“I am also anxious to hear of my brother,” said Edric, “but after the information we have already received by the telegraphic dispatch, it appears to me that we have little more to learn of importance.”
“Edric, you are not a father, and you can have no idea of a father’s anxiety,” replied Sir Ambrose, hurrying on to the mount, as though he hoped the rapidity of his motion would afford some relief to the impatience of his mind; whilst the party of the Duke, seeing the point to which he was hastening, opened the valves of their balloon, and made preparations to descend upon the same spot.
The Duke and Sir Ambrose were always glad to meet, but as the present occasion was one of more than ordinary interest, so they now greeted each other with more than ordinary pleasure. The Duke had always been warmly attached to Edmund, and his voice actually trembled with agitation as he exclaimed:—
“Well, my old friend, you see your brave boy is determined to keep us alive still. Our blood would stagnate in our veins, if he did not give us a fillip now and then to rouse us. But what does the young rogue say of himself? I hope he’s not wounded?”
“He never mentions himself,” replied Sir Ambrose, tears glistening in his eyes, as he pressed the hand of his friend warmly in his own; “Edmund loves his country too devotedly to think of himself when he is engaged in her service.”
“Well, well, it is all right,” cried the Duke, “he is a brave boy, that is certain.”
Sir Ambrose did not reply, for he had now reached the summit of the mount, and was too eagerly looking round in every direction to attend to his friend’s remark.
In those days, the ancient method of conveying the post having been found much too slow for so enlightened a people, an ingenious scheme had been devised, by which the letters were put into balls and discharged by steam-cannon, from place to place; every town and district having a piece of toile metallique, or woven wire, suspended in the air, so as to form a kind of net to arrest the progress of the ball, and being provided with a cannon to send it off again, when the letters belonging to that neighbourhood should have been extracted: whilst, to prevent accident, the mail-post letter-balls were always preceded by one of a similar description, made of thin wood, with a hole in its side, which, collecting the wind as it passed along, made a kind of whizzing noise, to admonish people to keep out of the way.
The mount on which Sir Ambrose now stood, commanded an extensive view, and the scene it presented was beautiful in the extreme. On one side, innumerable grass fields, richly wooded, and only divided from each other by invisible iron fences, appeared like one vast park; whilst, on the other, the waving corn, its full heads beginning to darken in the sun, gave a rich glowing tint to the landscape. But Sir Ambrose thought not of the prospect, he did not even see the murmuring brooks and shady groves, the smiling vales and swelling hills, that constituted its beauty; no, his attention was wholly occupied by a small black spot he had just discovered on the edge of the horizon. In breathless anxiety, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, he bent eagerly forwards, gazing on this small and at first almost imperceptible speck. It gradually grew larger and larger—it rapidly approached! and in a few seconds a slight noise buzzed through the air as the long-expected balls whizzed past him.
Sir Ambrose’s agitation was excessive; with trembling limbs and livid lips, he hurried to the nearest station, which luckily was close at hand, and round which several of his household were assembled, in their impatience to hear the news. Sir Ambrose could not speak, but the person whose province it was to sort the letters guessed his errand, and opening the bag held forth the ardently expected treasure. Gasping for breath, Sir Ambrose eagerly attempted to take it, but his hands were unequal to the task, the violence of his emotion overpowered him, and after a short, but fruitless struggle, he fell senseless on the ground.
The confusion produced by this unexpected incident, was indescribable. The old Duke walked up and down, wringing his hands, and exclaiming, “What shall we do? What will become of us?” whilst the rest of the party endeavoured to give assistance to Sir Ambrose.
“Parental affection,” said Davis, who had an unfortunate propensity for making long speeches precisely at the moment when nobody was likely to attend to him; “parental affection has been universally allowed by all writers, both ancient and modern, to be one of the strongest passions of the soul, and the most exalted instances might be produced of the surprising energy of this universal sentiment.”
“For Heaven’s sake help me to raise my father,” cried Edric: “Give him air, or he will die!”
“Patience,” continued Davis, “is necessary in all things, and is perhaps one of the most useful and estimable qualities of life. It enables us to bear, without shrinking, the bitterest evils that can assail us. Without patience, philosophy would never have made those wonderful discoveries that subjugate nature to our yoke.”
“Fetch me some water,” exclaimed Edric, “or he will expire before your eyes.”
“It appears to me,” said a labourer, who had been mending a steam digging-machine in a neighbouring field, and who now stood leaning upon his work, and looking on gravely at all that passed, without attempting to offer the least assistance;—“It appears to me that it would be highly improper to administer the aqueous fluid in its natural state of frigidity, under the existing circumstances. The present suspension of animation under which Sir Ambrose labours, is evidently occasioned by want of circulation. Now, as it is the property of hot liquors, rather than cold ones,
