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<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play most enchantingly upon the violin, than he was invited into many companies where no other accomplishment could have introduced him.  His performance was so much admired, that he had the honour of being admitted to several tavern feasts, of which he had also the honour to partake without partaking of the expense.  He was soon addressed by persons of the very first rank and fashion, and was once seen walking side by side with a peer. But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for rejoicing, Henry, whose heart was particularly affectionate, had one grief which eclipsed all the happiness of his new life;—his brother William could not play on the fiddle! consequently, his brother William, with whom he had shared so much ill, could not share in his good fortune. One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and concert at the Crown and Anchor found William, in a very gloomy and peevish humour, poring over the orations of Cicero.  Henry asked him several times “how he did,” and similar questions, marks of his kind disposition towards his beloved brother: but all his endeavours, he perceived, could not soothe or soften the sullen mind of William.  At length, taking from his pocket a handful of almonds, and some delicious fruit (which he had purloined from the plenteous table, where his brother’s wants had never been absent from his thoughts), and laying them down before him, he exclaimed, with a benevolent smile, “Do, William, let me teach you to play upon the violin.” William, full of the great orator whom he was then studying, and still more alive to the impossibility that his ear, attuned only to sense, could ever descend from that elevation, to learn mere sounds—William caught up the tempting presents which Henry had ventured his reputation to obtain for him, and threw them all indignantly at the donor’s head. Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of fortune to resent this ingratitude: he patiently picked up the repast, and laying it again upon the table, placed by its side a bottle of claret, which he held fast by the neck, while he assured his brother that, “although he had taken it while the waiter’s back was turned, yet it might be drank with a safe conscience by them; for he had not himself tasted one drop at the feast, on purpose that he might enjoy a glass with his brother at home, and without wronging the company who had invited him.” The affection Henry expressed as he said this, or the force of a bumper of wine, which William had not seen since he left his father’s house, had such an effect in calming the displeasure he was cherishing, that, on his brother offering him the glass, he took it; and he deigned even to eat of his present. Henry, to convince him that he had stinted himself to obtain for him this collation, sat down and partook of it. After a few glasses, he again ventured to say, “Do, brother William, let me teach you to play on the violin.” Again his offer was refused, though with less vehemence: at length they both agreed that the attempt could not prosper. “Then,” said Henry, “William, go down to Oxford or to Cambridge.  There, no doubt, they are as fond of learning as in this gay town they are of music.  You know you have as much talent for the one as I for the other: do go to one of our universities, and see what dinners, what suppers, and what friends you will find there.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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