FROM this time, Matilda felt as if her heart was lightened of a heavy load, and she looked up to Mr. and Mrs. Harewood as friends, whom it was her duty to obey and her privilege to love; and to the children, as brothers, whose pleasures were as dear to her as her own; and the warmth and openness of her temper naturally led her to display more than usual friendship, wherever she professed it at all. Happily, with all her faults, she was neither mean, artful, nor deceitful; so that the worst part of her disposition lay open to the observation of those good friends, who, like skilful physicians, only wounded to cure her.

The errors of Matilda were those which never fail to attach to extreme indulgence—pride, impetuosity, haughtiness, insolence, and idleness. Accustomed to consider all around her as born for her use and amusement, she commanded where she should have entreated, and resisted where she ought to have obeyed; but when she found that her wealth, power, and consequence were unknown, or utterly disregarded, and that she could only be esteemed for her good qualities, even her self-love tended to cure her of her idleness; and instead of drawling out—“Zebby, bring me this,” “You fool, fetch me the other,” she administered to her own wants, and obtained her wishes at so much less expense than she had once thought possible, that even her own convenience taught her the wisdom of waiting upon herself. She imputed the change, which could not fail to be remarked, to the climate—and unquestionably it is more easy and pleasant to be active in a cold country, than a hot one; but her friends were well aware that the change in her mind was greater than that of her country, and they forwarded this happy effect, by rendering the studies in which she engaged as delightful to her as possible, in order that, by prosecuting them, she might become less liable to rest her happiness on the vain pomp, useless show, and tyrannical power, which were wont to delight her.

As, however, all bad habits are slowly eradicated, and it by no means follows that even the error we have lamented and acknowledged should be so torn from the heart that no traces remain, so it would happen, from time to time, that Matilda would fly into violent passions with the servants around her, as with her young companions; and even when these were suppressed, she was apt to give herself airs of importance, and descant on the privileges she enjoyed in her own country, where she was fanned when she was hot, by slaves upon their knees, and borne about in a stately palanquin; where the most exquisite fruits were continually presented to court her palate, and the most costly dresses that money could procure purchased to please her; where every slave trembled at her anger, or rejoiced in her smile; and where she would one day return to reign as absolute as an empress.

“Well,” said Ellen, one night, as this conversation took place in the play-room, “I must own I should like to live at Barbadoes for one thing—I should like to set all the slaves at liberty, and dress their little children, and make all happy; as to all the other good things and grand things, I really think we have quite sufficient of them at home; for I suppose there are no more books nor charities in your country than ours, Matilda; and surely there can be no greater pleasure in this world, than reading the ‘Parent’s Assistant,’ and giving clothes and food to poor children when they are really hungry and starving?”

“Certainly not,” cried Charles; “depend upon it, Ellen, England is the finest land in the world; and though I should like to see oranges and pine-apples grow, I confess, and the poor slaves at their merry meeting, all dancing away, with their woolly heads and white teeth, as happy as princes, yet, depend upon it, there is nothing else half so beautiful as with us. England is unquestionably the most beautiful, excellent, rich, delightful country upon the globe.”

As Charles spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Edmund; for although the ardour of his spirits rendered him a great dealer in positive assertions, he was yet so conscious of his inferiority in knowledge to his eldest brother, that he seldom felt satisfied with them, unless they were stamped by his brother’s approbation.

Edmund, in answer to his appealing eye, said—“I am as well convinced as you can be, Charles, that England combines more advantages than any other country, and that we either have in ourselves, or obtain from other countries, whatever is most worthy of possession; and the two good things which Ellen considers the greatest pleasures of existence, are undoubtedly to be had here in perfection; but I must own I should like to see Barbadoes prodigiously, for a property which none of you have yet mentioned.”

“What, have not I mentioned it?” said Matilda.

“No, Matilda; you have been so much taken up with fine verandas, grand dinners, kneeling slaves, luxurious palanquins, orange groves, and delicious sweetmeats, that you have never once boasted of your pure air, and the glories of your evening sky, where all the planets shine with such a glowing lustre, that, Mr. Edwards tells us, Venus is there a kind of moon, in the light she sheds upon the earth, and those stars which are scarcely to be discerned here, are beheld in that enchanting air as bright as the stars of Orion with us.”

“Well,” cried Charles, “that must all be because Barbadoes, and the other West India islands, are so much nearer the sun, and I cannot say I have any desire to be in such a hot neighbourhood.”

“No, Charles, that is not the reason; for although it is the fact, yet you cannot suppose that their difference can be perceptible, in that respect, to those heavenly bodies which appear to resemble only diamond sparks, from their immense distance. The brilliancy of which I speak arises from the greater purity of the air: we frequently see objects here through a kind of veil, which, though too thin to be perceptible, has yet its effect upon all objects: in some cases it alters, or rather bestows, a colour which does not properly belong to them; frequently impairs their form and beauty, but sometimes adds to their sublimity, and invests them with imposing greatness, proportioned to the obscurity with which they are enveloped.”

“I don’t understand all that Edmund says,” observed Ellen, “but I should be glad to know whether something is not the matter with the sun when it looks copper-colour like the lid of a stewpan; because in summer-time, I remember, when we were out in the fields, it used to be bright golden yellow, so glorious and full of shine, as it were, that looking at it, even for a moment, made my eyes ache, and thousands of black and green spots to come into them.”

“My dear Ellen, though you did not understand all the words I used, it is yet plain you did comprehend the sense, as you have brought forward an example of this effect of the atmosphere, which we all witness every day; the fogs and exhalations through which we view the sun are the cause of that dingy appearance you remark: and even in the summer-time, as the sun descends, you may perceive he becomes more and more red and dark as he approaches the horizon. I have therefore no doubt but the veil, or vapoury substance, of which I speak, is but a little distance from the earth; for I observe, that as the sun rises into the heavens, he grows more brilliant from surmounting this veil.”

“Did you find this out of yourself, Edmund?”

“I noticed it one day to papa, and he explained it; he told me, too, that all the beautiful variety of colours which we observe in the setting sun must be imputed to this cause; he taught me at the same time to distinguish shadows in the water by reflection, and those which are refracted, and many other things, which rendered me much more delighted with the country than I had ever been before, and more fond of dear papa for taking the trouble to inform me.”

“Well then,” said Ellen, “when we go down to Richmond next summer, you must explain every thing to us, and we will love you better than ever, dear Edmund; and I will say the Ode to Eton College to you in my very best manner; perhaps Matilda will be able to say it before then, and——”

“Go on, Ellen.”

“I want to know—we want to know what it means in that poem, where it says,

What is a holy shade, Edmund?”

“It is a poetical expression, my dear, meaning that we of the present day are grateful to the founder, Henry the Sixth, who was a religious, and probably a learned man, although very unfortunate as a king.”

“Oh,” cried Ellen, “I remember all about him; he was deposed by Edward the Fourth, whose two sons were afterwards murdered in the Tower by their wicked uncle, Richard the Third.”

“I remember that,” said Matilda, timidly, yet with that kind of pleasure which indicated a sense of approaching her superior in knowledge, and being sensible that this was the only kind of superiority worth possessing.

Scarcely, however, had she spoken, when Charles, throwing himself into a theatrical attitude, exclaimed—“Ay! but do you remember the man that looked like him—to this same Henry, ‘Who drew Priam’s curtains in the dead of night, and would have told him half his Troy was burnt?’”

“No, indeed,” said both the girls, staring.

Charles burst into a loud laugh at their innocent surprise at his violent gesticulation and grimace.

“I know what you mean,” said Ellen, rather poutingly; “yes, I know it very well, though I don’t choose to talk about things of that kind, because I have always been told that none but ignorant and foolish people did so.”

“But I entreat you,” said Charles, “to tell me what you think I mean, for I am sure you surprise me now as much as I did you.”

“Why, I suppose Henry’s holy shade means spirit, and it was that which drew Priam’s curtains in the dead of night, (or which he thought did,) though it was probably only the housemaid.”

Again Charles burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, exclaiming—“Housemaid! admirable! upon my word, Ellen, you have found a personage in the old king’s establishment Homer never thought of.”

“I never read Homer,” said Ellen, simply.

“No, child, you need not tell us that,” continued Charles, most provokingly continuing to laugh, until poor Ellen was completely disconcerted, and looked in the face of Edmund with such an appealing air, that he assumed a look of much more serious remonstrance than was usual as he thus addressed his brother—“You may laugh as long as you please, sir, but your whole conduct in this affair has shown so much less knowledge, as well as good sense, than Ellen herself has displayed, that really I should not wonder if a moment’s recollection made you cry as heartily as you now laugh.”

“Indeed!” said Charles, suddenly stopping.

“Yes, indeed! In the first place, there can be surely no doubt but you and I have read a great deal more than the girls, and could at any time puzzle and distress them by various quotations; but when they make inquiries to increase their own stock of knowledge, it is our duty, and ought to be our pleasure, to give them information, not confusion, which you evidently intended to do; besides, it is rude, almost inhuman, to oppress any person, even by the possession of that which is in itself praiseworthy; and as the end of all conversation is, or ought to be, improvement, a person who in any manner checks the spirit of inquiry and free discussion, hinders that end. We all know that English history is all that Ellen has dipped into, and in the little she presumed to utter on the subject, she was perfectly correct; whereas you, in your exhibition of more reading, made a palpable error, since Homer names maids repeatedly as belonging to the palace, and we cannot doubt their being employed as our housemaids are, since their offices are often particularized.”

“A mighty piece of work, truly,” said Charles, “for just quoting two lines of Shakspeare!”

“No, no, Charles, ’tis not for the quotation, but the manner, and you cannot but see yourself how erroneous an idea was taken up in consequence; how often does papa say people can never be too plain and simple, too downright and unequivocal, in their explanations to children, otherwise they plant words rather than ideas in their minds, and create a confusion which it may take many a year of after-thought to unravel?”

“I was very foolish,” said Charles, looking at Ellen with the air of one that wondered how it had been possible to give pain to that little gentle heart, which sought only to bestow pleasure on all around it. He was about to speak, but before he had time, his fond sister had read his heart, and throwing her arms around his neck, she exclaimed—“I know you meant nothing, dear Charles; no, I know you didn’t; only you are so fond of being funny.”

The eyes of Charles did indeed now twinkle with a tear; and Matilda, who was quick to discern, and acute in all her feelings, was much affected. When they retired, she revolved all the conversation in her mind; she saw clearly that virtue and knowledge were the only passports to happiness; and the remembrance of her mother’s desire to teach her various things, which she had either shunned from idleness, or rejected with insolence and ill-humour, rose to her mind; and the unhappy indulgence of her father appeared to her in far different colours to what she had ever beheld it. She became frequently disturbed, and full of painful reflection; yet she evidently took much pains in attaining knowledge of the task assigned her, and in conquering those risings of temper which were become inherent in her mind. Notwithstanding her frequent fits of abstraction, in which it was evident some great grief was uppermost in her mind, yet, as her nature led her to be communicative, and she was never subject to be sullen, the family did not press her to reveal her trouble, thinking that at the proper time she would repose confidence in them; and accordingly, as she sat one day alone with Mrs. Harewood, the following conversation took place between them.