"Because I should have felt the same," said Ellen, simply.
"Then I must have explained myself very badly, my dear children, or you must have both misunderstood me. I did not mean you to neglect such on enjoyment as poetry, but only to keep it in its proper sphere, and not allow it to take the place of resources, equally intellectual, but which have and may still cost you more patience and labor. Poetry is a dangerous gift, my dear child; but as long as you bring it to the common treasury of Home, and regard it merely as a recreation, only to be enjoyed when less attractive duties and studies are completed, you have my full permission to cultivate—and try, by the study of our best authors, and whatever other help I can obtain for you, to improve yourself in it. No talent that is lent us should be thrown aside, my Emmeline; our only care must be, not—by loving and pursuing it too intensely—to abuse it; but I must not lecture you any longer, or Percy's patience will fail; I see he has placed Miss Harcourt already at the piano, and Edward and Caroline are ready for their waltz."
"And so I transform one Muse into another," exclaimed Percy, who, in his sister's absorbed attention, had neared her unobserved, and catching her round the waist, bore her to the upper end of the room, and a minute afterward she was enjoying her waltz, with as much childish glee, as if neither poetry nor reflection could have any thing to do with her.
"Why is poetry a dangerous gift, dear aunt?" inquired Ellen, who had listened earnestly to all Mrs. Hamilton had said.
"Because, my love, it is very apt to excite and encourage an over-excess of feeling; gives a habit of seeing things other than they really are, and engenders a species of romantic enthusiasm, most dangerous to the young, especially of our sex, whose feelings generally require control and repression, even when not joined to poetry. To a well-regulated mind and temper, the danger is not of the same serious kind as to the irregulated, but merely consists in the powerful temptation it too often presents to neglect duties and employments of more consequence, for its indulgence. There is a species of fascination in the composition of even the most inferior poetry, which urges its pursuit, as giving so little trouble, compared to the perseverance necessary for music and drawing, and such a vast amount of pleasure, that it is difficult to withdraw from it. This is still more strongly the case when the young first become conscious of the gift, as Emmeline is now. As she gets older, and her taste improves, she will not be satisfied with her efforts, unless they are very superior to the present, and the trouble she will take in correcting and improving, will remove a great deal of the too dangerous fascination attending it now; still I am not anxious, while she retains her confidence in my affection and experience, and will so control the enjoyment, as not to permit its interference with her other more serious employments."
Ellen listened eagerly, and they continued conversing on many similar topics of interest and improvement, till the prayer bell rang, and startled her into the recollection that she had always retired nearly an hour before, and so had avoided entering the library, which she still quite shrunk from. Percy stopped his dance, which he had converted from a waltz into a most inspiring gallopade, the last importation, he declared, from Almack's; Miss Harcourt closed the piano; and Herbert paused in his conversation with his father. Nothing like gloom ever marked the signal for the hour of devotion, but lighter pleasures always ceased a few minutes before, that they might better realize the more serious thought and service.
Mrs. Hamilton had never ceased to regret the disgrace she had inflicted on Ellen, in not permitting her to retain her own place with the family, at least in the hours of devotion, for it seemed more difficult to remove that impression than any of her other trials. Returning her niece's startled look with one of the sincerest affection, she said—
"You will remain with us to-night, my dear Ellen, will you not?"
"If you wish it, aunt."
"I do wish it, dearest, most earnestly. It is so long since I have had the happiness of seeing all my children round me in this solemn hour, and till you join us, I can not feel quite sure that you have indeed forgiven an act of severity, which, could I but have suspected the truth, I should never have inflicted."