Books: Nature and Art
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Mrs Inchbald >> Nature and Art
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The dean was a man of no inconsiderable penetration. He understood
the thoughts which, upon this occasion, passed in the mind of his
wife, and in order to ensure her kind treatment of the boy, instead
of reproaching her for the cold manner in which she had at first
received him, he praised her tender and sympathetic heart for having
shown him so much kindness, and thus stimulated her vanity to be
praised still more.
William, the mother's own son, far from apprehending a rival in this
savage boy, was convinced of his own pre-eminence, and felt an
affection for him--though rather as a foil than as a cousin. He
sported with his ignorance upon all occasions, and even lay in wait
for circumstances that might expose it; while young Henry, strongly
impressed with everything which appeared new to him, expressed,
without reserve, the sensations which those novelties excited,
wholly careless of the construction put on his observations.
He never appeared either offended or abashed when laughed at; but
still pursued his questions, and still discovered his wonder at many
replies made to him, though "simpleton," "poor silly boy," and
"idiot," were vociferated around him from his cousin, his aunt, and
their constant visitor the bishop.
His uncle would frequently undertake to instruct him; so indeed
would the bishop; but Lady Clementina, her son, and the greatest
part of her companions, found something so irresistibly ridiculous
in his remarks, that nothing but immoderate laughter followed; they
thought such folly had even merit in the way of entertainment, and
they wished him no wiser.
Having been told that every morning, on first seeing his uncle, he
was to make a respectful bow; and coming into the dean's dressing-
room just as he was out of bed, his wig lying on the table, Henry
appeared at a loss which of the two he should bow to. At last he
gave the preference to his uncle, but afterwards bowed reverently to
the wig. In this he did what he conceived was proper, from the
introduction which the dean, on his first arrival, had given him to
this venerable stranger; for, in reality, Henry had a contempt for
all finery, and had called even his aunt's jewels, when they were
first shown to him, "trumpery," asking "what they were good for?"
But being corrected in this disrespect, and informed of their high
value, he, like a good convert, gave up his reason to his faith; and
becoming, like all converts, over-zealous, he now believed there was
great worth in all gaudy appearances, and even respected the
earrings of Lady Clementina almost as much as he respected herself.
CHAPTER XIII.
It was to be lamented that when young Henry had been several months
in England, had been taught to read, and had, of course, in the
society in which he lived, seen much of the enlightened world, yet
the natural expectation of his improvement was by no means answered.
Notwithstanding the sensibility, which upon various occasions he
manifested in the most captivating degree, notwithstanding the
seeming gentleness of his nature upon all occasions, there now
appeared, in most of his inquiries and remarks, a something which
demonstrated either a stupid or troublesome disposition; either
dulness of conception, or an obstinacy of perseverance in comments
and in arguments which were glaringly false.
Observing his uncle one day offended with his coachman, and hearing
him say to him in a very angry tone,
"You shall never drive me again" -
The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with his eyes fixed in
the deepest contemplation) repeated five or six times, in a half
whisper to himself,
"YOU SHALL NEVER DRIVE ME AGAIN."
"YOU SHALL NEVER DRIVE ME AGAIN."
The dean at last called to him. "What do you mean by thus repeating
my words?"
"I am trying to find out what YOU meant," said Henry.
"What don't you know?" cried his enlightened cousin. "Richard is
turned away; he is never to get upon our coach-box again, never to
drive any of us more."
"And was it pleasure to drive us, cousin? I am sure I have often
pitied him. It rained sometimes very hard when he was on the box;
and sometimes Lady Clementina has kept him a whole hour at the door
all in the cold and snow. Was that pleasure?"
"No," replied young William.
"Was it honour, cousin?"
"No," exclaimed his cousin with a contemptuous smile.
"Then why did my uncle say to him, as a punishment, 'he should
never'" -
"Come hither, child," said the dean, "and let me instruct you; your
father's negligence has been inexcusable. There are in society,"
continued the dean, "rich and poor; the poor are born to serve the
rich."
"And what are the rich born for?"
"To be served by the poor."
"But suppose the poor would not serve them?"
"Then they must starve."
"And so poor people are permitted to live only upon condition that
they wait upon the rich?"
"Is that a hard condition; or if it were, they will be rewarded in a
better world than this?"
"Is there a better world than this?"
"Is it possible you do not know there is?"
"I heard my father once say something about a world to come; but he
stopped short, and said I was too young to understand what he
meant."
"The world to come," returned the dean, "is where we shall go after
death; and there no distinction will be made between rich and poor--
all persons there will be equal."
"Aye, now I see what makes it a better world than this. But cannot
this world try to be as good as that?"
"In respect to placing all persons on a level, it is utterly
impossible. God has ordained it otherwise."
"How! has God ordained a distinction to be made, and will not make
any Himself?"
The dean did not proceed in his instructions. He now began to think
his brother in the right, and that the boy was too young, or too
weak, to comprehend the subject.
CHAPTER XIV.
In addition to his ignorant conversation upon many topics, young
Henry had an incorrigible misconception and misapplication of many
WORDS. His father having had but few opportunities of discoursing
with him, upon account of his attendance at the court of the
savages, and not having books in the island, he had consequently
many words to learn of this country's language when he arrived in
England. This task his retentive memory made easy to him; but his
childish inattention to their proper signification still made his
want of education conspicuous.
He would call COMPLIMENTS, LIES; RESERVE, he would call PRIDE;
STATELINESS, AFFECTATION; and for the words WAR and BATTLE, he
constantly substituted the word MASSACRE.
"Sir," said William to his father one morning, as he entered the
room, "do you hear how the cannons are firing, and the bells
ringing?"
"Then I dare say," cried Henry, "there has been another massacre."
The dean called to him in anger, "Will you never learn the right use
of words? You mean to say a battle."
"Then what is a massacre?" cried the frightened, but still curious
Henry.
"A massacre," replied his uncle, "is when a number of people are
slain--"
"I thought," returned Henry, "soldiers had been people!"
"You interrupted me," said the dean, "before I finished my sentence.
Certainly, both soldiers and sailors are people, but they engage to
die by their own free will and consent."
"What! all of them?"
"Most of them."
"But the rest are massacred?"
The dean answered, "The number who go to battle unwillingly, and by
force, are few; and for the others, they have previously sold their
lives to the state."
"For what?"
"For soldiers' and sailors' pay."
"My father used to tell me, we must not take away our own lives; but
he forgot to tell me we might sell them for others to take away."
"William," said the dean to his son, his patience tired with his
nephew's persevering nonsense, "explain to your cousin the
difference between a battle and a massacre."
"A massacre," said William, rising from his seat, and fixing his
eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and the bishop (all of
whom were present) for their approbation, rather than the person's
to whom his instructions were to be addressed--"a massacre," said
William, "is when human beings are slain, who have it not in their
power to defend themselves."
"Dear cousin William," said Henry, "that must ever be the case with
every one who is killed."
After a short hesitation, William replied: "In massacres people are
put to death for no crime, but merely because they are objects of
suspicion."
"But in battle," said Henry, "the persons put to death are not even
suspected."
The bishop now condescended to end this disputation by saying
emphatically,
"Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the infant, the
aged, the sick, nor infirm are involved, but only those in the full
prime of health and vigour."
As this argument came from so great and reverend a man as the
bishop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from his uncle, to submit, as
one refuted; although he had an answer at the veriest tip of his
tongue, which it was torture to him not to utter. What he wished to
say must ever remain a secret. The church has its terrors as well
as the law; and Henry was awed by the dean's tremendous wig as much
as Paternoster Row is awed by the Attorney-General.
CHAPTER XV.
If the dean had loved his wife but moderately, seeing all her faults
clearly as he did, he must frequently have quarrelled with her: if
he had loved her with tenderness, he must have treated her with a
degree of violence in the hope of amending her failings. But having
neither personal nor mental affection towards her sufficiently
interesting to give himself the trouble to contradict her will in
anything, he passed for one of the best husbands in the world. Lady
Clementina went out when she liked, stayed at home when she liked,
dressed as she liked, and talked as she liked without a word of
disapprobation from her husband, and all--because he cared nothing
about her.
Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate affection; and
observers in general thought her happier in her marriage than the
beloved wife who bathes her pillow with tears by the side of an
angry husband, whose affection is so excessive that he unkindly
upbraids her because she is--less than perfection.
The dean's wife was not so dispassionately considered by some of his
acquaintance as by himself; for they would now and then hint at her
foibles: but this great liberty she also conceived to be the effect
of most violent love, or most violent admiration: and such would
have been her construction had they commended her follies--had they
totally slighted, or had they beaten her.
Amongst those acquaintances, the aforesaid bishop, by far the most
frequent visitor, did not come merely to lounge an idle hour, but he
had a more powerful motive; the desire of fame, and dread of being
thought a man receiving large emolument for unimportant service.
The dean, if he did not procure him the renown he wished, still
preserved him from the apprehended censure.
The elder William was to his negligent or ignorant superiors in the
church such as an apt boy at school is to the rich dunces--William
performed the prelates' tasks for them, and they rewarded him--not
indeed with toys or money, but with their countenance, their
company, their praise. And scarcely was there a sermon preached
from the patrician part of the bench, in which the dean did not
fashion some periods, blot out some uncouth phrases, render some
obscure sentiments intelligible, and was the certain person, when
the work was printed, to correct the press.
This honourable and right reverend bishop delighted in printing and
publishing his works; or rather the entire works of the dean, which
passed for his: and so degradingly did William, the shopkeeper's
son, think of his own homiest extraction, that he was blinded, even
to the loss of honour, by the lustre of this noble acquaintance;
for, though in other respects he was a man of integrity, yet, when
the gratification of his friend was in question, he was a liar; he
not only disowned his giving him aid in any of his publications, but
he never published anything in his own name without declaring to the
world "that he had been obliged for several hints on the subject,
for many of the most judicious corrections, and for those passages
in page so and so (naming the most eloquent parts of the work) to
his noble and learned friend the bishop."
The dean's wife being a fine lady--while her husband and his friend
pored over books or their own manuscripts at home, she ran from
house to house, from public amusement to public amusement; but much
less for the pleasure of SEEING than for that of being seen. Nor
was it material to her enjoyment whether she were observed, or
welcomed, where she went, as she never entertained the smallest
doubt of either; but rested assured that her presence roused
curiosity and dispensed gladness all around.
One morning she went forth to pay her visits, all smiles, such as
she thought captivating: she returned, all tears, such as she
thought no less endearing.
Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to be patient
under a misfortune to which even kings are liable: namely,
defamation.
Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief of which he knew not
the cause, begged to know "what was the matter?"
"Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus!" cried his aunt in a fury,
casting the corner of her eye into a looking-glass, to see how rage
became her.
"But, comfort yourself," said one of her companions: "few people
will believe you merit the charge."
"But few! if only one believe it, I shall call my reputation lost,
and I will shut myself up in some lonely hut, and for ever renounce
all that is dear to me!"
"What! all your fine clothes?" said Henry, in amazement.
"Of what importance will my best dresses be, when nobody would see
them?"
"You would see them yourself, dear aunt; and I am sure nobody
admires them more."
"Now you speak of that," said she, "I do not think this gown I have
on becoming--I am sure I look--"
The dean, with the bishop (to whom he had been reading a treatise
just going to the press, which was to be published in the name of
the latter, though written by the former), now entered, to inquire
why they had been sent for in such haste.
"Oh, Dean! oh, my Lord Bishop!" she cried, resuming that grief which
the thoughts of her dress had for a time dispelled--"My reputation
is destroyed--a public print has accused me of playing deep at my
own house, and winning all the money."
"The world will never reform," said the bishop: "all our labour, my
friend, is thrown away."
"But is it possible," cried the dean, "that any one has dared to say
this of you?"
"Here it is in print," said she, holding out a newspaper.
The dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed, "I can forgive a
falsehood SPOKEN--the warmth of conversation may excuse it--but to
WRITE and PRINT an untruth is unpardonable, and I will prosecute
this publisher."
"Still the falsehood will go down to posterity," said Lady
Clementina; "and after ages will think I was a gambler."
"Comfort yourself, dear madam," said young Henry, wishing to console
her: "perhaps after ages may not hear of you; nor even the present
age think much about you."
The bishop now exclaimed, after having taken the paper from the
dean, and read the paragraph, "It is a libel, a rank libel, and the
author must be punished."
"Not only the author, but the publisher," said the dean.
"Not only the publisher, but the printer," continued the bishop.
"And must my name be bandied about by lawyers in a common court of
justice?" cried Lady Clementina. "How shocking to my delicacy!"
"My lord, it is a pity we cannot try them by the ecclesiastical
court," said the dean, with a sigh.
"Or by the India delinquent bill," said the bishop, with vexation.
"So totally innocent as I am!" she vociferated with sobs. "Every
one knows I never touch a card at home, and this libel charges me
with playing at my own house; and though, whenever I do play, I own
I am apt to win, yet it is merely for my amusement."
"Win or not win, play or not play," exclaimed both the churchmen,
"this is a libel--no doubt, no doubt, a libel."
Poor Henry's confined knowledge of his native language tormented him
so much with curiosity upon this occasion, that he went softly up to
his uncle, and asked him in a whisper, "What is the meaning of the
word libel?"
"A libel," replied the dean, in a raised voice, "is that which one
person publishes to the injury of another."
"And what can the injured person do," asked Henry, "if the
accusation should chance to be true?"
"Prosecute," replied the dean.
"But, then, what does he do if the accusation be false?"
"Prosecute likewise," answered the dean.
"How, uncle! is it possible that the innocent behave just like the
guilty?"
"There is no other way to act."
"Why, then, if I were the innocent, I would do nothing at all sooner
than I would act like the guilty. I would not persecute--"
"I said PROSECUTE," cried the dean in anger. "Leave the room; you
have no comprehension."
"Oh, yes, now I understand the difference of the two words; but they
sound so much alike, I did not at first observe the distinction.
You said, 'the innocent prosecute, but the GUILTY PERSECUTE.'" He
bowed (convinced as he thought) and left the room.
After this modern star-chamber, which was left sitting, had agreed
on its mode of vengeance, and the writer of the libel was made
acquainted with his danger, he waited, in all humility, upon Lady
Clementina, and assured her, with every appearance of sincerity,
"That she was not the person alluded to by the paragraph in
question, but that the initials which she had conceived to mark out
her name, were, in fact, meant to point out Lady Catherine Newland."
"But, sir," cried Lady Clementina, "what could induce you to write
such a paragraph upon Lady Catherine? She NEVER plays."
"We know that, madam, or we dared not to have attacked her. Though
we must circulate libels, madam, to gratify our numerous readers,
yet no people are more in fear of prosecutions than authors and
editors; therefore, unless we are deceived in our information, we
always take care to libel the innocent--we apprehend nothing from
them--their own characters support them--but the guilty are very
tenacious; and what they cannot secure by fair means, they will
employ force to accomplish. Dear madam, be assured I have too much
regard for a wife and seven small children, who are maintained by my
industry alone, to have written anything in the nature of a libel
upon your ladyship."
CHAPTER XVI.
About this period the dean had just published a pamphlet in his own
name, and in which that of his friend the bishop was only mentioned
with thanks for hints, observations, and condescending encouragement
to the author.
This pamphlet glowed with the dean's love for his country; and such
a country as he described, it was impossible NOT to love.
"Salubrious air, fertile fields, wood, water, corn, grass, sheep,
oxen, fish, fowl, fruit, and vegetables," were dispersed with the
most prodigal hand; "valiant men, virtuous women; statesmen wise and
just; tradesmen abounding in merchandise and money; husbandmen
possessing peace, ease, plenty; and all ranks liberty." This
brilliant description, while the dean read the work to his family,
so charmed poor Henry, that he repeatedly cried out,
"I am glad I came to this country."
But it so happened that a few days after, Lady Clementina, in order
to render the delicacy of her taste admired, could eat of no one
dish upon the table, but found fault with them all. The dean at
length said to her,
"Indeed, you are too nice; reflect upon the hundreds of poor
creatures who have not a morsel or a drop of anything to subsist
upon, except bread and water; and even of the first a scanty
allowance, but for which they are obliged to toil six days in the
week, from sun to sun."
"Pray, uncle," cried Henry, "in what country do these poor people
live?"
"In this country," replied the dean.
Henry rose from his chair, ran to the chimney-piece, took up his
uncle's pamphlet, and said, "I don't remember your mentioning them
here."
"Perhaps I have not," answered the dean, coolly.
Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book, but he could meet
only with luxurious details of "the fruits of the earth, the beasts
of the field, the birds of the air, and the fishes of the sea."
"Why, here is provision enough for all the people," said Henry; "why
should they want? why do not they go and take some of these things?"
"They must not," said the dean, "unless they were their own."
"What, uncle! does no part of the earth, nor anything which the
earth produces, belong to the poor?"
"Certainly not."
"Why did not you say so, then, in your pamphlet?"
"Because it is what everybody knows."
"Oh, then, what you have said in your pamphlet is only what--nobody
knows."
There appeared to the dean, in the delivery of this sentence, a
satirical acrimony, which his irritability as an author could but
ill forgive.
An author, it is said, has more acute feelings in respect to his
works than any artist in the world besides.
Henry had some cause, on the present occasion, to think this
observation just; for no sooner had he spoken the foregoing words,
than his uncle took him by the hand out of the room, and, leading
him to his study, there he enumerated his various faults; and having
told him "it was for all those, too long permitted with impunity,
and not merely for the PRESENT impertinence, that he meant to punish
him," ordered him to close confinement in his chamber for a week.
In the meantime, the dean's pamphlet (less hurt by Henry's critique
than HE had been) was proceeding to the tenth edition, and the
author acquiring literary reputation beyond what he had ever
conferred on his friend the bishop.
The style, the energy, the eloquence of the work was echoed by every
reader who could afford to buy it--some few enlightened ones
excepted, who chiefly admired the author's INVENTION.
CHAPTER XVII.
The dean, in the good humour which the rapid sale of his book
produced, once more took his nephew to his bosom; and although the
ignorance of young Henry upon the late occasions had offended him
very highly, yet that self-same ignorance, evinced a short time
after upon a different subject, struck his uncle as productive of a
most rare and exalted virtue.
Henry had frequently, in his conversation, betrayed the total want
of all knowledge in respect to religion or futurity, and the dean
for this reason delayed taking him to church, till he had previously
given him instructions WHEREFORE he went.
A leisure morning arrived, on which he took his nephew to his study,
and implanted in his youthful mind the first unconfused idea of the
Creator of the universe!
The dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention; his understanding,
expanded by time to the conception of a God--and not warped by
custom from the sensations which a just notion of that God inspires-
-dwelt with delight and wonder on the information given him--lessons
which, instilled into the head of a senseless infant, too often
produce, throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to
the truths revealed.
Yet, with all that astonished, that respectful sensibility which
Henry showed on this great occasion, he still expressed his opinion,
and put questions to the dean, with his usual simplicity, till he
felt himself convinced.
"What!" cried he--after being informed of the attributes inseparable
from the Supreme Being, and having received the injunction to offer
prayers to Him night and morning--"What! am I permitted to speak to
Power Divine?"
"At all times," replied the dean.
"How! whenever I like?"
"Whenever you like," returned the dean.
"I durst not," cried Henry, "make so free with the bishop, nor dare
any of his attendants."
"The bishop," said the dean, "is the servant of God, and therefore
must be treated with respect."
"With more respect than his Master?" asked Henry.
The dean not replying immediately to this question, Henry, in the
rapidity of inquiry, ran on to another:-
"But what am I to say when I speak to the Almighty?"
"First, thank Him for the favours He has bestowed on you."
"What favours?"
"You amaze me," cried the dean, "by your question. Do not you live
in ease, in plenty, and happiness?"
"And do the poor and the unhappy thank Him too, uncle?"
"No doubt; every human being glorifies Him, for having been made a
rational creature."
"And does my aunt and all her card-parties glorify Him for that?"
The dean again made no reply, and Henry went on to other questions,
till his uncle had fully instructed him as to the nature and the
form of PRAYER; and now, putting into his hands a book, he pointed
out to him a few short prayers, which he wished him to address to
Heaven in his presence.
Whilst Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed, he trembled,
turned pale, and held, for a slight support, on the chair placed
before him.
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