of his attack and danger, and once more urging him to return. The
thought that Cleveland--the dear, kind gentle guardian of his youth--had
been near unto death, that he might never more have hung upon that
fostering hand, nor replied to that paternal voice, smote Ernest with
terror and remorse. He resolved instantly to return to England, and
made his preparations accordingly.

He went to take leave of the De Montaignes. Teresa was trying to teach
her first-born to read; and seated by the open window of the villa, in
her neat, not precise, /dishabille/--with the little boy's delicate, yet
bold and healthy countenance looking up fearlessly at hers, while she
was endeavouring to initiate him--half gravely, half laughingly--into
the mysteries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young mother
made a delightful picture. De Montaigne was reading the Essays of his
celebrated namesake, in whom he boasted, I know not with what justice,
to claim an ancestor. From time to time he looked from the page to take
a glance at the progress of his heir, and keep up with the march of
intellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture; he was
wise enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy between a child and
a mother, which is worth all the grave superiority of a father in making
learning palatable to young years. He was far too clever a man not to
despise all the systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, which
are the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never made a greater
mistake than in insisting so much upon beginning abstract education from
the cradle. It is quite enough to attend to an infant's temper, and
correct that cursed predilection for telling fibs which falsifies all
Dr. Reid's absurd theory about innate propensities to truth, and makes
the prevailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage ever
compensates for hurting a child's health or breaking his spirit? Never
let him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness of