CHAPTER VI.

_Education stands still. The Seeds of Enmity are sown. The Incident of the dying Soldier._

Whilst our hero was thus gaining laurels in the field by his bodily achievements, in mental attainments he made no great progress. His good aunt Cecilia laboured hard at her English lessons, but his play-fellows and companions without any labour kept him in such practice with their Welch, that between both languages he was in danger of speaking neither. Still his kind instructress persevered in teaching him such things as she could teach and he could learn, but although he was now advanced beyond the age, when boys in general turn out to public schools, the parties, which sate in council on the specific mode of education to be pursued, were so wide of an adjustment, that it might well be made a doubt if he was in any way of being educated at all.

Mr. Philip De Lancaster had naturally so little interest in his own opinions upon this, or any other question, that he parted from them upon the easiest terms, and took them back again upon the slightest reasons. He had been heard to say that something should be thought of for him, but the task of thinking was a task he did not concern himself about. If the decision between public and private education had rested upon Philip, his casting vote would have been as mere a matter of chance, as the cast of the dice.

Mrs. De Lancaster, the mother, who never opened upon this subject, except once to Cecilia, expressed her opinion that the question was of no importance: he was his father’s son, and educate him how they would, he would still be his son, and education could not mend him.

Cecilia was humbly of opinion, that the subject was above her, and properly belonged to the other sex to consider and decide. She observed however that Colonel Wilson had given his sons a public education, and she believed he had no cause to repent of it: this was evidently a lure to hook him into the debate, and a pretty clear insinuation which way her judgment and her wishes pointed. But the master-opinion, which alone could resolve, and carry resolution into effect, was still to be sought for in the bosom of the grandfather, and he did not seem in haste to bring it forth.

If it were put to me in the way of question, he said to Cecilia, whether I am prepared to recommend a public school, I answer, no: if you should persist to ask what other system I would recommend, I should observe to you, that system is subordinate to nature, and that none such ought to be laid down, till it is apparent and made clear to what the genius of my grandson points. When I make use of the term genius, let me not be understood as if admitting any inborn influence, which might seem to favour the absurd chimeras about innate ideas. I am aware that Sophocles in his Ajax asserts, that the happiness of man consists only in his ignorance: in his ignorance of such things, as would make man miserable did he know them, his happiness may indeed be said to consist; and so far only I can agree with Sophocles; for ignorance, in its proper sense, can make no man happy; on the contrary I hold it as a truth incontrovertible, that, if any human being could be perfect in virtue, he would be perfect in wisdom also; and if such be the test of wisdom, how can ignorance be said to make him happy? Now if the wisdom of virtue is to be instilled into the young pupil by the wisdom of books, it must surely be by other books, than his masters in the dead languages may always happen to select for his instruction in those languages. Cicero wrote about the cardinal virtues, as he was pleased to call them, and it is not quite clear to me, that suicide was not one of the family: in fact, his book is good for nothing; the man was a follower of the New Academy, and of course could have no opinion: his ambition was to talk about every thing, and his maxim to decide upon nothing. You, my excellent Cecilia, can for the present teach your nephew what he ought to know, and perhaps if he never learns what you cannot teach, he will have no loss. You will instil into his heart religion in its purest principles--in teaching that, you teach him every thing.

When this honest, but eccentric, man had thus unluckily entrenched himself on the wrong side of a clear question, he could find so many specious arguments of this sort for doing nothing, that of course nothing was done; and the mind of the neglected boy, now thirsting for instruction, found every avenue shut against him, except that only, which had little new to afford.

It so happened that Colonel Wilson had been called away upon an exchange of his government for one of rather more emolument in a distant situation, where he had been obliged to reside for a certain term upon his first taking possession. This was a heavy loss to young John, who had the mortification to hear the wit and understanding of David Owen cried up and applauded, whilst he himself was let to remain in a state little short of dereliction. Once or twice he was admitted to the honour of standing by his father, whilst he angled in the canal; but John saw no amusement in watching a float, that never once gave the signal of a bite. In Cecilia’s flower garden he took some small delight, but it was pleasure of too tame a sort to satisfy his ardent mind.

One morning when Sir Owen’s fox hounds were to throw off in Kray wood, he was permitted to put himself under the convoy of the groom, and go out to see them find; but alas, he was destined to exhibit himself on the back of the reformed poney, late the letter-carrier and drudge of the castle; when the first object, that struck his sight, was the fine young heir of Penruth Abbey, mounted on a full-sized hunter, and dressed in a uniform of green and scarlet. He was accompanied by several gentlemen in the same uniform, and, Sir Owen not being in the field, seemed to act as master of the hunt. When the hounds began to challenge in the cover, the sportsmen were in motion, and poor John, conscious of his unworthiness to enrol himself amongst them, struck down a narrow lane, that skirted the wood and led towards the castle by the shortest cut. The country had been drenched with rain, and whilst John and poney were bustling through this muddy pass, young Owen gallopped swiftly by, and having spitefully contrived to sluice him, (man and horse,) all over with the dirty soil, looked back and laughed.--Never mind, master Johnny, cried the groom: sportsman’s fare--Not aware that the injury, which the poor little fellow had received, was not confined to his clothes, for upon drawing up and dismounting, which agony compelled John to do without delay, not only his face was cut with the flinty rubbish, that had been thrown up by the heels of Owen’s horse, but his eyes had suffered much more seriously, so that he was obliged to be led home with his handkerchief bound over his eyes, suffering the whilst intolerable pain. What passed on his arrival at the castle need not be described: it was some weeks before the skill of Mr. Llewellyn, and the tender care of Cecilia, could be fairly said to have perfected the cure. No intercourse in the mean time passed between the abbey and the castle, and, if it was known at the former place (which there is good reason to think it was) neither enquiry nor apology ever reached the latter.

Whilst the groom enraged the lower regions of Kray Castle with his account of the malicious feat, John was quite as capable of distinguishing between design and accident, and with fewer words, but deeper meditation, laid up the insult in his mind, never to be forgotten.

During the time that the boy, in consequence of this injury, was interdicted from resorting to his book, impatient to be learning something, he turned his thoughts towards blind Williams, who repeated verses and played to him on the harp; which to enjoy, he would sit for hours, with the shade over his bloodshot eyes, sympathizing with old David on the lamentable loss of sight, and enquiring if it was attended by that misery, which his imagination attached to it.

It chanced one day, whilst sitting in this attitude by the side of the minstrel, he was solicited for his charity by a worn-out soldier, who had fallen sick upon his way, and had been admitted into the house by the servants for the purpose of relieving him in his distress. John lifted up the shade from off his eyes, to look at him, and the melancholy spectacle, which, through the misty medium of his feeble optics, he imperfectly discerned, struck so hard upon his feeling heart, that he suffered the very keenest pang, that pity could inflict. Food, clothes, medicine, bed, every thing, that could relieve a suffering fellow creature at the point to die, was immediately to be prepared. The soldier’s tale was short; for in the history of his sufferings there was a mournful uniformity: wounds and hard service in unhealthy climates had made him old in the mid-stage of life; poverty and privation had depressed his hardy vigour, and sickness, consequencial of those evils, had at length broken down a gallant spirit, which, under these accumulated visitations, could no longer struggle with its destiny.

John heard this sad recital of his woe with sympathizing tears; but when he came to relate how cruelly he had been threatened and dismissed by the young lord of a fine great house in the neighbourhood, (describing Penruth Abbey) whilst begging charity at the door, where he saw the very dogs fed with bread, for want of which he was starving, our heart-struck hero started from his seat, and, stamping vehemently on the floor, exclaimed--Let me but live to bring that Jew-born wretch to shame, and let me die the death, I care not; tis enough!--Then turning to the servants, he said--Take notice; my grandfather, your master, has charity in his heart, and will not suffer this poor man to perish through the want of any thing, that he can give. Let him therefore want for nothing; when you have given him what he ought to have, take him to a well-aired bed in a comfortable room, and send for Mr. Llewellyn to attend upon him. I’ll answer for my orders--The soldier overpowered with gratitude, only murmured out his thanks: blind David sung out loudly--Heaven reward thee, my sweet child! Thou art a true De Lancaster!