Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art No. 716 September 15 1877 by Various Chambers Robert Editor Chambers William Editor

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 139 lines and 20641 words, and 3 pages

Editor: William Chambers Robert Chambers

YOUTHFUL PRODIGIES.

A curious question has more than once been asked: have the most remarkable works, in the various kinds of literary labour, been produced in the flush of youth or the calmness of age? Are men better fitted for vigorous exercise of the mind in the first half or the second half of their existence? The spring and elasticity of temperament, the warmth of feeling, the hopeful aspirations, the activity of vital energy, the longing to throw the thoughts into some kind of words or of music--all tempt one, at a first glance, to say that early authorship is more probable than later.

Certainly the examples of young authorship are neither few nor unimportant. Of course we may take Tristram Shandy's authority with as many grains of allowance as we please; but the marvels told in his colloquy are unique. Yorick declared that Vincent Quirinus, before he was eight years old, pasted up in the public schools of Rome more than four thousand five hundred theses on abstruse questions, and defended them against all opponents. Mr Shandy capped this by citing one erudite man who learned all the sciences and liberal arts without being taught any of them.

As a child , Christian Heineker was one of the most singular of whom we find record. He was born at L?beck about a century and a half ago. When only ten months old he could repeat every word said to him; at twelve months he knew much of Plutarch by heart; at two years he knew the greater part of the Bible; at three could answer most questions in universal history and geography , and began to learn French and Latin; before four he began theology and church history, and expressed argumentative opinions thereon. This precocious little pedant died before he had completed his fifth year.

The late John Stuart Mill 'had no recollection of the time when he began to learn Greek;' but was told it was when he was only three years old. Adanson began at thirteen to write notes on the Natural Histories of Aristotle and Pliny. The calculating boys--Vito Mangiamele, Jedediah Buxton, Zerah Colburn, and George Parker Bidder--illustrate a remarkable phase of early mental activity.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

The next day came the lads Kingston and Charlie Fleming. Kingston was still 'reading,' and sowing his wild oats broadcast and winning honours, all in one. Charlie just started on his career, Sir Vincent best knew how.

It happened that King Fleming found his cousin Deborah alone; she was reading in her own room, where he sought her. She turned on him with a sudden rush of colour and defiant eyes: 'You are not invited here!'

Kingston approached as if he trod on eggs, cap in hand. 'Nay, sweet lady, yet I venture. Deb, you blush! You are reading evil; or is it o' love? O love, love, thou pleasure pain and torment! That same little unruly god with his bow and arrows, hath "shot and hit me sore!"' He sat down opposite Deborah, and gazed at her in his quaint droll way, that had in it a touch of pathos too.

Deborah's lips curled: 'I understand you not.'

'I do not ask your applause,' retorted Deborah, with sudden fire and disdain. 'But I will not argue with you,' she added, with disdain alone. 'You have a weak head now, except for Greek and Latin. Just like a lad, your head runs ever upon marriage, and your tongue can prate o' nothing else.'

Kingston sat on his stool and stared before him: his odd brown face--a face beautiful with the changeful lights of feeling and intellect--assumed a hundred rapid expressions of wonder, regret, pity, remorse, and amaze. His beautiful child-cousin was 'one too much for him.' He never could comprehend her. He did not even admire her tanned dishevelled beauty, and he certainly did not love her; but he stayed himself to pity her, thinking that with such ungovernable passions she must go mad at last. With that, his boyish face grew sad, and he looked very forlorn, sitting in Deborah's sanctum with his lank yellow hair straying across his brow. As for Deborah, after a storm of tears hidden in the pantry, she dried her eyes on her apron like a poor passionate child, and went to seek Charlie, with no malice in her heart--only shame. Charlie was cleaning his gun in the saddle-room, watched at a respectful distance by Mistress Dinnage, who was squatting on the ground and looking low in spirits. Charlie was too busy to glance at Deb's tear-stained face, and Deborah knew him too well to kiss him when he was either intent on business or in sight of a girl. It was happiness enough to Deborah, after a careless word between them, to stand near him, to see the great strong boyish frame, at present even in its strength so loosely knit and jointed, and the brown bony hands, the dear familiar face, the unkempt locks, the wild sombre eyes, that so strangely courted and yet repelled affection.

'Art going back to-night?' ventured Deborah at length, timidly for her.

'Ay, bad luck to it. I hunt to-morrow.'

'Ah, then you will need Bayard, and father has him.'

'King will mount me.'

'I can't squire girls. You must ride with King.'

'I will not.'

'Then I will not have you scampering alone.'

'I will ride with Jordan Dinnage. But you know, Charlie, I can keep up with the best.'

'You can; I'll do you that justice.'

'Oh, I know not and care not. I am well enough.'

'Ah, I know not.'

Charlie smiled somewhat grimly over his gun, but said nothing. Soon Deborah went over to Mistress Dinnage, where she sat glowering with her dark curly head crowned on one side by coquettish scarlet ribbons. They presented a curious contrast, the bailiff's daughter and the baronet's daughter--one sitting with her hands clasped round her knee, in attire bright and gay, gazing up with a frown beneath her jaunty curls, her dark eyes lowering, and her little red-heeled shoe tapping on the ground; the other pale, subdued, and wistful, her long lorn hair falling about her unheeded and unribboned, and her dress dull in colour and in texture coarse, standing before her gaily attired inferior. As Mistress Dinnage gazed, her manner changed; irritability gave way before Deborah's plaintive eyes.

'You have been crying,' said Mistress Dinnage, in her marvellously brusque independent way.

'You know nought about it.'

'He? No! "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." You will do well not to question me, Meg. Come and play.'

That same evening, Sir Vincent Fleming came home late under cover of the darkness, as he always did, and on a swift horse. Deborah flew to meet him; he took her in his arms and kissed her. 'Good-even, Deb. Sweet Deb, has Enderby had visitors?' he whispered.

'Ay, father, the usual ones, whom it is sweet to blind for thy sake, for I had rare promises for Finton. And indeed you tell me, father, that brighter days are in store?'

'Ay, ay, lass; I have found a friend in need.'

'Nay; sweet Deb. But do not question me further;' and he turned his head restlessly away. 'This is indeed a friend to me and mine.--Deb,' he said, with a sudden bright altered change of tone, 'I have news for thee.'

'What news?' asked Deborah, with eager curiosity.

'Ah, then, you have not heard? Have the lads been here to-day?'

'Yes, father.'

'Well, if they have not told you, you may guess.'

'I cannot, I cannot! Nay, sweet father, news are scarce at Enderby; tell me quickly what has happed.'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'Little daughter of Eve, it relates to your cousin Kingston!'

'What is it, father?' Somehow the music had died out of Deborah Fleming's voice and the ripple from her lips.

'King is betrothed to Mistress Beatrix Blancheflower, the old baron's daughter;' and Sir Vincent laughed heartily, with his head in the air.

'Is it so, father? Well--she is rich and she is pretty. Oh, she is pretty, father!'

'Ay. But the boy is but twenty, and such a rattle-pate. Well, it will pay his debts and be a rise for the family. See that thou dost likewise, Deb,' said Sir Vincent, with playful tenderness.

As they walked, Deborah laid her head on her father's arm, which she was clasping. 'Time enough for that, father. Dost want to be rid o' me?'

Sir Vincent laughed. 'Time will change that tune, sweet Deb.'

They sat down by the hall-fire, where Marjory had spread a frugal repast. It passed in silence, for Sir Vincent fell to thinking deeply, and Deborah did not eat or speak at all. After supper, she lighted her father's pipe, then sat down at his feet and laid her fair head on his knees. The fire-blaze flickered over the wide lofty hall; the stag's antlers, the rusty armour, it shone whimsically on all; but Sir Vincent and his fair daughter and the old shaggy deerhound basked in warmth and steady light.

'Dost think Beatrix Blancheflower very pretty, father?'

'Well, yes; but not so pretty as thou.'

'Silly little wench! I have not noticed it in thee. Thou art thy mother all over, Deb.'

'Oh, I am glad! But not so good as she?'

'Well, no. Yet thy mother was not over-fond of prayer, Deb, till she began to ail. She was a madcap, she was a madcap I tell thee, like thou art; and too fond of me, Deb, to care much for her soul. But at the last God came between us two. Ah me!' Tears dimmed those bold stern eyes, or the look akin to tears.

Deborah said no more. Soon she went up to her little room, slowly, and with dragging steps. 'What has paled my Rose of Enderby?' were words that had been uttered by her father; and they haunted her. She looked in her glass. True, she was pale, but great fires burned in her eyes. What was this mighty sorrow, that weighed like a mountain on the gay careless heart? The girl was afraid. She liked it not. She shrank and trembled like a child, and lay down on her bed in a little coiled heap, and moaned in helpless agony. It was like a young wild deer; and behold, in its swift flight of joy, an arrow quivered in the bounding heart, and it fell stricken, and writhed, and raised its innocent pleading eyes, as if asking what was that grievous pain that drew the life-blood from its heart! Thus through the long, long night Deborah Fleming lay and moaned. She did not pray, she did not weep; but in the morning she was the true Deborah Fleming again; at least the world never knew her aught else; for in one long night Deb tired of sorrow, and her poor little soul longed for sunshine and joy again, and sought them wildly.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet