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<h2>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> The dean, in the good humour which the rapid sale of his book produced, once more took his nephew to his bosom; and although the ignorance of young Henry upon the late occasions had offended him very highly, yet that self-same ignorance, evinced a short time after upon a different subject, struck his uncle as productive of a most rare and exalted virtue. Henry had frequently, in his conversation, betrayed the total want of all knowledge in respect to religion or futurity, and the dean for this reason delayed taking him to church, till he had previously given him instructions wherefore he went. A leisure morning arrived, on which he took his nephew to his study, and implanted in his youthful mind the first unconfused idea of the Creator of the universe! The dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention; his understanding, expanded by time to the conception of a God—and not warped by custom from the sensations which a just notion of that God inspires—dwelt with delight and wonder on the information given him—lessons which, instilled into the head of a senseless infant, too often produce, throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to the truths revealed. Yet, with all that astonished, that respectful sensibility which Henry showed on this great occasion, he still expressed his opinion, and put questions to the dean, with his usual simplicity, till he felt himself convinced. “What!” cried he—after being informed of the attributes inseparable from the Supreme Being, and having received the injunction to offer prayers to Him night and morning—“What! am I permitted to speak to Power Divine?” “At all times,” replied the dean. “How! whenever I like?” “Whenever you like,” returned the dean. “I durst not,” cried Henry, “make so free with the bishop, nor dare any of his attendants.” “The bishop,” said the dean, “is the servant of God, and therefore must be treated with respect.” “With more respect than his Master?” asked Henry. The dean not replying immediately to this question, Henry, in the rapidity of inquiry, ran on to another:— “But what am I to say when I speak to the Almighty?” “First, thank Him for the favours He has bestowed on you.” “What favours?” “You amaze me,” cried the dean, “by your question.  Do not you live in ease, in plenty, and happiness?” “And do the poor and the unhappy thank Him too, uncle?” “No doubt; every human being glorifies Him, for having been made a rational creature.” “And does my aunt and all her card-parties glorify Him for that?” The dean again made no reply, and Henry went on to other questions, till his uncle had fully instructed him as to the nature and the form of prayer; and now, putting into his hands a book, he pointed out to him a few short prayers, which he wished him to address to Heaven in his presence. Whilst Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed, he trembled, turned pale, and held, for a slight support, on the chair placed before him. His uncle went to him, and asked him “What was the matter.” “Oh!” cried Henry, “when I first came to your door with my poor father’s letter, I shook for fear you would not look upon me; and I cannot help feeling even more now than I did then.” The dean embraced him with warmth—gave him confidence—and retired to the other side of the study, to observe his whole demeanour on this new occasion. As he beheld his features varying between the passions of humble fear and fervent hope, his face sometimes glowing with the rapture of thanksgiving, and sometimes with the blushes of contrition, he thus exclaimed apart:— “This is the true education on which to found the principles of religion.  The favour conferred by Heaven in granting the freedom of petitions to its throne, can never be conceived with proper force but by those whose most tedious moments during their infancy were not passed in prayer.  Unthinking governors of childhood! to insult the Deity with a form of worship in which the mind has no share; nay, worse, has repugnance, and by the thoughtless habits of youth, prevent, even in age, devotion.” Henry’s attention was so firmly fixed that he forgot there was a spectator of his fervour; nor did he hear young William enter the chamber and even speak to his father. At length closing his book and rising from his knees, he approached his uncle and cousin, with a sedateness in his air, which gave the latter a very false opinion of the state of his youthful companion’s mind. “So, Mr. Henry,” cried William, “you have been obliged, at last, to say your prayers.” The dean informed his son “that to Henry it was no punishment to pray.” “He is the strangest boy I ever knew!” said William, inadvertently. “To be sure,” said Henry, “I was frightened when I first knelt; but when I came to the words, Father, which art in Heaven, they gave me courage; for I know how merciful and kind a father is, beyond any one else.” The dean again embraced his nephew, let fall a tear to his poor brother Henry’s misfortunes; and admonished the youth to show himself equally submissive to other instructions, as he had done to those which inculcate piety. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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