CHAPTER X.
Ah! waking dreams, that mock the day,
Have other ends than those
That come beneath the moonlight ray
And charm the eyes they close.
The vision, colouring the night,
'Mid bloom and brightness wakes,
Banished by morning's cheerful light.
Which brightens what it breaks.
But dreams, which fill the waking eye
With deeper spells than sleep,
When hours unnumbered pass us by;
From such we wake and weep.
We wake, but not to sleep again,
The heart has lost its youth;
The morning light that wakes us then,
Cold, calm, and stern, is truth.
Norbourne was amply repaid for giving up his gallop over the hills, by the curious study which his uncle presented. He was astonished at the facility with which Lord Norbourne seemed to divine the character of each individual, and how he contrived to adapt himself to it. He avoided politics, and yet often managed to make Sir Robert Walpole the subject of discourse; but it was only to tell some favourable personal anecdote. Once or twice he was fairly entangled in an argument; and each time he allowed himself to be convinced on some minor point, which left, however, the original subject quite untouched.
An allusion to some pamphlet, which had just made a noise, induced Norbourne to mention Walter Maynard to his uncle in terms of warm praise.
"He realises," exclaimed he, warmly, "all one ever imagines of genius. He has the keenest sensibility, and this gives him the key to the sensibility of others. He is eloquent, for his heart is in his words; and he has that passionate melancholy which is the true element of poetry."
"Say no more," interrupted Lord Norbourne: "you have described the man of all others the most unfitted to struggle with the actual world. His sensibility will make him alive to a thousand annoyances, which would be scarcely perceptible to one of colder mould; his eloquence will obtain just admiration enough to deceive him; and his melancholy only asks a few years' experience to deepen into utter despondency. Still, give me his town address; I will, if I can, serve any friend of yours."
"He has wonderful talents," continued his friend.
"Talents," resumed Lord Norboume, "of this high and imaginative order, seem to me rather given to benefit others than their possessor. Their harvest is in the future, not the present. Their brains produce the golden ore, which commoner hands mould to the daily purposes of life."
"I think," replied the young advocate, unwilling to give up a point in which his feelings were interested, "that even you would believe in Walter Maynard's success in life, if you knew him. What has brought the world to its present state, but individual talent?"
"I do not deny your assertion," said his uncle: "but minds of the higher order are not the best suited to ordinary use. I cannot express my meaning better than by using a simile of our opponent, the Irish dean. Swift says,—'take a finely polished razor, and you will waste your labour in getting through a ream of paper, which you need to cut: a coarse bone knife will answer your purpose much better.' Now, your fine-minded man is the razor, and I leave you to make the application."
"Well," replied Courtenaye, "I commend him to your kindness, and beg you to put your judgment out of the question."
"A very common method of acting in this life. But," continued Lord Norbourne, "you can form wishes for a friend—have you none for yourself? I am amazed to see a young man of your appearance and talents—though, after I have been thus depreciating the latter, it is almost an affront to say any thing about those you possess—I am amazed to see you vegetating among your own oaks, as if, like them, growth were your only value."
"I often visit London," replied Norbourne.
"Yes," interrupted his uncle, with something between a smile and a sneer, "to decide on the merits of rival actresses; to bear away a few bon-mots from the coffee-houses; to see that the fashion of your hair is not too much behind hand; and to choose the newest embroidery for your waistcoat."
Norbourne coloured; for there was, at least, truth enough in the description to make it come home.
"As little do I think that your country pursuits deserve to engross your time. Life was given for something better than sitting after fish, walking after birds, and riding after hares."
"As well, my dear uncle," said Courtenaye, laughing, "as tying up your whole life with red tape."
Lord Norbourne smiled.
"We will not try any more attempts at wit. Wit only gains you the reputation of being hard-hearted, which it is very well to be in reality, but not to have the reputation of being. It shocks people's little innocent prejudices, and these I always respect when I can. Indeed, the only character I ever found of any use to man, was that of having no character at all."
"That is the very fault I find with your faction," exclaimed his hearer, eagerly. "It is too much the fashion to decry all lofty moral purpose, to disbelieve in public virtue, and to destroy all high excellence by a crushing disbelief in its excellence."
"That is to say," answered his uncle, calmly, "that Sir Robert knows the world, instead of imagining it: he deals with facts, not sentiments. But I will speak seriously, for it is a subject on which I wish you both to think and act. Look at the results of the Walpole administration—peace and prosperity. We are feared abroad, and tranquil at home. You may easily find finer theories than ours, but I appeal to our practice."
Norbourne remained in attentive silence; while his uncle's quick eye noted the impression he had made, and then continued:—
"You might do any thing with your undecided neighbourhood, and your position points you out as its leader. Ah! I wish that you had the political eagerness of Sir Robert's younger son, Horace; who, hearing some one, during a dispute, say, 'Why, we have opinions enough on our side to form a sect!' exclaimed,—'But have you enough to form a party?'"