Nature and Art | Page 8

to place the curls of his hair, but in reality to indulge and to
conceal tears of fraternal pride and joy.
William was not without joy, neither was he wanting in love or
gratitude to his brother; but his pride was not completely satisfied.
"I am the elder," thought he to himself, "and a man of literature, and yet
am I obliged to my younger brother, an illiterate man." Here he
suppressed every thought which could be a reproach to that brother.
But there remained an object of his former contempt, now become even
detestable to him; ungrateful man. The very agent of his elevation was
now so odious to him, that he could not cast his eyes upon the friendly
violin without instant emotions of disgust.
In vain would Henry, at times, endeavour to subdue his haughtiness by
a tune on this wonderful machine. "You know I have no ear," William
would sternly say, in recompense for one of Henry's best solos. Yet was
William enraged at Henry's answer, when, after taking him to hear him
preach, he asked him, "how he liked his sermon," and Henry modestly
replied (in the technical phrase of his profession), "You know, brother,
I have no ear."
Henry's renown in his profession daily increased; and, with his fame,
his friends. Possessing the virtues of humility and charity far above
William, who was the professed teacher of those virtues, his reverend
brother's disrespect for his vocation never once made him relax for a
moment in his anxiety to gain him advancement in the Church. In the
course of a few years, and in consequence of many fortuitous
circumstances, he had the gratification of procuring for him the
appointment to a deanery; and thus at once placed between them an
insurmountable barrier to all friendship, that was not the effect of
condescension on the part of the dean.
William would now begin seriously to remonstrate with his brother

"upon his useless occupation," and would intimate "the degradation it
was to him to hear his frivolous talent spoken of in all companies."
Henry believed his brother to be much wiser than himself, and suffered
shame that he was not more worthy of such a relation. To console
himself for the familiar friend, whom he now perceived he had entirely
lost, he searched for one of a softer nature--he married.

CHAPTER VI.

As Henry despaired of receiving his brother's approbation of his choice,
he never mentioned the event to him. But William, being told of it by a
third person, inquired of Henry, who confirmed the truth of the
intelligence, and acknowledged, that, in taking a wife, his sole view
had been to obtain a kind companion and friend, who would bear with
his failings and know how to esteem his few qualifications; therefore,
he had chosen one of his own rank in life, and who, having a taste for
music, and, as well as himself, an obligation to the art--"
"And is it possible," cried the dean, "that what has been hinted to me is
true? Is it possible that you have married a public singer?"
"She is as good as myself," returned Henry. "I did not wish her to be
better, for fear she should despise me."
"As to despise," answered the dean, "Heaven forbid that we should
despise anyone, that would be acting unlike a Christian; but do you
imagine I can ever introduce her to my intended wife, who is a woman
of family?"
Henry had received in his life many insults from his brother; but, as he
was not a vain man, he generally thought his brother in the right, and
consequently submitted with patience; but, though he had little
self-love, he had for his wife an unbounded affection. On the present
occasion, therefore, he began to raise his voice, and even (in the coarse
expression of clownish anger) to lift his hand; but the sudden and
affecting recollection of what he had done for the dean--of the pains,
the toils, the hopes, and the fears he had experienced when soliciting
his preferment--this recollection overpowered his speech, weakened his
arm, and deprived him of every active force, but that of flying out of

his brother's house (in which they then were) as swift as lightning,
while the dean sat proudly contemplating "that he had done his duty."
For several days Henry did not call, as was his custom, to see his
brother. William's marriage drew near, and he sent a formal card to
invite him on that day; but not having had the condescension to name
his sister-in-law in the invitation, Henry thought proper not to accept it,
and the joyful event was celebrated without his presence. But the
ardour of the bridegroom was not so vehement as to overcome every
other