Nature and Art | Page 6

passed in London, a year followed, during which
William and Henry never sat down to a dinner, or went into a bed,
without hearts glowing with thankfulness to that Providence who had
bestowed on them such unexpected blessings; for they no longer
presumed to expect (what still they hoped they deserved) a secure
pittance in this world of plenty. Their experience, since they came to
town, had informed them that to obtain a permanent livelihood is the
good fortune but of a part of those who are in want of it: and the
precarious earning of half-a-crown, or a shilling, in the neighbourhood
where they lodged, by an errand, or some such accidental means, was
the sole support which they at present enjoyed.
They had sought for constant employment of various kinds, and even
for servants' places; but obstacles had always occurred to prevent their
success. If they applied for the situation of a clerk to a man of extensive
concerns, their qualifications were admitted; but there must be security
given for their fidelity;--they had friends, who would give them a
character, but who would give them nothing else.
If they applied for the place even of a menial servant, they were too
clownish and awkward for the presence of the lady of the house;- -and
once, when William (who had been educated at the free grammar-
school of the town in which he was born, and was an excellent scholar),
hoping to obtain the good opinion of a young clergyman whom he
solicited for the favour of waiting upon him, said submissively, "that he
understood Greek and Latin," he was rejected by the divine, "because
he could not dress hair."
Weary of repeating their mean accomplishments of "honesty, sobriety,
humility," and on the precipice of reprobating such qualities,-- which,
however beneficial to the soul, gave no hope of preservation to the
body,--they were prevented from this profanation by the fortunate
remembrance of one qualification, which Henry, the possessor, in all
his distress, had never till then called to his recollection; but which, as
soon as remembered and made known, changed the whole prospect of
wretchedness placed before the two brothers; and they never knew
want more.
Reader--Henry could play upon the fiddle.

CHAPTER III.

No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play most
enchantingly upon the violin, than he was invited into many companies
where no other accomplishment could have introduced him. His
performance was so much admired, that he had the honour of being
admitted to several tavern feasts, of which he had also the honour to
partake without partaking of the expense. He was soon addressed by
persons of the very first rank and fashion, and was once seen walking
side by side with a peer.
But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for rejoicing, Henry,
whose heart was particularly affectionate, had one grief which eclipsed
all the happiness of his new life;--his brother William could NOT play
on the fiddle! consequently, his brother William, with whom he had
shared so much ill, could not share in his good fortune.
One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and concert at the
Crown and Anchor found William, in a very gloomy and peevish
humour, poring over the orations of Cicero. Henry asked him several
times "how he did," and similar questions, marks of his kind disposition
towards his beloved brother: but all his endeavours, he perceived, could
not soothe or soften the sullen mind of William. At length, taking from
his pocket a handful of almonds, and some delicious fruit (which he
had purloined from the plenteous table, where his brother's wants had
never been absent from his thoughts), and laying them down before
him, he exclaimed, with a benevolent smile, "Do, William, let me teach
you to play upon the violin."
William, full of the great orator whom he was then studying, and still
more alive to the impossibility that HIS ear, attuned only to sense,
could ever descend from that elevation, to learn mere sounds- -William
caught up the tempting presents which Henry had ventured his
reputation to obtain for him, and threw them all indignantly at the
donor's head.
Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of fortune to resent this
ingratitude: he patiently picked up the repast, and laying it again upon
the table, placed by its side a bottle of claret, which he held fast by the
neck, while he assured his brother that, "although he had taken it while
the waiter's back was turned, yet it might be drank with a safe
conscience by them; for he had not himself tasted one drop at the feast,

on purpose that he might enjoy a glass with his brother at home, and
without wronging the company who had invited him."