Nature and Art. Mrs. Inchbald

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.

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      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.

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      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