also as a sedative in the paroxysms of rage and anger.