The meeting with Mrs. Paget.
“What, Louis! my little Master Louis!” exclaimed the lady; “I did not expect to see you. Where have you come from?”
“I am at school, ma'am, at Dr. Wilkinson's, and I had leave to come out with Hamilton this afternoon. This is Hamilton, ma'am—Hamilton, this is Mrs. Paget.”
“Our rencontre, Mr. Hamilton,” said the lady, “has been most fortunate; for without this contretemps I should have been quite ignorant of Master Louis' being so near—you must come and see me, dear. Mr. Hamilton, I must take him home with me this afternoon.”
“It is impossible, ma'am,” said Hamilton, bluntly; “I am answerable for him, and he must go back with me.”
“Can you be so inexorable?” said Mrs. Paget. “Will you come, too, and Mr. Francis Digby—I beg your pardon, Mr. Frank, I did not see you.”
“I beg yours, ma'am,” replied the affable Frank, with a most engaging bow; “for I was so taken up with the tempting display on the green this afternoon, that I only became aware this moment of my approximation to yourself.”
“The shops are very gay, certainly; but I should have thought that you young gentlemen would not have cared much for the display. Now, a tailor's shop would have been much more in your taste.”
“Indeed, ma'am, we came out with the express purpose of buying a silk for the Lady Louisa.”
“I wonder any lady should commission you to buy any thing for her.”
“Oh!” replied Frank, “I am renowned for my taste; and Hamilton is equally well qualified. Can you recommend us a good milliner, ma'am?”
“I am going to look at some bonnets,” said the lady. “But, Mr. Frank, I half suspect you are quizzing. What Lady Louisa are you speaking of?”
Frank had drawn up his face into a very grave and confidential twist, when Mrs. Paget's equerry, the young gentleman before mentioned, offered his arm, and, giving Frank a withering look, warned the lady of the time.
“You are right. It is getting late,” she said. “Good-bye, dear boy. Where are you now? Dr. Williams?”
“Dr. Wilkinson's, Ashfield House,” said Louis.
“Henry, will you remember the address?” said the lady.
The young gentleman grunted some kind of acquiescence; and, after due adieus, Mrs. Paget walked into the shop.
“Frank, I'm ashamed of you,” said Hamilton.
“I am sure,” replied Frank, “I've been doing all the work; I'm a walking exhibition of entertainment for man and beast.”
Hamilton would not laugh, and, finding all remonstrances unavailing, he quickened his pace and walked on in silence till they reached the music-seller's, where, after some deliberation, they obtained the requisite music, and, after a few more errands, began to retrace their steps.
The walk home was very merry. Louis, having unfastened the bundle, tried over some of the songs, and taught Frank readily the contralto of two. Then he wanted to try Hamilton, but this in the open air Hamilton stoutly resisted, though he promised to make an effort at some future time. After Frank and Louis had sung their duets several times over to their own satisfaction while sitting under a hedge, all the party grew silent: there was something so beautiful in the stillness and brightness, that none felt inclined to disturb it. At last, Louis suddenly began Eve's hymn:
“How cheerful along the gay mead
The daisy and cowslip appear!
The flocks, as they carelessly feed,
Rejoice in the spring of the year;
The myrtles that shade the gay bowers,
The herbage that springs from the sod,
Trees, plants, cooling fruits, and sweet flowers,
All rise to the praise of my God.
“Shall man, the great master of all,
The only insensible prove?
Forbid it, fair gratitude's call!
Forbid it, devotion and love!
Thee, Lord, who such wonders canst raise,
And still canst destroy with a nod,
My lips shall incessantly praise,
My soul shall be wrapped in my God.”
—Dr. Arne.
Frank joined in the latter part of the first verse, but was silent in the second.
“Why did you not go on, Frank?” asked Hamilton.
“It was too sweet,” said Frank. “Louis, I envy you your thoughts.”
“Do you?” said Louis, looking up quickly in his cousin's face, with a bright expression of pleasure.
“When you began that song,” continued Frank, “I was thinking of those lines,
‘These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!’ ”
“ ‘Thyself how wondrous then!’ ” repeated Hamilton, reverentially.
“I don't know how it is, Louis,” said Frank; “in cathedrals, and in beautiful scenery, when a grave fit comes over me, I sometimes think I should like to be religious.”
Louis squeezed his hand, but did not speak.
“Take care, Frank,” said Hamilton with some emotion. “Be very, very careful not to mistake sentiment for religion. I am sure it is so easy to imagine the emotion excited by beauty of sight or sound, religious, that we cannot, be too careful in examining the reason of such feelings.”
“But how, Hamilton?” said Frank. “You would not check such impressions?”
“No; it is better that our thoughts should be carried by beauty to the source of all beauty; but to a poetical, susceptible imagination this is often the case where there is not the least vital religion, Frank. The deist will gaze on the splendid landscape, and bow in reverence to the God of nature, but a Christian's thoughts should fly to his God at all times; the light and beauty of the scenes of nature should be within himself. When a person's whole religion consists in these transient emotions, he ought to mistrust it, Digby.”
“But, dear Hamilton,” said Louis, after a few minutes' silence, “we ought to be thankful when God gives us the power of enjoying the beautiful things He has made. Would it not be ungrateful to check every happy feeling of gratitude and joy for the power to see, and hear, and enjoy, with gladness and thankfulness, the loveliness and blessings around?”
“The height of ingratitude, dear Louis,” said Hamilton, emphatically. “But I am sure you understand me.”
“To be sure,” said Louis. “Many good gifts our Almighty Father has given us, and one perfect gift, and the good gifts should lead us to think more of the perfect one. I often have thought, Hamilton, of that little girl's nice remark that I read to you last Sunday, about the good and perfect gifts.”
Hamilton did not reply, and for a minute or two longer they sat in silence, when the report of a gun at a little distance roused them, and almost at the same instant, a little bird Louis had been watching as it flew into a large tree in front of them, fell wounded from branch to branch, until it rested on the lowest, where a flutter among the leaves told of its helpless sufferings.
“I must get it, Hamilton!” cried Louis, starting up. “It is wounded.”
“The branch is too high,” said Hamilton. “I dare say the poor thing is dying; we cannot do it any good.”
“Indeed I must try!” exclaimed Louis, scrambling partly up the immense trunk of the tree, and slipping down much more quickly. “I wish there were something to catch hold of, or to rest one's foot against.”
“You'll never get up,” said Hamilton, laughing; “if you must get it, mount my shoulders.”
As he spoke he came under the tree, and Louis, availing himself of the proffered assistance, succeeded in reaching and bringing down the wounded bird, which he did with many expressions of gratitude to Hamilton.
“I am sure you ought to be obliged,” said Frank. “Royalty lending itself out as a ladder is an unheard-of anomaly. Pray, what are you going to do with cock-sparrow now you have got him?”
Louis only replied by laying some grass and leaves in the bottom of his cap, and putting the bird on this extempore bed. He then seized Hamilton's arm and urged him forward. Hamilton responded to Louis' anxiety with some queries on the expediency of assisting wounded birds if pleasant walks were to be thereby curtailed, and Frank, after suggesting, to Louis' horror, the propriety of making a pie of his favorite, walked on, singing,
“A little cock-sparrow sat upon a tree,”
which, with variations, lasted till they reached the playground gates, where Louis ran off to find Clifton, that he might enter into proper arrangements for due attendance on his sparrow's wants.
Chapter XVII.
“In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin; but he that refraineth his lips is wise.”—Prov. x. 19.
“Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips.”—Prov. xxvii. 2.
We are now considering Louis Mortimer under prosperity; a state in which it is much more difficult to be watchful, than in that of adversity. When he first came to school, his struggle was to be consistent in maintaining his principles against ridicule and fear of his fellow-creatures' judgment. In that he nearly failed; and then came the hard trial we have related, the furnace from whose fires he came so bright: and another trial awaited him, but different still.
By the beauty of conduct Divine grace alone had enabled him to observe, he now won the regard of the majority of his school-fellows; and no one meddled with him or his opinions. He was loved by many; liked by most, and unmolested by the rest. We are told, “When a man's ways please the Lord, even his enemies are at peace with him;”and this was Louis' case. If a few remarks were now and then made on the singularity and stiffness of his notions, the countenance of the seniors, and the general estimation in which he was held, prevented any annoyance or interference. His feet were now on smooth ground, and the sky was bright above his head; and he began to forget that a storm had ever been.
One day between school-hours, when Louis and his brother were diligently drilling the chorus, they were summoned to the drawing-room, where they found the doctor standing talking with a lady, in the large bay-window. Her face was turned towards the prospect beyond, and she did not see them enter; and near her, leaning on the top of a high-backed chair, stood a tall gentlemanly youth, whom Louis immediately recognized as Mrs. Paget's esquire. The lady was speaking as they entered, and her gentle lady-like tones fell very pleasantly on Louis' ears, and made him sure he should like her, if even the words she had chosen had been otherwise.
“I have been quite curious to see him; my sister has said so much, poor little fellow!”
Dr. Wilkinson at this moment became aware of the presence of his pupils, and, turning round, introduced them to the lady, and the lady in turn to them, as Mrs. Norman.
“I am personally a stranger to you, Master Mortimer,” said Mrs. Norman; “but I have often heard of you. You know Mrs. Paget?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Louis.
“She is my sister, and, not being able to come herself to-day, she commissioned me to bring an invitation for you and your brother to spend the rest of this day with her, if Dr. Wilkinson will kindly allow it.”
