and to themselves. To malign it, is simply the part, he will boldly say, of one impious, ignorant, or insane; to prevent a vocation, he will add, would be not only cruel, irreligious, and the part of a meddling, ill-natured person, but it would be contrary to all the traditions of Christian nobility; as when the Duc de Beauvilliers could only reply to Saint-Simon, who demanded his daughter, when wishing to become a nun, “Si c'est sa vocation, que voulez-vous que j'y fasse? Il faut suivre la volonté de Dieu, et il sera le protecteur de ma famille. Dieu aura la préférence, et l'auroit sur le dauphin même *." That there are sacrifices upon which Heaven itself throws incense, the bower's advocate will not be the person to deny; and he will observe, moreover, that there are noble souls, which even from an unnecessary step can reap later immense advantage; but he will conclude by saying, that to the best of common mortals' judgment, at least, it does not seem to follow, that it must always, in every case, heedless of ordinary providential signs, be the right thing to take that step, even though others should for a moment talk of their being cut to the brain by their so doing. However, as there is no proceeding in such cases by fine and recovery, he will finish, perhaps, invoking the influence of sportive humour while calling for a verdict in favour of the bower. He will say, that when it is a question of leaving it, be the destination proposed what it may, no one should be let out unless the reason be palpable, and the occasion fitting and imperative. The good man who is come to offer an escort should be warned, he will say, lest he take upon him at once the twofold and opposite offices of leading into grace and out of it. Come to transplant sweets, he may be civilly entreated to pass on to parterres where there is need of that operation. Here, perhaps, can be spared neither bud nor flower; and as for the sweet marjoram of the salad, or rather the herb of grace, let him go his ways, for no one here wants to fall out with him. Let his courtesies alone; they are scurvy ones. Let him depart, a stranger, no offender; and inform him so 'tis our will he should. Though you pinch me like a pasty, I can say no less or more.

Mém. de Saint-Simon, i. 125.

The love of parents for their children should hardly be noticed here, as constituting one of the lessons to be learnt from the bower, though we may take a rapid glance at it, as being capable of increase and development by the influence of what is there observed.

"Pulchra copula," says St. Ambrose, "seniorum et adolescentum. Alii testimonio, alii solatio sunt: alii magisterio, alii delectationi."

Held and sustain'd thee from thy tott'ring childhood:
What holy bond is there of natural love,

What human tie that does not knit thee to me?"

So speaks the parent, friend, and companion. drama a father is heard saying,

In another

It is the same where the bower, long unvisited, is only remembered by some one that might most need its lessons:

"A lone, stern man. Yet as sometimes

The tempest-smitten tree receives

From one small root the sap which climbs
Its topmost spray and crowning leaves,

So from his child this father drew

A life of love and hope, and felt

His cold and rugged nature, through

The softness and the warmth of her young being, melt *."

66

I think one might trace to the same recollections that affecting trait of Lepida, the mother of Messalina, quæ florenti filiæ haud concors, supremis necessitatibus ad miserationem evicta erat t." But we must return to the general instructions which

* Whittier.

†Tacitus, Ann. xi,

children will often expressly supply, and continue to observe them in relation to the spirit of love with which they are so richly endowed, that their presence alone constitutes a benediction. You will still, reader, have to bear with one who has memory each moment to invoke. 'Tis now the winter of his life:

"The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. Yet not unmeet it was that two, like those young friends of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should vanish with the flowers *."

Addressing, then, alternately those who have departed only to flourish in a happier clime, he will say to each,

"In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this,-
The wisdom which is love,-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?"

* Bryant.

CHAPTER VII.

OWER, forsooth! What means this rocking? The idea of placing it in a boat, and in the Alarm, too! I wonder where you'll have it next. However, I own it is pleasant here. You know my old loves! Come, Jack, don't lean over so far. You'll have to be drying

your hair like Dash if you do; and you see how he is shaking and trembling there in the bow, as if he had caught the ague. Shall we give Gyp a swim? Well, as you please; but do lie down on your back like me. How deliciously the sun shines on us, with this breeze to moderate the heat! and then, do you hear the ripple of the waves against the side? But how shall we ever pull all the way back against this tide? Ah, dear Jack, dear Tom! there are waters any of us may have soon to navigate, that there is no rowing back against. But come, I should like to hear you know who playing on his cornet. Let it be your other brother's favourite air, the only song we can ever get from him,

"A life on the ocean wave!"

Oh, Jack! you did right to bring us here. I really can now fancy a bower under this blue water, where I spy tangled tufts, feathery stems, beautifully veined leaves, waving to and fro in the little caverns among the rocks, with mosses too, and coloured leaves of every tint, and things here and there like seats and bushes. With head downwards, I am wandering through the groves and meadows of the submarine world, while I feel the sun as warm as ever as our boat glides over them. 'Tis well with us here! even though we are not on the Thames, "Deus nobis hæc otia fecit."

But let us begin what we have got to say to furnish out this next chapter.

It would be difficult to estimate the value of those instructions to persons of mature life, though so seldom supplied to them,

which have for their object the formation of manners that conciliate the affection of others. “He will teach his way," it is said in the Psalms, "to those who are gentle and humble *." Amiable manners, by these words, seem, therefore, to be almost elevated to the rank of what is called, in scholastic language, theological virtue; which will not surprise those who remember the remark of Homer, which Socrates cites with such applause, that "the just are gentle."

But besides this lofty consideration, which is more immediately for others, there are not wanting motives that should induce every common mortal to study the art of pleasing manners, which often consists, indeed, in getting rid of art; for it is more artificial to be peevish, sullen, froward, proud, stubborn, stately, imperious, scornful, and commanding, than to be the opposite of all this; and therefore poor Juliet might well say, excusing her quick fondness, and what, she confesses, her lover might mistake for light behaviour,

"But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true

Than those that have more cunning to be strange."

Sweet engaging ways are the simplest, the most natural, the easiest to practise; and without them what is even woman, however virtuous, while, like Goneril, she is "too much i' the frown?"

"A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it."

1

"We are born," says the Père Lebrun, "for the society and community of the human race, and therefore we should study that discipline in which all society and community of life must be contained t." He then points out the importance of civility, observing that urbanity and Christian piety cannot be separated from each other. He enters into details, prescribing how and when to uncover, to rise up, to reply, to form the countenance to sweetness, and practise all those attentions which are opposed to sullen or rustic barbarism. He teaches the importance of

xxiv.

† Lebrun, Institutio Juventutis Christianæ.