Part 40 (1/2)
”BUT I too might say that 'she and I have not much in common,' if I were only to compare mind to mind, and when my poor Carry says something less profound than Madame de Stael might have said, smile on her in contempt from the elevation of logic and Latin. Yet when I remember all the little sorrows and joys that we have shared together, and feel how solitary I should have been without her--oh, then, I am instantly aware that there is between us in common something infinitely closer and better than if the same course of study had given us the same equality of ideas; and I was forced to brace myself for a combat of intellect, as I am when I fall in with a tiresome sage like yourself. I don't pretend to say that Mrs. Riccabocca is a Mrs. Dale,” added the parson, with lofty candour,--”there is but one Mrs. Dale in the world; but still, you have drawn a prize in the wheel matrimonial! Think of Socrates, and yet he was content even with his--Xantippe!”
Dr. Riccabocca called to mind Mrs. Dale's ”little tempers,” and inly rejoiced that no second Mrs. Dale had existed to fall to his own lot.
His placid Jemima gained by the contrast. Nevertheless he had the ill grace to reply, ”Socrates was a man beyond all imitation!--Yet I believe that even he spent very few of his evenings at home. But revenons a nos moutons, we are nearly at Mrs. Fairfield's cottage, and you have not yet told me what you have settled as to Leonard.”
The parson halted, took Riccabocca by the b.u.t.ton, and informed him, in very few words, that Leonard was to go to Lansmere to see some relations there, who had the fortune, if they had the will, to give full career to his abilities.
”The great thing, in the mean while,” said the parson, ”would be to enlighten him a little as to what he calls--enlightenment.”
”Ah!” said Riccabocca, diverted, and rubbing his hands, ”I shall listen with interest to what you say on that subject.”
”And must aid me: for the first step in this modern march of enlightenment is to leave the poor parson behind; and if one calls out 'Hold! and look at the sign-post,' the traveller hurries on the faster, saying to himself, 'Pooh, pooh!--that is only the cry of the parson!'
But my gentleman, when he doubts me, will listen to you,--you're a philosopher!”
”We philosophers are of some use now and then, even to parsons!”
”If you were not so conceited a set of deluded poor creatures already, I would say 'Yes,'” replied the parson, generously; and, taking hold of Riccabocca's umbrella, he applied the bra.s.s handle thereof, by way of a knocker, to the cottage door.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Certainly it is a glorious fever,--that desire To Know! And there are few sights in the moral world more sublime than that which many a garret might afford, if Asmodeus would bare the roofs to our survey,--namely, a brave, patient, earnest human being toiling his own arduous way, athwart the iron walls of penury, into the magnificent Infinite, which is luminous with starry souls.
So there sits Leonard the Self-taught in the little cottage alone: for, though scarcely past the hour in which great folks dine, it is the hour in which small folks go to bed, and Mrs. Fairfield has retired to rest, while Leonard has settled to his books.
He had placed his table under the lattice, and from time to time he looked up and enjoyed the stillness of the moon. Well for him that, in reparation for those hours stolen from night, the hardy physical labour commenced with dawn. Students would not be the sad dyspeptics they are, if they worked as many hours in the open air as my scholar-peasant. But even in him you could see that the mind had begun a little to affect the frame. They who task the intellect must pay the penalty with the body.
Ill, believe me, would this work-day world get on if all within it were hard-reading, studious animals, playing the deuce with the ganglionic apparatus.
Leonard started as he heard the knock at the door; the parson's well-known voice rea.s.sured him. In some surprise he admitted his visitors.
”We are come to talk to you, Leonard,” said Mr. Dale; ”but I fear we shall disturb Mrs. Fairfield.”
”Oh, no, sir! the door to the staircase is shut, and she sleeps soundly.”
”Why, this is a French book! Do you read French, Leonard?” asked Riccabocca.
”I have not found French difficult, sir. Once over the grammar, and the language is so clear; it seems the very language for reasoning.”
”True. Voltaire said justly, 'Whatever is obscure is not French,'”
observed Riccabocca.
”I wish I could say the same of English,” muttered the parson.
”But what is this,--Latin too?--Virgil?”
”Yes, sir. But I find I make little way there without a master. I fear I must give it up” (and Leonard sighed).
The two gentlemen exchanged looks, and seated themselves. The young peasant remained standing modestly, and in his air and mien there was something that touched the heart while it pleased the eye. He was no longer the timid boy who had shrunk from the frown of Mr. Stirn, nor that rude personation of simple physical strength, roused to undisciplined bravery, which had received its downfall on the village green of Hazeldean. The power of thought was on his brow,--somewhat unquiet still, but mild and earnest. The features had attained that refinement which is often attributed to race, but comes, in truth, from elegance of idea, whether caught from our parents or learned from books.