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UCSB UBRARY 
 
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 MARIA EDGEWORTH. 
 
 NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION, COMPLETE. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 WILLIS P. HAZARD, 190 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LAZY LAWRENCE 11 
 
 TAKLTON 40 
 
 THE FALSE KEY :. 60 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT 86 
 
 SIMPLE SUSAN 103 
 
 THE BRACELETS 174 
 
 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS 204 
 
 OLD POZ 264 
 
 THE MIMIC 278 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE 314 
 
 THE BASKET WOMAN 342 
 
 THE WHITE PIGEON 358 
 
 THE ORPHANS 369 
 
 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT 394 
 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET 425 
 
 THE BARRING OUT, OR PARTY SPIRIT 442 
 
 ETON MONTEM 487 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO PARENTS. 
 
 All who have meditated on the art of governing mankind have heen con- 
 vinced that the fate of empires depends on the education of youth. 
 ARISTOTLE. 
 
 A MOTTO from Aristotle may appear pedantic, but it was 
 chosen merely to oppose such high authority to the follow- 
 ing assertions of Dr. Johnson : 
 
 " Education," says he, " is as well known, and has long 
 been as well known, as ever it can be. Endeavouring to 
 make children prematurely wise is useless labour. Suppose 
 they have more knowledge at five or six years old than 
 other children, what use can be made of it ? It will be lost 
 before it is wanted, and the waste of so much time and 
 labour of the teacher is never to be repaid."* The re- 
 mainder of this passage contains such an illiberal attack 
 upon a celebrated female writer, as ought surely to have 
 been suppressed by Dr. Johnson's biographer. When the 
 doctor attempted to ridicule this lady for keeping an infant 
 boarding-school, and for condescending to write elementary 
 books for children, he forgot his own eulogium upon Dr. 
 Watts, of whom he speaks thus : 
 
 " For children he condescended to lay aside the philoso- 
 pher, the scholar, and the wit, to write little poems of devo- 
 tion, and systems of instruction adapted to their wants and 
 capacities, from the dawn of reason to its gradation of ad- 
 vance in the morning of life. Every man, acquainted with 
 
 * Boswell's Life of Johnson. 
 
Yl PREFACE. 
 
 the common principles of human action, will look with 
 veneration on the writer who is at one time combating 
 Locke, and at another time making a catechism for children 
 in their fourth year. A voluntary descent from the dignity 
 of science is perhaps the hardest lesson which humility can 
 teach." 
 
 It seems, however, a very easy task to write for children. 
 Those only who have been interested in the education of a 
 family, who have patiently followed children through the 
 first processes of reasoning, who have daily watched over 
 their thoughts and feelings, those only, who know with 
 what ease and rapidity the early associations of ideas are 
 formed on which the future taste, character, and happiness 
 depend, can feel the dangers and difficulties of such an 
 undertaking. 
 
 For a length of time education was classed among the 
 subjects of vague and metaphysical speculation ; but of late 
 it has attained its proper station in experimental philoso- 
 phy. The sober sense of Locke and the enthusiastic elo- 
 quence of Rousseau have directed to this object the attention 
 of philosophers and men of genius. Many theories have 
 been invented, several just observations have been made, 
 and some few facts have been established. 
 
 Dr. Reid remarks, that " if we could obtain a distinct 
 and full history of all that hath passed in the mind of a 
 child from the beginning of life and sensation till it grows 
 up to the use of reason, how its infant faculties began to 
 work, and how they brought forth and ripened all the vari- 
 ous notions, opinions, and sentiments which we find in our- 
 selves when we come to be capable of reflection, this would 
 be a treasure of natural history, which would probably give 
 more light to the human faculties than all the systems of 
 philosophers about them since the beginning of the world."* 
 
 Indeed, in all sciences the grand difficulty has been to 
 
 * Dr. Reid on the Intellectual Powers of Man. 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 ascertain facts a difficulty which, in the science of edu- 
 cation, peculiar circumstances conspire to increase. Here 
 the objects of every experiment are so interesting, that we 
 cannot hold our minds indifferent to the result. Nor is it 
 to be expected that many registers of experiments, success- 
 ful and unsuccessful, should be kept, much less should be 
 published, when we consider, that the combined powers of 
 affection and vanity, of partiality to his child and to hia 
 theory, will act upon the mind of a parent, in opposition to 
 the abstract love of justice, and the general desire to in- 
 crease the wisdom and happiness of mankind. 
 
 Notwithstanding these difficulties, an attempt to keep 
 such a register has actually been made : it was begun in 
 the year 1776, long before Dr. Reid's book was published. 
 The design has from time to time been pursued to this pre- 
 sent year ; and though much has not been collected, every 
 circumstance and conversation that has been preserved is 
 faithfully and accurately related. 
 
 These notes have been of great advantage to the writer 
 of the following stories, and will, probably, at some future 
 time, be laid before the public, as a collection of experi- 
 ments upon a subject which has been hitherto treated theo- 
 retically. 
 
 The following tales have been divided into two parts, as 
 they were designed for different classes of children. The 
 question, whether society could subsist without the distinc- 
 tion of ranks, is a question involving a variety of compli- 
 cated discussions, which we leave to the politician and the 
 legislator. At present, it is necessary that the education 
 of different ranks should, in some respects, be different: 
 they have few ideas, few habits, in common ; their peculiar 
 vices and virtues do not arise from the same causes, and 
 their ambition is to be directed to different objects. But 
 justice, truth, and humanity are confined to no particular 
 rank, and should be enforced with equal care and energy 
 upon the minds of young people of every station ; and it is 
 
Vlll P K E F A C E . 
 
 hoped that these principles have never been forgotten in the 
 following pages. 
 
 As the ideas of children multiply, the language of their 
 books should become less simple, else their taste will quickly 
 be disgusted, or will remain stationary. Children that live 
 with people who converse with elegance will not be con- 
 tented with a style inferior to what they hear from every- 
 body near them. 
 
 It may be remarked, that almost all language is meta- 
 phoric from the conversation of the maid in the nursery, 
 who lulls a cross infant to sleep, to that of the lady in the 
 drawing-room, who, with silly civility, takes a child upon 
 her lap to entertain it by a repetition of fashionable 
 phrases. Slang (the term ia disgracefully naturalized in 
 our vocabulary) contains as much and as abstract meta- 
 phor as can be found in the most refined literary language. 
 Nor have we reason to suppose that one kind of metaphor 
 is more difficult than another to be understood by children ; 
 they frequently hear the most complicated metaphorical 
 expressions in conversation, such as allude to our fashions 
 and the prejudices of society, with which they are utterly 
 unacquainted. 
 
 All poetical allusions have, however, been avoided in this 
 book only such situations are described as children can 
 easily imagine, and which may consequently interest their 
 feelings. Such examples of virtue are painted as are not 
 above their conception of excellence, and their powers of 
 sympathy and emulation. 
 
 It is not easy to give rewards to children which shall not 
 indirectly do them harm, by fostering some hurtful taste or 
 passion. In the story of Lazy Lawrence, where the object 
 was to excite a spirit of industry, care has been taken to 
 proportion the reward to the exertion, and to point out that 
 people feel cheerful and happy while they are employed. 
 The reward of our industrious boy, though it be money, ia 
 only money considered as the means of gratifying a bene- 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 volent wish. In a commercial nation, it is especially neces- 
 sary to separate, as much as possible, the spirit of industry 
 and avarice, and to beware lest we introduce Vice under the 
 form of Virtue. 
 
 In the story of Tarlton and Loveit are represented the 
 danger and folly of that weakness of mind, and easiness to 
 be led, which too often pass for good-nature ; and in the 
 story of the False Key are pointed out some of the evils to 
 which a well-educated boy, when he first goes to service, ia 
 exposed, from the profligacy of his fellow-servants. 
 
 In the Eirtli-day Present, in the History of Mademoiselle 
 Panache, and in the character of Mrs. Theresa Tattle, the 
 Parent's Assistant has pointed out the dangers which may 
 arise in education from a bad servant, a silly governess, and 
 a common acquaintance. 
 
 In the Barring Out, the errors to which a high spirit and 
 the love of party are apt to lead, have been made the sub- 
 ject of correction,; and it is hoped that the common fault 
 of making the most mischievous characters appear the most 
 active and the most ingenious, has been as much as possible 
 avoided. Unsuccessful cunning will not be admired, and 
 cannot induce imitation. 
 
 It has likewise been attempted in these stories to provide 
 antidotes against ill-humour, the epidemic rage for dissipa- 
 tion, and the fatal propensity to admire and imitate what- 
 ever the fashion of the moment may distinguish. Were 
 young people, either in public schools or in private families, 
 absolutely free from bad examples, it would not be advisable 
 to introduce despicable and vicious characters in books in- 
 tended for their improvement. But in real life they must 
 see vice, and it is best that they should be early shocked 
 with the representation of what they are to avoid. There 
 is a great deal of difference between innocence and igno- 
 rance. 
 
 To prevent precepts of morality from tiring the ear and 
 the mind, it was necessary to make the stories in which 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 they are introduced in some measure dramatic, to keep alive 
 hope, and fear, and curiosity, by some degree of intricacy. 
 At the same time care has been taken to avoid inflaming 
 the imagination, or exciting a restless spirit of adventure, 
 by exhibiting false views of life, and creating hopes which, 
 in the ordinary course of things, cannot be realized. 
 
 Dr. Johnson to recur to him, not from a spirit of con- 
 tradiction, but from a fear that his authority should estab- 
 lish errors Dr. Johnson says, that "Babies do not like to 
 hear stories of babies like themselves ; they require to have 
 their imaginations raised by tales of giants, and fairies, and 
 castles, and enchantments." The fact remains to be proved : 
 but supposing that they do prefer such tales, is this a reason 
 why they should be indulged in reading them ? It may be 
 said that a little experience in life would soon convince 
 them that fairies, giants, and enchanters are not to be met 
 with in the world. But why should the mind be filled with 
 fantastic visions, instead of useful knowledge ? Why should 
 so much valuable time be lost? Why should we vitiate 
 their taste and spoil their appetite by suffering them to feed 
 upon sweetmeats ? It is to be hoped that the magic of Dr. 
 Johnson's name will not have power to restore the reign of 
 fairies. 
 
 But even when the improbability of fairy tales is avoided, 
 care should be taken to keep objects in their just propor- 
 tions, when we attempt an imitation of real life. 
 
 " Love, hatred, fear, and anger are to be raised in the 
 soul," says an eminent poet, " by showing their objects out 
 of their true proportion, either greater than the life or less ; 
 but instruction is to be given by showing them what they 
 really are." 
 
 And surely a writer who sincerely wishes to increase the 
 happiness of mankind will find it easy to give up the fame 
 that might be acquired by eloquence, when it is injurious 
 to the cause of truth. 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 IN the pleasant village of Ashton there lived an elderly 
 woman of the name of Preston : she had a small neat cot- 
 tage, and there was not a weed to be seen in her garden. 
 It was upon her garden that she chiefly depended for sup- 
 port : it consisted of strawberry beds, and one small border 
 for flowers. The pinks and roses she tied up in nice nose- 
 gays, and sent either to Clifton or Bristol to be sold ; as to 
 her strawberries, she did not send them to market, because 
 it was the custom for numbers of people to come from Clif- 
 ton, in the summer-time, to eat strawberries and cream in 
 the gardens at Ashton. 
 
 Now the widow Preston was so obliging, active, and 
 good-humoured, that every one who came to see her was 
 pleased. She lived happily in this manner for several 
 years ; but alas ! one autumn she fell sick, and during her 
 illness every thing went wrong ; her garden was neglected, 
 her cow died, and all the money which she had saved was 
 spent in paying for medicines. The winter passed away, 
 while she was so weak that she could earn but little by her 
 work ; and when the summer came, her rent was called for, 
 and the rent was not ready in her little purse as usual. She 
 begged a few months' delay, and they were granted to her ; 
 but at the end of that time there was no resource but to sell 
 her horse Lightfoot. Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he 
 had seen his best days, was a very great favourite ; in his 
 youth he had always carried the dame to market behind 
 
 (xi) 
 
12 LAZY LAWRENCE 
 
 her husband ; and it was now her little son Jem's turn to 
 ride him. It was Jem's business to feed Lightfoot, and to 
 take care of him ; a charge which he never neglected, for, 
 besides being a very good-natured, he was a very industri- 
 ous boy. 
 
 " It will go near to break my Jem's heart," said Dame 
 Preston to herself as she sat one evening beside the fire, 
 stirring the embers, and considering how she had best open 
 the matter to her son, who stood opposite to her, eating a 
 dry crust of bread very heartily for supper. 
 
 "Jem," said the old woman, "what, art hungry?" 
 
 " That I am, brave and hungry !" 
 
 "Ay! no wonder, you've been brave hard at work 
 Eh?" 
 
 " Brave hard ! I wish it was not so dark, mother, that 
 you might just step out and see the great bed I 've dug ; I 
 know you 'd say it was no bad day's work and, oh mother ! 
 I 've good news ; Farmer Truck will give us the giant-straw- 
 berries ; and I 'm to go for 'em to-morrow morning, and I'll 
 be back afore breakfast !" 
 
 " Bless the boy ! how he talks ! Four mile there and four 
 mile back again, afore breakfast !" 
 
 "Ay, upon Lightfoot, you know, mother, very easily, 
 may n't I?" 
 
 "Ay, child 1" 
 
 " Why do you sigh, mother ?" 
 
 " Finish thy supper, child." 
 
 " I 've done 1" cried Jem, swallowing the last mouthful 
 hastily, as if he thought he had been too long at supper ; 
 " and now for the great needle ; I must see and mend Light- 
 foot's bridle afore I go to bed." To work he set, by th 
 light o the fire ; and the dame, having once more stirred 
 it, began again with " Jem, dear, does he go lame at all 
 now 1" " What, Lightfoot ! la, no, not he ! never was 
 BO well of his lameness in all his life he 's grown quite 
 young again, I think ; and then he 's so fat he can hardly 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 13 
 
 wag." "Bless him that's right we must see, Jem, 
 ind keep him fat." 
 
 "For what, mother?" 
 
 " For Monday fortnight at the fair. He 's to be sold I" 
 
 " Lightfoot I" cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his 
 hand ; " and will mother sell Lightfoot?" 
 
 " Will! no : but I must, Jem." 
 
 "Must; who says you must? why must you, mother?" 
 
 "I must, I say, child Why, must not I pay my debts 
 honestly and must not I pay my rent; and was not it 
 called for long and long ago ; and have not I had time ; 
 and did I not promise to pay it for certain Monday fort- 
 night, and am not I two guineas short and where am I 
 to get two guineas? So what signifies talking, child?" 
 eaid the widow, leaning her head upon her arm, " Lightfoot 
 must go." 
 
 Jem was silent for a few minutes. " Two guineas ; that's 
 a great, great deal. If I worked, and worked, and worked 
 ever so hard, I could no ways earn two guineas afore Mon- 
 day fortnight could I, mother?" 
 
 " Lord help thee, no ; not an' work thyself to death." 
 
 " But I could earn something, though, I say," cried 
 Jem, proudly; "and I will earn something if it be ever 
 so little, it will be something and I shall do my very best ; 
 so I will." 
 
 " That I 'm sure of, my child," said his mother, drawing 
 him towards her, and kissing him ; " you were always a 
 good industrious lad, that I will say afore your face or be- 
 hind your back; but it won't do now Lightfoot must 
 go." 
 
 Jem turned away, struggling to hide his tears, and went 
 to bed without saying a word more. But he knew that cry- 
 ing would do no good : so he presently wiped his eyes, and 
 lay awake, considering what he could possibly do to save 
 the horse. " If I get ever so little," he still said to himself, 
 " it will be something ; and who knows but landlord might 
 
14 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 then wait a bit longer ? and we might make it all up in 
 time: for a penny a day might come to two guineas in 
 time." 
 
 But how to get the first penny was the question. Then 
 he recollected that one day when he had been sent to Clif- 
 ton to sell some flowers he had seen an old woman with a 
 board beside her covered with various sparkling stones, 
 which people stopped to look at as they passed, and he re- 
 membered that some people bought the stones ; one paid 
 twopence, another threepence, and another sixpence for 
 them ; and Jem heard her say that she got them among the 
 neighbouring rocks : so he thought that if he tried he 
 might find some too, and sell them as she had done. 
 
 Early in the morning he waked full of his schemes, 
 jumped up, dressed himself, and having given one look at 
 poor Lightfoot in his stable, set off to Clifton in search of 
 the old woman, to inquire where she found her sparkling 
 stones. But it was too early in the morning, the old woman 
 was not at her seat ; so he turned back again disappointed. 
 He did not waste his time waiting for her, but saddled and 
 bridled Lightfoot, and went to Farmer Truck's for the giant- 
 strawberries. A great part of the morning was spent in 
 putting them into the ground; and as soon as that was 
 finished, he set out again in quest of the old woman, who, 
 to his great joy, he spied sitting at the corner of the street 
 with her board before her. But this old woman was deaf and 
 cross ; and when at last Jem made her hear his questions, 
 he could get no answer from her, but that she found the 
 fossils where he would never find any more. " But can't I 
 look where you looked?" "Look away, nobody hinders 
 you," replied the old woman ; and these were the only 
 words she would say. Jem was not, however, a boy to be 
 so easily discouraged; he went to the rocks, and walked 
 slowly along, looking at all the stones as he passed. Pre- 
 sently he came to a place where a number of men were at 
 work loosening some large rocks, and one among the work 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 15 
 
 men was stooping down looking for something very eagerly: 
 Jem ran up, and asked if he could help him. " Yes," said 
 the man, "you can; I've just dropped among this heap of 
 rubbish a fine piece of crystal that I got to-day." " What 
 kind of a looking thing is it ?" said Jem. " White, and like 
 glass," said the man, and went on working while Jem looked 
 very carefully over the heap of rubbish for a great while. 
 "Come," said the man, "it's gone for ever; don't trouble 
 yourself any more, my boy." "It's no trouble ; I'll look 
 a little longer ; we '11 not give it up so soon," said Jem ; and 
 after he had looked a little longer, he found the piece of 
 crystal. " Thank 'e,'' said the man, "you are a fine little 
 industrious fellow." Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice 
 in which the man spoke this, ventured to ask him the same 
 questions which he asked the old woman. " One good turn 
 deserves another," said the man ; " we are going to dinner 
 just now, and shall leave off work wait for me here, and 
 I '11 make it worth your while." 
 
 Jem waited ; and as he was very attentively observing 
 how the workmen went on with their work, he heard some- 
 body near him give a great yawn, and turning round, he 
 saw stretched upon the grass beside the river a boy about 
 his own age, who he knew very well went in the village of 
 Ashton by the name of Lazy Lawrence ; a name which he 
 most justly deserved, for he never did anything from morn- 
 ing to night ; he neither worked nor played, but sauntered 
 or lounged about restless and yawning. His father was an 
 alehouse-keeper, and being generally drunk, could take no 
 care of his son ; so that Lazy Lawrence grew every day 
 worse and worse. However, some of the neighbours said 
 that he was a good-natured poor fellow enough, and would 
 never do any one harm but himself; while others, who were 
 wiser, often shook their heads, and told him that idleness 
 was the root of all evil. 
 
 " What, Lawrence 1" cried Jem to him, when he saw him 
 lying upon the grass, "what, are you asleep?" "Not 
 
16 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 quite." " A.re you awake ?" " Not quite." " What are 
 you doing there ?" " Nothing." " What are you think- 
 ing of?" " Nothing." " What makes you lie there ?" 
 ' I do n't know because I can't find anybody to play with 
 me to-day will you come and play ?" " No, I can't ; I'm 
 busy." " Busy !" cried Lawrence, stretching himself, 
 "you are always busy I would not be you for the world, 
 to have so much to do always." "And I," said Jem, 
 laughing, " would not be you for the world, to have nothing 
 to do." So they parted, for the workman just then called 
 Jem to follow him. He took him home to his own house, 
 and showed him a parcel of fossils which he had gathered, 
 he said, on purpose to sell, but had never had time yet to 
 sort them. He set about it, however, now; and having 
 picked out those which he judged to be the best, he put 
 them into a small basket, and gave them to Jem to sell, 
 upon condition that he should bring him half of what he got. 
 Jem, pleased to be employed, was ready to agree to what 
 the man proposed, provided his mother had no objection to 
 it. When he went home to dinner, he told his mother his 
 scheme, and she smiled and said he might do as he pleased, 
 for she was not afraid of his being from home. " You are 
 not an idle boy," said she, " so there is little danger of your 
 getting into any mischief." 
 
 Accordingly Jem that evening took his stand with his 
 little basket upon the bank of the river, just at the place 
 where people land from a ferryboat, and where the walk 
 turns to the wells, where numbers of people perpetually 
 pass to drink the waters. He chose his place well, and 
 waited almost all evening, offering his fossils with great 
 assiduity to every passenger ; but not one person bought 
 any. " Holloa !" cried some sailors who had just rowed a 
 boat to land, " bear a hand here, will you, my little fellow ! 
 and carry these parcels for us into yonder house." Jem 
 ran down immediately for the parcels, and did what he was 
 asked to do so quickly, and with so much good will, that 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 17 
 
 the master of the boat took notice of him, and when he was 
 going away, stopped to ask him what he had got in his little 
 basket ; and when he saw that they were fossils, he imme- 
 diately told Jem to follow him, for that he was going to 
 carry some shells he had brought from abroad to a lady in 
 the neighbourhood who was making a grotto. " She will' 
 very likely buy your stones into the bargain ; come along, 
 my lad, we can but try." 
 
 The lady lived but a very little way off, so that they were 
 soon at her house. She was alone in her parlour, and was 
 sorting a bundle of feathers of different colours ; they lay 
 on a sheet of pasteboard upon a window-seat, and it hap- 
 pened that as the sailor was bustling round the table to show 
 off his shells, he knocked down the sheet of pasteboard, and 
 scattered all the feathers. 
 
 The lady looked very sorry, which Jem observing, he took 
 the opportunity, while she was busy looking over the sailor's 
 bag of shells, to gather together all the feathers, and sort 
 them according to their different colours, as he had seen 
 them sorted when he first came into the room. 
 
 " Where is the little boy you brought with you ? I thought 
 I saw him here just now." "And here I am, ma'am," 
 cried Jem, creeping from under the table with some few 
 remaining feathers which he had picked from the carpet ; 
 " I thought," added he, pointing to the others, " I had better 
 be doing something than standing idle, ma'am." She 
 smiled, and pleased with his activity and simplicity, began 
 to ask him several questions, such as who he was, where 
 he lived, what employment he had, and how much a-day he 
 earned by gathering fossils. " This is the first day 1 ever 
 tried," said Jem ; " I never sold any yet, and if you do n't 
 buy them now, ma'am, I 'm afraid nobody else will, Tor I 've 
 asked everybody else." "Come, then," said the lady, 
 laughing, " if that is the case, I think I had better buy them 
 all." So emptying all the fossils out of his basket, she put 
 half a cro.vn into it. Jem's eyes sparkled with joy, "Oh, 
 
18 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 thank you, ma'am," said he, " I will be sure and bring you 
 as many more to-morrow." "Yes, but I don't promise 
 you," said she, " to give you half a crown to-morrow." 
 "But perhaps, though you don't promise it, you will." 
 " No," said the lady, " do not deceive yourself, I assure you 
 that I will not. That, instead of encouraging you to be 
 industrious, would teach you to be idle." Jem did not quite 
 understand what she meant by this, but answered, "I'm 
 sure I do n'tuwish to be idle ; what I want is to earn some- 
 thing every day, if I knew how : I 'm sure I do n't wish to 
 be idle. If you knew all, you 'd know I did not." " How 
 do you mean, If I knew all?" "Why, I mean if you knew 
 about Lightfoot." " Who 's Lightfoot ?" " Why, mam- 
 my's horse," added Jem, looking out of the window ; " I 
 must make haste home and feed him afore it gets dark ; 
 he'll wonder what's gone with me." "Let him wonder 
 a few minutes longer," said the lady, " and tell me the rest of 
 your story." "I 've no story, ma'am, to tell, but as how 
 mammy says he must go to the fair Monday fortnight to be 
 sold, if she can't get the two guineas for her rent ; and I 
 should be main sorry to part with him, for I love him and 
 he loves me ; so I '11 work for him, I will, all I can : to be 
 sure, as mammy says, I have no chance, such a little fellow 
 as I am, of earning two guineas afore Monday fortnight." 
 " But are you in earnest willing to work ?" said the lady ; 
 " you know there is a great deal of difference between picking 
 up a few stones and working steadily every day and all day 
 long." "But," said Jem, "I would work every day and 
 all day long." "Then," said the lady, "I will give you 
 work. Come here to-morrow morning, and my gardener 
 will set you to weed the shrubberies, and I will pay you 
 sixpence a-day. Remember, you must be at the gates by 
 six o'clock." Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away. It 
 was late in the evening, and he was impatient to get home 
 to feed Lightfoot ; yet he recollected that he had promised 
 the man who had trusted him to sell the fossils, that h 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 19 
 
 would bring him half of what he got for them ; so he 
 thought that he had better go to him directly ; and away he 
 went, running along by the water-side about a quarter of a 
 mile, till he came to the man's house. He was just come 
 home from work, and was surprised when Jem showed him 
 the half-crown, saying, " Look what I got for the stones ; 
 you are to have half you know." "No," said the man, 
 when he had heard his story, " I shall not take half of that ; 
 it was given to you. I expected but a shilling at the most, 
 and the half of that is but sixpence, and that I '11 take. 
 Wife, give the lad two shillings, and take this half-crown." 
 So his wife opened an old glove, and took out two shillings ; 
 and the man, as she opened the glove, put in his fingers, 
 and took out a little silver penny. " There, he shall have 
 that into the bargain for his honesty honesty is the best 
 policy there 's a lucky penny for you, that I 've kept ever 
 since I can remember." " Do n't you ever go to part with 
 it, do ye hear?" cried the woman. " Let him do what he 
 will with it, wife," said the man. "But," argued the wife, 
 " another penny would do just as well to buy gingerbread, 
 and that 's what it will go for." " No, that it shall not, I 
 promise you," said Jem ; and so he ran away home, fed 
 Lightfoot, stroked him, went to bed, jumped up at five 
 o'clock in the morning, and went singing to work as gay as 
 a lark. 
 
 Four days he worked, " every day and all day long ;" and 
 the lady every evening, when she came out to walk in her 
 gardens, looked at his work. At last she said to her gar- 
 dener, " This little boy works very hard." " Never had so 
 good a little boy about the grounds," said the gardener ; 
 " he 's always at his work, let me come by when I will, and 
 he has got twice as much done as another would do ; yes, 
 twice as much, ma'am ; for look here he began at this 
 here rosebush, and now he's got to where you stand, ma'am; 
 and here is the day's work that t'other boy, and he 's three 
 years older, too, did to-dv. I say, measure Jem's fairly 
 
20 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 and it 's twice as much, I 'm sure." " Well," said the lady 
 to her gardener, " show me how much is a fair good day's 
 work for a boy of his age." " Come at six and go at six? 
 why, about this much, ma'am," said the gardener, marking 
 off a piece of the border with his spade. " Then, little 
 boy," said the lady, " so much shall be your task every day ; 
 the gardener will mark it off for you ; and when you 've 
 done, the rest of the day you may do what you please." Jem 
 was extremely glad of this ; and the next day he had fin- 
 ished his task by four o'clock, so that he had all the rest of 
 the evening to himself. Jem was as fond of play as any 
 little boy could be ; and when he was at it, played with all 
 the eagerness and gaiety imaginable : so, as soon as he had 
 finished his task, had fed Lightfoot, and put by the sixpence 
 he had earned that day, he ran to the play-ground in the 
 village, where he found a party of boys playing, and among 
 them Lazy Lawrence, who indeed was not playing, but 
 lounging upon a gate with his thumb in his mouth. The 
 rest were playing at cricket. Jem joined them, and was 
 the merriest and most active among them ; till, at last, when 
 quite out of breath with running, he was obliged to give up 
 to rest himself, and sat down upon the stile, close to the gate 
 on which Lazy Lawrence was swinging. " And why do n't 
 you play, Lawrence?" said he. "I'm tired," said Law- 
 rence. " Tired of what ?" " I do n't know, well what tires 
 me : grandmother says I 'm ill, and I must take something 
 
 I do n't know what ails me." " Oh, pugh ! take a good 
 race ; one, two, three, and away, and you '11 find yourself 
 as well as ever. Come, run, one, two, three, and away." 
 " Ah, no, I can't run, indeed," said he, hanging back 
 heavily ; " you know I can play all day long, if I like it, so 
 I do n't mind play as you do, who have only one hour for it." 
 
 " So much the worse for you. Come, now, I 'm quite 
 fresh again, will you have one game at ball? do." "No, 
 I tell you, I can't ; I 'm as tired as if I had been working 
 all day long as hard as a horse." " Ten times more," said 
 
f' 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 21 
 
 Jem, " For I have been working all day long as hard as a 
 horse, and yet you see I 'm not a bit tired ; only a little out 
 of breath just now " " That's very odd," said Lawrence, 
 and yawned, for want of some better answer ; then taking 
 out a handful of halfpence, " See what I have got from 
 father to-day, because I asked him just at the right time, 
 when he had drunk a glass or two ; then I can get anything 
 I want out of him. See ! a penny, twopence, threepence, 
 fourpence there 's eightpence in all ! would not you be 
 happy if you had eightpence?" "Why, I don't know," 
 said Jem, laughing, " for you do n't seem happy, and you 
 have eightpence." "That does not signify, though I'm 
 sure you only say that because you envy me you do n't 
 know what it is to have eightpence ; you never had more 
 than twopence or threepence at a time in all your life." 
 Jem smiled. " Oh, as to that," said he, " you are mistaken ; 
 for I have at this very time more than twopence, threepence, 
 or eightpence either ; I have let me see stones, two 
 shillings ; then five days' work, that 's five sixpences, that 's 
 two shillings and sixpence, in all makes four shillings and 
 sixpence, and my silver penny, is four and sevenpence. 
 Four and sevenpence !" " You have not," said Lawrence, 
 roused so as absolutely to stand upright; " four and seven- 
 pence ! have you ? Show it to me, and then I '11 believe 
 you." "Follow me, then," cried Jem, "and I will soon 
 make you believe me ; come." " Is it far?" said Lawrence, 
 following, half-running, half-hobbling, till he came to the 
 stable, where Jem showed him his treasure. " And how 
 did you come by it ? honestly ?" " Honestly ! to be sure I 
 did : I earned it all." " Bless me ! earned it ! well, I 've 
 a great mind to work ; but then it 's such hot weather ; be- 
 sides, grandmother says I 'm not strong enough yet for hard 
 work ; and, besides, I know how to coax daddy out of money 
 when I want it ; so I need not work. But four and seven- 
 pence ! let 's see, what will you do with it all ?" " That 'a 
 a secret," said Jem, looking great. " I can guess. I kno'w 
 
22 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 what I 'd do with it if it was mine. First, I 'd buy pocket- 
 fuls of gingerbread ; then I 'd buy ever so many apples and 
 nuts : do n't you love nuts ? I 'd buy nuts enough to last me 
 from this time to Christmas, and I 'd make little Newton 
 crack 'em for me ; for that 's the worst of nuts, there 's the 
 trouble of cracking 'em." "Well, you never deserve to 
 have a nut." " But you '11 give me some of yours," said 
 Lawrence, in a fawning tone, for he thought it easier to 
 coax than to work, " you '11 give me some of your good 
 things, won't you ?" "I shall not have any of those good 
 things," said Jem. " Then what will you do with all your 
 money ?" " Oh, I know very well what to do with it : but, 
 as I told you, that 's a secret, and I shan't tell it anybody. 
 Come, now, let's go back and play ; their game 's up, I dare 
 say." Lawrence .vent back with him, full of curiosity, and 
 out of humour with himself and his eightpence. " If I had 
 four and sevenpence," said he to himself, "I certainly 
 should be happy !" 
 
 The next day, as usual, Jem jumped up before six o'clock 
 and went to his work, while Lazy Lawrence sauntered about 
 without knowing what to do with himself. In the course 
 of two days he laid out sixpence of his money in apples and 
 gingerbread, and as long as these lasted he found himself 
 well received by his companions ; but at length the third 
 day he spent his last halfpenny, and when it was gone, un- 
 fortunately some nuts tempted him very much, but he had 
 no money to pay for them ; so he ran home to coax his fa- 
 ther, as he called it. When he got home, he heard his father 
 talking very loud, and at first he thought he was drunk ; but 
 when he opened the kitchen-door, he saw that he was not 
 drunk, but angry. 
 
 " You lazy dog !" cried he, turning suddenly upon Law- 
 rence, and giving him such a violent box on the ear as made 
 the light flash from his eyes ; " you lazy dog ! see what 
 you 've done for me ! look ! look, look, I say !" Lawrence 
 looked as soon as he came to the use of his senses, and with 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 23 
 
 fear, amazement, and remorse, beheld at least a dozen bot- 
 tles burst, and the fine Worcestershire cider streaming over 
 the floor. " Now, did I not order you three days ago to 
 carry these bottles to the cellar ? and did not I charge you 
 to wire the corks ? answer me, you lazy rascal ! did not I ?" 
 " Yes," said Lawrence, scratching his head. " And why 
 was it not done, I ask you ?" cried his father, with renewed 
 anger, as another bottle burst at the moment. " What do 
 you stand there for, you lazy brat ? why do n't you move, I 
 say ? No, no," catching hold of him, " I believe you can't 
 move ; but I '11 make you." And he shook him, till Law- 
 rence was so giddy he could not stand. " What had you to 
 think of? what had you to do all day long, that you could 
 not carry my cider, my Worcestershire cider, to the cellar 
 when I bid you ? But go, you '11 never be good for anything, 
 you are such a lazy rascal ! get out of my sight !" So say- 
 ing, he pushed him out of the house-door, and Lawrence 
 sneaked off, seeing that this was no time to make his peti- 
 tion for halfpence. 
 
 The next day he saw the nuts again, and wishing for them 
 more than ever, went home in hopes that his father, as he 
 said to himself, would be in a better humour. But the cider 
 was still fresh in his recollection ; and the moment Law- 
 rence began to whisper the word " halfpenny " in his ear, his 
 father swore with a loud oath, " I will not give you a half- 
 penny, no, not a farthing, for a month to come ; if you want 
 money, go work for it ; I 've had enough of your laziness. Go 
 work !" At these terrible words Lawrence burst into tears, 
 and going to the side of a ditch, sat down and cried for an 
 hour ; and when he had cried till he could cry no more, he ex- 
 erted himself so far as to empty his pockets, to see whether 
 there might not happen to be one halfpenny left ; and to his 
 great joy, in the farthest corner of his pocket one halfpenny 
 was found. With this he proceeded to the fruit-woman's stall. 
 She was busy weighing out some plums, so he was obliged 
 to wait ; and while he was waiting, he heard some people 
 
24 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 near him talking and laughing very loud. The fruit-wo- 
 man's stall was at the gate of an inn-yard ; and peeping 
 through the gate in this yard, Lawrence saw a postilion and 
 stable-boy about his own size playing at pitch-farthing. He 
 stood by watching them for a few minutes. " I began with 
 but one halfpenny," cried the stable-boy, with an oath, 
 " and now I 've got twopence I" added he, jingling the half- 
 pence in his waistcoat-pocket. Lawrence was moved at the 
 sound, and said to himself, " If I begin with one half-penny, 
 I may end like him with having twopence ; and it is easier 
 to play at pitch-farthing than to work." 
 
 So he stepped fonvard, presenting his halfpenny, offering 
 to toss up with the stable-boy, who, after looking him full 
 in the face, accepted the proposal, and threw his halfpenny 
 into the air. " Head or tail?" cried he. " Head," replied 
 Lawrence, and it came up head. He seized the penny, sur- 
 prised at his own success, and would have gone instantly to 
 have laid it out in nuts ; but the stable-boy stopped him, 
 and tempted him to throw again. This time he lost ; he 
 threw again and won ; and so he went on, sometimes losing, 
 but most frequently winning, till half the morning was 
 gone. At last, however, he chanced to win twice running, 
 and, finding himself master of three halfpence, said he 
 would play no more. The stable-boy, grumbling, swore ho 
 would have his revenge another time, and Lawrence went 
 and bought the nuts. " It is a good thing," said he to him- 
 self, "to play at pitch-farthing: the next time I want a 
 half-penny, I '11 not ask my father for it, nor go to work nei- 
 ther." Satisfied with this resolution, he sat down to crack 
 his nuts at his leisure, upon the horse-block in the inn-yard. 
 Here, while he ate, he overheard the conversation of the 
 stable-boys and postilions. At first, their shocking oaths 
 and loud wrangling frightened and shocked him ; for Law- 
 rence, though a lazy, had not yet learned to be a uncked, 
 boy. But, by degrees, he was accustomed to their swearing 
 and quarrelling, and took a delight and interest in their dis- 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 25 
 
 putea and battles. As this was an amusement which he 
 could enjoy without any sort of exertion on his part, he soon 
 grew so fond of it, that every day he returned to the stable- 
 yard, and the horse-block became his constant seat. Here 
 he found some relief from the insupportable fatigue of doing 
 nothing : and here, hour after hour, with his elbows on his 
 knees, and his head on his hands, he sat the spectator of 
 wickedness. 
 
 Gaming, cheating, and lying, soon became familiar to 
 him ; and to complete his ruin, he formed a sudden and 
 close intimacy with the stable-boy with whom he had first 
 begun to game a very bad boy. The consequences of this 
 intimacy we shall presently see. But it is now time to in- 
 quire what little Jem has been doing all this while. 
 
 One day, after he had finished his task, the gardener 
 asked him to stay a little while, to help him to carry some 
 geranium pots into the hall. Jem, always active and 
 obliging, readily staid from play, and was carrying a heavy 
 flower-pot, when his mistress crossed the hall. " What a 
 terrible litter," said she, " you are a-making here why 
 do n't you wipe your shoes upon the mat ?" Jem turned 
 round to look for the mat, but he saw none. "Oh!" said 
 the lady, recollecting herself, " I can't blame you, for there 
 is no mat." " No, ma'am," said the gardener, "nor I don't 
 know when, if ever, the man will bring home those mats 
 you bespoke, ma'am." "I am very sorry to hear that," 
 said the lady. "I wish we could find somebody who 
 would do them, if he can't I should not care what sort 
 of mats they were, so that one could wipe one's feet on 
 them." Jem, as he was sweeping away the litter, when he 
 heard these last words, said to himself, " Perhaps I could 
 make a mat." And all the way home, as he trudged along 
 whistling, he was thinking over a scheme for making mats, 
 which, however bold it may appear, he did not despair of 
 executing, with patience and industry. Many were the 
 difficulties which his "prophetic eye " foresaw, but he felt 
 
26 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 within himself that spirit which spurs men on to great 
 enterprises, and makes them " trample on impossibilities." 
 
 He recollected, in the first place, that he had seen Lazy 
 Lawrence, while he lounged upon the gate, twist a bit of 
 heath into different shapes ; and he thought that if he could 
 find some way of platting heath firmly together, it would 
 make a very pretty green soft mat, which would do very 
 well for one to wipe one's shoes on. About a mile from his 
 mother's house, on the common which Jem rode over when 
 he went to Farmer Truck's for the giant-strawberries, he 
 remembered to have seen a great quantity of this heath ; 
 and as it was now only six o'clock in the evening, he knew 
 that he should have time to feed Lightfoot, stroke him, go 
 to the common, return, and make one trial of his skill before 
 he went to bed. 
 
 Lightfoot carried him swiftly to the common, and there 
 Jem gathered as much of the heath as he thought he should 
 want. But, what toil, what time, what pains did it cost 
 him, before he could make anything like a mat ! Twenty 
 times he was ready to throw aside the heath, and give up 
 his project, from impatience of repeated disappointments. 
 But still he persevered. Nothing truly great can be accom- 
 plished without toil and time. Two hours he worked before 
 he went to bed. All his play-hours the next day he spent 
 at his mat ; which, in all, made five hours of fruitless at- 
 tempts. The sixth day, however, repaid him for the labours 
 of the other five ; he conquered his grand difficulty of fast- 
 ening the heath substantially together, and at length com- 
 pletely finished a mat, which far surpassed his most sanguine 
 expectations. He was extremely happy sung, danced 
 round it whistled looked at it again and again, and 
 could hardly leave off" looking at when it was time to go to 
 bed. He laid it by his bedside, that he might see it the 
 moment he awoke in the morning. 
 
 And now came the grand pleasure of carrying it to his 
 mistress. She looked full as much surprised as he expected, 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 27 
 
 when she saw it, and when she heard who made it. After 
 having duly admired it, she asked him how much he ex- 
 pected for his mat. "Expect! Nothing, ma'am," said 
 Jem ; " I meant to give it you if you 'd have it ; I did not 
 mean to sell it. I made it at my play-hours, and I was very 
 happy making it ; and I 'm very glad too that you like it ; 
 and if you please to keep it, ma'am that 's all." " But 
 that 's not all," said the lady. " Spend your time no more 
 in weeding my garden, you can employ yourself * much bet- 
 ter ; you shall have the reward of your ingenuity as well as 
 of your industry. Make as many more such mats as you 
 can, and I will take care and dispose of them for you." 
 " Thank 'e, ma'am," said Jem, making his best bow, for he 
 thought by the lady's looks she meant to do him a favour, 
 though he repeated to himself, " Dispose of them ; what 
 does that mean ?" 
 
 The next day he went to work to make more mats, and 
 he soon learned to make them so well and quickly, that he 
 was surprised at his own success. In every one he made 
 he found less difficulty, so that instead of making two, he could 
 Boon make four in a day. In a fortnight he made eighteen. 
 It was Saturday night when he finished, and he carried in 
 three journeys his eighteen mats to his mistress's house, 
 piled them all up in the hall, and stood with his hat off, with 
 a look of proud humility beside the pile, waiting for his 
 mistress's appearance. Presently a folding-door at one end 
 of the hall opened, and he saw his mistress with a great 
 many gentlemen and ladies rising from several tables. 
 
 " Oh ! there is my little boy and his mats," cried the 
 lady ; and, followed by all the rest of the company, she came 
 into the hall. Jem modestly retired while they looked at 
 his mats ; but in a minute or two his mistress beckoned to 
 him, and when he came into the middle of the circle, he saw 
 that his pile of mats had disappeared. " Well," said the 
 lady, smiling, " what do you see that makes you look so sur- 
 prised ?" " That all my mats are gone," said Jem ; " but 
 
28 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 you are very welcome." " Are we ?" said the lady : " well, 
 take up your hat and go home then, for you see that it ie 
 getting late, and you know ' Lightfoot will wonder what 'a 
 become of you.' " Jem turned round to take up his hat 
 which he had left on the floor. 
 
 But how his countenance changed ! the hat was heavy 
 with shillings. Every one who had taken a mat had put in 
 two shillings ; so that for the eighteen mats he had got 
 thirty-six shillings. ' " Thirty-six shillings I" said the lady ; 
 " five and sevenpence I think you told me you had earned 
 already how much does that make? I must add, I be- 
 lieve, one other sixpence to make out your two guineas." 
 " Two guineas !" exclaimed Jem, now quite conquering 
 his hashfulness, for at the moment he forgot where he was, 
 and saw nobody that was by : " two guineas 1" cried he, 
 clapping his hands together "Oh Lightfoot! oh mo- 
 ther 1" Then recollecting himself, he saw his mistress, 
 whom he now looked up to quite as a friend. " Will you 
 thank them all ?" said he, scarcely daring to glance his eye 
 round upon the company; "will you thank 'em, for you 
 know I do n't know how to thank 'em rightly ?" Everybody 
 thought, however, that they had been thanked rightly. 
 
 " Now we won't keep you any longer only," said his 
 mistress, " I have one thing to ask you, that I may be by 
 when you show your treasure to your mother." " Come, 
 then," said Jem, " come with me now." " Not now," said 
 the lady, laughing, " but I will come to Ashton to-morrow 
 evening ; perhaps your mother can find me a few strawber- 
 ries." 
 
 " That she will," said Jem ; " I '11 search the garden my- 
 self." He now went home, but felt it a great restraint to 
 wait till to-morrow evening before he told his mother. To 
 console himself he flew to the stable ; " Lightfoot, yon 're 
 not to be sold to-morrow! poor fellow," said he, patting 
 him, and then could not refrain from counting out his mo- 
 ney. While he was intent upon this, Jem was startled by 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 29 
 
 a noise at the door ; somebody was trying to pull up the 
 latch. It opened, and there came in Lazy Lawrence, with 
 a boy in a red jacket, who had a cock under his arm. They 
 started when they got into the middle of the stable, and 
 when they saw Jem, who had been at first hidden by the 
 horse. 
 
 " We we we came," stammered Lazy Lawrence, " I 
 mean, I came to to to " " To ask you," continued the 
 stable-boy in a bold tone, " whether you will go with us to 
 the cock-fight on Monday ? See, I 've a fine cock here, and 
 Lawrence told me you were a great friend of his, so I came." 
 
 Lawrence now attempted to say something in praise of 
 the pleasures of cock-fighting, and in recommendation of 
 his new companion. But Jem looked at the stable-boy with 
 dislike, and a sort of dread ; then turning his eyes upon the 
 cock with a look of compassion, said in a low voice to Law- 
 rence, " Shall you like to stand by and see its eyes picked 
 out ?" " I do n't know," said Lawrence, " as to that ; but 
 they say a cock-fight 's a fine sight, and it 's no more cruel 
 in me to go than another ; and a great many go ; and I 've 
 nothing else to do, so I shall go." " But I 've something 
 else to do," said Jem, laughing, " so I shall not go." 
 " But," continued Lawrence, " you know Monday is the 
 great Bristol fair, and one must be merry then, of all days 
 in the year." " One day in the year, sure there 's no harm 
 in being merry," said the stable-boy. " I hope not," said 
 Jem ; " for I know, for my part, I am merry every day in 
 the year." "That's very odd," said Lawrence; "but I 
 know, for my part, I would not for all the world miss going 
 to the fair, for at least it will be something to talk of for 
 half a year after : come ; you '11 go, won't you ?" " No," 
 said Jem, still looking as if he did not like to talk before the 
 ill-looking stranger. " Then what will you do with all your 
 money ?" "I '11 tell you about that another time," whis- 
 pered Jem ; " and do n't you go to see that cock's eyes pecked 
 out ; it won't make you merry, I 'm sure." " If I had any- 
 
30 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 thing else to divert me " said Lawrence, hesitating and 
 yawning. " Come," cried the stable-boy, seizing his stretch- 
 ing arm, " come along," cried he ; and, pulling him away 
 from Jem, upon whom he cast a look of extreme contempt ; 
 " leave him alone, he 's not the sort. What a fool you are," 
 said he to Lawrence, the moment he got him out of the sta- 
 ble, " you might have known he would not go, else we should 
 soon have trimmed him out of his four and sevenpence. 
 But how came you to talk of four and sevenpence ? I saw 
 in the manger a hat full of silver." " Indeed !" exclaimed 
 Lawrence. " Yes, indeed ; but why did you stammer so 
 when we first got in ? you had like to have blown us all up." 
 "I waa so ashamed," said Lawrence, hanging down his 
 head. " Ashamed ! but you must not talk of shame now 
 you 're in for it ; and I shan't let you off. You owe us half 
 a crown, recollect, and I must be paid to-night ; so see and 
 get the money somehow or other." After a considerable 
 pause, he added, " I '11 answer for it he 'd never miss half a 
 crown out of all that silver." " But to steal," said Law- 
 rence, drawing back with horror, " I never thought I should 
 come to that ! and from poor Jem, too the money that he 
 has worked so hard for, too !" " But it is not stealing : we 
 do n't mean to steal only to borrow it ; and if we win, as 
 we certainly shall, at the cock-fight, pay it back again, and 
 he '11 never know anything of the matter ; and what harm 
 will it do him ? Besides, what signifies talking ? you can't 
 go to the cock-fight, or the fair either, if you do n't ; and I 
 tell ye, we do n't mean to steal it ; we '11 pay it again on 
 Monday night." Lawrence made no reply, and they parted 
 without his coming to any determination. 
 
 Here let us pause in our story we are almost afraid to 
 go on the rest is very shocking our little readers will 
 shudder as they read. But it is better that they should 
 know the truth, and see what the idle boy came to at las-t. 
 
 In the dead of the night Lawrence heard somebody tap 
 at, the window. He knew well who it was, for this was the 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 31 
 
 signal agreed upon between him and his wicked companion. 
 He trembled at the thoughts of what he was about to do, 
 and lay quite still, with his head under the bed-clothes, till 
 he heard the second tap. Then he got up, dressed himself, 
 and opened the window. It was almost even with the 
 ground. His companion said to him, in a hollow voice, 
 " Are you ready ?" He made no answer, but got out of the 
 window and followed. When he got to the stable, a black 
 cloud was just passing over the moon, and it was quite dark. 
 'Where are you?" whispered Lawrence, groping about, 
 "wh % " a , are you? Speak to me." "I am here: give me 
 your hb. i." Lawrence stretched out his hand. "Is that 
 your hand ?" said the wicked boy, as Lawrence laid hold of 
 him ; " how cold it felt !" " Let us go back," said Law- 
 rence ; "it is time yet." "It is no time to go back," re- 
 plied the other, opening the door; "you've gone too far 
 now to go back ;" and he pushed Lawrence into the stable. 
 "Have you found it? take care of the horse have you 
 done ? what are you about ? make haste, I hear a noise," 
 said the stable-boy, who watched at the door. " I am feel- 
 ing for the half-crown, but I can't find it." "Bring all 
 together." He brought Jem's broken flower-pot, with all 
 the money in it, to the door. 
 
 The black cloud was now passed over the moon, and the 
 light shone full upon them. " What do we stand here for?" 
 said the stable-boy, snatching the flower-pot out of Law- 
 rence's trembling hands, and pulled him away from the 
 door. " Surely," cried Lawrence, " you won't take all ! 
 You said you 'd only take half a crown, and pay it back on 
 Monday you said you'd only take half a crown!" 
 " Hold your tongue !" replied the other, walking on, deaf to 
 all remonstrances "If I am to be hanged ever, it shall 
 not bo for half a crown." Lawrence's blood ran cold in his 
 veins, and he felt as if all his hair stood on end. Not ano- 
 ther word passed. His accomplice carried off the money, 
 and Lawrence crept, with all the horrors of guilt upon him, 
 
32 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 to his restless bed. All night he was starting from frightful 
 dreams ; or else, broad awake, he lay listening to every 
 small noise, unable to stir, and scarcely daring to breathe, 
 tormented by that most dreadful of all kinds of fear, that 
 fear which is the constant companion of an evil conscience. 
 He thought the morning would never come ; but when it 
 was day, when he heard the birds sing, and saw everything 
 looked cheerful as usual, he felt still more miserable. It 
 was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for church. All 
 the children of the village, dressed in their Sunday clothes, 
 innocent and gay, and little Jem, the best and gayest among 
 them, went flocking by his door to church. " Well, Law- 
 rence," said Jem, pulling his coat as he passed, and saw 
 Lawrence leaning against his father's door, " what makes 
 you look so black ?" "I !" said Lawrence, starting, " why 
 do you say that I look black ?" " Nay, then," said Jem, 
 " you look white enough now, if that will please you ; for 
 you're turned as pale as death." "Pale!" replied Law- 
 rence, not knowing what he said, and turned abruptly away, 
 for he dared not stand another look of Jem's ; conscious 
 that guilt was written in his face, he shunned every eye. 
 He would now have given the world to have thrown off the 
 load of guilt which lay upon his mind ; he longed to follow 
 Jem, to fall upon his knees, and confess all: dreading the 
 moment when Jem should discover his loss, Lawrence dared 
 not stay at home ; and not knowing what to do, or where to 
 go, he mechanically went to his old haunt at the stable-yard, 
 and lurked thereabouts all day, with his accomplice, who 
 tried in vain to quiet his fears and raise his spirits, by talk- 
 ing of the next day's cock-fight. It was agreed, that as soon 
 as the dusk of the evening came on, they should go together 
 into a certain lonely field, and there divide the booty. 
 
 In the mean time, Jem, when he returned from church, 
 was very full of business, preparing for the reception of his 
 mistress, of whose intended visit he had informed his mo- 
 ther ; and while she was arranging the kitchen and their 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 33 
 
 little parlour, he ran to search the strawberry beds. " Why, 
 my Jem, how merry you are to-day I" said his mother, when 
 he came in with the strawberries, and was jumping about 
 the room playfully. " Now keep those spirits of yours, Jem, 
 till you want 'em, and do n't let it come upon you all at 
 once. Have it in mind that to-morrow's fair-day, and 
 Lightfoot must go. I bid Farmer Truck to call for him to- 
 night ; he said he 'd take him along with his own, and he '11 
 be here just now and then I know how it will be with you, 
 Jem !" " So do I !" cried Jem, swallowing hissecret wreh 
 great difficulty, and then tumbling head over heels four 
 times running. A carriage passed the window and stopped 
 at the door. Jem ran out ; it was his mistress. She came 
 in smiling, and soon made the old woman smile too, by 
 praising the neatness of everything in the house. But we 
 shall pass over, however important they were deemed at the 
 time, the praises of the strawberries, and of "my grandmo- 
 ther's china plate." Another knock was heard at the door. 
 " Run, Jem," said his mother, " I hope it's our milk-woman 
 with cream for the lady." No : it was Farmer Truck come 
 for Lightfoot. The old woman's countenance fell. " Fetch 
 him out, dear," said she, turning to her son ; but Jem was 
 gone ; he flew out to the stable the moment he saw the flap 
 of Farmer Truck's great-coat. " Sit ye down, farmer," said 
 the old woman, after they had waited about five minutes in 
 expectation of Jem's return. " You 'd best sit down, if the 
 lady will give you leave ; for he '11 not hurry himself back 
 again. My boy 's a fool, madam, about that there horse." 
 Trying to laugh, she added, " I knew how Lightfoot and he 
 would be loath enough to part he won't bring him out till 
 the last minute ; so do sit ye down, neighbour." The farmer 
 had scarcely sat down, when Jem, with a pale wild counte- 
 nance, came back. " What 's the matter ?" said his mistress. 
 " God bless the boy !" said his mother, looking at him quite 
 frightened, while he tried to speak, but could not. She went 
 up to him, and then leaning his head against her, he cried, 
 
34 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 "It's gone! It's all gone!" and bursting into tears, he 
 sobbed as if his little heart would break. " What 's gone, 
 love?" said his mother. "My two guineas Lightfoot'? 
 two guineas. I went to fetch 'em to give you, mammy ! but 
 the broken flower-pot that I put them in, and all 's gone ! 
 quite gone !" repeated he, checking his sobs. " I saw them 
 safe last night, and was showing 'em to Lightfoot ; and I 
 was so glad to think I had earned them all myself; and I 
 thought how surprised you 'd look, and how glad you 'd be, 
 and how you 'd kiss me, and all !" 
 
 His mother listened to him with the greatest surprise, 
 while his mistress stood in silence, looking first at the old 
 woman, and then at Jem, with a penetrating eye, as if she 
 suspected the truth of his story, and was afraid of becom- 
 ing the dupe of her own compassion. " This is a very 
 strange thing !" said she, gravely. " How came you to 
 leave all your money in a broken flower-pot in the stable ? 
 How came you not to give it to your mother to take care 
 of?" " Why, do n't you remember," said Jem, looking up 
 in the midst of his tears ; " why, do n't you remember you 
 your own self bid me not to tell her about it till you were 
 by ?" " And did you not tell her ?" " Nay, ask mammy," 
 said Jem, a little offended ; and when afterward the lady 
 went on questioning him in a severe manner, as if she did 
 not believe him, he at last made no answer. " Oh, Jem, 
 Jem ! why do n't you speak to the lady ?" said his mother. 
 " I have spoke, and spoke the truth," said Jem proudly, 
 " and she did not believe me." 
 
 Still the lady, who had lived too long in the world to be 
 without suspicion, maintained a cold manner and deter- 
 mined to wait the event without interfering, saying only 
 that she hoped the money would be found ; and advised Jem 
 to have done crying. " I have done," said Jem ; " I shall 
 cry no more." And as he had the greatest command over 
 himself, he actually did not shed another tear, not even 
 when the farmer got up to go, saying he could wait no 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 65 
 
 longer. Jem silently went to bring out Lightfoot. The 
 lady now took her seat where she could see all that passed 
 at the ot>en parlour window. The old woman stood at the 
 door, and several idle people of the village, who had gath- 
 ered round the lady's carriage examining it, turned about 
 to listen. In a minute or two Jem appeared, with a steady 
 countenance, leading Lightfoot ; and, when he came up, 
 without saying a word put the bridle into Farmer Truck's 
 hand. " He has been a good horse," said the farmer. " He 
 is a good horse !" cried Jem, and threw his arm over Light- 
 foot's neck, hiding his own face as he leaned upon him. 
 
 At this instant a party of milk-women went by ; and one 
 of them, having set down her pail, came behind Jem, and 
 gave him a pretty smart blow on the back. He looked up. 
 " And do n't you know me ?" said she. " I forget," said 
 Jem ; " I think I have seen your face before, but I forget." 
 " Do you so ? and you '11 tell me just now," said she, half- 
 opening her hand, " that you forgot who gave you this, and 
 who charged you not to part with it too." Here she quite 
 opened her large hand, and on the palm of it appeared 
 Jem's silver penny. " Where," exclaimed Jem, seizing it, 
 " oh where did you find it ? and have you oh tell me, have 
 you got the rest of my money ?" " I do n't know nothing 
 of your money I do n't know what you would be at," said 
 the milk-woman. " But where, pray tell me, where did you 
 find this ?" " With them that you gave it to, I suppose," 
 said the milk-woman, turning away suddenly to take up her 
 milk-pail. But now Jem's mistress called to her through 
 the window, begging her to stop, and joining in his entrea- 
 ties to know how she came by the silver penny. 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said she, taking up the corner of her 
 apron, " I came by it in an odd way, too. You must know 
 my Betty is sick, so I come with the milk myself, though 
 it 's not what I 'm used to ; for my Betty you know my 
 Betty," said she, turmng round to the old woman, "my 
 Betty serves you, and she 's a tight and stirring lassie. 
 
3b LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 ma'am, I can assure " " Yes, I do n't doubt it," said the 
 lady, impatiently ; " but about the silver penny ?" " Why, 
 that 's true ; as I was coming along all alone, for the rest 
 came around, and I came a short cut across the field no, 
 you can't see it, madam, -where you stand but if you were 
 here " "I see it I know it," said Jem, out of breath 
 with anxiety. "Well well I rested my pail upon the 
 stile, and sets me down a while, and there comes out of the 
 hedge I do n't know well how, for they startled me so I 'd 
 like to have thrown down my milk two boys, one about 
 the size of he," said she, pointing to Jem, " and one a mat- 
 ter taller, but ill-looking like ; so I did not think to stir to 
 make way for them, and they were in a desperate hurry-; 
 so, without waiting for the stile, one of 'em pulled at the 
 gate, and when it would not open (for it was tied with a 
 pretty stout cord), one of 'em whips out with his knife and 
 cuts it 
 
 " Now have you a knife about you, sir ?" continued the 
 milk-woman to the farmer. He gave her his knife. 
 
 " Here now, ma'am, just sticking as it were here, between 
 the blade and the haft, was the silver penny. He took no 
 notice, but when he opened it, out it falls ; still he takes no 
 heed, but cuts the cord as I said before, and through the 
 gate they went, and out of sight in half a minute. I picks 
 up the penny, for my heart misgave me that it was the very 
 one husband had had a long time, and had given against 
 my voice to he," pointing to Jem ; " and I charged him not 
 to part with it ; and, ma'am, when I looked, I knew it by 
 the mark ; so I thought I should show it to Tie," again point- 
 ing to Jem, " and let him give it back to those it belongs to." 
 " It belongs to me," said Jem ; " I never gave it to anybody 
 but " " But," cried the farmer, " those boys have robbed 
 him it is they who have all his money." "Oh, which 
 way did they go ?" cried Jem ; " I '11 run after them." 
 
 " No, no," said the lady, calling to her servant ; and she 
 desired him to take his horse and ride after them. " Ay," 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 87 
 
 added Farmer Truck, " do you take the road, and I '11 take 
 the field way, and I '11 be bound we '11 have 'em presently." 
 
 While they were gone in pursuit of the thieves, the lady, 
 who was now thoroughly convinced of Jem's truth, desired 
 her coachman would produce what she had ordered him to 
 bring with him that evening. Out of the boot of the car- 
 riage the coachman immediately produced a new saddle and 
 bridle. 
 
 How Jem's eyes sparkled when the saddle was thrown 
 upon Lightfoot's back ! " Put it on your horse yourself, 
 Jem," said the lady ; " it is yours." 
 
 Confused reports of Lightfoot's splendid accoutrements, of 
 the pursuit of the thieves, and of the fine and generous lady 
 who was standing at Dame Preston's window, quickly spread 
 through the village, and drew everybody from their houses. 
 They crowded round Jem to hear the story. The children 
 especially, who were all fond of him, expressed the strongest 
 indignation against the thieves. Every eye was on the 
 stretch ; and now some, who had run down the lane, came 
 back shouting, "Here they are ! they've got the thieves I" 
 
 The footman on horseback carried one boy before him ; 
 and the farmer, striding along, dragged another. The latter 
 had on a red jacket, which little Jem immediately recol- 
 lected, and scarcely dared lift his eyes to look at the boy on 
 horseback. "Astonishing!" said he to himself ; "it must 
 be yet surely it can't be Lawrence !" The footman rode 
 as fast as the people would let him. The boy's hat was 
 slouched, and his head hung down, so that nobody could see 
 his face. 
 
 At this instant there was a disturbance in the crowd. A 
 man who was half-drunk pushed his way forward, swearing 
 that nobody should stop him ; that he had a right to see, 
 and he would see. And so he did ; for, forcing through all 
 resistance, he staggered up to the footman just as he was 
 lifting down the boy he had carried before him. " I will 
 I tell you, I will see the thief!" cried the drunken man, 
 
38 LAZY LAWRENCE. 
 
 pushing up the boy's hat. It was his own son. " Law- 
 rence !" exclaimed the wretched father. The shock sobered 
 him at once, and he hid his face in his hands. 
 
 There was an awful silence. Lawrence fell on his knees, 
 and, in a voice that could scarcely be heard, made a full 
 confession of all the circumstances of his guilt. " Such a 
 young creature so wicked ! What could put such wicked- 
 ness into your head?" "Bad company," said Lawrence. 
 " And how came you what brought you into bad compa- 
 ny?" "I do n't know except it was idleness." While 
 this was saying, the farmer was emptying Lazy Lawrence's 
 pockets ; and when the money appeared, all his former 
 companions in the village looked at each other with aston 
 ishment and terror. The parents grasped their little hands 
 closer, and cried, " Thanks to Heaven ! he is not my son 
 how often, when he was little, we used, as he lounged about, 
 to tell him that idleness was the root of all evil !" 
 . As for the hardened wretch his accomplice, every one was 
 impatient to have him sent to jail. He had put on a bold 
 insolent countenance till he heard Lawrence's confession, 
 till the money was found upon him, and he heard the milk- 
 woman declare that she would swear to the silver penny 
 which he had dropped. Then he turned pale, and betrayed 
 the strongest signs of fear. " We must take him before the 
 justice," said the farmer, " and he '11 be lodged in Bristol 
 jail." " Oh 1" said Jem, springing forward when Law- 
 rence's hands were going to be tied, " let him go won't 
 you can't you let him go ?" " Yes, madam, for mercy's 
 sake," said Jem's mother to the lady, " think what a dis- 
 grace to his family to be sent to jail !" His father stood by 
 wringing his hands in an agony of despair. "It's all my 
 fault," cried he; "I brought him up in idleness." "But 
 he '11 never be idle any more," said Jem ; " won't you speak 
 for him, ma'am ?" " Don't ask the lady to speak for him," 
 paid the farmer ; " it 's better he should go to bridewell now, 
 than to the gallows by-and-by." 
 
LAZY LAWRENCE. 39 
 
 Nothing more was said, for everybody felt the truth of 
 the farmer's speech. Lawrence was sent to bridewell for a 
 month, and the stable-boy was transported to Botany Bay. 
 
 During Lawrence's confinement, Jem often visited him, 
 and carried him such little presents as he could afford to 
 give ; and Jem could afford to be generous, because he was 
 industrious. Lawrence's heart was touched by his kindness, 
 and his example struck him so forcibly, that when his con- 
 finement was ended he resolved to set immediately to work : 
 and, to the astonishment of all who knew him, soon became 
 remarkable for industry ; he was found early and late at his 
 work, established a new character, and for ever lost the 
 name of Lazy Lawrence. 
 
TARLTON. 
 
 YOUNG Hardy was educated by Mr. Freeman, a very good 
 
 master, at one of the Sunday-schools in shire. He was 
 
 honest, obedient, active, and good-natured ; so that he was 
 esteemed and beloved by his master, and by his companions. 
 Beloved by all his companions who were good, he did not 
 desire to be loved by the bad ; nor was he at all vexed or 
 ashamed when idle, mischievous, or dishonest boys at- 
 tempted to plague or ridicule him. His friend Loveit, on 
 the contrary, wished to be universally liked ; and his highest 
 ambition was to be thought the best-natured boy in the 
 school : and so he was. He usually went by the name of 
 poor Loveit, and everybody pitied him when he got into dis 
 grace, which he frequently did ; for though he had a good 
 disposition, he was often led to do things which he knew to 
 be wrong, merely because he could never have the courage 
 to say no ; because he was afraid to ofiend the ill-natured, 
 and could not bear to be laughed at by fools. 
 
 One fine autumn evening, all the boys were permitted to 
 go out to play in a pleasant green meadow near the school. 
 Loveit, and another boy called Tarlton, began to play a 
 game at battledore and shuttlecock, and a large party stood 
 by to look on, for they were the best players at battledore 
 and shuttlecock in the school, and this was a trial of skill 
 between them. When they had kept it up to three hundred 
 and twenty, the game became very interesting : the arms 
 of tho combatants grew so tired that they could scarcely 
 
 (40) 
 
T A R L T N . 41 
 
 wield the battledores : the shuttlecock began to wave iu 
 the air ; now it almost touched the ground ; and now, to the 
 astonishment of the spectators, mounted again high over 
 their heads ; yet the strokes became feebler and feebler ; 
 and, " Now Loveit !" " Now Tarlton !" resounded on all 
 sides. For another minute the victory was doubtful ; but 
 at length the setting sun shining full in Loveit' s face so 
 dazzled his eyes that he could no longer see the shuttlecock, 
 and it fell at his feet. 
 
 After the first shout for Tarlton's triumph was over, every- 
 body exclaimed, " Poor Loveit !" " He 's the best-natured 
 fellow in the world I" " What a pity that he did not stand 
 with his back to the sun." 
 
 " Now I dare you all to play another game with me," 
 cried Tarlton, vauntingly ; and as he spoke, he tossed the 
 shuttlecock up with all his force ; with so much force that 
 it went over the hedge, and dropped into a lane which went 
 close behind the field. "Heydey!" said Tarlton, "what 
 shall we do now ?" 
 
 The boys were strictly forbidden to go into the lane ; and 
 it was upon their promise not to break this command that 
 they were allowed to play in the adjoining field. 
 
 No other shuttlecock was to be had, and their play was 
 stopped. They stood on the top of the bank peeping over 
 the hedge. " I see it yonder," said Tarlton ; " I wish any- 
 body would get it. One could get over the gate at the bot- 
 tom of the field, and be back again in half a minute," added 
 he, looking at Loveit. " But you know we must not go into 
 the lane," said Loveit, hesitatingly. " Pugh !" said Tarl- 
 ton, " why now what harm could it do ?" " I do n't know," 
 said Loveit, drumming upon his battledore ; " but " " You 
 do n't know, man ! why, then, what are you afraid of, I ask 
 you ?" Loveit coloured, went on drumming, and again, in 
 a lower voice, said, "lie didn't know." But upon Tarlton's 
 repeating, in a more insolent tone, " I ask you, man, what 
 you're afraid of?" he suddenly left off drumming, and 
 
42 T A K L T N . 
 
 looking round, said, " he was not afraid of anything that 
 he knew of." " Yes, but you are," said Hardy, coming 
 forward. "Am I?" said Loveit; "of what, pray, am I 
 afraid?" " Of doing wrong !" " Afraid of doing wrong!" 
 repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, so that he made everybody 
 laugh. "Now hadn't you better say, afraid of being 
 flogged ?" " No," said Hardy, coolly, after the laugh had 
 somewhat subsided ; " I am as little afraid of being flogged 
 as you are, Tarlton ; but I meant " " No matter what you 
 meant ; why should you interfere with your wisdom and 
 your meanings ; nobody thought of asking you to stir a step 
 for us ; but we asked Loveit, because he 's the best fellow in 
 the world." " And for that very reason you should not 
 ask him, because you know he can'l refuse you anything." 
 " Indeed though," cried Loveit, piqued, " there you 're mis- 
 taken, for I could refuse if I chose it." Hardy smiled ; and 
 Loveit, half-afraid of his contempt, and half-afraid of Tarl- 
 ton's ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had recourse to his 
 battledore, which he balanced most curiously upon his fore- 
 finger. " Look at him ! now do look at him I" cried Tarl- 
 ton ; " did you ever in your life see anybody look so silly ! 
 
 Hardy has him quite under his thumb ; he 's so mortally 
 afraid of him, that he dare not turn either of his eyes from 
 the tip of his nose ! look how he squints !" "I do n't 
 squint," said Loveit, looking up, " and nobody has me under 
 his thumb ; and what Hardy said was only for fear I should 
 get into disgrace: he's the best friend I have." Loveit 
 spoke this with more than usual spirit, for both his heart 
 and his pride were touched. " Come along, then," said 
 Hardy, taking him by the arm in an affectionate manner ; 
 and he was just going, when Tarlton called after him, " Ay, 
 go along with its best friend, and take care it does not get 
 into a scrape ; good-by, little Panado !" " Who do they 
 call little Panado ?" said Loveit, turning his head hastily 
 back. " Never mind," said Hardy, " what does it signify ?" 
 
 " No," said Loveit, " to be sure it does not signify, but 
 
T A R L T N . 43 
 
 one does not like to be called Little Panado ; besides," added 
 he, after going a few steps farther, " they '11 all think it so 
 ill-natured, I had better go back, and just tell them that 
 I 'm sorry I can't get their shuttlecock ; do come back 
 with me." " No," said Hardy, " I can't go back ; and 
 you'd better not." "But I assure you, I won't stay a 
 minute ; wait for me," added Loveit, and he slunk back 
 again to prove that he was not little Panado. 
 
 Once returned, the rest followed of course ; for to support 
 his character for good-nature, he was obliged to yield to the 
 entreaties of his companions ; and, to show his spirit, leaped 
 over the gate, amid the acclamations of the little mob : he 
 was quickly out of sight. 
 
 " Here," cried he, returning in about five minutes, quite 
 out of breath, " I 've got the shuttlecock ; and I '11 tell you 
 what I've seen," cried he, panting for breath. "What?" 
 cried everybody, eagerly. " Why, just at the turu of the 
 corner, at the end of the lane," panting. " Well," said 
 Tarlton, impatiently, "do go on." "Let me just take 
 breath first." " Pugh ! never mind your breath." " Well, 
 then, just at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane, 
 as I was looking about for the shuttlecock, I heard a great 
 rustling somewhere near me, and so I looked where it could 
 come from ; and I saw in a nice little garden, on the oppo- 
 site side of the way, a boy, about as big as Tarlton, sitting 
 in a great tree, shaking the branches ; and at every shake 
 down there came such a shower of fine large rosy apples : 
 they made my mouth water ; so I called to the boy, to beg 
 one ; but he said he could not give me one, for that they 
 were his grandfather's ; and just at that moment, from be- 
 hind a gooseberry-bush, up popped the uncle ; the grandfa- 
 ther poked his head out of the window : so I ran off as fast 
 as my legs would carry me, though I heard him bawling 
 after me all the way." 
 
 " And let him bawl," cried Tarlton ; " he shan't bawl for 
 nothing : I 'm determined we '11 have some of his fine large 
 
44 TARLTON. 
 
 rosy apples before I sleep to-night." At this speech a gene 
 ral silence ensued; everybody kept his eyes fixed upon 
 Tarlton except Loveit, who looked down, apprehensive that 
 he should be drawn on much farther than he intended. 
 " Oh, indeed," said he to himself, " as Hardy told me, I had 
 better not have come back." 
 
 Regardless of this confusion, Tarlton continued, "But 
 before I say any more, I hope we have no spies among us. 
 If there is any among you afraid to be flogged, let him 
 march off this instant I" Loveit coloured, bit his lips, wished 
 to go, but had not courage to move first. He waited to see 
 what everybody else would do : nobody stirred ; so Loveit 
 stood still. 
 
 " Well, then," cried Tarlton, giving his hand to the boy 
 next him, then to the next, " your word and honour that you 
 won't betray me ; but stand by me and I '11 stand by you." 
 Each boy gave his hand and his promise, repeating, " Stand 
 by me, and I '11 stand by you." Loveit hung back till the 
 last ; and had almost twisted off the button of the boy's coat 
 who screened him, when Tarlton came up, holding out his 
 hand, " Come, Loveit, lad, you 're in for it : stand by me, and 
 I '11 stand by you." " Indeed, Tarlton," expostulated he, 
 without looking him in the face, " I do wish you'd give up 
 this scheme ; I dare say all the apples are gone by this time ; 
 I wish you would do, pray, give up this scheme." 
 " What scheme, man ? you have n't heard it yet ; you may 
 as well know your text before you begin preaching." The 
 corners of Loveit's mouth could not refuse to smile, though 
 in his heart he felt not the slightest inclination to laugh. 
 " Why, I do n't know you, I declare I do n't know you to-day," 
 said Tarlton ; " you used to be the best-natured, most agree- 
 able lad in the world, and would do anything one asked you ; 
 but you 're quite altered of late, as we were saying just now, 
 when you skulked away with Hardy : come, do, man, pluck 
 up a little spirit, and be one of us, or you'll make us all 
 hate you." " Hate me 1" repeated Loveit, with terror ; " no, 
 
TARLTON. 45 
 
 surely you won't all hate me!" and he mechanically 
 stretched out his hand, which Tarlton shook violently, say- 
 ing, "Ay, now, that's right." "Ay, now, that's wrong!" 
 whispered Loveit's conscience ; but his conscience was of 
 no use to him, for it was always overpowered by the voice 
 of numbers ; and though he had the wish, he never had the 
 power, to do right. " Poor Loveit ! I knew he would not 
 refuse us," cried his companions ; and even Tarlton, the 
 moment he shook hands with him, despised him. It is cer- 
 tain that weakness of mind is despised both by the good and 
 by the bad. 
 
 The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed all the 
 airs of a commander, explained his schemes, and laid the 
 plan of attack upon the poor old man's apple-tree. It was 
 the only one he had in the world. We shall not dwell upon 
 their consultation, for the amusement of contriving such 
 expeditions is often the chief thing which induces idle boys 
 to engage in them. 
 
 There was a small window at the end of the back stair- 
 case, through which, between nine and ten o'clock at night, 
 Tarlton, accompanied by Loveit and another boy, crept out. 
 It was a moonlight night ; and, after crossing the field, and 
 climbing the gate, directed by Loveit, who now resolved to 
 go through the affair with spirit, they proceeded down the 
 lane with rash, yet fearful steps. At a distance, Loveit saw 
 the whitewashed cottage, and the apple-tree beside it : they 
 quickened their pace, and with some difficulty scrambled 
 through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not 
 without being scratched and torn by the briars. Every- 
 thing was silent. Yet now and then at every rustling of the 
 leaves they started, and their hearts beat violently. Once, 
 as Loveit was climbing the apple-tree, he thought he heam 
 a door in the cottage open, and earnestly begged his com 
 panions to desist and return home. This, however, he coulu 
 by no means persuade them to do, until thcv had filled thci. 
 pockets with apples ; then, to his great jo^. J.Cj- ,*<L/J L 
 
46 TARLTON. 
 
 crept in at the staircase window, and each retired, as softly 
 as possible, to his own apartment. 
 
 Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left 
 fast asleep, and whom he was now extremely afraid of 
 wakening. All the apples were emptied out of Loveit's 
 pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the morning, for fear 
 the smell should betray the secret to Hardy. The room door 
 was apt to creak, but it was opened with such precaution 
 that no noise could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as 
 fast asleep as when he left him. 
 
 "Ah I" said he to himself, " how quietly he sleeps ! I wish 
 I had been sleeping too I" The reproaches of Loveit's con- 
 science, however, served no other purpose but to torment 
 him ; he had not sufficient strength of mind to be good. 
 The very next night, in spite of all his fears, and all his 
 penitence, and all his resolutions, by a little fresh ridicule 
 and persuasion he was induced to accompany the same party 
 on a similar expedition. We must observe, that the neces- 
 sity for continuing their depredations became stronger the 
 third day ; for though at first only a small party had been 
 in the secret, by degrees it was divulged to the whole school ; 
 and it was necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the booty. 
 
 Every one was astonished that Hardy, with all his quick- 
 ness and penetration, had not yet discovered their proceed- 
 ings ; but Loveit could not help suspecting that he was not 
 quite so ignorant as he appeared to be. Loveit had strictly 
 kept his promise of secrecy, but he was by no means an 
 artful boy ; and in talking to his friend, conscious that he 
 had something to conceal, he was perpetually on the point 
 of betraying himself; then, recollecting his engagement, he 
 blushed, stammered, bungled ; and upon Hardy's asking 
 him what he meant, would answer, with a silly guilty coun- 
 tenance, that he did not know, or abruptly break off, saying. 
 " Oh, nothing ! nothing at all !" It was in vain that he 
 urged Tarlton to permit him to consult his friend ; a gloom 
 overspread Tarlton's brow, when he began to talk on the 
 
TAKLTON. 47 
 
 subject, and he always returned a peremptory refusal, ac- 
 companied by some such taunting expression as this "I 
 wish we had had nothing to do with such a sneaking fellow. 
 He '11 betray us all, I see, before we have done with him." 
 "Well," said Loveit to himself, "so I am abused after 
 all, and called a sneaking fellow for my pains ; that '& rather 
 hard, to be sure, when I've got so little by the job." 
 
 In truth he had not got much, for in the division of the 
 booty only one apple, and the half of another, which was 
 only half-ripe, happened to fall to his share ; though, to be 
 sure, when they had all eaten their apples, he had the satis- 
 faction to hear everybody declare they were very sorry they 
 had forgotten to offer some of theirs to "poor Loveit!" 
 
 In the mean time the visits to the apple-tree had been 
 now too frequently repeated to remain concealed from the 
 old man, who lived in the cottage. He used to examine his 
 only tree very frequently, and missing numbers of rosy ap- 
 ples which he had watched ripen, he, though not much prone 
 to suspicion, began to think that there was something going 
 wrong; especially as a gap was made in his hedge, and 
 there were several small footsteps in his flower-beds. 
 
 The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to 
 any living creature, much less to children, of whom he was 
 particularly fond. Nor was he in the least avaricious ; for 
 though he was not rich, he had enough to live upon, because 
 he had been very industrious in his youth : and he was al- 
 ways very ready to part with the little he had : nor was he 
 a cross old man. If anything would have made him angry, 
 it would have been the seeing his favourite tree robbed, as 
 he had promised himself the pleasure of giving his red 
 apples to his grandchildren on his birthday. However, he 
 looked up at the tree in sorrow rather than in anger, and 
 leaning upon his staff, he began to consider what he had 
 best do. 
 
 " If I complain to their master," said he to himself, " they 
 will certainly be flogged, and that I should be sorry for ; yet 
 
48 TAKLTON. 
 
 they must not be let to go on stealing, that -would be 
 worse still, for that would surely bring them to the gallows 
 in the end. Let mo see oh, ay, that will do ; I will bor- 
 row Farmer Kent's dog Barker, he'll keep them off, I'll 
 answer for it." 
 
 Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neigh- 
 bour at the same time to be sure to chain him well, for he 
 was the fiercest mastiff in England. The old man, with 
 Farmer Kent's assistance, chained him fast to the trunk of 
 the apple-tree. 
 
 Night came, and Tarlton, Loveit, and his companions re- 
 turned at the usual hour. Grown bolder now by frequent 
 success, they came on talking and laughing. But the mo- 
 ment they had set their foot in the garden, the dog started 
 up ; and shaking his chain as he sprang forward, barked 
 with unremitting fury. They stood still as if fixed to the 
 spot. There was just moonlight enough to see the dog. 
 " Let us try the other side of the tree," said Tarlton. But 
 to whichever side they turned, the dog flew round in an in- 
 stant, barking with increased fury. 
 
 " He '11 break his chain and tear us to pieces," cried Tarl- 
 ton ; and, struck with terror, he immediately threw down 
 the basket he had brought with him, and betook himself to 
 flight with the greatest precipitation. " Help me ! oh, pray, 
 help ! I can't get through the hedge," cried Loveit in a la- 
 mentable tone, while the dog growled hideously, and sprang 
 forward to the extremity of his chain. " I can't get out ! 
 Oh, pray, dear Tarlton, stay for me one minute !" 
 
 He called in vain; he was left to struggle through his 
 difficulties by himself; and of all his dear friends, not one 
 turned back to help him. At last, torn and terrified, he got 
 through the hedge and ran home, despising his companions 
 for their selfishness. Nor could he help observing that 
 Tarlton, with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run 
 away from the appearance of danger. The next morning 
 he could not help reproaching the party with their conduct 
 
TARLTON. 49 
 
 " Why could not you, any of you, stay one minute to help 
 me ?" said he. " We did not hear you call," answered one. 
 " I was so frightened," said another, " I would not have 
 turned back for the whole world." " And you, Tarlton." 
 
 "I !" said Tarlton. " Had not I enough to do to take 
 care of myself, you blockhead ? Every one for himself in 
 this world !" " So I see," said Loveit, gravely. " Well, 
 man ! is there anything strange in that ?" " Strange ! why 
 yes ; I thought you all loved me ?" " Lord, love you, lad ! 
 so we do ; but we love ourselves better." " Hardy would 
 not have served me so, however," said Loveit, turning away 
 in disgust. Tarlton was alarmed. 
 
 " Pugh I" said he, " what nonsense have you taken into 
 your brain ? Think no more about it. We are all very 
 sorry, and beg your pardon ; come, shake hands, forgive and 
 forget." Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly : 
 
 "I forgivg it with all my heart," said he, " but I cannot 
 forget it so soon !" " Why, then, you are not such a good- 
 humoured fellow as we thought you were. Surely you can- 
 not bear malice, Loveit ?" Loveit smiled, and allowed that 
 he certainly could not bear malice. " Well, then, cc-me ; 
 you know at the bottom we all love you, and would do any- 
 thing in the world for you." Poor Loveit, flattered in his 
 foible, began to believe that they did love him at the bottom, 
 as they said, and even with his eyes open consented again 
 to be duped. 
 
 " How strange it is," thought he, " that I should set such 
 value upon the love of those I despise ! When I 'm once 
 out of this scrape, I ; 11 have no more to do with them, I 'm 
 determined." 
 
 Compared with his friend Hardy, his new associates did 
 indeed appear contemptible : for all this time Hardy had 
 treated him with uniform kindness, avoided to pry into his 
 secrets, yet seemed ready to receive his confidence, if it had 
 been offered. 
 
 After school in the evening, as he was standing silently 
 4 
 
50 TARLTON. 
 
 beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, 
 Tarlton, in his brutal manner, came up, and seizing him by 
 the arm, said, " Come along -with me, Loveit, I 've some- 
 thing to say to you." "I can't come now," said Loveit, 
 drawing away his arm. " Ah, do come now," said Tarlton 
 in a voice of persuasion. " Well, I '11 come presently." 
 " Nay, but do, pray, there 's a good fellow ; come now, be- 
 cause I 've something to say to you." " What is it you 've 
 got to say to me ? I wish you 'd let me alone," said Loveit ; 
 yet at the same time he suffered himself to be led away. 
 
 Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring 
 him into temper again ; and even though he was not very 
 apt to part with his playthings, went so far as to say, 
 " Loveit, the other day you wanted a top ; I '11 give you 
 mine, if you desire it." Loveit thanked him, and was over- 
 joyed at the thoughts of possessing this top. " But what 
 did you want to say to me just now?" "Ay, we'll talk 
 of that presently not yet when we get out of hearing." 
 " Nobody is near us," said Loveit. " Come a little far- 
 ther, however," said Tarlton, looking round suspiciously. 
 " Well, now, well !" " You know the dog that frightened 
 ns so last night?" "Yes." "It will never frighten 113 
 again." "Won't it? how so?" "Look here," said 
 Tarlton, drawing from his pocket something wrapped in a 
 blue handkerchief. "What's that?" Tarlton opened it. 
 " Raw meat !" exclaimed Loveit. " How came you by it?" 
 " Tom, the servant boy, Tom got it for me, and I 'm to 
 give him sixpence." " And is it for the dog ?" " Yes ; I 
 vow'd I 'd be revenged on him, and after all this he '11 never 
 bark again." " Never bark again ! What do you mean ? 
 Is it poison ?" exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror. 
 " Only poison for a dog," said Tarlton, confused ; " you 
 could not look more shocked, if it were poison for a Chris- 
 tian." Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound silence. 
 " Tarlton," said he at last, in a changed tone and altered 
 manner " I did not know you ; I will have no more to do 
 
TARLTON. 51 
 
 with you." " Nay, but stay," said Tarlton, catching hold 
 of his arm, " stay, I was only joking." "Let go my arm, 
 you were in earnest." " But then that was before I knew 
 there was any harm ! If you think there 'a any harm " 
 "If!" said Loveit. "Why you know, I might not know; 
 for Tom told me it 's a thing that's often done ; ask Tom." 
 "I '11 ask nobody! surely we know better what's right 
 and wrong than Tom does." " But only just ask him, to 
 hear what he '11 say." " I do n't want to hear what he '11 
 say," cried Loveit, vehemently. " The dog will die in ago- 
 nies in horrid agonies ! There was a dog poisoned at my 
 father's, I saw him in the yard. Poor creature ! he lay, and 
 howled, and writhed himself!" "Poor creature! Well, 
 there 's no harm done now," cried Tarlton, in a hypocritical 
 tone. But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit, 
 he was thoroughly determined in his purpose. 
 
 Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend 
 Hardy ; but his mind was in such agitation, that he neither 
 talked nor moved like himself; and two or three times his 
 heart was so full that he was ready to burst into tears. 
 
 " How good-natured you are to me !" said he to Hardy, 
 as he was trying vainly to entertain him ; " but if you 
 knew " Here he stopped short, for the bell for evening 
 prayer rang, and they all took their places, and knelt down. 
 After prayer, as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped 
 Tarlton. " Well?" asked he, in an inquiring manner, fix- 
 ing his eyes upon him. " Well!" replied Tarlton, in an 
 audacious tone, as if he meant to set his inquiring eye at 
 defiance. " What do you mean to do to-night ?" " To go 
 to sleep, as you do, I suppose," replied Tarlton, turning 
 away abruptly, and whistling as he walked off. 
 
 " Oh, he has certainly changed his mind !" said Loveit to 
 himself, " else he could not whistle." About ten minutes 
 after this, as he and Hardy were undressing, Hardy suddenly 
 recollected that he had left his new kite out upon the grass. 
 " Oh I" said he, " it will be quite spoiled before the morn- 
 
52 TAELTON. 
 
 ing." " Call Tom," said Loveit, " and bid him bring it in 
 for you in a minute." They both went to the top of the 
 stairs to call Tom ; no one answered. They called again 
 louder, " Is Tom below ?" " I 'm here," answered he at 
 last, coming out of Tarlton's room with a look of mixed 
 embarrassment and effrontery. And, as he was receiving 
 Hardy's commission, Loveit saw the corner of the blue 
 handkerchief hanging out of his pocket. This excited fresh 
 suspicion in Loveit's mind ; but, without saying one word, 
 he immediately stationed himself at the window in his room, 
 which looked out towards the lane ; and, as the moon was 
 risen, he could see if any one passed that way. " What are 
 you doing there ?" said Hardy, after he had been watching 
 some time ; " why do n't you come to bed ?" Loveit re- 
 turned no answer, but continued standing at the window. 
 Nor did he watch long in vain; presently he saw Tom 
 gliding slowly along a by-path, and get over the gate into 
 the lane. 
 
 " He 'a gone to do it !" exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an 
 emotion which he could not command. " Who 's gone ? to 
 do what?" cried Hardy, starting up. "How cruel, how 
 wicked !" continued Loveit. " What 's cruel what 's 
 wicked ? speak out at once I" returned Hardy, in that com- 
 manding tone in which, in moments of danger, strong 
 minds feel themselves entitled to assume toward weak ones. 
 Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent manner, explained 
 the affair to him. Scarcely had the word passed his lips, 
 when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without 
 saying one syllable. " For God's sake ! what are you going 
 to do ?" said Loveit, in great anxiety. " They '11 never for- 
 give me ! do n't betray me ! They '11 never forgive me 1 
 pray, speak to me! only say you won't betray us!" 
 " I will not betray you, trust to me," said Hardy ; and he 
 left the room, and Loveit stood in amazement : while, in 
 the mean time, Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before 
 the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all possible 
 
TARLTON. 53 
 
 speed across the meadow, and then down the lane. He 
 came up with Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the 
 old man's garden. Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, 
 seized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with 
 a firm grasp, while he panted for utterance. " What, Mas- 
 ter Hardy, is it you? what's the matter? what do you 
 want ?" "I want the poisoned meat that you have in your 
 pocket." "Who told you that I had any such thing?" 
 said Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket. " Give 
 it me quietly, and I '11 let you off." " Sir, upon my word 
 I have n't ! I did n't ! I do n't know what you mean," said 
 Tom, trembling, though he was by far the strongest of the 
 two ; " indeed, I do n't know what you mean." " You do," 
 said Hardy, with great indignation ; and a violent struggle 
 immediately commenced. The dog, now alarmed by their 
 voices, began to bark outrageously. Tom was terrified lest 
 the old man should come out to see what was the matter ; 
 his strength forsook him, and flinging the handkerchief and 
 meat over the hedge, he ran away with all his speed. The 
 handkerchief fell within reach of the dog, who instantly 
 snapped at it ; luckily it did not come untied. Hardy saw 
 a pitchfork on a dunghill close beside him, and seizing upon 
 it, stuck it into the handkerchief. The dog pulled, tore, 
 growled, grappled, yelled: it was impossible to get the 
 handkerchief from between his teeth ; but the knot was 
 loosed, the meat, unperceived by the dog, dropped out ; and 
 while he dragged off the handkerchief in triumph, Hardy, 
 with inexpressible joy, plunged the pitchfork into the poi- 
 soned meat, and bore it away. 
 
 Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from a field 
 of battle. Full of the pleasure of successful benevolence, 
 Hardy tripped joyfully home, and vaulted over the window- 
 sill, when the first object he beheld was Mr. Power, the 
 usher, standing at the head of the stairs with a candle in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Come up, whoever you are," said Mr. William Power, 
 
54 TARLTON. 
 
 in a stern voice ; " I thought I should find you out at last. 
 Come up, whoever you are 1" Hardy obeyed without reply. 
 " Hardy 1" exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with aston- 
 ishment: " is it you, Mr. Hardy ?" repeated he, holding the 
 light to his face. " Why, sir," said he in a sneering tone, 
 " I 'm sure, if Mr. Trueman was here, he would n't believe 
 his own eyes ; but for my part, I saw through you long 
 since ; I never like saints, for my share. Will you please 
 to do me the favour, sir, if it is not too much trouble, to 
 empty your pockets ?" Hardy obeyed in silence. " Hey- 
 day! meat! raw meat! what next?" "That's all," said 
 Hardy, emptying his pockets inside out. " That is all," 
 said Mr. Power, taking up the meat. " Pray, sir," said 
 Hardy, eagerly, " let that meat be burned, it is poisoned." 
 " Poisoned !" cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop 
 out of his fingers ; " you wretch !" looking at him with a 
 menacing air, "what is all this ? speak." Hardy was silent. 
 "Why don't you speak?" cried he, shaking him by the 
 shoulder impatiently. Still Hardy was silent. "Down 
 upon your knees this minute, and confess all ; tell me where 
 you've been, and what you've been doing, and who are 
 your accomplices, for I know there is a gang of you : so," 
 added he, pressing heavily upon Hardy's shoulder, " down 
 upon your knees this minute, and confess the whole ; that 'a 
 your only way now to get off yourself. If you hope for my 
 pardon, I can tell you that it 's not to be had without asking 
 for." " Sir," said Hardy, in a firm but respectful voice, 
 " I have no pardon to ask, I have nothing to confess, I am 
 innocent ; but if I were not, I would never try to get off 
 myself by betraying my companions." "Very well, sir! 
 very well ! very fine I stick to it, stick to it, I advise you 
 and we shall see. And how will you look to-morrow, Mr. 
 Innocent, when my uncle the doctor comes home ?" " As 
 I do now, sir ( " said Hardy, unmoved. His composure threw 
 Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance. " Sir," con- 
 tinued Hardy, " ever since I have been at school I never 
 
T A R LTON. 55 
 
 told a lie, and therefore, sir, I hope you will believe me 
 now, upon my word and honour, sir, I have done nothing 
 wrong." " Nothing wrong ! better and better ! what, when 
 1 catched you going out at night ?" " That, to be sure, 
 was wrong," said Hardy, recollecting himself; "but except 
 that " " Except that, sir ! I will except nothing. Come 
 along with me, young gentleman ; your time for pardon is 
 past." Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a nar- 
 row passage to a small closet set apart for the desperate 
 offenders, and usually known by the name of the Black-Jiole. 
 " There, sir, take up your lodging there for to-night," said 
 he, pushing him in ; " to-morrow I '11 know more, or I '11 
 know why," added he, double-locking the door with a tre- 
 mendous noise upon his prisoner, and locking also the door 
 at the end of the passage, so that no one could have access 
 to him. " So now I think I have you safe !" said Mr. Wil- 
 liam Power to himself, stalking off with steps which made 
 the whole gallery resound, and which made many a guilty 
 hoart tremble. The conversation which had passed between 
 Hardy and Mr. Power at the head of the stairs had been 
 anxiously listened to, but only a word or two here and there 
 had been distinctly overheard. The locking of the black- 
 hole door was a terrible sound some knew not what it 
 portended, and others knew too vxll ; all assembled in the 
 morning with faces of anxiety. Tarlton's and Loveit's were 
 the most agitated, Tarlton for himself; Loveit for his friend, 
 for himself, for everybody. Every one of the party, and 
 Tarlton at their head, surrounded him with reproaches, and 
 considered him as the author of the evils which hung over 
 them. " How could you do so ? and why did you say any- 
 thing to Hardy about it ? when you had promised, too ! 
 Oh, what shall we do ! what a scrape you have brought us 
 into! Loveit, it's all your fault!" "All my fault!" re- 
 peated poor Loveit, with a sigh ; " well, that is hard." 
 
 " Goodness ! there 's the bell," exclaimed a number of 
 voioes at once. " Now for it !" They all stood in a half- 
 
56 T A H L T N . 
 
 circle for morning prayers ! they listened, " Here ho is com- 
 ing ! No Yes Here he is !" And Mr. William Power, 
 with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place 
 at the head of the room. They knelt down to prayers ; and 
 the moment they rose, Mr. William Power, laying his hand 
 upon the table, cried, " Stand still, gentlemen, if you please." 
 Everybody stood stock still ; he walked out of the circle ; 
 they guessed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole 
 room was in commotion. Each with eagerness asked each 
 what none could answer, "Has Tie told?" " What has he 
 told 1" " Who has he told of?" " I hope he has not told 
 of me !" cried they. " I '11 answer for it he has told of all 
 of us," said Tarlton. " And I '11 answer for it he has told 
 of none of us," answered Loveit, with a sigh. " You do n't 
 think he 's such a fool, when he can get himself off," said 
 Tarlton. 
 
 At this instant the prisoner was led in, and as he passed 
 through the circle, every eye was fixed upon him : his eye 
 turned upon no one, not even upon Loveit, who pulled him 
 by the coat as he passed every one felt almost afraid to 
 breathe. " Well, sir," said Mr. Power, sitting down in Mr. 
 Trueman's elbow-chair, and placing the prisoner opposite 
 to him ; "well, sir, what have you to say to me this morn- 
 ing ?" " Nothing, sir," answered Hardy, in a decided yet 
 modest manner ; " nothing but what I said last night." 
 "Nothing more?" "Nothing more, sir." But I have 
 something more to say to you, sir, then ; and a great deal 
 more, I promise you, before I have done with you ;" and 
 then seizing him in a fury, he was just going to give him a 
 severe flogging, when the school-room door opened, and Mr. 
 Trueman appeared, followed by an old man, whom Loveit 
 immediately knew. He leaned upon his stick as he walked, 
 and in his other hand carried a basket of apples. When 
 they came within the circle, Mr. Trueman stopped short. 
 " Hardy I" exclaimed he, with a voice of unfeigned surprise, 
 while Mr. William Power stood with his hand suspended. 
 
T A R L T N . 57 
 
 " Ay, Hardy, sir," repeated he. " I told him you 'd not be- 
 lieve your own eyes." Mr. Trueman advanced with a slow 
 step. " Now, sir, give me leave/' said the usher, eagerly 
 drawing him aside and whispering. " So, sir," said Mr. T. 
 when the whisper was done, addressing himself to Hardy 
 with a voice and manner which, had he been guilty, must 
 have pierced him to the heart, " I find I have been deceived 
 in you it is but three hours ago that I told your uncle I 
 never had a boy in my school in whom I placed so much 
 confidence ; but after all this show of honour and integrity, 
 the moment my back is turned you are the first to set an 
 example of disobedience to my orders. Why do I talk of 
 disobedience to my commands you are a thief!" "I, 
 sir I" exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to suppress his feel- 
 ings. " You, sir, you and some others," said Mr. True- 
 man, looking round the room with a penetrating glance 
 " you and some others " " Ay, sir," interrupted Mr. Wil- 
 liam Power, "get that out of him if you can ask him." 
 "I will ask him nothing ; I shall neither put his truth 
 nor his honour to the trial ; truth and honour are not to be 
 expected among thieves." "I am not a thief! I never had 
 anything to do with thieves," cried Hardy, indignantly. 
 " Have you not robbed this old man? don't you know the 
 taste of these apples ?" said Mr. Trueman, taking one out 
 of the basket. " No, sir, I do not ; I never touched one of 
 that old man's apples." " Never touched one of them 1 I 
 suppose this is some vile equivocation ; you have done 
 worse ; you have had the barbarity, the baseness, to attempt 
 to poison his dog ; the poisoned meat was found in your 
 pocket last night." " The poisoned meat was found in my 
 pocket, sir ; but I never attempted to poison the dog ; I 
 saved his life." " Lord bless him," said the old man. 
 " Nonsense ! cunning !" said Mr. Power ; " I hope you 
 won't let him impose upon you so, sir." " No, he cannot 
 impose upon me ; I have a proof he is little prepared for," 
 eaid Mr. Trueman, producing the blue handkerchief in 
 \vhich the meat had been wrapped. 
 
58 TARLTON. 
 
 Tarlton turned pale ; Hardy's countenance never changed. 
 " Do n't you know this handkerchief, sir?" "I do, sir." 
 " Is it not yours ?" " No, sir." " Do n't you know whose 
 it is ?" cried Mr. Power. Hardy was silent. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Trueman, " I am not fond 
 of punishing you ; but when I do it, you know it is always 
 in earnest. I will begin with the eldest of you ; I will be- 
 gin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this 
 handkerchief is owned." " I 'm sure it 's not mine." 
 " And I 'm sure it 's none of mine," burst from every mouth, 
 while they looked at each other in dismay, for none but 
 Hardy, Loveit, and Tarlton knew the secret. " My cane !" 
 said Mr. Trueman, and Power handed him the cane Loveit 
 groaned from the bottom of his heart Tarlton leaned back 
 against the wall with a black countenance Hardy looked 
 with a steady eye at the cane. 
 
 " But first," said Mr. Trueman, laying down the cane, 
 " let us see ; perhaps we may find out the owner of this 
 handkerchief another way," examining the corners ; it was 
 torn almost to pieces, but luckily the corner that was marked 
 remained. 
 
 "J. T. I" cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye was turned 
 upon -the guilty Tarlton, who, now as pale as ashes, and 
 trembling in every limb, sank down upon his knees, and in 
 a whining voice begged for mercy. " Upon my word and 
 honour, sir, I '11 tell you all ; I should never have thought 
 of stealing the apples if Loveit had not first told me of 
 them ; and it was Tom who first put the poisoning the dog 
 into my head ; it was he that carried the meat ; teas n't itf" 
 said he, appealing to Hardy, whose word he knew must be 
 believed. " Oh, dear sir !" continued he, as Mr. Trueman 
 began to move towards him, "do let me off do pray let 
 me off this time ! I'm not the only one indeed, sir! I hope 
 you won't make me an example for the rest it 's very hard 
 I 'm to be flogged more than they I" " I 'm not going to 
 flog you." " Thank you, sir," said Tarlton, getting up, 
 
TARLTON. 59 
 
 and wiping his eyes. " You need not thank me," said Mr. 
 Trueman. " Take your handkerchief go out of this room 
 out of this house let me never see you more." 
 
 " If I had any hopes of him," said Mr. Trueman, as he 
 shut the door after him, " if I had any hopes of him, I 
 would have punished him : but I have none punishment 
 is meant only to make people better ; and those who have 
 any hopes of themselves will know how to submit to it." 
 
 At these words, Loveit first, and immediately all the rest 
 of the guilty party, stepped out of the ranks, confessed their 
 fault, and declared themselves ready to bear any punish- 
 ment their master thought proper. " Oh, they have been 
 punished enough," said the old man ; " forgive them, sir." 
 
 Hardy looked as if he wished to speak. 
 
 " Not because you ask it," said Mr. Trueman ; " though 
 I should be glad to oblige you it wouldn't be just but 
 there" (pointing to Hardy), "there is one who has merited 
 a reward ; the highest I can give him is the pardon of his 
 companions." 
 
 Hardy bowed, and his face glowed with pleasure, while 
 everybody present sympathized in his feelings "I am 
 sure," thought Loveit, " this is a lesson I shall never forget." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the old man, with a faltering voice, 
 " it was n't for the sake of my apples that I spoke ; and 
 you, sir," said he to Hardy, " I thank you for saving my 
 dog. If you please, I '11 plant on that mount, opposite the 
 window, a young apple-tree, from my old one ; I will water 
 it, and take care of it with my own hands for your sake, as 
 long as I am able. And may God bless you !" (laying his 
 trembling hands upon Hardy's head,) " may God bless you 
 I'm sure God will bless all such boys as you are." 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 
 
 MB. SPENCER, a very benevolent and sensible man, under 
 took the education of several poor children. Among th 
 rest was a boy of the name of Franklin, whom he had bred 
 up from the time he was five years old. Franklin had the 
 misfortune to be the son of a man of infamous character ; 
 and for many years this was a disgrace and reproach to his 
 child. When any of the neighbours' children quarrelled 
 with him, they used to tell him he would turn out like his 
 father. But Mr. Spencer always assured him that he might 
 make himself whatever he pleased ; that by behaving well 
 he would certainly, sooner or later, secure the esteem and 
 love of all who knew him, even of those who had the strong- 
 est prejudice against him on his father's account. 
 
 This hope was very delightful to Franklin, and he showed 
 the strongest desire to learn to do everything that was right ; 
 so that Mr. Spencer soon grew fond of him, and took great 
 pains to instruct him, and to give him all the good habita 
 and principles which might make him a useful, respectable, 
 and happy man. 
 
 When he was about thirteen years of age, Mr. Spencer 
 one day sent for him into his closet ; and as he was folding 
 up a letter which he had been writing, said to him, with a 
 very kind look, but in a graver tone than usual, " Franklin, 
 you are now going to leave me." " Sir !" said Franklin. 
 " You are now going to leave me, and to begin the world 
 for yourself. You will carry this letter to my sister, Mrs. 
 
 (60) 
 
THEFALSEKEY. 61 
 
 Churchill, in Queen' s-square. You know Queen' s-square ?" 
 Franklin bowed. " You must expect," continued Mr. Spen- 
 cer, " to meet with several disagreeable things, and a great 
 deal of rough work, at your first setting out ; but be faithful 
 and obedient to your mistress and obliging to your fellow- 
 servants, and all will go well. Mrs. Churchill will make 
 you a very good mistress, if you behave properly, and I have 
 no doubt but you will." " Thank you, sir." " And you 
 will always (I mean as long as you deserve it) find a friend 
 in me." " Thank you, sir I am sure you are " There 
 Franklin stopped short, for the recollection of all Mr. Spen- 
 cer's goodness rushed upon him at once, and he could not 
 say another word. " Bring me a candle to seal this letter," 
 said his master ; and he was very glad to get out of the 
 room. He came back with the candle, and with a stout 
 heart stood by while the letter was sealing ; and when his 
 master put it into his hand, said, in a cheerful voice, " I 
 hope you will let me see you again, sir, sometimes." 
 " Certainly : whenever your mistress can spare you, I shall 
 be very glad to see you ; and remember, if you ever get into 
 any difficulty, do n't be afraid to come to me. I have some- 
 times spoken harshly to you, but you will not meet with a 
 more indulgent friend." Franklin at this turned away with 
 a full heart ; and, after making two or three attempts to 
 express his gratitude, left the room without being able to 
 
 He got to Queen's-square about three o'clock. The door 
 was opened by a large red-faced man in a blue coat and 
 scarlet waistcoat, to whom he felt afraid to give his message 
 lest he should not be a servant. " Well, what 's your busi- 
 ness, sir ?" said the butler. " I have a letter for Mrs. 
 Churchill, sir," said Franklin, endeavouring to pronounce 
 his sir in a tone as respectful as the butler's was insolent. 
 The man, having examined the direction, seal, and edges 
 of the letter, carried it up-stairs, and in a few minutes re- 
 turned, and ordered Franklin to rub his shoes well and fol- 
 
62 THEFALSEKET. 
 
 low him. He was then shown into a handsome room, 
 where he found his mistress, an elderly lady. She asked 
 him a few questions, examining him attentively as she 
 spoke ; and her severe eye at first, and her gracious smile 
 afterward, made him feel that she was a person to be both 
 loved and feared. " I shall give you in charge," said she, 
 ringing a bell, " to my housekeeper, and I hope she will 
 nave no reason to be displeased with you." 
 
 The housekeeper, when she first came in, appeared with 
 a smiling countenance ; but the moment she cast her eyes 
 on Franklin, it changed to a look of surprise and suspicion. 
 Her mistress recommended him to her protection, saying, 
 " Pomfret, I hope you will keep this boy under your own 
 eye." And she received him with a cold "Very well, 
 ma'am," which plainly showed she was not disposed to like 
 him. In fact, Mrs. Pomfret was a woman so fond of power, 
 and so jealous of favour, that she would have quarrelled 
 with an angel who had gotten so near her mistress without 
 her introduction. She smothered her displeasure, however, 
 till night ; when, as she attended her mistress's toilet, she 
 could not refrain from expressing her sentiments. She 
 began cautiously : " Ma'am, is not this the boy Mr. Spencer 
 was talking of one day that had been brought up by the 
 Villaintropic Society, I think they call it?" "Philanthro- 
 pic Society ; yes, and my brother gives him a high charac- 
 ter ; I hope he will do very well." " I 'm sure I hope so 
 too ; but I can't say : for my part, I 've no great notion of 
 those low people. They say all those children are taken 
 from the very lowest drugs and refugees of the town ; and 
 surely they 're like enough, ma'am, to take after their own 
 fathers and mothers." " But they are not suffered to be 
 with their parents, and therefore cannot be hurt by their 
 example. This little boy, to be sure, was unfortunate in 
 his father, but he has had an excellent education." " Oh, 
 cdication! to be sure, ma'am, I know I don't say but 
 what edication is a great thing. But then, ma'am, edication 
 
THEFALSEKET. 63 
 
 can't change the natur that 's in one, they say ; and one 
 that 's born naturally bad and low, they say, all the edication 
 in the world won't do no good ; and for my part, ma'am, 
 I know you knows best, but I should be afraid to let 
 any of those Villaintropic folks got into my house, for 
 nobody can tell the natur of them beforehand : I declare it 
 frights me." " Pomfret, I thought you had better sense! 
 how could this poor boy earn his bread ? he would be* forced 
 to starve or steal, if everybody had such prejudices." Pom- 
 fret, who really was a good woman, was softened at this 
 idea, and said, " God forbid he should starve or steal ; and 
 God forbid I should say anything prejudiciary of the boy, 
 for there may be no harm in him." " Well," said Mrs. 
 Churchill, changing her tone, " but, Pomfret, if we do n't 
 like the boy at the end of a month, we have done with him ; 
 for I have only promised Mr. Spencer to keep him a month 
 upon trial ; there is no harm done." " Dear, no, ma'am, 
 to be sure ; and cook must put up with her disappointment, 
 that's all." "What disappointment?" "About her 
 nephew, ma'am ; the boy she and I was speaking to you 
 for." " When ?" " The day you called her up about the 
 almond-pudding, ma'am ; if you remember, you said you 
 shall have no objections to try the boy ; and upon that, cook 
 bought him new shirts ; but they 're safe, as I tell her." 
 " But I did not promise to take her nephew." " Oh, no, 
 ma'am, not at all : she does not think to say that, else I 
 should be very angry ; but the poor woman never let fall a 
 word, any more than frets that the boy should miss such a 
 good place." " Well, but since I did say that I should have 
 no objection to try him, I shall keep my word. Let him 
 come to-morrow ; let them both have a fair trial, and at the 
 end of a month I can decide which I like best, and which 
 we had better keep." 
 
 Dismissed with these orders, Mrs. Pomfret hastened to 
 report all that had passed to the cook, like a favourite min- 
 ister, proud to display the extent of her secret influence. In 
 
64 THE FALSE KEY. 
 
 the morning Felix, the cook's nephew, arrived ; and the 
 moment he came into the kitchen, every eye, even the scul- 
 lion's, was fixed upon him with approbation, and afterward 
 glanced upon Franklin with contempt contempt which 
 Franklin could not endure without some confusion, though 
 quite unconscious of having deserved it ; nor upon the most 
 impartial and cool self-examination could he comprehend 
 the justice of his judges. He perceived, indeed, for the 
 comparisons were minutely made in audible and scornful 
 whispers, that Felix was a much handsomer, or, as the 
 kitchen-maid expressed it, a much more genteeler, gentle- 
 manly-looking like sort of a person than he was ; and he 
 was made to understand that he wanted a frill to his shirt, 
 a cravat, a pair of thin shoes, and above all, shoe-strings, 
 besides other nameless advantages, which justly made his 
 rival the admiration of the kitchen. However, upon calling 
 to mind all that his friend Mr. Spencer had ever said to him, 
 he could not recollect his having warned him that shoe- 
 strings were indispensable requisites to the character of a 
 good servant ; so that he could only comfort himself with 
 resolving, if possible, to make amends for these deficiencies, 
 and to dissipate the prejudices which he saw were formed 
 against him, by the strictest adherence to all that his tutor 
 had taught him to be his duty. He hoped to secure the ap- 
 probation of his mistress by scrupulous obedience to all her 
 commands, and faithful care of all that belonged to her ; at 
 the same time he flattered himself he should win the good- 
 will of his fellow-servants, by showing a constant desire to 
 oblige them. He pursued this plan of conduct steadily for 
 nearly three weeks, and found that he succeeded beyond his 
 expectations in pleasing his mistress ; but unfortunately he 
 found it more difficult to please his fellow-servants, and he 
 sometimes offended when he least expected it. 
 
 He had made great progress in the affections of Cork- 
 screw the butler, by working very hard for him, and doing 
 every day at least half his business. But one unfortunate 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 65 
 
 night the butler was gone out the bell rang he went up- 
 stairs ; and his mistress asking where Corkscrew was, he 
 answered that he was gone out. "Where to?" said his 
 mistress. " I do n't know," answered Franklin. And as 
 he had told exactly the truth, and meant to do no harm, 
 he was surprised, at the butler's return, when he repeated 
 to him what had passed, to receive a sudden box on the ear, 
 and the appellation of a mischievous, impertinent, mean- 
 spirited brat ! " Mischievous, impertinent, mean !" repeated 
 Franklin to himself; but looking in the butler's face, which 
 was of a deeper scarlet than usual, he judged that he was 
 far from sober, and did not doubt but that the next morning, 
 when he came to the use of his reason, he would be sensible 
 of his injustice, and apologize for this box of the ear. 
 But no apology coming all day, Franklin at last ventured to 
 request an explanation, or rather to ask what he had best 
 do on the next occasion. " Why," said Corkscrew, " when 
 mistress asked for me, how came you to say I was gone out ?" 
 " Because, you know, I saw you go out." "And when she 
 asked you where I was gone, how came you to say that you 
 did not know?" -"Because indeed I did not know." 
 " You are a stupid blockhead : could not you say I was gone 
 to the washerwoman's ?" " But were you ?" said Franklin. 
 " Was I !" cried Corkscrew, and looked as if he would have 
 struck him again; " how dare you give me the lie ? Mr. 
 Hypocrite, you would be ready enough, I '11 be bound, to 
 make excuses for yourself. Why are not mistress's cloga 
 cleaned ? go along and blacken 'em this minute, and send 
 Felix to me." 
 
 From this time forward Felix alone was privileged to 
 enter the butler's pantry. Felix became the favourite of 
 Corkscrew ; and though Franklin by no means sought to 
 pry into the mysteries of their private conferences, nor ever 
 entered without knocking at the door, yet it was his fate 
 once to be sent on a message at an unlucky time ; and as 
 the door was half-open, he could not avoid seeing Felix 
 5 
 
60 THEFALSEKEY. 
 
 drinking a bumper of red liquor, -which he could not help 
 suspecting to be wine ; and as the decanter, which usually 
 went up-stairs after dinner, was at this time in the butler's 
 grasp without any stopper in it, he was involuntarily forced 
 to suspect they were drinking his mistress's wine. 
 
 Nor were the bumpers of port the only unlawful rewards 
 which Felix received ; his aunt the cook had occasion for 
 his assistance, and she had many delicious douceurs in her 
 gift. Many a handful of currants, many a half-custard, 
 many a triangular remnant of pie, besides the choice of his 
 own meal at breakfast, dinner, and supper, fell to the share 
 of the favourite Felix ; while Franklin was neglected, though 
 he took the pains to please the cook in all honourable ser- 
 vice, and, when she was hot, angry, or hurried, he was al- 
 ways at hand to help her ; and in the hour of adversity, 
 when the clock struck five, and no dinner was dished, and 
 no kitchen-maid with twenty pair of hands was to be had, 
 Franklin would answer to her call, with flowers to garnish 
 her dishes, and presence of mind to know, in the midst of 
 the commotion, where everything that was wanting was to 
 be found ; so that, quick as lightning, all difficulties vanished 
 before him. Yet, when the danger was over and the hour 
 of adversity passed, the ungrateful cook would forget her 
 benefactor, and when it came to be supper-time, would throw 
 him, with a carelessness that touched him sensibly, any- 
 thing which the other servants were too nice to eat. All 
 this Franklin bore with fortitude, nor did he envy Felix the 
 dainties which he ate sometimes close beside him : " For," 
 said he to himself, " I have a clear conscience, and that is 
 more than Felix can have. I know how he wins cook's fa- 
 vour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her ; 
 for since the day I saw the basket, she has done nothing but 
 huff me." 
 
 The history of the basket was this : Mrs. Pomfret, the house- 
 keeper, had several times, directly or indirectly, given the 
 world below to understand that she and her mistress thought 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 67 
 
 there was a prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late. Now 
 when she spoke it was .usually at dinner-time ; she always 
 looked, or Franklin imagined that she looked, suspiciously 
 at him. Other people looked still more maliciously ; but as 
 he felt himself perfectly innocent, he went on eating his 
 dinner in silence. But at length it was time to explain. 
 One Sunday there appeared a handsome sirloin of beef, 
 which before noon on Monday had shrunk almost to the 
 bare bone, and presented such a deplorable spectacle to the 
 opening eyes of Mrs. Pomfret, that her long smothered in- 
 dignation burst forth, and she boldly declared she was now 
 certain there was foul play, and she would have the beef 
 found, or she would know why. She spoke, but no beef 
 appeared : till Franklin, with a look of sudden recollection, 
 cried, " Did not I see something like a piece of beef in a 
 basket in the dairy I think " The cook, as if somebody 
 had smote her a deadly blow, grew pale ; but suddenly re- 
 covering the use of her speech, turned upon Franklin, and 
 with a voice of thunder gave him the lie direct ; and forth- 
 with taking Mrs. Pomfret by the ruffle, led the way to the 
 dairy, declaring she could defy the world, " that she could, 
 and so she would." "There, ma'am," said she, kicking 
 an empty basket which lay on the floor, " there 'a malice for 
 you ask him why he don't show you the beef in the bas- 
 ket." "I thought I saw " poor Franklin began. " You 
 thought you saw !" cried the cook, coming close to him with 
 kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon ; " and pray, sir, 
 what business have such a one as you to think you see ? 
 And pray, ma'am, will you be pleased to speak perhaps, 
 ma'am, he '11 condescend to obey you ma'am, will you be 
 pleased to forbid him my dairy for here he comes prying 
 and spying about and how, ma'am, am I to answer for 
 my butter and cream, or anything at all? I'm sure it's 
 what I can't pretend to, unless you do me the justice to for- 
 bid him my place. 
 
 Mrs. Pomfret, whose eyes were blinded by her prejudices 
 
68 THEFALSEKEY. 
 
 against the folks of the ViUaintropic Society, and also by 
 the secret jealousy of a boy whom she deemed to be grow- 
 ing a favourite of her mistress's, took part with the cook, 
 and ended as she began, with a firm persuasion that Frank- 
 lin was the guilty person. " Let him alone, let him alone !" 
 said she ; " he has as many turns and windings as a hare ; 
 but we shall catch him yet, I '11 be bound, in some of his 
 doublings. I knew the nature of him well enough, from 
 the first time I ever set my eyes upon him : but mistress 
 shall have her own way, and see the end of it." These 
 words, and the bitter sense of injustice, drew tears at length 
 fast down the proud cheek of Franklin, which might possi- 
 bly have touched Mrs. Pomfret, if Felix, with a sneer, had 
 not called them crocodile tears. " Felix too !" thought he, 
 " this is too much !" In fact, Felix had till now professed 
 himself his firm ally, and had on his part received from 
 Franklin unequivocal proofs of friendship ; for it must be 
 told, that every other morning, when it was Felix's turn to 
 get breakfast, Felix never was up in decent time, and must 
 inevitably have come to public disgrace, if Franklin had 
 not gotten all the breakfast-things ready for him, the bread- 
 and-butter spread, and the toast toasted ; and had not, more- 
 over, regularly, when the clock struck eight, and Mrs. Pom- 
 fret's foot was heard overhead, run to call the sleeping 
 Felix, and helped him constantly through the hurry of get- 
 ting dressed one instant before the housekeeper came down- 
 stairs. All this could not but be present to his memory ; 
 but, scorning to reproach him, Franklin wiped away his 
 crocodile tears, and preserved a magnanimous silence. 
 
 The hour of retribution was, however, not so far off as 
 Felix imagined. Cunning people may go on cleverly in 
 their devices for some time ; but though they may escape 
 once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine times, what dots that sig- 
 nify ? for the hundredth they come to shame and lose all 
 their character. Grown bold by frequent success, Felix 
 became more careless in his operations ; and it happened 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 69 
 
 that one day he met his mistress full in the passage, as he was 
 going on one of the cook's secret errands : " Where are you 
 going, Felix ?" said his mistress. " To the washerwoman's, 
 ma'am," answered he, with his usual effrontery. " Very 
 well," said she ; " call at the booksellers in stay, I must 
 write down the direction. Pomfret," said she, opening the 
 housekeeper's room door, " have you a bit of paper ?" Pom- 
 fret came with the writing-paper, and looked very angry to 
 see that Felix was going out without her knowledge ; so, 
 while Mrs. Churchill was writing the direction, she stood 
 talking to him about it ; while he, in the greatest terror 
 imaginable, looked up in her face as she spoke, but was all 
 the time intent upon parrying on the other side the attacks 
 of a little French dog of his mistress's, which, unluckily for 
 him, had followed her into the passage. Manchon was ex- 
 tremely fond of Felix, who, by way of pleasing his mistress, 
 had paid most assiduous court to her dog ; yet now his ca- 
 resses were rather troublesome. Manchon leaped up, and 
 was not to be rebuffed. " Po6r fellow ! poor fellow ! down ,1 
 down ! poor fellow !" cried Felix, and put him away. But 
 Manchon leaped up again, and began smelling near the fatal 
 pocket in a most alarming manner. " You will see by this 
 direction where you are to go," said his mistress. " Man- 
 chon, come here ; and you will be so good as to bring me 
 down ! down ! Manchon, be quiet !" But Manchon knew 
 better ; he had now gotten his head into Felix's pocket, and 
 would not be quiet till he had drawn thence, rustling out of 
 its brown paper, half a cold turkey, which had been missing 
 since morning. " My cold turkey, as I 'm alive !" exclaimed 
 the housekeeper, darting upon it with horror and amaze- 
 ment. " What is all this ?" said Mrs. Churchill, in a com- 
 posed voice. " I do n't know, ma'am," answered Felix, so 
 confused that he knew not what to say, "but " "But 
 what?" cried Mrs. Pomfret, indignation flashing from^her 
 eyes. "But what?" repeated his mistress, waiting for his 
 reply with a calm air of attention which still more discon- 
 
70 THEFALSEKEY. 
 
 certed Felix ; for though with an angry person he might 
 have some chance of escape, he knew that he could not in- 
 vent any excuse in such circumstances which could stand 
 the examination of a person in her sober senses. He was 
 struck dumb. " Speak," said Mrs. Churchill, in a still 
 lower tone ; " I am ready to hear all you have to say : in 
 my house everybody shall have justice ; speak 1 But 
 what?" "But," stammered Felix; and, after in vain at- 
 tempting to equivocate, confessed that he was going to take 
 the turkey to his cousin's : but he threw all the blame upon 
 his aunt the cook, who, he said, had ordered him upon this 
 expedition. The cook was now summoned ; but she totally 
 denied all knowledge of the affair, with the same violence 
 with which she had lately confounded Franklin about the 
 beef in the basket ; not entirely, however, with the same 
 success ; for Felix, perceiving by his mistress's eye that she 
 was upon the point of desiring him to leave the house im- 
 mediately, and not being very willing to leave a place in 
 which he had lived so well with the butler, did not hesitate 
 to confront his aunt with assurance equal to her own. He 
 knew how to bring his charge home to her. He produced 
 a note in her own handwriting, the purport of which was 
 to request her cousin's acceptance of " some delicate cold 
 turkey," and to beg she would send her, by the return of the 
 bearer, a little of her cherry-brandy. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill coolly wrote upon the back of the note 
 her cook's discharge, and informed Felix that she had no 
 further occasion for his services : but, upon his pleading 
 with many tears, which Franklin did not call crocodile tears, 
 that he was so young, and that he was under the dominion 
 of his aunt, he touched Mrs. Pomfret's compassion, and she 
 obtained for him permission to stay till the end of the 
 month, to give him yet a chance of redeeming his character. 
 
 Mrs. Pomfret, now seeing how far she had been imposed 
 upon, resolved for the future to be more upon her guard 
 with Felix, and felt that she had treated Franklin with great 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 71 
 
 injustice, when she accused him of malpractices about the 
 sirloin of beef. Good people, when they are made sensible 
 that they have treated any one with injustice, are impatient 
 to have an opportunity to rectify their mistake ; and Mrs. 
 Pomfret was now prepared to see everything which Franklin 
 did in the most favourable point of view, especially as the 
 next day discovered that it was he who every morning boiled 
 the water for her tea, and buttered her toast services for 
 which she had always thought she was indebted to Felix. 
 Besides, she had rated Felix's abilities very highly, because 
 he made up her weekly accounts for her ; but, unluckily, 
 once, when Franklin was out of the way, and she brought 
 a bill in a hurry to her favourite to cast up, she discovered 
 that he did not know how to cast up pounds, shillings, and 
 pence, and he was obliged to confess that he must wait till 
 Franklin came home. 
 
 But, passing over a number of small incidents, which 
 gradually unfolded the character of the two boys, we must 
 proceed to a more serious affair. 
 
 Corkscrew frequently, after he had finished taking away 
 "upper, and after the housekeeper was gone to bed, sallied 
 forth to a neighbouring alehouse to drink with his friends. 
 The alehouse was kept by that cousin of Felix's who was 
 HO fond of " delicate cold turkey," and who had such choice 
 cherry-brandy. Corkscrew kept the key of the house door, 
 so he could return home at what hour he thought proper ; and 
 if he should by accident be called for by his mistress after 
 supper, Felix knew where to find him, and did not scruple 
 to make any of those excuses which poor Franklin had too 
 much integrity to use. All these precautions taken, the 
 butler was at liberty to indulge his favourite passion, which 
 ' so increased with indulgence, that his wages were by no 
 means sufficient to support him in his way of life. Every 
 day he felt less resolution to break through his bad habits, 
 for every day drinking became more necessary to him. His 
 health was ruined. With a red, pimpled, bloated face, ema- 
 
72 THEFALSEKEY. 
 
 ciated legs, and a swelled, diseased body, he appeared the 
 victim of intoxication. In the morning when he got up, his 
 hands trembled, his spirits flagged, he could do nothing till 
 he had taken a dram ; an operation which he was obliged 
 to repeat several times in the course of the day, as all those 
 wretched people must who once acquire this custom. 
 
 He had run up a long bill at the alehouse which he fre- 
 quented ; and the landlord, who grew urgent for his money, 
 refused to give him further credit. One night, when Cork- 
 screw had drunk enough only to make him fretful, he leaned 
 with his elbow surlily upon the table, began to quarrel with 
 the landlord, and swore that he had not of late treated him 
 like a gentleman. To which the landlord coolly replied, 
 " That as long as he had paid like a gentleman, he had been 
 treated like one, and that was as much as any one could 
 expect, or, at any fate, as much as any one would meet with 
 in this world." For the truth of this assertion he appealed, 
 laughing, to a party of men who were drinking in the room. 
 The men, however, took part with Corkscrew, and drawing 
 him over to their table, made him sit down with them. 
 They were in high good-humour, and the butler soon grew 
 so intimate with them, that, in the openness of his heart, he 
 soon communicated to them, not only all his own affairs, 
 but all that he knew, and more than all that he knew of his 
 mistress's. 
 
 His new friends were by no means uninterested in his 
 conversation, and encouraged him as much as possible to 
 talk ; for they had secret views, which the butler was by no 
 means sufficiently sober to discover. Mrs. Churchill had 
 some fine old family plate ; and these men belonged to a 
 gang of house-breakers. Before they parted with Corkscrew, 
 they engaged him to meet them again the next night ; their 
 intimacy was still more closely cemented. One of the men 
 actually offered to lend Corkscrew three guineas towards the 
 payment of his debt, and hinted that, if he thought proper, 
 he could easily get the whole cleared off. Upon this hint, 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 73 
 
 Corkscrew became all attention, till, after some hesitation 
 on their part, and repeated promises of secrecy on his, they 
 at length disclosed their plans to him. They gave him to 
 anderstand, that if he would assist in letting them into his 
 mistress's house, they would let him have an ample share 
 in the booty. The butler, who had the reputation of being 
 an honest man, and indeed whose integrity had hitherto 
 been proof against everything but his mistress's port, turned 
 pale, and trembled at this proposal ; drank two or three 
 bumpers to drown thought ; and promised to give an answer 
 the next day. 
 
 He went home more than half-intoxicated. His mind 
 was so full of what had passed, that he could not help 
 bragging to Felix, whom he found awake at his return, that 
 he could have his bill paid off at the alehouse whenever he 
 pleased ; dropping besides some hints, which were not lost 
 upon Felix. In the morning Felix reminded him of the 
 things which he had said ; and Corkscrew, alarmed, endea- 
 voured to evade his questions, by saying that he was not in 
 his senses when he talked in that manner. Nothing, how- 
 ever, that he could urge made any impression upon Felix, 
 whose recollection on the subject was perfectly distinct, and 
 who had too much cunning himself, and too little confidence 
 in his companion, to be the dupe of his dissimulation. The 
 butler knew not what do when he saw that Felix was abso- 
 lutely determined either to betray their scheme or to become 
 a sharer in their booty. 
 
 The night came on, and he was now to make a final deci- 
 sion, either to determine on breaking off entirely with his 
 new acquaintance, or taking Felix with him to join the plot. 
 
 His debt, his love of drinking, the impossibility of in- 
 dulging it without a fresh supply of money, all came into 
 his mind at once, and conquered his remaining scruples. 
 It is said by those whose fatal experience give them a right 
 to be believed, that a drunkard will sacrifice everything 
 sooner than the pleasure of habitual intoxication. 
 
74 THE FALSE KEY. 
 
 How much easier is it never to begin a bad custom, than 
 to break through it when once formed ! 
 
 The hour of rendezvous came, and Corkscrew went to the 
 alehouse, where he found the housebreakers waiting for 
 him, and a glass of brandy ready poured out. He sighed 
 drank hesitated drank again heard the landlord 
 talk of his bill saw the money produced, which would 
 pay it in a moment drank again cursed himself, and 
 giving his hand to the villain who was whispering in his 
 ear, swore that he could not help it, and must do as they 
 would have him. They required of him to give up the key 
 of the house-door, that they might get another made by it. 
 He had left it with Felix, and was now obliged to explain 
 the new difficulty which had arisen. Felix knew enough to 
 ruin them, and must therefore be won over. This was no 
 very difficult task ; he had a strong desire to have .some 
 worked cravats, and the butler knew enough of him to be- 
 lieve that this would be a sufficient bribe. The cravats 
 were bought and shown to Felix. He thought them the 
 only things that were wanting to make him a complete fine 
 gentleman ; and to go without them, especially when he had 
 once seen himself in the glass with one tied on in a splendid 
 bow, appeared impossible. Even this paltry temptation, 
 working upon his vanity, at length prevailed with a boy 
 whose integrity had long been corrupted by the habits of 
 petty pilfering and daily falsehood. It was agreed that, the 
 first time his mistress sent him out on a message, he should 
 carry the key of the house-door to his cousin's, and deliver 
 it into the hands of one of the gang, who were there in 
 waiting for it. Such was the scheme. Felix, the night 
 after all this had been planned, went to bed, and fell fast 
 asleep ; but the butler, who had not yet stifled the voice of 
 conscience, felt, in the silence of the night, so insupportably 
 miserable, that, instead of going to rest, he stole softly into 
 the pantry for a bottle of his mistress's wine, and there, 
 drinking glass after glass, he staid till he became so far in- 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 75 
 
 toxicated, that, though he contrived to find his way back to 
 bed, he could by no means undress himself. Without any 
 power of recollection, he flung himself upon the bed, leay- 
 ing his candle half-hanging out of the candlestick beside 
 him. Franklin slept in the next room to him, and presently 
 wakening, thought he perceived a strong smell of something 
 burning. He jumped up, and seeing a light under the but- 
 ler's door, gently opened it, and to his astonishment beheld 
 one of the bed-curtains in flames. He immediately ran to 
 the butler, and pulled him with all his force to rouse him 
 from his lethargy. He came to his senses at length, but 
 was so terrified and so helpless, that, if it had not been for 
 Franklin, the whole house would soon inevitably have been 
 on fire. Felix, trembling and cowardly, knew not what to 
 do : and it was curious to see him obeying Franklin, whose 
 turn it was now to command. Franklin ran up-stairs to 
 waken Mrs. Pomfret, whose terror of fire was so great, that 
 she came from her room almost out of her senses, while he, 
 with the greatest presence of mind, recollected where he 
 had seen two large tubs of water, which the maids had pre- 
 pared the night before for their washing, and, seizing the 
 wet linen which had been left to soak, threw it upon the 
 flames. He exerted himself with so much good sense that 
 the fire was presently extinguished. Everything was now 
 once more safe and quiet. Mrs. Pomfret, recovering from 
 her fright, postponed all inquiries till the morning, and 
 rejoiced that her mistress had not been awakened, while 
 Corkscrew flattered himself that he should be able to con- 
 ceal the true cause of the accident. " Do n't you tell Mrs. 
 Pomfret where you found the candle when you came into 
 the room," said he to Franklin. "If she asks me, you 
 know I must tell the truth," replied he. " Must !" repeated 
 Felix, sneeringly ; " what, you must be a tell-tale !" " No, 
 I never told any tales of anybody, and I should be very 
 sorry to get any one into a scrape ; but for all that I shall 
 not tell a lie, either for myself or anybody else, let you call 
 
76 THE FALSE KEY. 
 
 me what name you will." " But if I were to give you 
 something that you would like," said Corkscrew. " Some- 
 thing that I know you would like !" repeated Felix. " No- 
 thing you can give me will do," answered Franklin, steadily ; 
 " so it is useless to say any more about it I hope I shall 
 not be questioned." In this hope he was mistaken ; fur the 
 first thing Mrs. Pomfret did in the morning was to corne 
 into the butler's room to examine and deplore the burnt 
 curtains, while Corkscrew stood by endeavouring to excul- 
 pate himself by all the excuses he could invent. Mrs. Pom- 
 fret, however, though sometimes blinded by her prejudices, 
 was no fool, and it was absolutely impossible to make her 
 believe that a candle which had been left on the hearth, 
 where Corkscrew protested he had left it, could have set 
 curtains on fire which were at least six feet distant. Turn- 
 ing short round to Franklin, she desired that he would show 
 her where he found the candle when he came into the room. 
 He begged not to be questioned ; but she insisted. He took 
 up the candlestick ; but the moment the housekeeper cast 
 her eyes upon it, she snatched it from his hands. " How 
 did this candlestick come here ? This was not the candle- 
 stick you found here last night," cried she. " Yes, indeed 
 it was," answered Franklin. " That is impossible !" re- 
 torted she, vehemently, " for I left this candlestick with my 
 own hands last night in the hall, the last thing I did after 
 you," said she, turning to the butler, "were gone to bed 
 I 'm sure of it. Nay, do n't you recollect my taking this 
 japanned candlestick out of your hand, and making you go 
 up to bed with the brass one, and I bolted the door at the 
 stair-head after you ?" 
 
 This was all very true ; but Corkscrew had afterward gone 
 down from his room by a back stair-case, unbolted that door, 
 and upon his return from the alehouse had taken the ja- 
 panned candlestick by mistake up-stairs, and he left the 
 brass one instead upon the hall table. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am, said Felix, "indeed you forget, for Mr. 
 
THEPALSEKEY. 77 
 
 Corkscrew came into my room, to desire me to call him be- 
 times in the morning, and I happened to take particular 
 notice, and he had the japanned candlestick in his hand, and 
 that was just as I heard you bolting the door indeed, 
 ma'am, you forget." " Indeed, sir," retorted Mrs. Pomfret, 
 rising in anger, " I do not forget ; I 'm not come to be super- 
 annuated yet, I hope how dare you tell me I forget ?" 
 " Oh, ma'am," cried Felix, " I beg your pardon, I did not 
 I did not mean to say you forgot but only I thought, 
 perhaps, you might not particularly remember ; for if you 
 please to recollect " " I won't please to recollect just 
 whatever you please, sir ! Hold your tongue why should 
 you poke yourself into this scrape what have you to do 
 with it, I should be glad to know?" "Nothing in the 
 world, oh, nothing in the world ; I 'm sure I beg your par- 
 don, ma'am," answered Felix in a soft tone ; and sneaking 
 off, left his friend Corkscrew to fight his own battle, secretly 
 resolving to desert in good time, if he saw any danger of 
 the alehouse transactions coming to light. 
 
 Corkscrew could make but very blundering excuses for 
 himself, and, conscious of his guilt, turned pale, and ap- 
 peared so much more terrified than butlers usually appear 
 when detected in a lie, that Mrs. Pomfret resolved, as she 
 said, to sift the matter to the bottom. Impatiently did she 
 wait till the clock struck nine, and her mistress's bell rang, 
 the signal for her attendance at her levee. " How do you 
 find yourself this morning, ma'am ?" said she, undrawing 
 the curtains. " Very sleepy indeed," answered her mistress 
 in a drowsy 7 voice ; " I think I must sleep half an hour 
 longer shut the curtains." " As you please, ma'am ; but 
 I suppose I had better open a little of the window-shutter, 
 for it's past nine." "But just struck." '^h dear, 
 ma'am, it struck before I came up-stairs, and you know we 
 are twenty minutes slow. Bless us !" exclaimed Mrs. Pom- 
 fret, as she let fall the bar of the window, which roused her 
 mistress, "I'm sure I beg pardon a thousand times it's 
 
78 THEFALSEKEY. 
 
 only the bar because I had this great key in my hand." 
 " Put down the key then, or you '11 knock something else 
 down ; and you may open the shutters now, for I 'm quite 
 awake." " Dear me ! I 'm so sorry to think of disturbing 
 you," cried Mrs. Poinfret, at the same time throwing the 
 shutters wide open : " but to be sure, ma'am, I have some- 
 thing to tell you, which won't let you sleep again in a hurry. 
 I brought up this here key of the house-door for reasons of 
 my own, which I 'm sure you '11 approve of but I 'm not 
 come to that part of my story yet I hope you were not 
 disturbed by the noise in the house last night, ma'am." 
 " I heard no noise." "I am surprised at that though." 
 continued Mrs. Pomfret, and now proceeded to give the most 
 ample account of the fire, of her fears, and her suspicions. 
 " To be sure, ma'am, what I say is, that without the spirit 
 of prophecy one can no ways account for what has passed. 
 I'm quite clear in my own judgment, that Mr. Corkscrew 
 must have been out last night after I went to bed ; for, be- 
 sides the japanned candlestick, which of itself I'm sure is 
 strong enough to hang a man, there 's another circumstance, 
 ma'am, that certifies it to me though I have not men- 
 tioned it, ma'am, to no one yet," lowering her voice: 
 " Franklin, when I questioned him, told me that he left the 
 lantern out." " And do you believe him ?" " To be sure, 
 ma'am how can I help believing him ? I never found him 
 out in the least symptom of a lie since ever he came into 
 the house ; so one can't help believing in him, like him or 
 not." " Without meaning to tell a falsehood, however, he 
 might make a mistake." " No, ma'am, he never makes 
 mistakes ; it is not his way to go gossiping and tattling ; he 
 never tells anything till ha's asked, and then it's fit he 
 should. About the sirloin of beef, and all, he was right in 
 the end, I found, to do him justice ; and I 'm sure he 's right 
 now about the lantern he 's always right." Mrs. Churchill 
 could not help smiling. " If you had seen him, ma'am, last 
 night, in the midst of the fire I 'm sure we may thank 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 75J 
 
 him that we are not burned alive in our beds and I shall 
 never forget his coming to call me poor fellow ! he that I 
 was always scolding and scolding, enough to make him hate 
 me. But he 's too good to hate anybody ; and I '11 be bound 
 I '11 make it up to him now," " Take care that you do n't 
 go from one extreme into another, Pomfret ; do n't spoil the 
 boy." " No, ma'am, there 's no danger of that ; but I 'm 
 sure, if you had seen him last night yourself, you would 
 think he deserved to be rewarded." "And so he shall be 
 rewarded," said Mrs. Churchill; "but I will try him more 
 fully yet." " There 's no occasion, I think, for trying him 
 any more, ma'am," said Mrs. Pomfret, who was as violent 
 in her likings as in her dislikes. " Pray desire," continued 
 her mistress, " that he will bring up breakfast this morning, 
 and leave the key of the house-door, Pomfret, with me." 
 
 When Franklin brought the urn into the breakfast-par- 
 lour, his mistress was standing by the fire with the key in 
 her hand. She spoke to him of his last night's exertions in 
 terms of much approbation. " How long have you lived 
 with me ?" said she, pausing ; " three weeks, I think ?" 
 " Three weeks and four days, madam." "That is but a 
 short time ; yet you have conducted yourself so as to make me 
 think I may depend upon you. You know this key ?" "I 
 believe, madam, it is the key of the house-door." " It is. 
 I shall trust it in your care. It is a great trust for so young 
 a person as you are." Franklin stood silent, with a firm 
 but modest look. " If you take the charge of this key," 
 continued his mistress, " remember it is upon condition that 
 you never give it out of your own hands. In the daytime 
 it must not be left in the door. You must not tell anybody 
 where you keep it at night ; and the house-door must not be 
 unlocked after eleven o'clock at night, unless by my orders. 
 Will you take charge of the key upon these conditions ?" 
 " I will, madam, do anything you order me," said Franklin, 
 and received the key fi-om her hands. 
 
 When Mrs. Churchill's orders were made known, they 
 
80 THE. FALSE KEY. 
 
 caused many secret marvellings and raurmurings. Cork- 
 screw and Felix -were disconcerted, and dared not openly 
 avow their discontent ; and they treated Franklin with the 
 greatest seeming kindness and cordiality. Everything went 
 on smoothly for three days ; the butler never attempted his 
 usual midnight visits to the alehouse, but went to bed in 
 proper time, and paid particular court to Mrs. Pomfret, in 
 order to dispel her suspicions. She had never had any idea 
 of the real fact, that he and Felix were joined in a plot with 
 housebreakers to rob the house, but thought he only went 
 out at irregular hours, to indulge himself in his passion for 
 drinking. So stood affairs the night before Mrs. Churchill's 
 birthday. Corkscrew, by the housekeeper's means, ventured 
 to present a petition that he might go to the play the next 
 day, and his request was granted. Franklin came into the 
 kitchen just when all the servants had gathered round the 
 butler, who, with great importance, was reading aloud the 
 playbill. Everybody present soon began to speak at once, 
 and with great enthusiasm talked of the playhouse, the 
 actors, and actresses ; and then Felix, in the first pause, 
 turned to Franklin, and said, " Lord, you know nothing 
 of all this ! you never went to a play, did you ?" " Never," 
 said Franklin, and felt, he did not know why, a little 
 ashamed ; and he longed extremely to go to one. " How 
 should you like to go to the play with me to-morrow?" said 
 Corkscrew. " Oh !" exclaimed Franklin, " I should like it 
 exceedingly." " And do you think mistress would let you 
 if I asked?" "I think maybe she would, if Mrs. Pom- 
 fret asked her." " But then you have no money, have 
 you?" "No," said Franklin, sighing. "But stay," said 
 Corkscrew ; " what I am thinking of is, that, if mistress 
 will let you go, I '11 treat you myself, rather than that you 
 should be disappointed." 
 
 Delight, surprise, and gratitude appeared in Franklin's 
 f&ce at these words. Corkscrew rejoiced to see that now, at 
 .east, he had found a most powerful temptation. " Well, 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 81 
 
 then, I '11 go just now and ask her ; in the mean time lend 
 me the key of the house-door for a minute or two." " The 
 key !" answered Franklin, starting ; " Pm sorry, but I can't 
 do that, for I 've promised my mistress never to let it out 
 of my own hands." " But how will she know anything of 
 the matter ? Run, run, and get it for us." " No, I can- 
 not," replied Franklin, resisting the push which the butler 
 gave his shoulder. " You can't ?" cried Corkscrew, chang- 
 ing his tone ; " then, sir, I can't take you to the play." 
 " Very well, sir," said Franklin, sorrowfully, but with stea- 
 diness. " Very well, sir," said Felix, mimicking him, " you 
 need not look so important, nor fancy yourself such a great 
 man, because you are master of a key." " Say no more 
 to him," interrupted Corkscrew ; " let him alone to take his 
 own way. Felix, you would have no objection, I suppose, 
 to going to the play with me ?" " Oh, I should like it of 
 all things, if I did not come between anybody else. But 
 come, come !" added the hypocrite, assuming a tone of 
 friendly persuasion, "you won't be such a blockhead, 
 Franklin, as to lose going to the play for nothing ; it 's only 
 just obstinacy: what harm can it do to lend Mr. Corkscrew 
 the key for five minutes ? he '11 give it you back again safe 
 and sound." " I do n't doubt that," answered Franklin. 
 " Then it must be all because you don't wish to oblige Mr. 
 Corkscrew." " No ; but I can't oblige him in this: for, as 
 I told you before, my mistress trusted me ; I promised never 
 to let the key out of my own hands ; and you would not 
 have me break my trust: Mr. Spencer told me that was 
 worse than robbing." At the word robbing, both Cork- 
 screw and Felix involuntarily cast down their eyes, and 
 turned the conversation immediately, saying that he did 
 very right ; that they did not really want the key, and had 
 only asked for it just to try if he would keep his word. 
 " Shake hands," said Corkscrew, " I am glad to find you out 
 to be an honest fellow !" " I 'm sorry you did not think 
 me one before, Mr. Corkscrew," said Franklin, giving his 
 hand rather proudly ; and he walked away. 
 6 
 
82 THE FALSE KEY. 
 
 "We shall make no hand of this prig," said Corkscrew. 
 " But we '11 have the key from him, in spite of all his obsti- 
 nacy," said Felix ; " and let him make his story good if ho 
 can afterward. He shall repent of these airs. To-night 
 I '11 watch him, and find out where he hides the key ; and 
 when he 's asleep, we '11 get it without thanking him." 
 
 This plan Felix put in execution. They discovered the 
 place where Franklin kept the key at night, stole it while 
 he slept, took off the impression in wax, and carefully re- 
 placed it in Franklin's trunk, where they found it. 
 
 Probably our young readers cannot guess what use they 
 could mean to make of this impression of the key in wax. 
 Knowing how to do mischief is very different from wishing 
 to do it ; and the most innocent persons are generally the 
 least ignorant. By means of the impression which they 
 had thus obtained, Corkscrew and Felix proposed to get a 
 false key made by Picklock, a smith who belonged to their 
 gang of housebreakers ; and with this false key they knew 
 they could open the door whenever they pleased. 
 
 Little suspecting what had happened, Franklin the next 
 morning went to unlock the house-door as usual ; but, find- 
 ing the key entangled in the lock, he took it out to examine 
 it, and perceived a lump of wax sticking in one of the 
 wards. Struck with this circumstance, it brought to his 
 mind all that had passed the preceding evening, and being 
 sure that he had no wax near the key, he began to suspect 
 what had happened ; and he could not help recollecting 
 what he had once heard Felix say, that, "give him but 
 a halfpenny-worth of wax, and he could open the strongest 
 lock that ever was made by hands." 
 
 All these things considered, Franklin resolved to take the 
 key just as it was, with the wax sticking in it, to his mis- 
 tress. " I was not mistaken when I thought I might trust 
 ymi with this key," said Mrs. Churchill, after she had heard 
 his story. " My brother will be here to-day, and I shall con- 
 sult him ; in the mean time say nothing of what has passed." 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 83 
 
 Evening came, and after tea Mr. Spencer sent for Frank- 
 lin up-stairs. " So, Mr. Franklin," said he, " I 'm glad to 
 find you are in such high trust in this family." Franklin 
 bowed. " But you have lost, I understand, the pleasure of 
 going to the play to-night." "I do n't think anything 
 much, I mean, of that, sir," answered Franklin, smiling. 
 " Are Corkscrew and Felix gone to the play ?" " Yes ; half 
 an hour ago, sir." " Then I shall look into his room, and 
 examine the pantry and the plate that is under his care." 
 
 When Mr. Spencer came to examine the pantry, he found 
 the large salvers and cups in a basket behind the door, and 
 the other things placed so as to be easily carried off. Nothing 
 at first appeared in Corkscrew's bed-chamber to strengthen 
 their suspicions, till, just as they were going to leave the 
 room, Mrs. Pomfret exclaimed, " Why, if there is not Mr. 
 Corkscrew's dress-coat hanging up there ! and if here is n't 
 Felix's fine cravat that he wanted in such a hurry to go to 
 the play ! Why, sir, they can't be gone to the play look 
 at the cravat. Ha ! upon my word, I am afraid they are 
 not at the play. No, sir, no ! you may be sure that they 
 are plotting with their barbarous gang at the alehouse 
 and they'll certainly break into the house to-night we 
 shall all be murdered in our beds, as sure as I 'm a living 
 woman, sir but if you '11 only take my advice " " Pray, 
 good Mrs. Pomfret, don't be alarmed." "Nay, sir, but I 
 won't pretend to sleep in the house, if Franklin is n't to 
 have a blunderbuss and I a baggonet." "You shall have 
 both, indeed, Mrs. Pomfret ; but do n't make such a noise, 
 for everybody will hear you." 
 
 The love of mystery was the only thing which could have 
 conquered Mrs. Pomfret's love of talking. She was silent ; 
 and contented herself the rest of the evening with making 
 signs, looking ominous, and stalking about the house like 
 one possessed with a secret. 
 
 Escaped from Mrs. Pomfret's fears and advice, Mr. Spen- 
 cer went to a shop within a few doors of tho nlr-honso, whiVh 
 
84 THE FALSE KET. 
 
 he heard Corkscrew frequented, and sent to beg to speak to 
 the landlord. He came, and when Mr. Spencer questioned 
 him, confessed that Corkscrew and Felix were actually 
 drinking in his house, with two men of suspicious appear- 
 ance ; that, as he passed through the passage, he heard them 
 disputing about a key ; and that one of them said, " Since 
 we 've got the key, we '11 go about it to-night." This was 
 sufficient information : Mr. Spencer, lest the landlord should 
 give them information of what was going forward, took him 
 along with him to Bow-street. 
 
 A constable and proper assistance was sent to Mrs. 
 Churchill's. They stationed themselves in a back parlour, 
 which opened on a passage leading to the butler's pantry, 
 where the plate was kept. A little after midnight they 
 heard the hall-door open ; Corkscrew and his accomplices 
 went directly to the pantry, and there Mr. Spencer and tha 
 constable immediately secured them, as they were carrying 
 off their booty. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill and Pomfret had spent the night at the 
 house of an acquaintance in the same street. "Well, 
 ma'am," said Mrs. Pomfret, who had heard all the news in 
 the morning, " the villains are all safe. I was afraid to go 
 to the window this morning, but it was my luck to see them 
 all go by to jail they looked so shocking! I am sure I 
 shall never forget Felix's look to my dying day ! But poor 
 Franklin ! ma'am, that boy has the best heart in the world 
 I could not get him to give a second look at them as they 
 passed poor fellow 1 I thought he would have dropped ; 
 and he was so modest, ma'am, when Mr. Spencer spoke to 
 him, and told him he had done his duty." " And did my 
 brother tell him what reward I intend for him ?" " No, 
 ma'am, and I 'm sure Franklin thinks no more of reward 
 than I do." " I intend," continued Mrs. Churchill, " to sell 
 some of my old useless plate, and lay it out in an annuity 
 for Franklin's life." " La, ma'am 1" exclaimed Mrs. Pom- 
 fret with unfeigned joy, " I 'm sure you are very good ; and 
 
THE FALSE KEY. 85 
 
 I 'm very glad of it." " And," continued Mrs. Churchill, 
 " here are some tickets for the play, -which I shall beg you, 
 Pomfret, to give him, and to take him with you." " I am 
 very much obliged to you, indeed, ma'am, and I '11 go with 
 him with all my heart, and choose such plays as won't do 
 no prejudice to his morality. And, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Pomfret, " the night after the fire I left him my great Bible, 
 and my watch, in my will ; for I never was more mistaken 
 at the first in any boy in my born days : but he has won me 
 by his own deserts, and I shall from this time forth love all 
 the VUlaintropic folks for his sake." 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 " MAMMA," said Rosamond, after a long silence, " do you 
 know what I have been thinking of all this time ?" 
 
 "No, my dear. What?" 
 
 " Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell's birthday ; do you 
 know what day it is ?" 
 
 " No, I do n't remember." 
 
 " Dear mother ! do n't you remember it 's the 22d of De- 
 cember ? and her birthday is the day after to-morrow ? 
 Do n't you recollect now ? But you never remember about 
 birthdays, mamma; that was just what I was thinking of, 
 that you never remember my sister Laura's birthday, or 
 or or mine, mamma." 
 
 " What do you mean, my dear I I remember your birthday 
 perfectly well." 
 
 " Indeed ! but you never keep it though." 
 
 " What do you mean by keeping your birthday?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma, you know very well as Bell's birthday 
 is kept. In the first place there is a great dinner." 
 
 " And can Bell eat more upon her birthday than upon any 
 other day ?" 
 
 " No : nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the 
 mince-pies. But Bell has a great many nice things ; I don't 
 mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to 
 her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her 
 health, and she 's so happy I" 
 
 "But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! 
 
 (86) 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 87 
 
 Is it everybody 's drinking her health that makes her so 
 happy? or the new playthings, or the nice mince-pies? 1 
 can easily believe that she is happy while she is eating 
 a mince-pie, or while she is playing; but how does 
 everybody's drinking her health at dinner make her 
 happy?" 
 
 Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. 
 " But," added she, " the nice new playthings, mother I" 
 
 " But why the nice new playthings ? Do you like them 
 only because they are new?" 
 
 "Not only I do not like playthings only because they 
 are new, but Bell does, I believe for that puts me in mind 
 do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of old 
 playthings that she never used, and she said that they were 
 good for nothing because they were old; but I thought 
 many of them were good for a great deal more than the new 
 ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma: I'll tell you all 
 that was in the drawer." 
 
 "Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not 
 time to listen to you." 
 
 " Well, then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show 
 you the drawer ; I want you to be judge very much, because 
 I am sure I was in the right. And, mother/' added Rosa- 
 mond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, " will 
 you not now, but when you have time will you tell me 
 why you never keep my birthday ? why you never make any 
 difference between that day and any other day ?" 
 
 " And will you, Rosamond not now, but when you have 
 time to think about it tell me why I should make any dif- 
 ference between your birthday and any other day ?" 
 
 Rosamond thought but she could not find out any rea- 
 son : besides, she suddenly recollected that she had no time 
 to think any longer, for there was a certain work-basket to 
 be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a 
 present upon her birthday. The work was at a stand for 
 want of some filigree-paper, and as her mother was going 
 
88 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 out, she asked her to take her with her that she might buy 
 Borne. Her sister Laura -went with them. 
 
 " Sister," said Rosamond, as they were walking along, 
 "what have you done with your half-guinea?" 
 
 " I have it in my pocket." 
 
 " Dear ! you will keep it for ever in your pocket : you 
 know my godmother, when she gave it to you, said you would 
 keep it longer than I should keep mine ; and I know what 
 she thought by her look at the time. I heard her say some- 
 thing to my mother." 
 
 " Yes," said Laura, smiling, " she whispered so loud that 
 I could not help hearing her too : she said I was a little 
 miser." 
 
 " But did not you hear her say that I was very generous f 
 and she '11 see that she was not mistaken. I hope she '11 bo 
 by when I give my basket to Bell won't it be beautiful ! 
 there is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the 
 handle, and a frost ground ; and then the medallions " 
 
 " Stay," interrupted her sister ; for Rosamond, anticipa- 
 ting the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so 
 fast that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop 
 where the filigree-paper was to be bought. They turned 
 back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner of a 
 street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane : 
 a coach full of ladies stopped at the door just before they 
 went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of 
 Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the win- 
 dow, where she saw her sister Laura was looking earnestly 
 at something that was passing in the lane. 
 
 Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking 
 house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bob- 
 bins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked 
 up from her work. 
 
 " Is not she very industrious ?" said Laura : " and very 
 honest too," added she, in a minute afterward ; for just then, 
 H baker with a baskot of rolls on his head passed, and by 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 89 
 
 accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl : she took 
 it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then 
 put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to 
 him. 
 
 While she was gone, a footman in livery laced with silver, 
 who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop-door, as he 
 was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to espy 
 the weaving-pillow, which she had left upon a stone before 
 the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief 
 often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and en- 
 tangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of 
 breath to her work ; but what was her surprise and sorrow 
 to find it spoiled. She twisted and untwisted, placed and 
 replaced the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at 
 her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the 
 house, when the silver-laced footman stopped her, saying, 
 insolently, " Sit still, child." 
 
 " I must go to my mother, sir," said the child ; " besides, 
 you have spoiled all my lace I can't stay." 
 
 " Can't you ?" said the brutal footman, snatching her 
 weaving pillow again, " I '11 teach you to complain of me." 
 And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put 
 them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the 
 dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress's coach, and 
 was out of sight in an instant. 
 
 " Poor girl I" exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to re- 
 strain her indignation at this injustice, " poor little girl !" 
 
 At this instant her mother said to Rosamond, "Come now, 
 my dear, if you want this filigree-paper, buy it." 
 
 " Yes, madam," said Rosamond ; and the idea of what 
 her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her gene- 
 rosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings 
 of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestow- 
 ing another exclamation upon the " Poor little girl!" she 
 went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In 
 the mean time, she that was called " the little miser " beck 
 
90 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 oned to the poor girl, and opening the window, said, point- 
 ing to the cushion, "Is it quite spoiled?" 
 
 " Quite, quite spoiled 1 and I can't, nor mother neither, 
 buy another ; and I can't do anything else for my bread." 
 A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this. 
 
 " How much would another cost ?" said Laura. 
 
 " Oh, a great great deal !" 
 
 "More than that?" said Laura, holding up her half 
 guinea. 
 
 " Oh, no !" 
 
 " Then you can buy another with that," said Laura, drop- 
 ping the half-guinea into her hand, and she shut the window 
 before the child could find words to thank her, but not before 
 she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more 
 pleasure, probably, than all the praise which could have 
 been bestowed upon her generosity. 
 
 Late on the morning of her cousin's birthday, Rosamond 
 finished her work-basket. The carriage was at the door 
 Laura came running to call her ; her father's voice was 
 heard at the same instant ; so she was obliged to go down 
 with her basket but half-wrapped up in silver-paper, a cir- 
 cumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted : for 
 the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost, if one 
 bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. 
 As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one 
 side and to the other, and by each of the four corners. 
 
 " It will never do, my dear," said her father, who bad 
 been watching her operations ; " I am afraid you will never 
 make a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as largo 
 as itself." 
 
 " It is not a box, father," said Rosamond, a little peevishly ; 
 " it is a basket." 
 
 " Let us look at this basket," said he, taking it out of her 
 unwilling hands ; for she knew of what frail materials it 
 was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her 
 father's examination. 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 91 
 
 He took hold of the handle rather roughly, and starting 
 off the coach-seat, she cried 
 
 "Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!" said 
 she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside 
 the veil of silver-paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle- 
 wreathed handle. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle !" 
 
 "But what is the use of the poor Jtandle," said her father, 
 " if we are not to take hold of it ? And pray," continued 
 he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, 
 rather in a disrespectful manner ; " pray is this the thing 
 you have been about all this week ? I have seen you all 
 this week dabbling with paste and rags ; I could not con- 
 ceive what you were about. Is this the thing ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. You think, then, that I have wasted my time, 
 because the basket is of no use ; but then it is for a present 
 for my cousin Bell." 
 
 " Your cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for 
 a present that is of no use ; you had better have given her 
 the purple-jar." [See Early Lessons.] 
 
 "Oh, father! I thought that you had forgotten that it 
 was two years ago ; I 'm not so silly now. But Bell will 
 like the basket, I know, though it is of no use." 
 
 " Then you think Bell sillier now than you were two years 
 ago. Well, perhaps it is true ; but how conies it, Rosamond, 
 now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly 
 person ?" 
 
 " 7, father ?" said Rosamond, hesitating ; " I do n't think 
 I am very fond of her." 
 
 " I did not say very fond." 
 
 " Well, but I do n't think I am at all fond of her." 
 
 " But you have spent a whole week in making this thing 
 for her." 
 
 " Yes, and all my half-guinea besides." 
 
 " Yet you know her to be silly, and you are not fond of 
 her at all ; and you say you know this thing will be of no 
 use to her." 
 
92 THE BIETHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 " But it is her birthday, sir ; and I am. sure she will expect 
 something, and everybody else will give her something.'' 
 
 " Then your reason for giving is because she expects you 
 to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should 
 you always give, merely because others expect, or because 
 somebody else gives ?" 
 
 " Always ! no, not always." 
 
 " Oh, only on birthdays." 
 
 Rosamond, laughing, " Now you are making a joke of me, 
 papa, I see ; but I thought you liked that people should be 
 generous my godmother said that she did." 
 
 " So do I, full as well as your godmother ; but we have 
 not yet quite settled what it is to be generous." 
 
 " Why, is it not generous to make presents ?" said Rosa- 
 mond. 
 
 " That is a question which it would take up a great deal 
 of time to answer. But, for instance, to make a present of 
 a thing that you know can be of no use, to a person you 
 neither love nor esteem, because it is her birthday, and be- 
 cause everybody gives her something, and because she ex- 
 pects something, and because your godmother says she likes 
 that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosa- 
 mond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than 
 generosity." 
 
 Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent. 
 
 " Then I am a fool 1 am I ?" said she, looking up at last. 
 
 " Because you have made one mistake ? No. If you have 
 sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterward 
 avoid them, you will never be a fool." 
 
 Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that 
 the basket was uncovered. 
 
 Now we must observe, that Rosamond's father had not 
 been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl. 
 From her infancy she had been humoured ; and at eight 
 years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child : she 
 was idle, fretful, and selfish, so that nothing could make her 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 93 
 
 happy. On her birthday, however, she expected to be per- 
 fectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to please her ; and 
 they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner 
 she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these 
 fits no one could discover ; but the last, and most lamentable, 
 was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin 
 frock, and accordingly at dressing-time her maid brought it 
 to her, exclaiming, " See here, miss 1 what your mamma has 
 sent you on your birthday. Here 's a frock fit for a queen 
 if it had but lace round the cuffs." 
 
 " And why has it not lace round the cuffs ? mamma said 
 it should." 
 
 " Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace : it is 
 not come home." 
 
 " Not come home, indeed ! and did n't they know it was 
 my birthday ? But then I say I won't wear it without the 
 lace I can't wear it without the lace and I won't." 
 
 The lace, however, could not be had ; and Bell at length 
 submitted to let the frock be put on. " Come, Miss Bell, 
 dry your eyes," said the maid who educated her ; " dry your 
 eyes, and I *11 tell you something that will please you." 
 
 " What, then ?" said the child, pouting and sobbing. 
 
 "Why but you must not tell that I told you." 
 
 "No but if I am asked?" 
 
 " Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be 
 sure. So I '11 hold my tongue, miss." 
 
 "Nay, tell me though, and I'll never tell if I am asked." 
 
 " Well, then," said the maid, " your cousin Rosamond is 
 come, and has brought you the most beautifullest thing you 
 ever saw in your life ; but you are not to know anything 
 about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you ; 
 and mistress has put it into her wardrobe till after dinner." 
 
 " Till after dinner 1" repeated Bell, impatiently ; " I can't 
 wait till then, I must see it this minute." 
 
 The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into 
 another fit of crying ; and the maid, fearing that her mis- 
 
94 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 tress would be angry with her if Bell's eyes were red at din- 
 ner-time, consented to show her the basket. 
 
 " How pretty 1 But let me have it in my own hands," 
 said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her 
 reach. 
 
 " Oh no, you must not touch it ; for if you should spoil it, 
 what would become of me ?" 
 
 " Become of you, indeed !" exclaimed the spoiled child, 
 who never considered anything but her own immediate 
 gratification, "become of you, indeed I what signifies that? 
 I shan't spoil it ; and I will have it in my own hands. If 
 you do n't hold it down for me directly, I '11 tell that you 
 showed it to me:" 
 
 " Then you won't snatch it?" 
 
 " No, no, I won't indeed," said Bell ; but she had learned 
 from her maid a total disregard of truth. She snatched the 
 basket the moment it was within her reach ; a struggle en- 
 sued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of 
 the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury re- 
 turned to her senses. Calmed at this sight, the next ques- 
 tion was, how she could conceal the mischief which she had 
 done. After many attempts, the handle and lid were re- 
 placed, the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which 
 it had stood before, and the maid charged the child " to look 
 as if nothing was tJte matter." 
 
 We hope that both children and parents will here pause 
 for a moment and reflect. The habits of tyranny, mean- 
 ness, and falsehood which children acquire from living with 
 bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole 
 course of their future lives. 
 
 After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in 
 the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a 
 small parcel in her hand. 
 
 " What 's your business ?" said the maid. 
 
 " I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoko 
 for the young lady." 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 95 
 
 " Oh, you have, have you, at last ?" said Bell ; " and pray, 
 why did n't you bring it sooner ?" 
 
 The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted 
 her, saying, " Come, come, none of your idle excuses ; you 
 are a little idle good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss 
 Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let 
 us look at it." The little girl gave the lace without reply, 
 and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not 
 expect to be paid ; for that her mistress could not see any- 
 body, becaise she was in a room full of company. 
 
 " May I call again, madam, this afternoon ?" said the 
 child, timidly. 
 
 " Lord bless my stars !" replied the maid, " what makes 
 people so poor, I wonders 1 I wish mistress would buy her 
 lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks. 
 Call again ! yes, to be sure ; I believe you 'd call, call, call 
 twenty times for twopence." 
 
 However ungraciously the permission to call again was 
 granted, it was received with gratitude ; the little girl de- 
 parted with a cheerful countenance ; and Bell teased her 
 maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon 
 her cuffs. 
 
 Unfortunate Bell ! All dinner-time passea; and people 
 were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye ob- 
 served her favourite piece of finery ; till at length she was 
 no longer able to conceal her impatience, and, turning to 
 Laura, who sat next to her, she said, " You have no lace 
 upon your cuffs: look how beautiful mine is! is not it? 
 Do n't you wish your mamma could afford to give you some 
 like it ? But you can't get any if she would ; for this was 
 made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can 
 get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it." 
 " But cannot the person who made it," said Laura, " make 
 any more like it?" 
 
 " No, no, no !" cried Bell ; for she had already learned, 
 either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which 
 
96 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 values things, not for being really pretty or useful, but for 
 being such as nobody else can procure. 
 
 " Nobody can get any like it, I say," repeated Bell ; 
 " nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that 
 person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am 
 sure ; mamma won't let her, if I ask her not." 
 
 " Very well," said Laura, coolly, " I do not want any of 
 it ; you need not be so violent : I assure you that I do n't 
 want any of it." 
 
 " Yes, but you do though," said Bell, more angrily. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Laura, smiling. 
 
 " You do, in the bottom of your heart ; but you say you 
 do n't to plague me, I know," cried Bell, swelling with dis- 
 appointed vanity. " It is pretty, for all that, and it cost a 
 great deal of money, too, and nobody shall have any like it, 
 if they cried their eyes out." 
 
 Laura received this sentence in silence. Rosamond smiled. 
 And at her smile, the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child 
 burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which 
 had been heard upon her birthday. 
 
 " What 's the matter, my pet ?" cried her mother ; " come 
 to me, and tell me what 's the matter." 
 
 Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise ex- 
 plained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine 
 lace, with frantic gestures, from her cuffs, and throwing the 
 fragments into her mother's lap. 
 
 " Oh 1 the lace, child ! are you mad ?" said her mother, 
 catching hold of both her hands ; " your beautiful lace, my 
 dear love I do you know how much it cost ?" 
 
 " I do n't care how much it cost ; it is not beautiful, and 
 I '11 have none of it," replied Bell, sobbing, " for it is not 
 beautiful." 
 
 " But it is beautiful," retorted her mother ; " I chose the 
 pattern myself. Who has put it into your head, child, to 
 dislike it? Was it Nancy ?" " No, not Nancy, but them, 
 mamma," said Bell, pointing to Laura and Rosamond. 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 97 
 
 ' Oh, fy t do n't point," said her mother, putting down her 
 stubborn finger ; Ci nor say them, like Nancy ; I am sure you 
 misunderstood. Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any 
 such thing." 
 
 " No, madam ; and I did not say any such thing, that I 
 recollect," said Laura, gently. 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed," cried Rosamond, warmly rising in her 
 sister's defence. But no defence or explanation was to be 
 heard, for everybody had now gathered round Bell to dry 
 her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done 
 to her own cuffs. 
 
 They succeeded so well, that in about a quarter of an hour 
 the young lady's eyes, and the reddened arches over her 
 eyebrows, came to their natural colour ; and the business 
 being thus happily hushed up, the mother, as a reward to her 
 daughter for her good-humour, begged that Rosamond would 
 now be so good as to produce her " charming present." 
 
 Rosamond, followed by all the company, among whom, 
 to her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dress- 
 ing-room. 
 
 " Now, I am sure," thought she, " Bell will be surprised, 
 and my godmother will see she was right about my genero- 
 sity." 
 
 The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due cere- 
 mony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory. 
 
 " Well, this is a charming present, indeed I" said the god- 
 mother, who was one of the company ; " my Rosamond 
 knows how to make presents." And as she spoke, she took 
 hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience. 
 Scarcely had she. touched it, when lo ! the myrtle wreath, 
 the medallions, all dropped the basket fell to the ground, 
 and only the handle remained in her hand. 
 
 All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclamations of 
 
 sorrow were heard in various tones ; and " Who can have 
 
 done this ?" was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood 
 
 in sullen silence, in which she obstinately persevered in the 
 
 7 
 
98 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 midst of the inquiries which were made about the disaster 
 At length the servants were summoned, and among them 
 Nancy, Miss Bell's maid and governess. She affected much 
 surprise when she saw what had befallen the basket, and 
 declared that she knew nothing of the matter, but that she 
 had seen her mistress in the morning put it quite safe into 
 the wardrobe ; and that, for her part, she had never touched 
 it, or thought of touching it, in her born days. " Nor Miss 
 Bell neither, ma'am, I can answer for her ; for she never 
 knew of its being there, because I never so much as men- 
 tioned it to her, that there was such a thing in the house, 
 because I knew Miss Rosamond wanted to surprise her with 
 the secret so I never mentioned a sentence of it. Did I, 
 Miss Bell?" 
 
 Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had 
 taught her, answered, boldly, No ; but she had hold of Rosa- 
 mond's hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood 
 she squeezed it terribly. 
 
 " Why do you squeeze my hand so ?" said Rosamond, in 
 a low voice ; " what are you afraid of?" 
 
 "Afraid of!" cried Bell, turning angrily; "I'm not 
 afraid of anything I 've nothing to be afraid about." 
 
 " Nay, I did not say you had," whispered Rosamond ; 
 "But only if you did by accident you know what I mean 
 I should not be angry if you did only say so." 
 
 " L say I did not !" cried Bell furiously ; " mamma ! 
 mamma 1 Nancy ! my cousin Rosamond won't believe me I 
 that's very hard it's very rude ! and I won't bear it I 
 won't. * 
 
 " Do n't be angry, love do n't," said the maid. 
 
 " Nobody suspects you, darling," said her mother. " But 
 she has too much sensibility. Do n't cry, love nobody sus- 
 pected you." 
 
 "But you know," continued she, turning to the maid, 
 " somebody must have done this, and I must know how it 
 was done ; Miss Rosamond's charming present must not be 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 99 
 
 spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper 
 notice of it. I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosa- 
 mond." 
 
 Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly 
 made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts ; " I was 
 very foolish " she began, and stopped. 
 
 " Ma'am," cried the maid suddenly, " I '11 venture to say 
 I know who did it." 
 
 " Who ?" said every one eagerly. 
 
 " Who ?" said Bell, trembling. 
 
 "Why, miss, don't you recollect that little girl with the 
 lace, that we saw peeping about in the passage : I 'm sure 
 she must have done it, for here she was by herself half an 
 hour or more, and not another creature has been in mis- 
 tress's dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morn- 
 ing. Those sort of people have so much curiosity, I ; m sure 
 she must have been meddling with it," added the maid. 
 
 "Oh yes, that's the thing," said the mistress, decidedly. 
 " Well, Miss Rosamond, for your comfort, she shall never 
 come into my house again." 
 
 "0, that would not comfort me at all," said Rosamond; 
 " besides, we are not sure that she did it ; and if " A 
 single knock at the door was heard at this instant ; it was the 
 little girl who came to be paid for her lace. 
 
 " Call her in," said the lady of the house ; " let us see her 
 directly." 
 
 The maid, who was afraid that the girl's innocence would 
 appear if she were produced, hesitated ; but upon her mis- 
 tress's repeating her commands, she was forced to obey. 
 
 The child came in with a look of simplicity ; but when 
 she saw the room full of company, she was a little abashed. 
 Rosamond and Laura looked at her and at one another with 
 surprise ; for it was the same little girl whom they had seen 
 weaving lace. 
 
 " Is not it she ?" whispered Rosamond to her sister. 
 
 " Yes, it is ; but hush," said Laura, " she does uot know 
 
100 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 us. Don't say a word, let us hear what she will say." 
 Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so 
 that the little girl could not see her. 
 
 " Vastly well !" said Bell's mother ; " I am waiting to sec 
 how long you will have the assurance to stand there with 
 that innocent look. Did you ever see that basket before ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said the girl. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," cried the maid, " and what else do you know 
 about it ? You had better confess it at once, and mistress 
 perhaps will say no more about it." 
 
 " Yes, do confess it," added Bell, earnestly. 
 
 " Confess what, madam ?" said the little girl ; " I never 
 touched the basket, madam." 
 
 " You never touched it : but you confess," interrupted 
 Bell's mother, " that you did see it before. And pray, how 
 came you to see it ? you must have opened my wardrobe." 
 
 " No, indeed, ma'am," said the little girl ; " but I was 
 waiting in the passage, ma'am, and this door was partly 
 open, and," looking at the maid, " you know, I could not 
 help seeing it." 
 
 " Why, how could you see it through the doors of my 
 wardrobe ?" rejoined the lady. 
 
 The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve. 
 
 " Answer me," said the lady ; " where did you see this 
 basket?" 
 
 Another stronger pull. 
 
 " I saw it, madam, in her hands," looking at the maid ; 
 " and" 
 
 " Well, and what became of it afterward ?" 
 
 "Ma'am," hesitating, "miss pulled, and by accident I 
 believe, I saw, ma'am miss, you know what I saw." 
 
 " I do not know I do not know : and if I did, you had 
 no business there and mamma won't believe you, I am 
 sure." 
 
 But everybody else did, and their eyes were fixed upon 
 Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed. 
 
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 101 
 
 " What do you all look at me so for ? Why do you all 
 look so ? And am I to be shamed upon my birthday ?" 
 cried she, bursting into a roar of passion ; " and all for this 
 nasty thing 1" added she, pushing away the remains of the 
 basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond. 
 
 "Bell! Bell! oh fy! fy ! now I am ashamed of you 
 that 's quite rude to your cousin," said her mother, who was 
 more shocked at her daughter's want of politeness than at 
 her falsehood. " Take her away, Nancy, till she has done 
 crying," added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off 
 her pupil. 
 
 Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment 
 when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had 
 been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. 
 A smile from her father, who stood by a silent spectator of 
 the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these 
 reflections ; nor were they entirely dissipated by the condo- 
 lence of the rest of the company, nor even by the praises 
 of her godmother, who, to console her, said, " Well, my dear 
 Rosamond, I admire your generous spirit. You know I 
 prophesied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest 
 
 did I not, Laura 1" said she, appealing in a sarcastic tone 
 to wnere she thought Laura was. "Where is Laura? I 
 do n't see her." 
 
 Laura came forward. 
 
 " You are too prudent to throw away your money like your 
 sister ; your half-guinea, I '11 answer for it, is snug in your 
 pocket. Is it not ?" 
 
 " No, madam," answered she, in a low voice. But low as 
 the voice was, the poor little lace-girl heard it ; and now, for 
 the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her 
 benefactress. 
 
 " Oh, that 's the young lady !" she exclaimed, in a tone 
 of joyful gratitude, " the good ! good young lady who gave 
 me the half-guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it 
 
 but I will thank her now." 
 
102 THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 " The half-guinea, Laura 1" said her godmother ; " what 
 is all this?" 
 
 " I '11 tell you, madam, if you please," said the little girl. 
 
 It was not in expectation of being praised for it that Laura 
 had been generous, and therefore everybody was really 
 touched with the history of the weaving-pillow ; and while 
 they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not 
 always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums. Respect is 
 not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura's 
 age ; for let their age or situation be what it may, they com- 
 mand respect who deserve it. 
 
 " Ah, madam !" said Rosamond to her godmother, " now 
 you see you see she is not a little miser ; I 'm sure that 's 
 better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket. Is 
 it not, ma'am ?" said she, with an eagerness which showed 
 that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy 
 with her sister. " This is being really generous, father, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, Rosamond," said her father, as he kissed her, " this 
 is being really generous. It is not only by giving away 
 money that we can show generosity, it is by giving up to 
 others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore," 
 added he, smiling, " it is really generous of you to give to 
 your sister the thing you like best of all others." 
 
 " The thing that I like best of all others, father !" said 
 Rosamond, half-pleased, half-vexed ; " What is that, I won- 
 der? You do n't mean praise, do you, sir?" 
 
 " Nay, you must decide that, Rosamond." 
 
 " Why, sir," said she, ingenuously, " perhaps it was oxc 
 the thing that I liked best ; but the pleasure I have just felt 
 makes me like something else better." 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Waked, as her custom was, before the day, 
 To do the observance due to sprightly May." 
 
 DETDEN. 
 
 IN a retired hamlet on the borders of Wales, between Os- 
 westry and Shrewsbury, it is still the custom to celebrate 
 the first of May. The children of the village, who look for- 
 ward to this rural festival with joyful eagerness, usually 
 meet on the last day of April to make up their nosegays for 
 the morning, and to choose their queen. Their customary 
 place of meeting is at a hawthorn, which stands in a little 
 green nook, open on one side to a shady lane, and separated 
 on the other side by a thick sweet-brier and hawthorn hedge 
 from the garden of an attorney. 
 
 This attorney began the world with nothing but he 
 contrived to scrape together a good deal of money, every- 
 body knew how. He built a new house at the entrance of 
 the village, and had a large well-fenced garden : yet, notwith- 
 standing his fences, he never felt himself secure ; such were 
 his litigious habits and his suspicious temper, that he was 
 constantly at variance with his simple and peaceable neigh- 
 bours. Some pig, or dog, or goat, or goose, was for ever 
 trespassing : his complaints and his extortions wearied 
 and alarmed the whole hamlet. The path's in his fields 
 were at length unfrequented, his stiles were blocked up 
 with stones or stuffed with bramble and briars, so that not 
 a gosling could creep under, or a giant get over them and 
 
 (103) 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 so careful were even the village children of giving offence 
 to this irritable man of the law, that they would not venture 
 to fly a kite near his fields, lest it should entangle in his 
 trees, or fall upon his meadow. 
 
 Mr. Case, for this was the name of our attorney, had a 
 son and a daughter, to whose education he had not time to 
 attend, as his whole soul was intent upon accumulating for 
 them a fortune. For several years he suffered his children 
 to run wild in the village, but suddenly, upon his being 
 appointed to a considerable agency, he began to think of 
 making his children a little genteel. He sent his son to 
 learn Latin ; he hired a maid to wait upon his daughter 
 Barbara, and he strictly forbade her thenceforward to keep 
 company with any of the poor children, who had hitherto 
 been her playfellows : they were not sorry for this prohi- 
 bition, because she had been their tyrant rather than their 
 companion ; she was vexed to observe, that her absence was 
 not regretted, and she was mortified to perceive that she 
 could not humble them by any display of airs and finery. 
 
 There was one poor girl among her former associates, to 
 whom she had a peculiar dislike Susan Price a sweet- 
 tempered, modest, sprightly, industrious lass, who was the 
 pride and delight of the village. Her father rented a small 
 farm, and, unfortunately for him, he lived near Attorney 
 Case. Barbara used often to sit at her window, watching 
 Susan at work sometimes she saw her in the neat garden 
 raking the beds or weeding the borders ; sometimes she was 
 kneeling at her beehive with fresh flowers for her bees ; 
 sometimes she was in the poultry-yard scattering corn from 
 her seive among the eager chickens ; and in the evening she 
 was often seated in a little honeysuckle arbour, with a clean, 
 light, three-legged deal table before her, upon which she put 
 her plain-work. Susan had been taught to work neatly by 
 her good mother, who was very fond of her, and to whom 
 she was most gratefully attached. Mrs. Price was an intel- 
 ligent, active, domestic woman, but Ifer health was not 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 105 
 
 robust ; she earned money, however, by taking in plain- 
 work, and she was famous for baking excellent bread and 
 breakfast-cakes. She was respected in the village for her 
 conduct as a wife and as a mother, and all were eager to 
 show ner attention. At her door the first branch of haw- 
 thorn was always placed on May-morning, and her Susan 
 was usually Queen of the May. 
 
 It was now time to choose the queen. The setting sun 
 shone full upon the pink blossoms of the hawthorn when 
 the merry group assembled upon their little green. Bar- 
 bara was now walking in sullen state in her father's garden ; 
 she heard the busy voices in the lane, and she concealed 
 herself behind the high hedge, that she might listen to their 
 conversation. 
 
 " Where 's Susan ?" were the first unwelcome words 
 which she overheard. "Ay, where 's Susan?" repeated 
 Philip, stopping short in the middle of a new tune that he 
 was playing on his pipe. " I wish Susan would come ! I 
 want her to sing me this same tune over again ; I have not 
 it yet." 
 
 " And I wish Susan would come, I 'm sure,? cried a little 
 girl, whose lap was full of primroses ; " Susan will give me 
 some thread to tie up my nosegays, and she '11 show me 
 where the fresh violets grow, and she has promised to give 
 me a great bunch of her double cowslips to wear to-morrow. 
 I wish she would come !" 
 
 " Nothing can be done without Susan ! She always shows 
 us where the nicest flowers are to be found in the lanes and 
 meadows," said they. " She must make up the garlands 
 and she shall be Queen of the May !" exclaimed a multitude 
 of little voices. 
 
 " But she does not come !" said Philip. 
 
 Rose, who was her particular friend, now came forward 
 to assure the impatient assembly " that she would answer 
 for it Susan would come as soon as she possibly could, and 
 that she probably was detained by business at home." The 
 
106 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 little electors thought that all business should give way to 
 theirs, and Rose was despatched to summon her friend 
 immediately. 
 
 " Tell her to make haste," cried Philip. " Attorney Case 
 dined at the Abbey to-day, luckily for us ; if he comes home, 
 and finds us here, maybe he '11 drive us away, for he says 
 this bit of ground belongs to his own garden ; though that 
 is not true, I 'm sure, for Farmer Price knows, and says it 
 was always open to the road. The attorney wants to get 
 our play-ground, so he does I wish he and his daughter 
 Bab or Miss Barbara, as she must now be called were 
 a hundred miles off, out of our way, I know. No later than 
 yesterday, she threw down my ninepins in one of her ill- 
 humours, as she was walking by with her gown all trailing 
 in the dust." 
 
 " Yes," cried Mary, the little primrose-girl, " her gown is 
 always trailing ; she does not hold it up nicely, like Susan ; 
 and with all her fine clothes, she never looks half so neat. 
 Mamma says she wishes I may be like Susan, when I grow 
 up to be a great girl, and so do I. I should not like to look 
 conceited as Barbara does, if I was ever so rich." 
 
 " Rich or poor," said Philip, " it does not become a girl 
 to look conceited, much less bold, as Barbara did the other 
 day, when she was standing at her father's door, without a 
 hat upon her head, staring at the strange gentleman who 
 stopped hereabout to let his horse drink. I know what he 
 thought of Bab by his looks, and of Susan too for Susan 
 was in her garden, bending down a branch of the laburnum- 
 tree, looking at its yellow flowers which were just come out; 
 and when the gentleman asked her how many miles it was 
 from Shrewsbury, she answered him so modest ! not bash- 
 ful, like as if she had never seen nobody before but just 
 right and then she pulled on her straw hat, which was 
 fallen back with her looking up at the laburnum, and she 
 went her ways home ; and the gentleman says to me, after 
 she was gone, ' Pray, who is that neat modest girl ? ' 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 107 
 
 " But I wish Susan would come !" cried Philip, interrupt- 
 ing himself. 
 
 Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose rightly guessed, 
 busy at homo. She was detained by her father's returning 
 later than usual his supper was ready for him nearly an 
 hour before he came home, and Susan swept up the ashes 
 twice, and twice put on wood to make a cheerful blaze for 
 him ; but at last, when he did come in, he took no notice of 
 the blaze nor of Susan, and when his wife asked him how 
 he did, he made no answer, but stood with his back to the 
 fire, looking very gloomy. Susan put his supper upon the 
 table, and set his own chair for him, but he pushed away the 
 chair, and turned from the table, saying, 
 
 " I shall eat nothing, child. Why have you such a fire, 
 to roast me at this time of the year t" 
 
 " You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a 
 little cheerful wood-fire in the evening, and there was a great 
 shower of hail ; your coat is quite wet, we must dry it." 
 
 "Take it then, child," said he, pulling it off; "I shall 
 soon have no coat to dry and take my hat too," said he, 
 throwing it upon the ground. 
 
 Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a 
 chair to dry, and then stood anxiously looking at her mother, 
 who was not well ; she had this day fatigued herself with 
 baking, and now, alarmed by her husband's moody beha- 
 viour, she sat down, pale and trembling. lie threw himself 
 into a chair, folded his arms, and fixed his eyes upon the 
 fire. Susan was the first who ventured to break silence. 
 Happy the father who has such a daughter as Susan ! her 
 unaltered sweetness of temper, and her playful affectionate 
 caresses, at last somewhat dissipated her father's melan- 
 choly ; he could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the sup- 
 per which had been prepared for him ; however, with a faint 
 smile he told Susan that he thought he could eat one of her 
 Guinea-hen's eggs. She thanked him, and with that nimble 
 alacrity which marks the desire to please, she ran to her 
 
108 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 neat chicken-yard but alas! her Guinea-hen was not 
 there ! it had strayed into the attorney's garden ; she saw 
 it through the paling, and timidly opening the little gate, 
 she asked Miss Barbara, who was walking slowly by, to let 
 her come in and take her Guinea-hen. Barbara, who was 
 at this instant reflecting, with no very agreeable feelings, 
 upon the conversation of the village children, to which she 
 had recently listened, started when she heard Susan's voice, 
 and with a proud, ill-humoured look and voice, refused her 
 request. " Shut the gate," said she ; " you have no busi- 
 ness in our garden ; and as for your hen, I shall keep it : it 
 is always flying in here and plaguing us ; and my father 
 says it is a trespasser, and he told me I might catch it and 
 keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now." Then 
 Barbara called to her maid Betty, and bid her catch the mis- 
 chievous hen. "Oh, my Guinea-hen! my pretty Guinea- 
 hen !" cried Susan, as they hunted the frighted, screaming 
 creature from corner to corner. 
 
 " Here, we have got it 1" said Betty, holding it fast by the 
 
 " Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your 
 pretty Guinea-hen 1" said Barbara, in an insulting tone. 
 
 " Damages, what damages ?" said Susan. " Tell me what 
 I must pay." 
 
 " A shilling," said Barbara. 
 
 " Oh, if sixpence would do !" said Susan ; " I have but 
 sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is." 
 
 " It won't do," said Barbara, turning her back. 
 
 " Nay, but hear me," cried Susan ; " let me at least come 
 in to look for its eggs. I only want one for my father's sup- 
 per ; you shall have all the rest." 
 
 " What 's your father or his supper to us ? Is he so nice 
 that he can eat none but Guinea-hen's eggs ?" said Barbara ; 
 " if you want your hen and your eggs, pay for them, and 
 you '11 have them." 
 
 " I have but sixpence, and you say that won't do," said 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 109 
 
 Susan, with a sigh ; and she looked at her favourite, which 
 was in the maid's grasping hands, struggling and screaming 
 in vain. 
 
 Susan retired disconsolate. At the door of her father's 
 cottage she saw her friend Rose, who was just come to sum- 
 mon her to the hawthorn-bush. 
 
 " They are all at the hawthorn, and I 'm come for you ; 
 we can do nothing without you, dear Susan," cried Rose, 
 running to meet her, at the moment she saw her ; " you are 
 chosen Queen of the May come, make haste ; but what's 
 the matter ? why do you look so sad ?" 
 
 " Ah !" said Susan, " do n't wait for me, I can't come tc 
 you ; but," added she, pointing to the tuft of double cow 
 slips in the garden, " gather those for poor little Mary ; I 
 promised them to her ; and tell her the violets are under the 
 hedge just opposite the turnstile, on the right as we go to 
 church. Good-bye, never mind me I can't come I can't 
 stay, for my father wants me." 
 
 " But do n't turn away your face, I won't keep you a mo- 
 ment, only tell me what's the matter," said her friend, fol- 
 lowing her into the cottage. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, not much," said Susan ; " only that I 
 wanted the egg in a great hurry for father, it would not have 
 vexed me to be sure I should have clipped my Guinea- 
 hen's wings, and then she could not have flown over the 
 hedge but let us think no more about it now," added she, 
 twinkling away a tear. 
 
 When Rose, however, learned that her friend's Guinea-hen 
 was detained prisoner by the attorney's daughter, she ex-- 
 claimed, with all the honest warmth of indignation, and 
 instantly ran back to tell the story to her companions. 
 
 ' Barbara ! ay ! like father like daughter," cried Farmer 
 Price, starting from the thoughtful attitude in which he had 
 been fixed, and drawing his chair closer to his wife. 
 
 " You see something is amiss with me, wife I '11 tell 
 you what it is." As he lowered his voice, Susan, who was 
 
130 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 not sure that he wished she should hear what he was going 
 to say, retired from behind his chair. "Susan, don't go: 
 sit you down here, my sweet Susan," said he, making room 
 for her upon his chair. " I believe I was a little cross when 
 I came in first to-night, but I had something to vex me, as 
 you shall hear. 
 
 " About a fortnight ago, you know, wife," continued he, 
 " there was a balloting in our town for the militia ; now at 
 that time I wanted but ten days of forty years of age, and 
 the attorney told me I was a fool for not calling myself 
 plump forty ; but the truth is the truth, and it is what I 
 think fittest to be spoken at all times, come what will of it 
 so I was drawn for a militia-man ; but when I thought 
 how loath you and I would be to part, I was main glad to 
 hear that I could get off by paying eight or nine guineas for 
 a substitute ; only I had not the nine guineas, for you know 
 we had bad luck with our sheep thic year, and they died 
 away one after another ; but that was no excuse ; so I went 
 to Attorney Case, and with a power of difficulty I got him 
 to lend me the money, for which, to be sure, I gave him 
 something, and left my lease of our farm with him, as he 
 insisted upon it, by way of security for the loan. Attorney 
 Case is too many for me ; he has found what he calls Aflavo 
 in my lease, and the lease, he tells me, is not worth a farth- 
 ing, and that he can turn us all out of our farm to-morrow 
 if he pleases ; and sure enough, he will please, for I have 
 thwarted him this day, and he swears he '11 be revenged of 
 me ; indeed, he has begun with me badly enough already. 
 I 'm not come to the worst part of my story yet " 
 
 Here Farmer Price made a dead stop, and his wife and 
 Susan looked up in his face breathless with anxiety. 
 
 " It must come out," said he, with a short sigh ; " I must 
 leave you in three days, wife." 
 
 " Must you !" said his wife in a faint resigned voice ; 
 " Susan, love, open the window." 
 
 Susan ran to open the window, and then returned to sup- 
 port her mother's head. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. Ill 
 
 When she came a little to herself, she sat up, begged that 
 her husband would go on, and that nothing might be con- 
 cealed from her. 
 
 Her husband had no wish indeed to conceal anything from 
 a wife he loved so well ; but, stout as he was, and steady to 
 his maxim, that the truth was the thing fittest to be spoken 
 at all times, his voice faltered, and it was with some diffi- 
 culty that he brought himself to speak the whole truth at 
 this moment. 
 
 The fact was this : Case met Farmer Price as he was 
 coming home whistling from a new-ploughed field ; the 
 attorney had just dined at the Abbey the Abbey was the 
 family-seat of an opulent baronet in the neighbourhood, to 
 whom Mr. Case had been agent ; the baronet died suddenly, 
 and his estate and title devolved to a younger brother, who 
 was now just arrived in the country, and to whom Mr. Case 
 was eager to pay his court, in hopes of obtaining his favour. 
 Of the agency he nattered himself that he was pretty secure, 
 and he thought that he might assume the tone of command 
 towards the tenants, especially towards one who was some 
 guineas in debt, and in whose lease there was a flaw. 
 
 Accosting the farmer in a haughty manner, the attorney 
 began with, " So, Farmer Price, a word with you, if you 
 please ; walk on here, man, beside my horse, and you '11 
 hear me. You have changed your opinion, I hope, about 
 that bit of land, that corner at the end of my garden." 
 
 " As how, Mr. Case ?" said the farmer. 
 
 " As how, man why, you said something about it's not 
 belonging to me, when you heard me talk of enclosing it the 
 other day." 
 
 " So I did," said Price, " and so I do." 
 
 Provoked and astonished at the firm tone in which these 
 words were pronounced, the attorney was upon the point of 
 swearing that he would have his revenge ; but as his pas- 
 sions were habitually attentive to the letter of the law, he 
 refrained from any hasty expression which might, he was 
 
112 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 aware, in a court of justice, be hereafter brought against 
 him. 
 
 " My good friend Mr. Price," said he, in a soft voice, and 
 pale with suppressed rage he forced a smile " I 'm under 
 the necessity of calling in the money I lent you some time 
 ago, and you will please to take notice, that it must be paid 
 to-morrow morning. I wish you a good evening. You have 
 the money ready for me, I dare say." 
 
 " No," said the farmer, " not a guinea of it ; but John 
 Simpson, who was my substitute, has not left our village 
 yet : I '11 get the money back from him, and go myself, if so 
 be it must be so, into the militia so I will." 
 
 The attorney did not expect such a determination, and he 
 represented in a friendly hypocritical tone to Price, " that 
 he had no wish to drive him to such an extremity, that it 
 would be the height of folly in him to run Ms head against 
 a wall for no purpose. You don't mean to take the corner 
 into your own garden, do you, Price ?" said he. 
 
 " I," said the farmer, " it 's none of mine ; I never take 
 what does not belong to me." 
 
 " True, right, very proper/ of course," said Mr. Case ; 
 " but then you have no interest in life in the land in ques- 
 tion?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Then why so stiff about it, Price ? all I want of you is 
 to say " 
 
 " To say that black is white, which I won't do, Mr. Case ; 
 the ground is a thing not worth talking of, but it 's neither 
 yours nor mine ; in my memory, since the new lane was 
 made, it has always been open to the parish, and no man 
 shall enclose it with my good-will. Truth is truth, and 
 racist be spoken ; justice is justice, and should be done, Mr. 
 Attorney." 
 
 " And law is law, Mr. Farmer, and shall have its course, 
 to your cost," cried the attorney, exasperated by the daunt- 
 less spirit of this village Hampden. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 113 
 
 Here they parted the glow of enthusiasm, the pride of 
 virtue, which made our hero brave, could not render him 
 insensible. As he drew nearer home, many melancholy 
 thoughts pressed upon his heart ; he passed the door of his 
 own cottage with resolute steps, however, and went through 
 the village in search of the man who had engaged to be his 
 substitute. He found him, told him how the matter stood ; 
 and luckily the man, who had not yet spent the money, was 
 willing to return it, as there were many others had been 
 drawn for the militia, who, he observed, would be glad to 
 give him the same price, or more, for his services. 
 
 The moment Price got the money, he hastened to Mr. 
 Case's house, walked straight forward into his room, and 
 laying the money down upon his desk, " There, Mr. Attor- 
 ney, are your nine guineas ; count them ; now I have done 
 with you." 
 
 "Not yet," said the attorney, jingling the money trium- 
 phantly in his hand ; " we '11 give you a taste of the law, 
 my good sir, or I 'm mistaken. You forget the flaw in your 
 lease, which I have safe in this desk." 
 
 " Ah, my lease !" said the farmer, who had almost forgot 
 to ask for it till he was thus put in mind of it by the attor- 
 ney's imprudent threat. " Give me my lease, Mr. Case ; 
 I 've paid my money, you have no right to keep the lease 
 any longer, whether it is a bad one or a good one." 
 
 " Pardon me," said the attorney, locking his desk, and 
 putting the key into his pocket, " possession, my honest 
 friend," cried he, striking his hand upon the desk, " posses- 
 sion is nine points of the law. Good-night to you. I can- 
 not in conscience return a lease to a tenant in which I know 
 there is a capital flaw ; it is my duty to show it to my employer, 
 or, in other words, to your new landlord, whose agent I have 
 good reasons to expect I shall be. You will live to repent 
 your obstinacy, Mr. Price. Your servant, sir." 
 
 Price retired melancholy, but not intimidated. 
 
114 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 Many a man returns home with a gloomy countenance, 
 who has not quite so much cause for vexation. 
 
 When Susan heard her father's story she quite forgot her 
 Guinea-hen, and her whole soul was intent upon her poor 
 mother, who, notwithstanding her utmost exertion, could 
 not support herself under this sudden stroke of misfortune. 
 In the middle of the night Susan was called up ; her mo- 
 ther's fever ran high for some hours, but towards morning 
 it abated, and she fell into a soft sleep, with Susan's hand 
 locked fast in hers. 
 
 Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should 
 disturb her. The rush-light, which stood beside the bed, 
 was now burnt low, the long shadow of the tall wicker chair 
 flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished, as the flame rose and 
 sunk in the socket. Susan was afraid that the disagreeable 
 smell might waken her mother ; and, gently disengaging 
 her hand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle all 
 was silent ; the gray light of the morning was now spread- 
 ing orer every object; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood 
 at the lattice-window, looking through the small leaded 
 cross-barred panes at the splendid spectacle. A few birds 
 began to chirp, but as Susan was listening to them, her 
 mother started in her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly. Susan 
 hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the 
 light, and just then she heard the sound of music at a dis- 
 tance in the village. As it approached nearer, she knew 
 that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabour ; she 
 distinguished the merry voices of her companions, " carol- 
 ling in honour of the May," and soon she saw them coming 
 towards her father's cottage, with branches and garlands in 
 their hands. She opened quickly, but gently, the latch of 
 the door, and ran out to meet them. 
 
 " Here she is I Here 's Susan !" they exclaimed, joyfully ; 
 " here 's the Queen of the May." "And here 's her crown !" 
 cried Hose, pressing forward ; but Susan put her finger 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 115 
 
 upon her lips, and pointed to her mother's window Philip's 
 pipe stopped instantly. 
 
 " Thank you," said Susan ; " my mother is ill, I can't 
 leave her, you know." Then gently putting aside the crown, 
 her companions bid her say who should wear it for her. 
 
 "Will you, dear Rose?" said she, placing the garland 
 upon her friend's head ; " it is a charming May morning," 
 added she, with a smile ; " good-bye. "We shan't hear your 
 voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the 
 village, so. you need only stop till then, Philip." 
 
 " I shall stop for all day," said Philip ; " I have no mind 
 to play any more." 
 
 " Good-bye, poor Susan ; it is a pity you can't come with 
 us," said all the children ; and little Mary ran after Susan 
 to the cottage door. 
 
 " I forgot to thank you," said she, " for the double cow- 
 slips : look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the 
 violets are in my bosom, and kiss me quick, for I shall be 
 left behind!" 
 
 Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly 
 to the side of her mother's bed. 
 
 " How grateful that child is to me for a cowslip only ; 
 How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this ?" 
 Baid Susan to herself, as she bent over her sleeping mother's 
 pale countenance. 
 
 Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near 
 the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker arm-chair, and 
 went on with the row, in the middle of which her hand 
 stopped the preceding evening. 
 
 " She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I 
 know," thought Susan ; " and, best of all, she taught me to 
 love her, to wish to be like her." 
 
 Her mother, when she awakened, felt much refreshed by 
 her tranquil sleep, and observing that it was a delightful 
 morning, said, " that she had been dreaming she heard 
 music, but that the drum frightened her, because she 
 
116 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 thought it was the signal for her husband to be carried 
 away by a whole regiment of soldiers, who had pointed their 
 bayonets at him. But that was but a dream, Susan ; I 
 awakened, and knew it was a dream, and I then fell asleep, 
 and have slept soundly ever since." 
 
 How painful is it to waken to the remembrance of misfor- 
 tune ! Gradually as this poor woman collected her scattered 
 thoughts, she recalled the circumstances of the preceding 
 evening ; she was too certain that she had heard from her 
 husband's own lips the words, I must leave you in three days, 
 and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all 
 a dream. 
 
 " But he '11 want, he '11 want a hundred things," said she, 
 starting up ; "I must get his linen ready for him. I 'm 
 afraid it 's very late ; Susan, why did you let me lie so 
 long?" 
 
 "Everything shall be ready, dear mother, only don't 
 hurry yourself," said Susan. 
 
 And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or 
 to do any work this day. 
 
 Susan's affectionate, dexterous, sensible activity, was 
 never more wanted, or more effectual. She understood so 
 readily, she obeyed so exactly, and when she was left to her 
 own discretion judged so prudently, that her mother had 
 little trouble and no anxiety in directing her ; she said that 
 Susan never did too little or too much. 
 
 Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped 
 softly at the window, and beckoned to her to come out ; she 
 went out. 
 
 " How does your mother do, in the first place ?" said Rose. 
 
 " Better, thank you." 
 
 " That 's well, and I have a little bit of good news for you 
 besides here," said she, pulling out a glove, in which 
 there was money, " we '11 get the Guinea-hen back again ; 
 we have all agreed about it. This is the money that has 
 been given to us in the village this May morning ; at every 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 117 
 
 door they gave silver. See how generous they have been ; 
 twelve shillings, I assure you. Now we are a match for 
 Miss Barbara. You won't like to leave home. I '11 go to 
 Barbara, and you shall see your Guinea-hen in ten minutes. 
 
 Rose hurried away, pleased with her commission, and 
 eager to accomplish her business. 
 
 Miss Barbara's maid Betty was the first person that was 
 visible at the attorney's house. 
 
 Rose insisted upon seeing Miss Barbara herself, and she 
 was shown into a parlour to the young lady, who was reading 
 a dirty novel, which she put under a heap of law papers as 
 they entered. 
 
 " Dear, how you startled me ! is it only you?" said she to 
 her maid ; but as soon as she saw Rose behind the maid, she 
 put on a scornful air. 
 
 " Could not ye say I was not at home, Betty ? Well, my 
 good girl, what brings you here ? something to borrow or 
 beg, I suppose." 
 
 May every ambassador every ambassador in as good a 
 cause, answer with as much dignity and moderation as Rose 
 replied to Barbara upon the present occasion ! 
 
 She assured her that the person from whom she came did 
 not send her either to beg or to borrow, that she was able to 
 pay the full value of that for which she came to ask, and 
 producing her well-filled purse, " I believe that this is a very 
 good shilling," said she ; " if you do n't like it, I will change 
 it ; and now you will be so good as to give me Susan's Gui- 
 nea-hen ; it is in her name I ask for it." 
 
 " No matter in whose name you ask for it," replied Bar- 
 bara, "you will not have it. Take up your shilling, if you 
 please. I would have taken a shilling yesterday, if it had 
 been paid at the time properly ; but I told Susan, that if it 
 was not paid then, I should keep the hen, and so I shall, I 
 promise her. You may go back and tell her so." 
 
 The attorney's daughter had, while Rose opened her nego- 
 tiation, measured the depth of her purse with a keen eye, 
 
118 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 and her penetration discovered that it contained at least ten 
 shillings ; with proper management she had some hopes 
 that the Guinea-hen might be made to bring in at least half 
 the money. 
 
 Rose, who was of a warm temper, not quite so fit a match 
 as she had thought herself for the wily Barbara, incautiously 
 exclaimed, " Whatever it costs us, we are determined to have 
 Susan's favourite hen ; so if one shilling won't do, take two 
 and if two won't do, why take three." 
 
 Three shillings sounded provokingly upon the table, as 
 she threw them down one after another, and Barbara coolly 
 replied, " Three won't do." 
 
 " Have you no conscience, Miss Barbara ? then take 
 four." 
 
 " Barbara shook her head. A fifth shilling was instantly 
 proffered ; but Bab, who now saw plainly that she had the 
 game in her own hands, preserved a cold, cruel silence. 
 
 Rose went on rapidly, bidding shilling after shilling, till 
 she had completely emptied her purse. 
 
 The twelve shillings were spread upon the table Bar- 
 bara's avarice was moved ; she consented for this ransom to 
 liberate her prisoner. 
 
 Rose pushed the money towards her, but just then recol- 
 lecting that she was acting for others more than for herself, 
 and doubting whether she had full powers to conclude such 
 an extravagant bargain, she gathered up the public treasure, 
 and with newly-recovered prudence observed that she must 
 go back to consult her friends. 
 
 Her generous little friends were amazed at Barbara's 
 meanness, but with one accord declared that they were most 
 willing, for their parts, to give up every farthing of the 
 money. They all went to Susan in a body, and told 
 her so. 
 
 "There's our purse," said they, "do what you please 
 with it." 
 
 T!:oy vonl<1 not vrait for one word of thank?, lint ran 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 119 
 
 away, leaving only Kose with her to settle the treaty for the 
 Guinea-hen. 
 
 There is a certain manner of accepting a favour, which 
 shows true generosity of mind. Many know how to give, 
 but few know how to accept a gift properly. 
 
 Susan was touched, but not astonished, by the kindness 
 of her young friends, and she received the purse with as 
 much simplicity as she would have given it. 
 
 " Well/' said Rose, " shall I go back for the Guinea-hen ?" 
 
 " The Guinea-hen !" said Susan, starting from a revery 
 into which she had fallen as she contemplated the purse, 
 " certainly I do long to see my pretty Guinea-hen once more, 
 but I was not thinking of her just then I was thinking 
 of my father." 
 
 Now Susan had heard her mother often, in the course of 
 the day, wish that she had but money enough in the world 
 to pay Joseph Simpson for going to serve in the militia 
 instead of her husband. " This, to be sure, will go but a 
 little way," thought Susan, " but still it may be of some use 
 to my father." She told her mind to Rose, and concluded 
 by saying decidedly, that " if the money was given to her 
 to dispose of as she pleased, she would give it to her father." 
 
 " It is all yours, my dear good Susan," cried Rose, with a 
 look of warm approbation ; " this is so like you ! But I 'm 
 sorry that Miss Bab must keep your Guinea-hen. I would 
 not be her for all the Guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the 
 whole world. Why, I '11 answer for it the Guinea-hen won't 
 make her happy, and you '11 be happy even without because 
 you are good. Let me come and help you to-morrow," con- 
 tinued she, looking at Susan's work, " if you have any more 
 mending-work to do. I never liked work till I worked with 
 you I won't forget my thimble or my scissors," added she, 
 laughing, " though I used to forget them when I was a 
 giddy girl. I assure you I am a great hand at my needle 
 now try me." 
 
 Susan assured her friend that she did not doubt the powers 
 
120 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 of her needle, and that she would most willingly accept of 
 her services, but that, unluckily, she had finished all the 
 needlework that was immediately wanted. 
 
 " But do you know," said she, " I shall have a great deal 
 of business to-morrow but I won't tell you what it is that 
 I have to do, for I 'm afraid I shall not succeed ; but if I do 
 succeed, I '11 come and tell you directly, because you will be 
 so glad of it." 
 
 Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother 
 taught her, and who had often assisted her when she was 
 baking bread and cakes for the family at the Abbey, had 
 now formed the courageous, but not presumptuous idea, that 
 she could herself undertake to bake a batch of bread. One 
 of the servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the 
 village in the morning in search of bread, and had not been 
 able to procure any that was tolerable. Mrs. Price's last 
 baking failed for want of good barm she was not now 
 strong enough to attempt another herself; and when the 
 brewer's boy came with eagerness to tell her that he had 
 some fine fresh yeast for her, she thanked him, but sighed, 
 and said it would be of no use to her she was too ill for 
 the work. Susan modestly requested permission to try her 
 hand, and her mother would not refuse her.* Accordingly, 
 she went to work with much prudent care ; and when her 
 bread the next morning came out of the oven it was excel- 
 lent at least her mother said so, and she was a good judge. 
 It was sent to the Abbey, and as the family there had not 
 tasted any good bread since their arrival in the country, 
 they also were earnest and warm in its praise. Inquiries 
 were made from the housekeeper, and they heard, with some 
 surprise, that this excellent bread was made by a young girl 
 of twelve years old. The housekeeper, who had known 
 Susan from a child, was pleased to have an opportunity of 
 speaking in her favour. 
 
 * This circumstance is founded on fact. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 121 
 
 " She is the most industrious little creature, ma'am, in 
 the world," said she to her mistress ; " little I can't so well 
 call her now, since she 's grown tall and slender to look at ; 
 and glad I am she is grown up likely to look at, for hand- 
 some is that handsome does and she thinks no more of 
 her being handsome than I do myself yet she has as pro- 
 per a respect for herself, ma'am, as you have ; and I always 
 see her neat, and with her mother, ma'am, or fit people, as 
 a girl should be ; as for her mother, she dotes upon her, as 
 well she may, for I should myself if I had half such a 
 daughter ; and then she has two little brothers, and she 's 
 as good to them, and my boy Philip says, taught 'em to read 
 more than the school-mistress, all with tenderness and good- 
 nature ; but I beg your pardon, ma'am, I cannot stop my- 
 self when I once begin to talk of Susan." 
 
 " You have really said enough to excite my curiosity," 
 said her mistress ; " pray, send for her immediately ; wo 
 can see her before we go out to walk." 
 
 The benevolent housekeeper despatched her boy Philip 
 for Susan. Susan was never in such an untidy state that 
 she could not obey such a summons without a long prepara- 
 tion. She had, it is true, been very busy, but orderly people 
 can be busy and neat at the same time. She put on her 
 usual straw hat, and accompanied Rose's mother, who was 
 going with a basket of cleared muslin to the Abbey. 
 
 The modest simplicity of Susan's appearance, and the 
 artless good sense and propriety of the answers she gave to 
 all the questions that were asked her, pleased the ladies at 
 the Abbey, who were good judges of characters and man- 
 ners. 
 
 Sir Arthur Somers had two sisters, sensible, benevolent 
 women ; they were not of that race of fine ladies who are 
 miserable the moment they come to the country ; nor yet 
 were they of that bustling sort who quack and direct all 
 their poor neighbours, for the mere love of managing, or the 
 want of something to do. They were judiciously generous, 
 
122 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 and while they wished to diffuse happiness, they were not 
 peremptory in requiring that people should be happy pre- 
 cisely their own way. With these dispositions, and with a 
 well-informed brother, who, though he never wished to 
 direct, was always willing to assist in their efforts to do 
 good, there were reasonable hopes that these ladies would be 
 a blessing to the poor villagers among whom they were now 
 settled. 
 
 As soon as Miss Somers had spoken to Susan, she inquired 
 for her brother ; but Sir Arthur was in his study, and a 
 gentleman was with him on business. 
 
 Susan was desirous of returning to her mother, and the 
 ladies, therefore, would not detain her. Miss Somers told 
 her, with a smile, when she took leave, that she would call 
 upon her in the evening at six o'clock. 
 
 It was impossible that such a grand event as Susan's visit 
 to the Abbey could long remain unknown to Barbara Case 
 and her gossiping maid. They watched eagerly for the 
 moment of her return, that they might satisfy their curiosity. 
 
 "There she is, I declare, just come into her garden," cried 
 Bab. " I '11 run in and get it all out of her, in a minute." 
 
 Bab could descend without shame, whenever it suited her 
 purposes, from the height of insolent pride to the lowest 
 meanness of fawning familiarity. 
 
 Susan was gathering some marigolds and some parsley 
 for her mother's broth. 
 
 " So, Susan," said Bab, who came close to her before she 
 perceived it, " how goes the world with you to-day ?" 
 
 " My mother is rather better to-day, she says, ma'am 
 thank you," replied Susan, coldly but civilly. 
 
 " Ma'am, dear, how polite we are grown of a sudden !" 
 cried Bab, winking at her maid. " One may see you 've 
 been in good company this morning Hey, Susan come, 
 let 's hear about it ?" " Did you see the ladies themselves, 
 or was it only the housekeeper sent for you?" said the 
 maid. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 123 
 
 " What room did you go into ?" continued Bab ; " did you 
 see Miss Somers, or Sir Arthur ?" 
 
 " Miss Somers." 
 
 " La, she saw Miss Somers ! Betty, I must hear about it. 
 Can't you stop gathering those things for a minute, and chat 
 a bit with us, Susan 1" 
 
 "I can't stay indeed, Miss Barbara, for my mother's 
 broth is just wanted, and I 'm in a hurry." Susan ran home. 
 
 " Lord, her head is full of broth now," said Bab to her 
 maid, " and she has not a word for herself, though she has 
 been abroad. My papa may well call her Simple Susan 
 for simple she is, and simple she will be all the world over ; 
 for my part, I think she's little better that a downright sim- 
 pleton ; but however, simple or not, I '11 get what I want 
 out of her ; she '11 be able to speak, maybe, when she has 
 settled the grand matter of the broth. I '11 step in and ask 
 to see her mother, that will put her in a good humour in a 
 trice. 
 
 Barbara followed Susan into the cottage, and found her 
 occupied with the grand affair of the broth. 
 
 " Is it ready ?" said Bab, peeping into the pot that was 
 over the fire ; " dear, how savoury it smells ! I '11 wait till 
 you go in with it to your mother, for I must ask her how 
 she does myself." 
 
 " Will you please to sit down, then, Miss ?" said Simple 
 Susan, with a smile, for at this instant she forgot the Gui- 
 nea-hen. "I have but just put the parsley into the broth, 
 but it will soon be ready." 
 
 During this interval Bab employed herself, much to her 
 own satisfaction, in cross-questioning Susan. She was 
 rather provoked indeed that she could not learn exactly how 
 each of the ladies was dressed, and what there was to be for 
 dinner at the Abbey ; and she was curious beyond measure 
 to find out what Miss Somers meant by saying she would 
 call at Mr. Price's cottage at six o'clock in the evening. 
 t <lo you think she could moan?" 
 
124 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 "I thought she meant what she said," replied Susan, 
 " that she would come here at six o'clock." 
 
 " Ay, that's as plain as a pike-staff," said Barbara ; " but 
 what else did she mean, think you? People, you know, 
 don't always mean exactly, downright, neither more nor 
 less than they say." 
 
 * J 
 
 " Not always," said Susan, with an arch smile, which con- 
 vinced Barbara that she was not quite a simpleton. 
 
 " Not always," repeated Barbara, colouring ; " oh, then I 
 suppose you have some guess at what Miss Somers meant." 
 
 " No," said Susan, " I was not thinking about Miss 
 Somers when I said not always." 
 
 " How nice that broth does look 1" resumed Barbara, after 
 a pause. 
 
 Susan had now poured the broth into a basin, and as she 
 strewed over it the bright orange marigolds, it looked very 
 tempting ; she tasted it, and added now a little salt, and 
 now a little more, till she thought it was just to her mother's 
 taste. 
 
 " Oh, / must taste it," said Bab, taking the basin up 
 greedily. 
 
 "Won't you take a spoon?" said Susan, trembling at the 
 large mouthfuls which Barbara sucked up with a terrible 
 noise. 
 
 " Take a spoonful, indeed !" exclaimed Barbara, setting 
 down the basin in high anger. " The next time I taste your 
 broth you shall affront me, if you dare ! The next time I 
 set my foot in this house you shall be as saucy to me as you 
 please." And she flounced out of the house, repeating, 
 " Take a spoon, pig, was what you meant to say." 
 
 Susan stood in amazement at the beginning of this speech, 
 but the concluding words explained to her the mystery. 
 
 Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little 
 girl, and could scarcely speak plain, as she was eating a 
 basin of bread and milk for her supper at the cottage door, 
 a great pig came up, and put his nose into the basin. Susan 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 125 
 
 was willing that the pig should have some share of the 
 bread and milk, but as she ate with a spoon and he with his 
 large mouth, she presently discovered that he was likely to 
 have more than his share, and in a simple tone of expostu- 
 lation, she said to him, " Take a poon, pig." * The saying 
 became proverbial in the village, Susan's little companions 
 repeated it, and applied it upon many occasions, whenever 
 any one claimed more than his share of any thing good. 
 Barbara, who was then not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, 
 and who played with all the poor children in the neigh- 
 bourhood, was often reproved in her unjust methods of divi- 
 sion by Susan's proverb. Susan, as she grew up, forgot the 
 childish saying, but the remembrance of it rankled in Bar- 
 bara's mind, and it was to this that she suspected Susan 
 had alluded when she recommended a spoon to her. while 
 she was swallowing the basin of broth. 
 
 "La, miss," said Barbara's maid, when she found her 
 mistress in a passion upon her return from Susan's, " I only 
 wondered you did her the honour to set your foot within her 
 doors. What need have you to trouble her for news about 
 the Abbey folks, when your own papa has been there all the 
 morning, and is just come in, and can tell you everything." 
 
 Barbara did not know that her father meant to go to the 
 Abbey that morning, for Attorney Case was mysterious even 
 to his own family about his morning rides. He never chose 
 to be asked where he was going, or where he had been, and 
 this made his servants more than commonly inquisitive to 
 trace him. 
 
 Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real 
 cunning he was not sufficiently upon his guard, had often 
 the art of drawing him into conversation about his visits. 
 She ran into her father's parlour, but she knew, the moment 
 she saw his face, that it was no time to ask questions ; his 
 pen was across his mouth, and his brown wig pushed oblique 
 
 * This is a true anecdote. 
 
126 SIMPLB SUSAN. 
 
 upon his contracted forehead the wig was always pushed 
 crooked whenever he was in a brown, or rather a black 
 study. Barbara, who did not, like Susan, bear with her 
 father's testy humour from affection and gentleness of dispo- 
 sition, but who always humoured him from artifice, tried all 
 her skill to fathom his thoughts ; and when she found that 
 it would not do, she went to tell her maid so, and to com- 
 plain that her father was so cross there was no bearing 
 him. 
 
 It is true that Attorney Case was not in the happiest 
 mood possible, for he was by no means satisfied with his 
 morning's work at the Abbey. Sir Arthur Somers, the new 
 man, did not suit him, and he began to be apprehensive that 
 he should not suit Sir Arthur. He had sound reasons for 
 his doubts. 
 
 Sir Arthur Somers was an excellent lawyer, and a per- 
 fectly honest man. This seemed to our attorney a contra- 
 diction in terms ; in the course of his practice the case 
 had not occurred, and he had no precedents ready to direct 
 his proceedings. 
 
 Sir Arthur Somers was a man of wit and eloquence, yet 
 of plain dealing and humanity. The attorney could not 
 persuade himself to believe that the benevolence was any- 
 thing but enlightened cunning, and the plain dealing he one 
 minute dreaded as the masterpiece of art, and the next des- 
 pised as the characteristic of folly. In short, he had not 
 yet decided whether he was an honest man or a knave. He 
 had settled accounts with him for his late agency, he had 
 talked about sundry matters of business, he constantly per- 
 ceived that he could not impose upon Sir Arthur ; but that 
 he could know all the mazes of the law, and yet prefer the 
 straight road, was incomprehensible. 
 
 Mr. Case paid him some compliments on his great legal 
 abilities, and his high reputation at the bar. 
 
 " I have left the bar," replied Sir Arthur, coolly. 
 
 The attorney looked in unfeigned astonishment, when a 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 127 
 
 man was actually making 3000Z. per annum at the bar, that 
 he should leave it. 
 
 "lam come," said he, "to enjoy the kind of domestic 
 life which I prefer to all others in the country, among 
 people whose happiness I hope to increase." 
 
 At this speech the attorney changed his ground, flattering 
 himself that he should find his man averse to business, and 
 ignorant of country affairs. He talked of the value of land 
 and of new leases. 
 
 Sir Arthur wished to enlarge his domain, to make a rido 
 round it. A map of the domain was upon the table ; Far- 
 mer Price's garden came exactly across the new road for 
 the ride. Sir Arthur looked disappointed, and the keen 
 attorney seized the moment to inform him that " Price's 
 whole land was at his disposal." 
 
 " At my disposal ! how so ?" cried Sir Arthur, eagerly ; 
 " it will not be out of lease, I believe, these ten years ; I '11 
 look into the rent-roll again, perhaps I am mistaken." 
 
 " You are mistaken, my good sir, and you are not mis- 
 taken," said Mr. Case, with a shrewd smile ; " the land will 
 not be out of lease these ten years in one sense, and in 
 another it is out of lease at this time being. To come to 
 the point at once, the lease is db origine null and void. I 
 have detected a capital flaw in the body of it ; I pledge my 
 credit upon it, sir, it can't stand a single term in law or 
 equity." 
 
 The attorney observed that at these words Sir Arthur's 
 eye was fixed with a look of earnest attention. " Now I 
 have him !" said the cunning tempter to himself. 
 
 " Neither in law nor equity ?" repeated Sir Arthur, with 
 apparent incredulity, " are you sure of that, Mr. Case ?" 
 
 " Sure ! As I told you before, sir, I 'd pledge my whole 
 credit upon the thing I 'd stake my existence." 
 
 " That 's something," said Sir Arthur, as if he was pon- 
 dering upon the matter. 
 
 The attorney went on with all the eagerness of a keen 
 
128 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 man, who sees a chance at one stroke of winning a rich 
 friend and of ruining a poor enemy; he explained, with 
 legal volubility and technical amplification, the nature of 
 the mistake in Mr. Price's lease. " It was, sir," said he, 
 " a lease for the life of Peter Price, Susannah his wife, and 
 to the survivor or survivors of then!, or for the full time and 
 term of twenty years, to be computed from the first day of 
 May then next ensuing. Now, sir, this you see is a lease in 
 reversion, which the late Sir Benjamin Somers had not, by 
 his settlement, a right to make. This is a curious mistake, 
 you see, Sir Arthur, and in filling up those printed leases 
 there 's always a good chance for some flaw ; I find it perpe- 
 tually, but I never found a better than this in the whole 
 course of my practice." 
 
 Sir Arthur stood in silence. 
 
 " My dear sir," said the attorney, taking him by the but 
 ton, " you have no scruple of stirring in this business ?" 
 
 " A little," said Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Why, then, that can be done away in a moment ; your 
 name shall not appear in it at all ; you have nothing to do 
 but to make over the lease to me I make all safe to you 
 with my bond. Now being in possession, I come forward 
 in my own proper person. Shall I proceed?" 
 
 "No you have said enough," replied Sir Arthur. 
 
 " The case indeed lies in a nutshell," said the attorney, 
 who had by this time worked himself up to such a pitch of 
 professional enthusiasm, that, intent upon his vision of a 
 law-suit, he totally forgot to observe the impression his 
 words made upon Sir Arthur. 
 
 " There is only one thing we have forgotten all this time," 
 said Sir Arthur. 
 
 "What can that be, sir?" 
 
 *' That we shall ruin this poor man." 
 
 Case was thunderstruck at these words, or rather by the 
 look which accompanied them. He recollected that he had 
 laid himself open before he was sure of Sir Arthur's real 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 129 
 
 character. He softened, and said he should have had cer- 
 tainly more consideration in the case of any but a litigious, 
 pig-headed fellow, as he knew Price to be. 
 
 " If he be litigious," said Sir Arthur, " I shall certainly 
 be glad to get him fairly out of the parish as soon as possi- 
 ble. When you go home, you will be so good, sir, as to send 
 me his lease, that I may satisfy myself, before we stir in 
 this business." 
 
 The attorney, brightening up, prepared to take leave, but 
 he would not persuade himself to take his departure with- 
 out making one push at Sir Arthur about the agency. 
 
 " I will not trouble you, Sir Arthur, with this lease of 
 Price's," said he; "I'll leave it with your agent. Whom 
 shall I apply to ?" 
 
 " To myself, sir, if you please," replied Sir Arthur. 
 
 The courtiers of Louis the XlVth could not have looked 
 more astounded than our attorney, when they received from 
 their monarch a similar answer. It was this unexpected 
 reply of Sir Arthur's which had deranged the temper of 
 Mr. Case, which had caused his wig to stand so crooked 
 upon his forehead, and which rendered him impenetrably 
 silent to his inquisitive daughter Barbara. After walking 
 up and down his room, conversing with himself for some 
 time, he concluded that the agency must be given to some- 
 body, when Sir Arthur should go to attend his duty in Par- 
 liament ; that the agency, even for the winter season, was 
 not a thing to be neglected, and that, if he managed well, 
 he might yet secure it for himself. He had often found that 
 small timely presents worked wonderfully upon his own 
 mind, and he judged of others by himself. The tenants had 
 been in the reluctant but constant practice of making him 
 continual petty offerings, and he resolved to try the same 
 course with Sir Arthur, whose resolution to be his own 
 agent he thought argued a close, saving, avaricious disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 He had heard the housekeeper at the Abbey inquiring, 
 9 
 
130 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 as he passed through the servants, whether there was any 
 lamb to be gotten. She said that Sir Arthur was remarka- 
 bly fond of lamb, and that she wished she could get a quar- 
 ter for him. 
 
 Immediately he sallied into his kitchen, as soon as the 
 idea struck him, and asked a shepherd who was waiting 
 there, whether he knew of a nice fat lamb to be had any- 
 where in the neighbourhood. 
 
 " I know of one," cried Barbara ; " Susan Price has a pet 
 lamb, that 's as fat as fat can be." 
 
 The attorney eagerly caught at these words, and speedily 
 devised a scheme for obtaining Susan's lamb for nothing. 
 
 It would be something Strange if an attorney of his talents 
 and standing was not an over-match for Simple Susan. He 
 prowled forth in search of his prey ; he found Susan pack- 
 ing up her father's little wardrobe, and when she looked up 
 as she knelt, he saw that she had been in tears. 
 
 " How is your mother to-day, Susan ?" 
 
 "Worse, sir my father goes to-morrow." 
 
 "That's a pity." 
 
 " It can't be helped," said Susan, with a sigh. 
 
 " It can't be helped how do you know that?" said he. 
 
 " Sir, dear sir !" cried she, looking up at him, and a sud- 
 den ray of hope beamed in her ingenuous countenance. 
 
 " And if you could help it, Susan ?" 
 
 Susan clasped her hands in silence, more expressive than 
 words. 
 
 " You can help it, Susan." 
 
 She started up in ecstasy. 
 
 " What would you give now to have your father at home 
 for a whole week longer ?" 
 
 " Anything ! but I have nothing." 
 
 " Yes, but you have a lamb," said the hard-hearted at- 
 torney. 
 
 " My poor little lamb," said Susan ; " but what good can 
 that do?" 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 131 
 
 " "What good can any lamb do ? Is not lamb good to eat? 
 Why do you look so pale, girl?. Are not sheep killed every 
 day, and do n't you eat mutton ? Is your lamb better than 
 anybody else's, think you ?" 
 
 " I do n't know, but I love it better." 
 
 " More fool you/' 
 
 " It feeds out of my hand ; it follows me about ; I have 
 always taken care of it ; my mother gave it to me." 
 
 " Well, say no more about it, then ; if you love your lamb 
 better than your father and your mother both, keep it, and 
 good-morning to you." 
 
 " Stay, oh, stay !" cried Susan, catching the skirt of his 
 coat with an eager trembling hand ; " a whole week, did you 
 say ? My mother may get better in that time. No, I do 
 not love my lamb half so well." The struggle of her mind 
 ceased, and with a placid countenance and calm voice, 
 " Take the lamb," said she. 
 
 " Where is it ?" said the attorney. 
 
 " Grazing in the meadow, by the river side." 
 
 " It must be brought up before night-fall for the butcher, 
 remember." 
 
 " I shall not forget it," said Susan, steadily. But, as soon 
 as her persecutor turned his back and quitted the house, she 
 sat down and hid her face in her hands. She was soon 
 roused by the sound of her mother's feeble voice, who was 
 calling Susan from the inner room, where she lay. Susan 
 went in, but did not undraw the curtain as she stood beside 
 the bed. 
 
 " Are you there, love? Undraw the curtain, that I may 
 see you, and tell me I thought I heard some strange voice 
 just now talking to my child. Something's amiss, Susan," 
 said her mother, raising herself as well as she was able in 
 the bed, to examine her daughter's countenance. 
 
 " Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother," said 
 Susan, stooping to kiss her, " would you think it amiss, 
 if my father was to stay with us a week longer ?" 
 
132 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 " Susan ! you do n't say so ?" 
 
 " He is, indeed, a whole week ; but how burning hot your 
 hand is still 1" 
 
 " Are you sure he will stay ? How do you know? Who 
 told you so ? Tell me all quick." 
 
 " Attorney Case told me so ; he can get him a week's 
 longer leave of absence, and he has promised he will." 
 
 " God bless him for it for ever and ever !" said the poor 
 woman, joining her hands. " May the blessing of Heaven 
 be with him 1" 
 
 Susan closed the curtains, and was silent : she could not 
 say Amen. 
 
 She was called out of the room at this moment, for a mes- 
 senger was come from the Abbey for the bread bills. It 
 was she who always made out the bills, for though she had 
 not had a great number of lessons from the writing-master, 
 she had taken so much pains to learn, that she could write 
 a very neat legible hand, and she found this very useful ; 
 she was not, to be sure, particularly inclined to draw out a 
 long bill at this instant, but business must be done. She 
 set to work, ruled her lines for the pounds, shillings, and 
 pence, made out the bill for the Abbey, and despatched the 
 impatient messenger ; then she resolved to make out all the 
 bills for the neighbours, who had many of them taken a few 
 loaves and rolls of her baking. " I had better get all my 
 business finished," said she to herself, " before I go down 
 to the meadow to take leave of my poor lamb." This was 
 sooner said than done ; for she found that she had a great 
 number of bills to write, and the slate on which she had 
 entered the account was not immediately to be found, and 
 when it was found the figures were almost rubbed out ; Bar- 
 bara had sat down upon it ; Susan pored over the number 
 of loaves, and the names of the persons who took them, and 
 she wrote and cast up sums, and corrected and re-corrected 
 them, till her head grew quite puzzled. 
 
 The table was covered with little square bits of paper, on 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 133 
 
 which she had been writing bills over and over again, whec 
 her father came in with a bill in his hand. 
 
 " How 's this, Susan ?" said he ; " how can ye be so care- 
 less, child ? What is your head running upon ? Here, look 
 at the bill you were sending up to the Abbey ! I met the 
 messenger, and luckily asked to see how much it was. Look 
 at it." 
 
 Susan looked and blushed ; it was written, " Sir Arthur 
 Somers to John Price, debtor, six dozen lambs, so much." 
 She altered it, and returned it to her father ; but he had 
 taken up some of the papers which lay on the table. " What 
 are all these, child 1" 
 
 " Some of them are wrong, and I 've written them out 
 again." said Susan. 
 
 " Some of them ! all of them, I think, seem to be wrong, 
 if I can read," said her father, rather angrily; and he 
 pointed out to her sundry strange mistakes. 
 
 Her head indeed had been running upon her poor lamb. 
 She corrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and 
 bore to be blamed with so much good humour, that her 
 father at last said, that it was impossible ever to scold Susan 
 without being in the wrong at the last. 
 
 As soon as all was set right, he took the bills, and said 
 he would go round to the neighbours, and collect the money 
 himself, for that he should be very proud to have it to say 
 to them, that it was all earned by his own little daughter. 
 
 Susan resolved to keep the pleasure of telling him of his 
 week's reprieve till he should come home to sup, as he had 
 promised to do in her mother's room. She was not sorry to 
 hear him sigh as he passed the knapsack, which she had 
 been packing up for his journey. 
 
 " How delighted he will be when he hears the good news I" 
 said she to herself; " but I know he will be a little sorry 
 too for my poor lamb." 
 
 " As she had now settled all her business, she thought 
 she could have time to go down to the meadow by the river- 
 
134 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 side to see her favourite; but just as she had tied on her 
 straw-hat, the village clock struck four, and this was the 
 hour at which she always went to fetch her little brothers 
 home from a dame-school near the village. She knew that 
 they would be disappointed if she was later than usual, and 
 she did not like to keep them waiting, because they were 
 very patient good boys ; so she put off the visit to her lamb, 
 and went immediately for her brothers. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Ev'n in the spring and playtime of the year, 
 That calls th' unwonted villager abroad, 
 With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
 To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, 
 To prink their heads with daisies." COWPER. 
 
 THE dame-school, which was about a mile from the ham- 
 let, was not a splendid mansion, but it was reverenced as 
 much by the young race of village-scholars as if it had been 
 the most stately edifice in the land ; it was a low-roofed, 
 long thatched tenement, sheltered by a few reverent oaks, 
 under which many generations of hopeful children had 
 in their turn gambolled. The close shaven green, which 
 sloped down from the hatch-door of the school-room, was 
 paled round with a rude paling, which, though decayed in 
 some parts by time, was not in any place broken by violence. 
 The place bespoke order and peace. The dame who go- 
 verned here was well obeyed, because she was just ; and 
 well beloved, because she was ever glad to give well-earned 
 praise and pleasure to her little subjects. 
 
 Susan had once been under her gentle dominion, and had 
 been deservedly her favourite scholar ; the dame often cited 
 her as the best example to the succeeding tribe of emulous 
 youngsters. 
 
SIMPLE SU8AN. 185 
 
 Susan had scarcely opened the wicket which separated 
 the green before the school-room door from the lane, when 
 she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the 
 little troop issuing from the hatchway, and spreading over 
 the green. 
 
 " Oh, there 's our Susan !" cried her two little brothers, 
 running, leaping, and bounding up to her ; and many of the 
 other rosy girls and boys crowded round her to talk of their 
 plays, for Susan was easily interested in all that made others 
 happy ; but she could not make them comprehend, that, if 
 they all spoke at once, it was not possible that she could 
 hear what was said. The voices were still raised one above 
 another, all eager to establish some important observation 
 about nine-pins, or marbles, or tops, or bows and arrows, 
 when suddenly music was heard, unusual music, and the 
 crowd was silenced. The music seemed to be near the spot 
 where the children were standing, and they looked round tc 
 see whence it could come. 
 
 Susan pointed to a great oak-tree, and they beheld, seated 
 under its shade, an old man playing upon his harp. 
 
 The children all approached at first timidly, for the 
 sounds were solemn ; but as the harper heard their little 
 footsteps coming towards him, he changed his hand, and 
 played one of his most lively tunes. The circle closed, and 
 pressed nearer and nearer to him ; some who were in the 
 foremost row whispered to each other : " He 's blind ! What 
 a pity !" and " He looks very poor ; what a ragged coat he 
 wears !" said others. " He must be very old, for all his 
 hair is white, and he must have travelled a great way, for 
 his shoes are quite worn out," observed another. 
 
 All these remarks were made while he was tuning hia 
 harp, for when he once more began to play, not a word was 
 uttered. He seemed pleased by their simple exclamations 
 of wonder and delight, and eager to amuse his young audi- 
 ence, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit 
 their several humours. 
 
136 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 Susan's voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of 
 gentleness and good-nature, caught his ear the moment she 
 spoke ; he turned his face eagerly to the place where she 
 stood, and it was observed, that whenever she said that she 
 liked any tune particularly, he played it over again. 
 
 " I am blind," said the old man, " and cannot see your 
 faces, but I know you all asunder by your voices, and I can 
 guess pretty well at all your humours and characters by 
 your voices." 
 
 " Can you so, indeed ?" cried Susan's little brother Wil- 
 liam, who had stationed himself between the old man's 
 knees, " then you heard my sister Susan speak just now. 
 Can you tell us what sort of a person she is ?" 
 
 " That I can, I think, without being a conjurer," said the 
 old man, lifting the boy up on his knee ; " your sister Susan 
 is good-natured." 
 
 The boy clapped his hands. 
 
 " And good-tempered." 
 
 " Right," said little William, with a louder clap of ap- 
 plause. 
 
 " And very fond of the little boy who sits upon my knee." 
 
 " right ! right ! quite right 1" exclaimed the child, and 
 " Quite right !" echoed on all sides. 
 
 " But how came you to know so much, when you are 
 blind ?" said William, examining the old man attentively. 
 
 " Hush," said John, who was a year older than his bro- 
 ther, and very sage, "you should not put him in mind of 
 his being blind." 
 
 " Though I am blind," said the harper, " I can hear, you 
 know, and I heard from your sister herself all that I told 
 you of her, that she was good-tempered, and good-natured, 
 and fond of you." 
 
 "Oh, that's wrong you did not hear all that from her- 
 self, I'm sure," said John, "for nobody ever hears her 
 praising herself." 
 
 " Did not I hear her tell you, when you first came round 
 
PIMPLE SUSAN. 137 
 
 me, that she was in a great hurry to go homo, but that she 
 would stay a little while since you wished it so much ? 
 was not that good-natured ? And when you said you did 
 not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, 
 but said, ' Then play William's first, if you please.' Waa 
 not that good-tempered ?" 
 
 "Oh," interrupted William, "it's all true; but how did 
 you find out that she was fond of me ?" 
 
 " That is such a difficult question," said the harper, " that 
 I must take time to consider." He tuned his harp as he 
 pondered, or seemed to ponder ; and at this instant two boys, 
 who had been searching for birds-nests in the hedges, and 
 who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up 
 and pushing their way through the circle, one of them 
 exclaimed, 
 
 "What's going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? 
 A blind harper ; well, play us a tune, if you can play ever 
 agood one playme let's see, what shall he play,Bob?" 
 added he, turning to his companion. " Bumper Squire 
 Jones." 
 
 The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with 
 the peremptory mariner of the request, played, as he was 
 desired, " Bumper Squire Jones ;" and several other tunea 
 were afterward bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical 
 voice. 
 
 The little children shrunk back in timid silence, and eyed 
 the great brutal boy with dislike. 
 
 This boy was the son of Attorney Case, and as his father 
 had neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as 
 he grew up it became insufferable : all who were younger 
 and weaker than himself dreaded his approach, and detested 
 him as a tyrant. 
 
 When the old harper was so tired that he could play no 
 more, a lad, who usually carried his harp for him, and who 
 was within call, came up, and held his master's hat to the 
 company, saying, " Will you be pleased to remember us ?" 
 
138 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 The children readily produced their halfpence, and thought 
 their wealth well bestowed upon this poor good-natured 
 man, who had taken so much pains to entertain them, better 
 even than upon the gingerbread-woman, whose stall they 
 loved to frequent. The hat was held some time to the attor- 
 ney's son before he chose to see it ; at last he put his hand 
 surlily into his waistcoat-pocket, and pulled out a shilling ; 
 there were sixpenny-worth of halfpence in the hat. " I '11 
 take these halfpence," said he, " and here 's a shilling for 
 you." 
 
 " Bless you, sir !" said the lad ; but as he took the shil- 
 ling, which the young gentleman had slily put into the 
 blind man's hand, he saw that it was not worth one far- 
 thing. 
 
 " I am afraid it is not good, sir," said the lad, whose busi- 
 ness it was to examine the money for his master. 
 
 " I am afraid, then, you '11 get no other," said young Case, 
 with an insulting laugh. 
 
 " It will never do, sir," persisted the lad ; " look at it 
 yourself, the edges are all yellow ; you can see the copper 
 through it quite plain ; sir, nobody will take it from us." 
 
 " That 's your affair," said the brutal boy, pushing away 
 his hand ; " you may pass it, you know, as well as I do, if 
 you look sharp you have taken it from me, and I shan't 
 take it back again, I promise you." 
 
 A whisper of " That 's very unjust " was heard. The little 
 assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer 
 suppress their indignation. 
 
 " Who saye it 's unjust ?" cried the tyrant, sternly, looking 
 down upon his judges. 
 
 Susan's little brothers hart held her gown fast to prevent 
 her from moving at the becionipg of this contest, and she 
 was now so much interested to ee the end of it, that she 
 fitood still without making anv resistance 
 
 "Is any one here among yoursebos a iuuge of silver?" 
 aid the old man. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 139 
 
 " Yes, here 's the butcher's boy," said the attorney's son ; 
 " shew it to him." 
 
 He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peace- 
 able disposition. 
 
 Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judg- 
 ment against him ; however, after some moments' hesitation, 
 and after turning the shilling round several times, he pro- 
 nounced, "that, as far as his judgment went, but he did not 
 pretend to be downright certain sure of it, the shilling was 
 not over and above good." Then turning to Susan to screen 
 himself from manifest danger, for the attorney's son looked 
 upon him with a vengeful mien, " But here 's Susan here, 
 who understands silver a great deal better than I do ; she 
 takes a power of it for bread, you know." 
 
 " I '11 leave it to her," said the old harper ; " if she says 
 the shilling is good, keep it, Jack." 
 
 The shilling was handed to Susan, who, though she had 
 with becoming modesty forborne all interference, did not 
 hesitate when she was called upon to speak the truth : " I 
 think that this shilling is a bad one," said she, and the 
 gentle but firm tone in which she pronounced the words for 
 a moment awed and silenced the angry and brutal boy. 
 
 " There 's another, then," cried he, " I have sixpences and 
 shillings too in plenty, thank my stars." 
 
 Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, 
 and all the other children separated to go to their several 
 homes. 
 
 The old harper called to Susan, and begged that, if she 
 was going towards the village, she would be so kind as to 
 show him the way. 
 
 " His lad took up his harp, and little William took the 
 old man by the hand : " I '11 lead him, I can lead him," said 
 he ; and John ran on before them to gather king-cups in tho 
 meadow. 
 
 There was a small rivulet which they had to cross, and 
 as the plank which served for a bridge over it was rather 
 
140 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 narrow, Susan was afraid to trust the old blind man to his 
 little conductor*; she therefore went on the tottering plank 
 first herself, and then led the old harper carefully over : they 
 were now come to a gate, which opened upon the high-road 
 to the village. 
 
 " There is the high road straight before you," said Susan 
 to the lad, who was carrying his master's harp, " you can't 
 miss it ; now I must bid you a good-evening, for I 'm in a 
 great hurry to get home, and must go the short way across 
 the fields here, which would not be so pleasant for you, 
 because of the stiles. Good-bye." 
 
 The old harper thanked her, and went along the high-road, 
 while she and her brothers tripped on as fast as they could 
 by the short way across the fields. 
 
 " Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us," said 
 Susan ; " you know she said she would call at six, and by 
 the length of our shadows I 'm sure it is late." 
 
 "When they came to their own cottage door, they heard 
 many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies 
 standing in the kitchen. 
 
 " Come in, Susan, we thought you had quite forsaken us," 
 said Miss Somers to Susan, who advanced timidly. " I fancy 
 you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening ; 
 but you need not blush so much about the matter, there is 
 no great harm done, we have only been here about five 
 minutes, and we have been well employed in admiring your 
 neat garden and your orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, 
 who keep these things in such nice order?" continued Miss 
 Somers, looking round the kitehen. 
 
 Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, 
 and answered, " Yes, ma'am, it is my sister Susan that keeps 
 everything neat, and she always comes to school for us too, 
 which was what caused her to be so late." " Because as 
 how," continued John, " she was loath to refuse us hearing 
 a blind man play on the harp it was we kept her, and we 
 hopes, ma'am, as you are as you seem so good, you won't 
 take it amiss." 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 141 
 
 Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate sim- 
 plicity with which Susan's little brothers undertook her 
 defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, dis- 
 posed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed 
 so well united. 
 
 They took Susan along with them through the village ; 
 many came to their doors, and far from envying, all secretly 
 wished Susan well as she passed. 
 
 " I fancy we shall find what we want here," said Miss 
 Somers, stopping before a shop, where unfolded sheets of 
 pins and glass buttons glistened in the window, and where 
 rolls of many-coloured ribands appeared ranged in tempting 
 order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at 
 the back of the counter well furnished with glossy tiers of 
 stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes. 
 
 " Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown," said Miss 
 Somers ; " you set an example of industry and good con- 
 duct, of which we wish to take public notice, for the benefit 
 of others." 
 
 The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan's friend Rose, 
 looked much satisfied by this speech ; and, as if a compli- 
 ment had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, 
 and then with alertness, which a London linen-draper might 
 have admired, produced piece after piece of his best goods 
 to his young customer unrolled, unfolded, held the bright 
 stuffs and callendered calicoes in various lights. Now 
 stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down 
 in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a 
 giant's arm : now dived into some hidden recess beneath 
 the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh 
 temptations. 
 
 Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the 
 spectators. She was thinking much of her lamb, and more 
 of her father. 
 
 Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand, and 
 Lad bid her pay for her own gown ; but Susan, as she looked 
 
142 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 at the guinea, thought it was a great deal of money to lay 
 out upon herself, and she wished, but did not know how to 
 ask, that she m^ht keep it for a better purpose. 
 
 Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, 
 and incapable of reading the countenances of those on 
 whom they bestow their bounty. Miss Somers and her sis- 
 ter were not of this roughly charitable class. 
 
 " She does not like any of these things," whispered Miss 
 Somers to he;r sister. 
 
 Her sister observed that Susan looked as if her thoughts 
 were far distant from gowns. 
 
 " If you do n't fancy any of these things," said the civil 
 shopkeeper to Susan, " we shall have a new assortment of 
 calicoes for the spring season soon from town." 
 
 " Oh," interrupted Susan, with a smile and a blush, 
 " these are all pretty, and too good for me, but " 
 
 " But what, Susan ?" said Miss Somers. " Tell us what 
 is passing in your little mind." 
 
 Susan hesitated. 
 
 " Well then, we will not press you ; you are scarcely 
 acquainted with us yet ; when you are, you will not be 
 afraid, I hope, to speak your mind. Put this shining yellow 
 counter," continued she, pointing to the guinea, " in your 
 pocket, and make what use of it you please. From what 
 we know, and from what we have heard of you, we are per- 
 suaded that you will make a good use of it." 
 
 "I think, madam," said the master of the shop, with a 
 shrewd good-natured look, " I could give a pretty good 
 guess myself what will become of that guinea but I say 
 nothing." 
 
 " No, that is right," said Miss Somers ; "we leave Susan 
 entirely at liberty, and now we will not detain her any 
 longer. Good-night, Susan, we shall soon come again to 
 your neat cottage." 
 
 Susan courtesied with an expressive look of gratitude, 
 and with a modest frankness in her countenance, which 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 143 
 
 seemed to say, " I would tell you and welcome what I want 
 to do with the guinea but I am not used to speak before 
 so many people ; when you come to our cottage again, you 
 shall know all." 
 
 "When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the 
 obliging shopkeeper, who was folding up all the things he 
 had opened. " You have had a great deal of trouble with 
 us, sir," said she ; " and since Susan will not choose a gown 
 for herself, I must." She selected the prettiest ; and, while 
 the man was rolling it in paper, she asked him several ques- 
 tions about Susan and her family, which he was delighted 
 to answer, because he had now an opportunity of saying as 
 much as he wished in her praise. 
 
 " No later back, ma'am, than last May morning," said 
 he, " as my daughter Rose was telling us, Susan did a turn, 
 in her quiet way, by her mother, that would not displease 
 you if you were to hear it. She was to have been Queen of 
 the May, ladies, which, in our little village, among the 
 younger tribe, is a thing, ladies, that is thought of a good 
 deal ; but Susan's mother was ill, and Susan, after sitting 
 up with her all night, would not leave her in the morning, 
 even when they brought the crown to her. She put the 
 crown upon my daughter Rose's head with her own hands, 
 and to be sure Rose loves her as well as if she was her own 
 sister ; but I do n't speak from partiality, for I am no rela- 
 tion whatever to the Prices, only a well-wisher, as every one, 
 I believe, who knows them, is I'll send the parcel up to 
 the Abbey, shall I, ma'am ?" 
 
 " If you please," said Miss Somers, " and let us know as 
 soon as you receive your new things from town. You will, 
 I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers," added she, 
 with a smile ; "for those who wish well to their neighbours 
 surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves." 
 
 A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and 
 may dispose people to live in peace and happiness A few 
 words may set them at variance, and may lead to misery 
 
144 SIMPLE .SUSAN. 
 
 and lawsuits. Attorney Case and Miss Somers were both 
 equally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly 
 consistent with their principles. 
 
 But now to return to Susan. She put the bright guinea 
 carefully into the glove, with the twelve shillings which she 
 had received from her companions on May-day. Besides 
 this treasure, she calculated that the amount of the bills for 
 bread could not be less than eight or nine-and-thirty shil- 
 lings ; and as her father was now sure of a week's reprieve, 
 she had great hopes that, by some means or other, it would 
 be possible to make up the whole sum necessary to pay for 
 a substitute. " If that could be done," said she to herself, 
 " how happy would my mother be ! She would be quite 
 stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better since 
 morning, since I told her that father would stay a week 
 longer. Ah ! but she would not have blessed Attorney Case 
 though, if she had known about my poor Daisy !" 
 
 Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the water- 
 side, resolved to go by herself and take leave of her inno- 
 cent favourite. But she did not pass by unperceived ; her 
 little brothers were watching for her return, and as soon as 
 they saw her they ran after her, and overtook her as she 
 reached the meadow. 
 
 " What did that good lady want with you ?" cried Wil- 
 liam ; but looking up in his sister's face, he saw tears in her 
 eyes, and he was silent, and walked on quietly. * 
 
 Susan saw her lamb by the water-side. 
 
 " Who are those two men ?" said William. " What are 
 they going to do with Daisy?" 
 
 The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The 
 butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat. 
 
 Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow ; her little 
 brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he 
 was going to do any harm to the lamb. 
 
 The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, " It 
 Is not your sister's lamb any longer, it 'a mine mine to all 
 intents and purposes." 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 145 
 
 " Tours !" cried the children, with terror ; " and will you 
 kill it?" 
 
 " That 's the butcher's business." 
 
 The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations j 
 they pushed away the butcher's hand, they threw their arms 
 round the neck of the lamb, they kissed its forehead it 
 bleated. 
 
 " It will not bleat to-morrow," said William, and he wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyea 
 with the corner of his blue apron. 
 
 The attorney stood unmoved ; he pulled up the head of 
 the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clo- 
 ver. " I have no time to waste," said he ; " butcher, you '11 
 account with me. If it 's fat, the sooner the better. I 've 
 no more to say." And he walked off, deaf to the prayers 
 of the poor children. 
 
 As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from 
 the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and 
 stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat 
 out of her hand for the last time. Poor Daisy licked her 
 well-known hand. 
 
 " Now let us go," said Susan. 
 
 " I '11 wait as long as you please," said the butcher. 
 
 Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without 
 looking again at her lamb. 
 
 Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, 
 for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yel- 
 low crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal. 
 
 As it followed the boys through the village, the children 
 collected as they passed, and the butcher's own son was 
 among the number. Susan's steadiness about the bad shil- 
 ling was full in this boy's memory ; it had saved him a 
 beating ; he went directly to his father to beg the life of 
 Susan's lamb. 
 
 "I was thinking about it, boy, myself," said the butcher; 
 10 
 
146 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 " it 's a sin to kill a pet lamb, I 'm thinking any way, it 's 
 what I 'm not used to, and do n't fancy doing, and I '11 go 
 and say as much to Attorney Case Lut he 's a hard man ; 
 there 's but one way to deal with him, and that 's the way 
 I must take, though so be I shall be the loser thereby : but 
 we '11 say nothing to the boys, for fear it might be the thing 
 would not take, and then it would be worse again to poor 
 Susan, who is a good girl, and always was, as well she may, 
 being of a good breed, and well reared from the first. 
 
 " Come, lads, do n't keep a crowd and a scandal about my 
 door," continued he aloud to the children ; " turn the lamb 
 in here, John, in the paddock, for to-night, and go your 
 ways home." 
 
 The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher 
 went to the attorney. " Seeing that all you want is a good, 
 fat, tender lamb, for a present for Sir Arthur, as you told 
 me," said the butcher ; " I could let you have what 's as 
 good, and better for your purpose." 
 
 "Better if it's better, I'm ready to hear reason." 
 
 The butcher had a choice, tender lamb, he said, fit to eat 
 the next day ; and as Mr. Case was impatient to make his 
 offering to Sir Arthur, he accepted the butcher's proposal, 
 though with such seeming reluctance, that he actually 
 squeezed out of him, before he would complete the bargain, 
 a bribe of a fine sweetbread. 
 
 In the mean time, Susan's brother ran home to tell her 
 that her lamb was put into the paddock for the night ; this 
 was all they knew, and even this was some comfort to her. 
 Rose, her good friend, was with her, and she had, before 
 her, the pleasure of telling her father of his week's reprieve ; 
 hor mother was better, and even said she was determined 
 to sit up to supper in her wicker arm-chair. 
 
 Susan was getting things ready for supper, when little 
 William, who was standing at the house-door, watching in 
 the dusk for his father's return, suddenly exclaimed, " Su- 
 san ! if here is not our old man 1" 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 147 
 
 " Yes," said the old harper, " I have found my way to 
 you ; the neighbours were kind enough to show me where- 
 abouts you lived ; for though I did n't know your name, they 
 guessed who I meant by what I said of you all." 
 
 Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted 
 to hear her speak again. 
 
 " If it would not be too bold," said he, " I 'm a stranger 
 in this part of the country, and come from afar off; my boy 
 has got a bed for himself here in the village, but I have no 
 place could you be so charitable as to give an old blind 
 man a night's lodging ?" 
 
 Susan said she would step and ask her mother, and she 
 soon returned with an answer, that he was heartily welcome, 
 if he could sleep upon the children's bed, which was but 
 small. 
 
 The old man thankfully entered the hospitable cottage 
 he struck his head against the low roof as he stepped over 
 the door-sill. 
 
 " Many roofs that are twice as high are not half so good," 
 said he. 
 
 Of this he had just had experience at the house of Attor- 
 ney Case, where he had asked, but had been roughly refused 
 all assistance by Miss Barbara, who was, according to her 
 usual custom, standing, staring at the hall-door. 
 
 The old man's harp was set down in Farmer Price's 
 kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before 
 they went to bed ; their mother giving them leave to sit up 
 to supper with their father. 
 
 He came home with a sorrowful countenance ; but how 
 soon did it brighten, when Susan, with a smile, said to him, 
 " Father, we 've good news for you ! good news for us all ! 
 You have a whole week longer to stay with us, and per- 
 haps," continued she, putting her little purse into his hands, 
 "perhaps, with what's here, and the bread-bills, and what 
 may somehow be got together befoi-e a week 's at an end, we 
 may make up the nine guineas for the substitute, as they 
 
148 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 call him ; who knows, dear mother, but we may keep him 
 with us for ever ?" As she spoke she throw her arms round 
 her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking, 
 for his heart was full. He was some little time before he 
 couJd perfectly believe that what he heard was true : but 
 the revived smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little 
 hoys, and the satisfaction that shone in Susan's countenance, 
 convinced him that he was not in a dream. 
 
 As they sat down to supper, the old harper was mad 
 welcome to his share of the cheerful, though fruga, 
 meal. 
 
 Susan's father, as soon as supper was finished, even before 
 he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the 
 little purse which Susan had given to him ; he was sur- 
 prised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more 
 wh^n he came to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright 
 golden guinea. 
 
 " How did you come by all this money ?" said he. 
 
 " Honestly and handsomely, that I 'm sure of beforehand," 
 said her proud mother ; " but how I can't make out, except 
 by the baking. Hey, Susan, is this your first baking ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no," said her father, " I have her first baking 
 snug here, besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, 
 to do your mother's heart good, Susan. Here 's twenty-nine 
 shillings ; and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes 
 to ten more. What think you of this, wife ? Have we not 
 a right to be proud of our Susan ? Why," continued he, 
 turning to the harper, " I ask your pardon for speaking out 
 so free before strangers in praise of my own, which I know 
 is not mannerly ; but the truth is the fittest thing to be spo- 
 ken, as I think, at all times, therefore here 's youf good 
 health, Susan : why, by-and-bye she '11 be worth her weight 
 in gold in silver at least. But tell us, child, how came 
 you by all these riches ? and how comes it that I do n't go 
 to-morrow ? All this happy news makes me so gay myself, 
 I 'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly. But speak 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 149 
 
 n, child first bringing us a bottle of the good mead you 
 made last night from your own honey." 
 
 Susan did not much like to tell the history of her Guinea- 
 hen of the gown and of her poor lamb part of this 
 would seem as if she was vaunting of her own generosity, 
 and part of it she did not like to recollect. But her mother 
 pressed to know the whole, and she related it as simply as 
 she could. When she came to the story of the lamb, her 
 voice faltered, and everybody present was touched. The 
 old harper sighed once, and cleared his throat several times 
 he then asked for his harp ; and, after tuning it for a con- 
 siderable time, he recollected, for he had often fits of 
 absence, that he sent for it to play the tune he had promised 
 to the boys. 
 
 This harper came from a great distance, from the moun- 
 tains of Wales, to contend with several other competitors 
 for a prize, which had been advertised by a a musical soci- 
 ety about a year before this time. There was to be a splen- 
 did ball given upon the occasion at Shrewsbury, which was 
 about five miles from our village. The prize was ten gui- 
 neas for the best performer on the harp, and the prize was 
 now to be decided in a few days. 
 
 All this intelligence Barbara had long since gained from 
 her maid, who often went to visit in the town of Shrews- 
 bury, and she had long had her imagination inflamed with 
 the idea of this splendid music-meeting and ball. Often 
 had she sighed to be there, and often had she revolved in 
 her mind schemes for introducing herself to some genteel 
 neighbours, who might take her to the ball in their carriage. 
 How rejoiced, how triumphant was she, when this very eve- 
 ning, just about the time when the butcher was bargaining 
 with her father about Susan's lamb, a livery servant from 
 the Abbey rapped at the door, and left a card of invitation 
 for Mr. and Miss Barbara Case. 
 
 "There," cried Bab, "/and papa are to dine and drink 
 tea at the Abbey to-morrow. Who knows? I dare say, 
 
150 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 when they see that I am not a vulgar-looking person, and 
 all that and if I go cunningly to work with Miss Somers 
 as I shall to be sure, I dare say she'll take me to the 
 ball with her." 
 
 "To be sure," said the maid, "it's the least one may 
 expect from a lady that demeans herself to visit Susan Price, 
 and goes about a shopping for her ; the least she can do for 
 you is to take you in her carriage, which costs nothing, but 
 is just a common civility, to a ball." 
 
 " Then pray, Betty," continued Miss Barbara, " do n't 
 forget to-morrow, the first thing you do, to send off to 
 Shrewsbury for my new bonnet. I must have it to dine in 
 at the Abbey, or the ladies will think nothing of me ; and, 
 Betty, remember the mantuamaker too. I must see and 
 coax papa to buy me a new gown against the ball. I can 
 see, you know, something of the fashions to-morrow at the 
 Abbey. I shall look the ladies well over, I promise you. And, 
 Betty, I have thought of the most charming present for 
 Miss Somers : as papa says, it 's good never to go empty- 
 handed to a great house ; I '11 make Miss Somers, who is 
 fond, as her maid told you, of such things I '11 make Misa 
 Somers a present of that Guinea-hen of Susan's ; it 's of no 
 use to me, so do you carry it up early in the morning to the 
 Abbey, with my compliments. That 's the thing." 
 
 In full confidence that her present, and her bonnet, would 
 operate effectually in her favour, Miss Barbara paid her 
 first visit to the Abbey. She expected to see wonders ; she 
 was dressed in all the finery which she had heard from her 
 maid, who had heard from the 'prentice of a Shrewsbury 
 milliner, was the thing in London ; and she was much sur- 
 prised and disappointed when she was shown into the room 
 where the Misses Somers, and the ladies of the Abbey, were 
 sitting, to see that they did not, in any one part of their 
 dress, agree with the picture her imagination had formed 
 of fashionable ladies. She was embarrassed when she saw 
 books, and work, and drawings upon the table ; and she 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 151. 
 
 began to think that some affront was meant to her, because 
 the company did not sit with their hands before them. When 
 Miss Somers endeavoured to find out conversation that 
 would interest her, and spoke of walks, and flowers, and 
 gardening, of which she was herself fond, Miss Barbara still 
 thought herself undervalued, and soon contrived to expose 
 her ignorance most completely, by talking of things which 
 she did not understand. 
 
 Those who never attempt to appear what they are not 
 those who do not in their manners pretend to anything 
 unsuited to their habits and situation in life, never are iu 
 danger of being laughed at by sensible well-bred people of 
 any rank ; but affectation is the constant and just object of 
 ridicule. 
 
 Miss Barbara Case, with her mistaken airs of gentility, 
 aiming to be thought a woman and a fine lady, while she 
 was in reality a child, and a vulgar attorney's daughter, 
 rendered herself so thoroughly ridiculous, that the good- 
 natured yet discerning spectators were painfully divided 
 between their sense of comic absurdity and a feeling of 
 shame for one who could feel nothing for herself. 
 
 One by one the ladies dropped off Miss Somers went 
 out of the room for a few minutes to alter her dress, as it 
 was the custom of the family, before dinner. She left a 
 portfolio of pretty drawings and good prints for Miss Bar- 
 bara's amusement ; but Miss Barbara's thoughts were so 
 intent upon the harpers' ball that she could not be enter- 
 tained with such trifles. 
 
 How unhappy are those who spend their time in expecta- 
 tion ! They can never enjoy the present. 
 
 While Barbara was contriving means of interesting Miss 
 Somers in her favour, she recollected with surprise that not 
 one word had yet been said of her present of the Guinea- 
 hen. 
 
 Mrs. Betty, in the hurry of her dressing her young lady 
 in the morning, had forgotten it; but it came just while 
 
152 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 Miss Somers was dressing, and the housekeeper came ii l. 
 her mistress's room to announce its arrival. 
 
 " Ma'am," said she, " here 's a beautiful Guinea-hen just 
 come, with Miss Barbara Case's compliments to you." 
 
 Miss Somers knew, by the tone in which the housekeeper 
 delivered this message, that there was something in the 
 business which did not perfectly please her. She made no 
 answer, in expectation that the housekeeper, who was a 
 woman of very open temper, would explain her cause of 
 dissatisfaction. In this she was not mistaken ; the house- 
 keeper came close up to the dressing-table, and continued, 
 " I never like to speak till I 'm sure, ma'am, and I 'm not 
 quite sure, to say certain, in this case, ma'am, but still I 
 thu^c it right to tell you, which can't wrong anybody, what 
 came across my mind about this same Guinea-hen, ma'am, 
 and you can inquire into it, and do as you please afterward, 
 ma'am. Some time ago we had fine Guinea-fowls of our 
 own, and I made bold, not thinking, to be sure, that all our 
 own would die away from us, as they have done, to give a 
 fine couple last Christmas to Susan Price, and very fond 
 and pleased she was at the time, and I 'm sure would nevr 
 have parted with the hen with her good-will ; but, if my 
 eyes do n't strangely mistake, this hen that comes from Miss 
 Barbara is the self-same identical Guinea-hen that I gave to 
 Susan. And how Miss Bab came by it, is the thing that 
 puzzles me. If my boy Philip was at home, maybe, as he 'a 
 often at Mrs. Price's (which I don't disapprove), he might 
 know the history of the Guinea-hen. I expect him home 
 this night, and, if you have no objection, I will bift the 
 affair." 
 
 "The shortest way, I should think," said Henrietta, 
 " would be to ask Miss Case herself about it, which I will 
 do this evening." 
 
 "If you please, ma'am," said the housekeeper, coldly, for 
 she knew that Miss Barbara was not famous in the* village 
 for speaking the truth. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 153 
 
 Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell 
 mintrsauce, and as the covers were taken from off the 
 dishes, looked around for lamb but no lamb appeared. 
 He had a dexterous knack of twisting the conversation to 
 his point. 
 
 Sir Arthur was speaking, when they sat down to dinner, 
 of a new carving-knife which he lately had had made for 
 his sister ; the attorney immediately went from carving- 
 knives to poultry, thence to butcher's meat : some joints, he 
 observed, were much more difficult to carve than others ; he 
 never saw a man carve better than the gentleman opposite 
 him, who was the curate of the parish. " But, sir," said 
 the vulgar attorney, " I must make bold to differ with you 
 in one point, and I '11 appeal to Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur, 
 pray, may I ask, when you carve a fore-quarter of lamb, do 
 you, when you raise the shoulder, throw in salt or not ?" 
 
 This well-prepared question was not lost upon Sir Arthur: 
 the attorney was thanked for his intended present, but mor- 
 tified and surprised to hear Sir Arthur say that it was a 
 constant rule of his never to accept of any presents from 
 his neighbours. " If we were to accept of a lamb from a 
 rich neighbour on my estate," said he, " I am afraid we 
 should mortify many of our poor tenants, who can have little 
 to offer, though, perhaps, they may bear us thorough good- 
 will notwithstanding." 
 
 After the ladies left the dining-room, as they were walk- 
 ing up and down the large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair 
 opportunity of imitating her keen father's method of con- 
 versing. One of the ladies observed, that "this hall would 
 be a charming place for music ;" Bab brought in harps, and 
 harpers, and the harpers' ball in a breath. " I know so 
 much about it about the ball, I mean," said she, " because 
 a lady in Shrewsbury, a friend of papa's, offered to take me 
 with her, but papa did not like to give her the trouble of 
 Bending so far for me, though she has a coach of her own." 
 
 Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers as she spoke, 
 
154 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 but she could not read her countenance as distinctly as she 
 wished, because Miss Somers was at this moment letting 
 down the veil of her hat. 
 
 " Shall we walk out before tea ?" said she to her compa- 
 nions. " I have a pretty Guinea-hen to show you." 
 
 Barbara, secretly drawing propitious omens from tho 
 Guinea-hen, followed with a confidential step. 
 
 The pheasantry was well filled with pheasants, peacocks, 
 &c., and Susan's pretty little Guinea-hen appeared well, 
 even in this high company it was much admired. Bar- 
 bara was in glory, but her glory was of short duration. Just 
 as Miss Somers was going to inquire into the Guinea-hen's 
 history, Philip came up, to ask permission to have a bit of 
 sycamore to turn a nutmeg-box for his mother. 
 
 Philip was an ingenious lad, and a good turner for his 
 age ; Sir Arthur had put by a bit of sycamore on purpose 
 for him, and Miss Somers told him where it was to be found. 
 He thanked her ; but in the midst of his bow of thanks, his 
 eye was struck by the sight of the Guinea-hen, and he 
 involuntarily exclaimed, " Susan's Guinea-hen, I declare !" 
 
 "No, it's not Susan's Guinea-hen," said Miss Barbara, 
 colouring^furiously. " It is mine, and I 've made a present 
 of it to Miss Somers." 
 
 At the sound of Bab's voice Philip turned saw her 
 and indignation, unrestrained by the presence of all the 
 amazed spectators, flashed in his countenance. 
 
 " What is the matter, Philip ?" said Miss Somers, in a 
 pacifying tone : but Philip was not inclined to be pacified. 
 
 " Why, Ma'am," said he, " may I speak out ?" and with- 
 out waiting for permission, he spoke out, and gave a full, 
 true, and warm account of Rose's embassy, and of Miss 
 Barbara's cruel and avaricious proceedings. 
 
 Barbara denied, prevaricated, stammered, and at last was 
 overcome with confusion, for which even the most indulgent 
 spectators could scarcely pity her. 
 
 Miss Somers, however, mindful of what was due to h-W 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 155 
 
 guest, was anxious to despatch Philip for his piece of syca- 
 more. 
 
 Bab recovered herself as soon as he was out of sight ; but 
 she further exposed herself by exclaiming, " I 'm sure I 
 wish this pitiful Guinea-hen had never come into my posses- 
 sion. I wish Susan had kept it at home, as she should have 
 done I" 
 
 " Perhaps she will be more careful, now that she has 
 received so strong a lesson," said Miss Somers. " Shall we 
 try her ?" continued she ; " Philip will, I dare say, take the 
 Guinea-hen back to Susan, if we desire it." 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," said Barbara, sullenly ; " I have 
 nothing more to do with it." 
 
 So the Guinea-hen was delivered to Philip, who set off 
 joyfully with his prize, and was soon in sight of Farmer 
 Price's cottage. 
 
 He stopped when he came to the door ; he recollected 
 Rose, and her generous friendship for Susan ; he was deter- 
 mined that she should have the pleasure of restoring the 
 Guinea-hen ; he ran into the village ; all the children who 
 had given up their little purse on May-day were assembled 
 on the play-green ; they were delighted to see the Guinea- 
 hen once more. Philip took his pipe and tabour, and they 
 marched in innocent triumph towards the white-washed cot- 
 tage. 
 
 "Let me come with you let me come with you," said 
 the butcher's boy to Philip. " Stop one minute ! my father 
 has something to say to you." 
 
 He darted into his father's house. The little procession 
 stopped, and in a few minutes the bleating of a lamb was 
 heard. Through a back passage which led into the paddock 
 behind the house they saw the butcher leading a lamb. 
 
 " It is Daisy !" exclaimed Rose. " It 's Daisy I" repeated 
 all her companions. " Susan's lamb ! Susan's lamb !" and 
 there was a universal shout of joy. 
 
 " Well, for my part," said the good butcher, as soon as he 
 
156 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 could be heard, " for my part, I would not be so cruel as 
 Attorney Case for the whole world. These poor brute-beasts 
 do n't know aforehand what 'B going to happen to them ; and 
 as for dying, it's what we must all do sometime or other; 
 but to keep wringing the hearts of the living, that have as 
 much sense as one's self, is what I call cruel ; and is not 
 this what Attorney Case has been doing by poor Susan and 
 her whole family, ever since he took a spite against them ? 
 But, at any rate, here 'a Susan's lamb safe and sound ; I 'd 
 have taken it back sooner, but I was off before day to the 
 fair, and am but just come back ; however, Daisy has been 
 as well off in my paddock as he would have been in the field 
 by the water-side." 
 
 The obliging shopkeeper who showed the pretty calicoes 
 to Susan was now at his door ; and when he saw the lamb, 
 heard that it was Susan's, and learned its history, he said 
 that he would add his mite, and he gave the children some 
 ends of narrow riband, with which Rose decorated her 
 friend's lamb. 
 
 The pipe and tabour now once more began to play, and 
 the procession moved on in joyful order, after giving the 
 humane butcher three cheers three cheers which were 
 better deserved than " loud huzzas " usually are. 
 
 Susan was working in her arbour, with her little deal 
 table before her : when she heard the sound of the music, 
 she put down her work and listened ; she saw the crowd of 
 children coming nearer and nearer : they had closed round 
 Daisy, so that she could not see it, but as they came up to 
 the garden-gate she saw Rose beckon to her. Philip played 
 as loud as he could, that she might not hear, till the proper 
 moment, the bleating of the lamb. 
 
 Susan opened the garden-wicket, and at this signal the 
 crowd divided, and the first thing that Susan saw in the 
 midst of her taller friends was little smiling Mary, with the 
 Guinea-hen in her arms. 
 
 " Come on 1 come on 1" cried Mary, as Susan started with 
 joyful surprise, " you have more to see." 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 157 
 
 At this instant the music paused ; Susan heard the bleat- 
 ing of a lamb, and scarcely daring to believe her senses, 
 ehe pressed eagerly forward, and beheld poor Daisy ! she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " I did not shed one tear when I parted with you, my 
 dear little Daisy I" said she ; " it was for my father and 
 mother ; I would not have parted with you for anything else 
 in the whole world. Thank you, thank you all," added she 
 to her companions, who sympathized in her joy even more 
 than they had sympathized in her sorrow. " Now, if my 
 father was not to go away from us next week, and if my 
 mother was quite stout, I should be the happiest person in 
 the world !" 
 
 As Susan pronounced these words, a voice behind the 
 listening crowd cried, in a brutal tone, " Let us pass, if you 
 please ; you have no right to stop up the public road !" 
 This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning 
 with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey. He 
 saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he passed on ; Bar- 
 bara also saw the Guinea-hen, and turned her head another 
 way, that she might avoid the contemptuous, reproachful 
 looks of those whom she only affected to despise. Even her 
 new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so much 
 admired, was now only serviceable to hide her face, and 
 conceal her mortification. 
 
 " I am glad she saw the Guinea-hen," cried Rose, who 
 now held it in her hands. 
 
 "Yes," said Philip, "she'll not forget May-day in a 
 hurry." 
 
 " Nor I neither, I hope," said Susan, looking round upon 
 her companions with a most affectionate smile ; " I hope, 
 while I live, I shall never forget your goodness to me last 
 May-day. Now I 've my pretty Guinea-hen safe once more, 
 I should think of returning your money." 
 
 " No ! no ! no \" was the general cry. " We do n't want 
 the money keep it, keep it you want it for your father." 
 
158 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 " Well/' said Susan, " I am not too proud to be obliged. 
 I will keep your money for my father. Perhaps some time 
 or other I may be able to earn " 
 
 " Oh," interrupted Philip, " do n't let us talk of earning, 
 don't let us talk to her of money now ; she has not had time 
 hardly to look at poor Daisy and her Guinea-hen. Come, 
 we had best go about our business, and let her have them 
 all to herself. 
 
 The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip's con- 
 siderate advice ; but it was observed that he was the very 
 last to stir from the garden-wicket himself. He staid, first, 
 to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on 
 daisy's head ; then he staid a little longer to let her into the 
 history of the Guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that 
 brought her hen home from the Abbey. 
 
 Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long-lost 
 favourite, while Philip leaned over the wicket prolonging 
 his narration. 
 
 " Now, my pretty Guinea-hen, my naughty Guinea-hen . 
 that flew away from me, you shall never serve me so again 
 I must cut your nice wings, but I won't hurt you." 
 
 " Take care," cried Philip ; " you 'd better, indeed you 'd 
 better let me hold her while you cut her wings." 
 
 When this operation was successfully performed, which 
 it certainly could never have been if Philip had not held the 
 hen for Susan, he recollected that his mother had sent him 
 with a message to Mrs. Price. 
 
 This message led to another quarter of an hour's delay, 
 for he had the whole history of the Guinea-hen to tell over 
 again to Mrs. Price ; and the farmer himself luckily came 
 in while it was going on, so it was but civil to begin it 
 afresh ; and then the farmer was so rejoiced to see his Susan 
 so happy again with her two little favourites, that he de- 
 clared he must see Daisy fed himself; and Philip found that 
 he was wanted to hold the jug full of milk, out of which 
 Farmer Price filled the pan for Daisy happy Daisy ! who 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 159 
 
 lapped at his ease, while Susan caressed him, and thanked 
 her fond father and her pleased mother. 
 
 " But Philip," said Mrs. Price, " I '11 hold the jug you'll 
 be late with your message to your mother ; we '11 not detain 
 you any longer." 
 
 Philip departed, and as he went out of the garden-wicket 
 he looked up, and saw Bab and her maid Betty staring out 
 of the window, as usual ; and on this he immediately turned 
 back to try whether he had shut the gate fast, lest the Gui- 
 nea-hen might stray out, and fall again into the hands of 
 the enemy. 
 
 Miss Barbara in the course of this day had felt conside- 
 rable mortification, but no contrition. She was vexed that 
 her meanness was discovered, but she felt no desire to cure 
 herself of any of her faults. The ball was still uppermost 
 in her vain selfish soul. 
 
 "Well," said she, to her confidant Betty, "you hear how 
 things have turned out ; but if Miss Somers won't think of 
 asking me to go with her, I 've a notion I know who will 
 as papa says, it 's a good thing to have two strings to one's 
 bow." 
 
 Now some officers who were quartered at Shrewsbury had 
 become acquainted with Mr. Case ; they had gotten into 
 some quarrel with a tradesman in the town, and Attorney 
 Case had promised to bring them through the affair, as the 
 man threatened to take the law of them. Upon the faith 
 of this promise, and with the vain hope that by civility they 
 might dispose him to bring in treasonable bill of costs, these 
 officers sometimes invited Mr. Case to the mess ; and one of 
 them, who had lately been married, prevailed upon his bride 
 sometimes to take a little notice of Miss Barbara. It was 
 with this lady that Miss Barbara now hoped to go to the 
 harpers' ball. 
 
 " The officers and Mrs. Strathspey, or more properly Mrs. 
 Strathspey and the officers, are to breakfast here to-morrow, 
 do you know ?" said Bab to Betty. " One of them dined at 
 
160 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 the Abbey to-day, and told papa they 'd all come ; they are 
 going out on a party somewhere into the country, and break- 
 fast here in their way. Pray, Betty, do n't forget that Mrs. 
 Strathspey can't breakfast without honey ; I heard her say 
 BO myself." 
 
 " Then, indeed," said Betty, " I 'm afraid Mrs. Strathgpey 
 will be likely to go without her breakfast here, for not a 
 spoonful of honey have we, let her long for it ever so much." 
 
 " But surely," said Bab, " we can contrive to get some 
 honey in the neighbourhood." 
 
 " There 's none to be bought as I know of," said Betty. 
 
 " But is there none to be begged or borrowed ?" said Bab, 
 laughing. " Do you forget Susan's beehive ? Step over to 
 her in the morning, with my compliments, and see what you 
 can do tell her it is for Mrs. Strathspey." 
 
 In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compli- 
 ments to Susan, to beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who 
 could not breakfast without it. 
 
 Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her 
 mother loved it, and she therefore gave Betty but a small 
 quantity: when Barbara saw how little Susan sent, she 
 called her a miser, and said she must have some more for 
 Mrs. Strathspey. 
 
 " I '11 go myself and speak to her ; come you with me, 
 Betty," said the young lady, who found it at present conve- 
 nient to forget her having declared, the day that she sucked 
 up the broth, that she never would honour Susan with ano- 
 ther visit. 
 
 " Susan," said she, accosting the poor girl whom she had 
 done everything in her power to injure, " I must beg a little 
 more honey from you for Mrs. Strathspey's breakfast. You 
 know, on a particular occasion, such as this, neighbours 
 must help one another." 
 
 " To be sure they should," added Betty. 
 
 Susan, though she was generous, was not weak : she was 
 willing to give to those she loved, but not disposed to let 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 161 
 
 anything be taken from her, or coaxed out of her by those 
 she had reason to despise. She civilly answered that she 
 was sorry she had no more honey to spare. Barbara grew 
 angry, and lost all command of herself, when she saw that 
 Susan, without regarding her reproaches, went on looking 
 through the glass pane in the beehive. " I '11 tell you what, 
 Susan Price," said she, in a high tone, " the honey I will 
 have, so you may as well give it to me by fair means. Yes 
 or no ? Speak ! will you give it me or not ? will you give 
 that piece of the honeycomb that lies there ?" 
 
 " That bit of honeycomb is for my mother's breakfast," 
 said Susan ; " I cannot give it you." 
 
 " Can't you \" said Bab ; " then see if I do n't get it." 
 
 She stretched across Susan for the honeycomb, which was 
 lying by some rosemary-leaves that Susan had freshly gath- 
 ered for her mother's tea. Bab grasped, but at her first 
 effort she reached only the rosemary : she made a second 
 dart at the honeycomb, and in her struggle to obtain it sh< 
 overset the beehive. The bees swarmed about her ms 
 maid Betty screamed, and ran away. Susan, who wa& shel- 
 tered by a laburnum-tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the 
 black clusters of bees were now settling, and begged her to 
 stand still, and not to beat them away. "If you stanu 
 quietly, you won't be stung, perhaps." But, instead ot 
 standing quietly, Bab buffeted, and stamped, and roared, 
 and the bees stung her terribly; her arms and her iaco 
 swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped home by 
 poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who, now the mis- 
 chief was done, thought only of exculpating herself to her 
 master. 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Barbara," said she, " this was quite wroiw 
 of you to go and get yourself into such a scrape. 1 saau 
 be turned away for it, you '11 see." 
 
 " I do n't care whether you are turned away or not," said 
 Barbara. " I never felt such pain in my life. Can't you 
 do something for me ? I do n't mind the pain either, so 
 11 
 
162 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 much as being such a fright. Pray, how am I ii6 . fit 
 to be seen at breakfast by Mrs. Strathspey ? and I suppose 
 I can't go to the ball either, to-morrow, after all !" 
 
 " No, that you can't expect to do, indeed," said Be;ty the 
 comforter. " You need not think of balls, for those iunaps 
 and swellings won't go off your face this week. That 's not 
 what pains me, but I 'm thinking of what your papa will 
 Bay to me when he sees you, miss." 
 
 While this amiable mistress and maid were in their tidver- 
 sity, reviling one another, Susan, when she saw that sue 
 could be of no further use, was preparing to depart, but at 
 the house-door she was met by Mr. Case. 
 
 Mr. Case had revolved things in his mind, for his (second 
 visit at the Abbey pleased him as little as his first, froiu * 
 few words Sir Arthur and Miss Somers dropped in speaking 
 of Susan and Farmer Price. Mr. Case began to fear that 
 he had mistaken his game in quarrelling with this family. 
 The refusal of his present dwelt upon the attorney's mind, 
 and he was aware that, if the history of Susan's lamb ever 
 reached the Abbey, he was undone ; he now thought that 
 the most prudent course he could possibly follow would be 
 to hush up matters with the Prices with all convenient speed. 
 Consequently, when he met Susan at his door, he forced a 
 gracious smile. 
 
 " How is your mother, Susan ?" said he. " Is there any- 
 thing in our house can be of service to her ? I 'm glad to 
 see you here. Barbara ! Barbara ! Bab !" cried he ; " come 
 down-stairs, child, and speak to Susan Price." And, as no 
 Barbara answered, her father stalked up-stairs directly, 
 opened the door, and stood amazed at the spectacle of her 
 swelled visage. 
 
 Betty instantly began to tell the story her own way. Bab 
 contradicted her as fast as she spoke. The attorney turned 
 the maid away upon the spot ; and partly with real anger, 
 and partly with politic affectation of anger, he demanded 
 from his daughter how she dared to treat Susan Price so ili : 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 163 
 
 "When she was so neighbourly and obliging as to give you 
 i\. Jie of her honey, could n't you be content without seizing 
 toon the honeycomb by force ? This is scandalous beha- 
 viour, and what, I .assure you, I can't countenance." 
 
 Susan now interceded for Barbara; and the attorney, 
 rioilening his voice, said that Susan was a great deal too 
 000* to her, " as indeed you are, Susan," added he, " to every- 
 ttody. I forgive her for your sake." 
 
 Susan courtesied in great surprise, but her lamb could not 
 be forgotten ; and she left the attorney's house as soon as 
 she could, to make her mother's rosemary-tea for breakfast. 
 
 Mr. Case saw that Susan was not so simple as to be taken 
 in by a few fair words. His next attempt was to conciliate 
 Farmer Price ; the farmer was a blunt, honest man, and his 
 countenance remained inflexibly^contemptuous, when the 
 attorney addressed him in the softest tone. 
 
 So stood matters the day of the long-expected harpers' 
 ball. Miss Barbara Case, stung by Susan's bees, could not, 
 after all her manoeuvres, go with Mrs. Strathspey to the 
 ball. 
 
 The ballroom was filled early in the evening ; there was 
 a numerous assembly ; the harpers who contended for the 
 prize were placed under 'the music-gallery at the lower end 
 of the room ; among them was our old blind friend, who, 
 as he was not so well clad as his competitors, seemed to be 
 disdained by many of the spectators. Six ladies ana six 
 gentlemen were now appointed to be judges of the perform- 
 ance. They were seated in a semicircle opposite to the 
 harpers. The Misses Somers, who were fond of music, were 
 among the ladies in the semicircle, and the prize was lodged 
 in the hands of Sir Arthur. There was now silence. The 
 first harp sounded, and as each musician tried his skill, the 
 audience seemed to think that each deserved the prize. The 
 old blind man was the last ; he tuned his instrument, and 
 such a simple, pathetic strain was heard, as touched every 
 heart. All were fixed in delighted attention, and when the 
 
164 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 music ceased, the silence for some moments continued. The 
 silence was followed by a universal buzz of applause. The 
 judges were unanimous in their opinions, and it was declared, 
 that the old blind harper, who played the last, deserved the 
 prize. 
 
 The simple, pathetic air which won the suffrages of the 
 whole assembly, was his own composition ; he was pressed 
 to give the words belonging to the music, and at last he 
 modestly offered to repeat them, as he could not see to write. 
 Miss Somers's ready pencil was instantly produced, and the 
 old harper dictated the words of his ballad, which he called, 
 " Susan's Lamentation for Tier Lamb." 
 
 Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time as 
 she wrote ; and Sir Arthur, as soon as the old man had 
 finished, took him aside and asked him some questions, 
 which brought the whore history of Susan's lamb and of 
 Attorney Case's cruelty to light. 
 
 The attorney himself was present when the harper began 
 to dictate his ballad; his colour, as Sir Arthur steadily 
 looked at him, varied continually ; till at length, when he 
 heard the words, " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb," he 
 suddenly shrank back, skulked through the crowd, and dis- 
 appeared. We shall not follow him, we had rather follow 
 our old friend the victorious harper. 
 
 No sooner had he received the ten guineas, his well-mer- 
 ited prize, th.an he retired into a small room belonging to 
 the people of the house, asked for pen, ink, and paper, and 
 dictated in a low voice to his boy, who was a tolerably good 
 scribe, > letter, which he ordered him to put directly into 
 the Shrewsbury post-office ; the boy ran with the letter to 
 the posv-oihce : he was but just in time, for the postman's 
 horn was sounding. 
 
 The i.vxt morning, when Farmer Price, his wife, and Su- 
 san we 1 1 sitting together, reflecting that his week's leave of 
 absenc. iras nearly at an end, and that the monev was not 
 yet ma^f np for John Simpson, a substitute, a knock was 
 heard at the door, and the person who usually delivered the 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 165 
 
 in the village put a letter into Susan's hand, saying, 
 "A penny, if you please here's a letter for your father." 
 
 " For me !" said Farmer Price ; " here 's the penny then ; 
 but who can it be from, I wonder ; who can think of writing 
 to me in this world ?" He tore open the letter, but the hard 
 name at the bottom of the page puzzled him, "your obliged 
 friend Llewellyn." "And what's this?" said he, open- 
 ing a paper that was enclosed in the letter; "it's a song, 
 seemingly ; it must be somebody that has a mind to make 
 an April fool of me." 
 
 " But it is not April, it is May, father," said Susan. 
 
 " "Well, let us read the letter, and we shall come at the 
 truth all in good time." 
 
 Farmer Price sat down in his own chair, for he could not 
 read entirely to his satisfaction in any other, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 "Mr WORTHY FRIEND, 
 
 " I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have had good 
 success this night. I have won the ten-guinea prize, and 
 for that I am in a great measure indebted to your sweet 
 daughter Susan, as you will see oy a little ballad I enclose 
 for her. Your hospitality to me has afforded me an oppor- 
 tunity of learning some of your family history. You do 
 not, I hope, forget that I was present when you were count- 
 ing the treasure in Susan's little purse, and that I heard for 
 what purpose it was all destined. You have not, I know, 
 yet made up the full sum for the substitute, John Simpson ; 
 therefore do me the favour to use the five-guinea bank-note, 
 which you will find within the ballad. You shall not find 
 me as hard a creditor as Attorney Case. Pay me the money 
 at your own convenience ; if it is never convenient to you 
 to pay it, I shall never ask it. I shall go my rounds again 
 through this country, I believe, about this time next year, 
 and will call to see how you do, and to play the new tune 
 for Susan and the dear little boys. 
 
166 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 "I shall just add, to set your heart at rest about the 
 money, that it does not distress me at all to lend it to you : 
 I am not quite so poor as I appear to be ; but it is my 
 humour to go about as I do. I see more of the world under 
 my tattered garb than, perhaps, I should see in a better 
 dress. There are many of my profession who are of the 
 same mind as myself in this respect ; and we are glad, when 
 it lays in our way, to do any kindness to such a worthy 
 family as yours. So fare ye well. 
 
 "Your obliged friend, 
 
 " LLEWELLYN." 
 
 Susan now, by her father's desire, opened the ballad ; he 
 picked up the five-guinea bank-note, while she read with 
 surprise, " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb." Her 
 mother leaned over her shoulder to read the words, but they 
 were interrupted, before they had finished the first stanza, 
 by another knook at the door. It was not the postman with 
 another letter ; it was Sir Arthur and his sisters. 
 
 They came with an intention, which they were much dis- 
 appointed to find that the old harper had rendered vain 
 they came to lend the farmer and his good family the money 
 to pay for his substitute. 
 
 " But, since we are here," said Sir Arthur, " let me do 
 my own business, which I had like to have forgotten. Mr. 
 Price, will you come out with me, and let me show you a 
 piece of your land, through which I want to make a road ? 
 Look there," said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, " I am 
 laying out a ride round my estate, and that bit of land of 
 ycurs stops me." 
 
 " Why BO, sir?" said Price: "the land's mine to be sure, 
 for that matter ; but I hope you do n't look upon me to be 
 that sort of person that would be stiff about a trifle or so," 
 
 " Why." said Sir Arthur, " I had heard you were a liti- 
 gious, pigheaded fellow; but you do not seem to deserve 
 this character." 
 
SIMPLE SUSAX. 167 
 
 " Hope not, sir," said the farmer ; " but about the matter 
 of the land, I do n't want to make no advantage of your 
 wishing for it ; you are welcome to it, and I leave it to you 
 to find me out another bit of land convenient to me, that 
 will be worth neither more nor leas, or else to make up the 
 value to me some way or other. I need say no more about 
 it." 
 
 " I hear something," continued Sir Arthur, after a short 
 silence, " I hear something, Mr. Price, of a flaw in your 
 lease. I would not speak to you of it while we were bar- 
 gaining about your land, lest I should overawe you ; but tell 
 me, what is this flaw ?" 
 
 " In truth, and the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken at 
 all times," said the farmer, " I did n't know myself what a 
 flaw, as they call it, meant, till I heard of the word from 
 Attorney Case ; and I take it, a flaw is neither more nor 
 less than a mistake, as one should say; now by reason a 
 man does not make a mistake on purpose, it seems to me to 
 be the fair thing, that if a man finds out his mistake, he 
 might set it right ; but Attorney Case says, that is not law, 
 and I 've no more to say. The man who drew up my lease 
 made a mistake, and if I must suffer for it I must," said the 
 farmer. "However, I can show you, Sir Arthur, just for 
 my own satisfaction and yours, a few lines of a memoran- 
 dum on a slip of paper, which was given me by your rela- 
 tion, the gentleman who lived here before, and let me my 
 farm. You '11 see, by that bit of paper, what was meant ; 
 out the attorney says, the paper's not worth a button in a 
 court of justice, and I don't understand these things. All 
 I understand is the common honesty of the matter. I 've 
 no more to say." 
 
 " This attorney, whom you speak of so often," env? Si 
 Arthur, " you seem to have some quarrel with him. Now, 
 v/ould you tell me frankly what is. the rr jtter between " 
 
 " The matter between us, then," said Mr. Price, " is a little 
 bit of ground, not worth much, that there is open to the 
 
SIMPLE S j 1 A A . 
 
 lane ut the end of Mr. Case's garden, sir, and he wa/j)-i:<? f 
 take it in. Now, I told him my mind, that it belonged to 
 the parish, and that I never would willingly give my consent 
 to his cribbing it in that way. Sir, I was the more loath to 
 see it shut into his garden, which moreover is large enow 
 of all conscience without it, because you must know, Sir 
 Arthur, the children in our village are fond of making a 
 little play-green of it, and they have a custom of meeting 
 on May-day at a hawthorn that stands in the middle of it, 
 and altogether I was very loath to see 'em turned out of it 
 by those who had no right." 
 
 " Let us go and see this nook," said Sir Arthur ; " it is 
 not far off, is it ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, sir, just hard-by here." 
 
 When they got to the ground, Mr. Case, who saw them 
 walking together, was in a hurry to join them, that he might 
 put a stop to any explanations. Explanations were things 
 of which he had a great dread, but fortunately he was upon 
 this occasion a little too late. 
 
 " Is this the nook in dispute ?" said Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Yes, this is the whole thing," said Price. 
 
 " Why, Sir Arthur, do n't let us talk any more about it," 
 said the politic attorney, with an assumed air of generosity : 
 " let it belong to whom it will, I give it up to you." 
 
 " So great a lawyer, Mr. Case, as you are," replied Sir 
 Arthur, " must know that a man cannot give up that to 
 which he has no legal title ; and in this case, it is impossible 
 that, with the best intentions to oblige me in the world, you 
 can give up this bit of land to me, because it is mine already, 
 as I can convince you effectually by a map of the adjoining 
 land, which I have fortunately safe among my papers. This 
 p'oco of ground belonged to the farm on the opposite side 
 of the road, and it was cut off when the lane was made." 
 
 " Very possibly ; I dare say, you are quite correct ; you 
 must know best," said the attorney, trembling for the 
 agency. 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 169 
 
 'Then." oaid Sir Arthur, "Mr. Price, you will observe 
 tbn>' J cow promise this little green to the children, for a 
 ^lay-ground, and I hope they may gather hawthorn many a 
 May-day at this their favourite bush." 
 
 Mr. Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he 
 received a favour himself. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Case," said Sir Arthur, turning to the 
 attorney, who did not know which way to look, "you sent 
 me a lease to look over." 
 
 " Ye ye yes," stammered Mr. Case ; " I thought it my 
 duty to do so, not out of any malice or ill-will to this good 
 man." 
 
 "You have done him no injury," said Sir Arthur, coolly. 
 " I am ready to make him a new lease, whenever he pleases, 
 of his farm ; and I shall be guided by a memorandum of 
 the original bargain, which he has in his possession. I hope 
 I never shall take an unfair advantage of any one." 
 
 " Heaven forbid, sir !" said the attorney, sanctifying his 
 face, " that I should suggest the taking an unfair advantage 
 of any man, rich or poor ; but to break a bad lease is not 
 taking an unfair advantage." 
 
 " You really think so ?" said Sir Arthur. 
 
 " Certainly I do and I hope I have not hazarded your 
 good opinion by speaking my mind concerning the flaw so 
 plainly. I always understood that there could be nothing 
 ungentlemanlike in the way of business in taking advantage 
 of a flaw in a lease." 
 
 "Now," said Sir Arthur, "you have pronounced judg- 
 ment, undesignedly, in your own case. You intended to 
 send me this poor man's lease, but your son, by some mis- 
 take, brought me your own, and I have discovered a fatal 
 error in it." 
 
 " A fatal error !" said the alarmed attorney. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Sir Arthur pulling the lease out of his 
 pocket ; " here it is ; you will observed that, it iu neither 
 tiignod nor sealed by the grantor." 
 
170 SIMPLE SUSAN. 
 
 " Bui you won't take advantage of me, surely, Sir Arthur," 
 said Mr. Case, forgetting his own principles. 
 
 " I shall not take advantage of you, as you would have 
 taken of this honest man. In both cases I shall be guided 
 by memorandums which I have in my possession. I shall 
 not, Mr. Case, defraud you of one shilling of your property. 
 I am ready, at a fair valuation, to pay the exact value of 
 your house and land, but upon this condition, that you quit 
 the parish within one month." 
 
 Attorney Case submitted, for he knew that he could not 
 legally resist. He was glad to be let off so easily, and he 
 bowed, and sneaked away, secretly comforting himself with 
 the hope, that when they came to the valuation of the house 
 and land, he should be the gainer perhaps of a few guineas ; 
 his reputation he justly held very cheap. 
 
 " You are a scholar, you write a good hand, you can keep 
 accounts, can't you ?" said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they 
 walked k>me towards his cottage. 
 
 " I think I saw a bill of your little daughter's drawing 
 out the other day, which was very neatly written. Did you 
 teach her to write ?" 
 
 " No, sir," said Price, " f can't say I did that, for she 
 mostly taught herself; but I taught her a little arithmetic, 
 as far as I knew, on our winter nights, when I had nothing 
 better to do." 
 
 " Your daughter shows that she has been well taught," 
 said Sir Arthur ; " and her good conduct and good charac- 
 ter speak strongly in favour of her parents." 
 
 " You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in 
 this sort of way," said the delighted father. 
 
 " But I mean to do more than pay you with words," said 
 Sir Arthur. " You are attached to your own family ; per- 
 haps you may become attached to me, when you come to 
 know me, and VCP shall have frequent opportunities of judg- 
 ing of one another \ want no agent to squeeze my tenants, 
 or to do my dirty work. I only want a steady, intelligent, 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 171 
 
 honest man, like you, to collect my rents ; and I hope> Mr. 
 Price, you will have no objection to the employment." 
 
 " I hope, sir," said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing 
 in his honest countenance, " that you '11 never have no cause 
 to repent your goodness." 
 
 " And what are my sisters about here ?" said Sir Arthur, 
 entering the cottage, and going behind his sisters, who were 
 busily engaged in measuring an extremely pretty-coloured 
 calico. 
 
 " It is for Susan, my dear brother," said they. 
 
 " I knew she did not keep that guinea for herself/' said 
 Miss Somers : " I have just prevailed upon her mother to 
 tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father 
 but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time, 
 and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes 
 it. And, Susan, I hear that, instead of being Queen of the 
 May this year, you were sitting in your sick mother's room. 
 Your mother has a little colour in her cheeks now." 
 
 " Oh, ma'am," interrupted Mrs. Price, " I 'm quite well 
 joy, I think, has made me quite well." 
 
 " Then," said Miss Somers, " I hope you will be able to 
 come out on your daughter's birthday, which I hear is the 
 25th of this month. Make haste and get quite well before 
 that day, for my brother intends that all the lads and lasses 
 of the village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday." 
 
 " Yes," said Sir Arthur ; " and I hope on that day, Susan, 
 you will be very happy with your little friends upon their 
 play-green. I shall tell them that it is your good conduct 
 which has obtained it for them : and if you have anything 
 to ask, any little favour for any of your companions which 
 we can grant, now ask, Susan ; these ladies look as if they 
 would not refuse you any thing that is reasonable ; aii1 1 
 think you look as if you would not ask anything unreason- 
 able." 
 
 " Sir," said Susan, after consulting her mother's eyes, 
 "there is, to be sure, a favour I should like ko ask it is 
 for Roso " 
 
172 SIMPLE BTJSiJl 
 
 "Well, I don't know who Rose is," said Sir Arthur, 
 smiling ; " but go on." 
 
 " Ma'am, you have seen her, I believe ; she is a /v-y good 
 girl, indeed," said Mrs. Price. 
 
 "And works very neatly indeed," continued Susan, 
 eagerly, to Miss Somers ; " and .sue and her mother heard 
 you were looking out for one to wait upon you." 
 
 " Say no more," said Miss Soiners ; " your wish is granted. 
 Tell Rose to come to the Abbey to-moftow morning or 
 rather come with her yourself, for our housekeeper, I know, 
 wants to talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Su- 
 san, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance, 
 and she has good things looked out for it already, I know. 
 It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and 
 the housekeeper will slice it for you. I only hope you* vrake 
 will be as good as your bread. Fare ye well." 
 
 How happy are those who bid farewell to a whole family 
 silent with gratitude, who will bless them aloud when they 
 are far out of hearing 1 
 
 "How do I wish now," said Farmer Price, "and it's 
 almost a sin for one that 's had such a power of favours 
 done him to wish for anything more but how I do wish, 
 wife, that our good friend the harper was only here at this 
 time being ; it would do his old warm heart good. Well, 
 the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes 
 bis rounds, to pay him his money with thanks ; being all 
 the time and for ever as much obliged to him as if we kept 
 it, and wanted it as badly as we did when he gave it so 
 handsome. I long, so I do, to see him in this hoase again, 
 drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of Susan'/! 
 mead to her very good health." 
 
 " Yes," said Susan, " and the next time he comes I can 
 give him one of my Guinea-hen's eggs, and I shall show bin?, 
 my lamb Daisy." 
 
 " True, love," said her mother ; " and he will play tha '; 
 tune, and sing that pretty ballad where is it, for I havo 
 not finished it?" 
 
SIMPLE SUSAN. 1.73 
 
 " Rose ran away with it, mother ; and I '11 step after her, 
 and bring it back to you this minute," said Susan. 
 
 Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst 
 of a crowded circle of her companions, to -whom she was 
 reading " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb." 
 
 "The words are something but the tune the tune 
 I must have the tune," cried Philip. " I '11 ask my mother 
 to ask Sir Arthur to try and rout out which way that good 
 old man went after the ball ; and, if he 's above ground, 
 we'll have him back by Susan's birthday, and he shall sit 
 here, just exactly here, by this our bush, and he shall play 
 
 I mean if he pleases that there tune for us ; and I shall 
 learn it I mean if I can in a minute." 
 
 The good news, that Farmer Price was to be employed to 
 collect the rents, and that Attorney Case was to leave the 
 parish in a month, soon spread over the village. Many 
 came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing 
 the joyful tidings confirmed by Susan herself; the crowd on 
 the play-green increased every minute. 
 
 " Yes," cried the triumphant Philip, " I tell you it 's all 
 true, every word of it. Susan's too modest to say it herself 
 
 but I tell ye all, Sir Arthur gave us this play-green for 
 ever, on account of her being so good." 
 
 You see at last, Attorney Case, with all his cunning, Ua# 
 not proved a match for " Simple Susan." 
 
THE BRACELETS. 
 
 IN a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. 
 Yillars, a lady whose accurate understanding. Benevolent 
 heart, and steady temper, peculiarly fitted her for the most 
 tiifiicult, as well as most important, of all occupations the 
 education of youth. This task she had undertaken ; and 
 twenty young persons were put under her care, with the 
 perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could 
 be happier ; they were good and gay, emulous, but not 
 envious of each other ; for Mrs. Villars was impartially 
 just ; her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her 
 blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill-con- 
 duct ; to the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and 
 in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh 
 cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various 
 occupations ; they returned in the evening with renewed 
 ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with 
 themselves, and pleased with each other. 
 
 Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emu- 
 lation in this little society as a small honorary distinction, 
 given annually, as a prize of successful application. The 
 prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it 
 was the picture of a friend whom they all dearly loved 
 it was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet. It- 
 wanted neither gold, pearls, nor precious stones, to give it 
 value. 
 
 The two foremost candidates for this prizo were Cecilia 
 and Leonora. Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leo- 
 
 (174) 
 
THE BRACELETS. 175 
 
 nora, but Leonora was only the favourite companion of 
 Cecilia. 
 
 Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposi- 
 tion ; more e.ager in the pursuit, than happy in the enjoy- 
 ment, of her wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unas- 
 piring, temperate character ; not easily roused to action, but 
 indefatigable when once excited. Leonora was proud, Ce- 
 cilia was vain ; her vanity made her more dependent upon 
 the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to 
 please than Leonora ; but that very vanity made her at the 
 same time more apt to offend ; in short, Leonora was the 
 most anxious to avoid what was wrong, Cecilia the most 
 ambitious to do what was right. Few of their companions 
 loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often suc- 
 cessful ; many loved Leonora, but none were governed by 
 her, for she was too indolent to govern. 
 
 On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, 
 a great bell rang to summon this little society into a hall, 
 where the prize was to be decided. A number, of small 
 tables were plkeed in a circle in the middle of the hall ; 
 seats for the young competitors were raised one above ano- 
 tiier, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table ; and 
 the judges' chairs, under canopies of lilacs and Hburnums, 
 forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre. Every 
 one put their writings, their drawings, their works of vari- 
 ous kinds upon the tables appropriated for each. How 
 unsteady were the last steps to these tables ' How each 
 little hand trembled as it laid down its claims ! Till this 
 moment every one thought herself secure of success, but 
 now each felt an equal certainty of being excelled ; and the 
 heart which a few minutes before exulted with hope now 
 palpitated with fear. 
 
 The works were examined, the preference adjudged ; and 
 the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia's. Mrs. Vil- 
 lars came forward smiling with the bracelet in her hand ; 
 Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row ; all 
 
176 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 the others gave -way, and she was on the floor in an instant. 
 Mrs. Vi!?flia clasped the bracelet on her arm ; the clasp was 
 heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of con- 
 gratulation followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little 
 hand ; and " Now," said she, " go and rejoice with your 
 companions ; the remainder of the day is yours." 
 
 Oh ! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose 
 bosoms beat high with joy, in the moment of triumph, com- 
 mand yourselves : let that triumph be moderate, that it may 
 be lasting. Consider, that though you are good, you may 
 be better ; and though wise, you may be weak. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all 
 Cecilia's tittle companions crowded around her, and they 
 all left the hall in an instant ; she was full of spirits and 
 vanity she ran on : running down the flight of steps which 
 led to the garden, in her violent haste, Cecilia threw down 
 the little Louisa. Louisa had a china mandarin in her 
 hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning ; ij 
 was all broken to pieces by her fall. 
 
 " Oh, my mandarin !" cried Louisa, bursting into tears. 
 The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped : Louisa sat on 
 the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces ; then 
 turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step 
 above her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of 
 *he mandarin ; the head, which she had placed in the socket, 
 fell from the shoulders, and rolled bounding along the gra- 
 vel walk. Cecilia pointed to the head, and to the socket, 
 and burst out a laughing : the crowd behind laughed too. 
 At any other time they would have been more inclined to 
 cry with Louisa ; but Cecilia had just been successful, and 
 sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice. 
 Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. " Poor 
 Louisa !" said she, looking first at her, and then reproach- 
 fully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, 
 half with shame and half with vexation ; " I could not help 
 't, Leonora," said she. 
 
THE BE ACE LETS. 
 
 " But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia." 
 
 " I did n't laugh at Louisa ; and I surely may laugh, for 
 it does nobody any harm." 
 
 " I am sure, however," replied Leonora, " I should not 
 have laughed if I had " 
 
 " No, to be sure you -would n't, because Louisa is your 
 favourite ; I can buy her another mandarin the next time 
 that the old pedler comes to the door, if that 's all. I can 
 do no more can I ?" said she, turning round to her com- 
 panions. 
 
 " No, to be sure," said they, " that 's all fair." 
 
 Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora : Leonora let go 
 her hand ; she ran on, and the crowd followed. When she 
 got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leo- 
 nora had followed her too ; but was vexed to see her still 
 sitting on the steps with Louisa. " I 'm sure I can do no 
 more than buy her another ! Can I ?" said she, again 
 appealing to her companions. 
 
 " No, to be sure," said they, eager to begin their plays. 
 
 How many did they begin and leave off, before Cecilia 
 sould be satisfied with any : her thoughts were discomposed, 
 wid her mind was running upon something else ; no wonder, 
 ^hen, that she did not play with her usual address. She 
 grew still more impatient ; she threw down the ninepins : 
 "Come, let us play at something else at threading the 
 needle," said she, holding out her hand. They all yielded 
 to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia, dissatis- 
 fied with herself, was discontented with everybody else ; her 
 tone grew more and more peremptory. One was too rude, 
 another too stiff; one too slow, another too quick ; in short, 
 everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her 
 humours. 
 
 The triumph of success is absolute, but short. Cecilia's 
 companions at length recollected that, though she had em- 
 broidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet 
 that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better: 
 12 
 
178 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 she was thrown out "Walking towards the house in a peev- 
 ish mood, she met Leonora : she passed on. 
 
 " Cecilia !" cried Leonora. 
 
 " Well, what do you want with me ?" 
 
 "Are we friends?" 
 
 " You know best." 
 
 " We are ; if you will let me tell Louisa that you are 
 sorry " 
 
 Cecilia, interrupting her "Oh, pray, let me hear no 
 more about Louisa !" 
 
 " What ! not confess that you were in the wrong ! Oh ! 
 Cecilia ! I had a better opinion of you." 
 
 "Your opinion is of no consequence to me now; for you 
 do n't love me." 
 
 " No, not when you are unjust, Cecilia." 
 
 " Unjust I I am not unjust : and if I were, you are not my 
 governess." 
 
 " No, but am not I your friend ?" 
 
 " I do n't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel 
 with me for happening to throw down little Louisa. How 
 could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand ? And 
 when it was broken, could I do more than promise her ano- 
 ther? was that unjust?" 
 
 " But you know, Cecilia " 
 
 "I know," ironically "I know, Leonora, that you 
 love Louisa better than you do me ; that 's the injustice !" 
 
 " If I did," replied Leonora, gravely, " it would be no 
 injustice, if she deserved it better." 
 
 " How can you compare Louisa to me?" exclaimed Cecilia, 
 indignantly. 
 
 Leonora made no answer, for she was really hurt at her 
 friend's conduct: she walked on to join the rest of her com- 
 panions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass. 
 Leonora declined dancing, but they prevailed upon her to 
 ^ing for them : her voice was not so sprightly, but it was 
 sweeter than usual. Who sung so sweetly as Leonora ? or 
 who danced so nimbly as Louisa? 
 
7>*^ s^ 
 
THE BRACELETS. 179 
 
 Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, when Leo- 
 nora's eyes, full of tears, caught hers : Louisa silently lei 
 go her companion's hands, and quitting the dance, ran up 
 to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. 
 
 " Nothing," replied she, " that need interrupt you. Go, 
 my dear go, and dance again." 
 
 Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling 
 off her little straw hat, she lined it with fresh strawberry 
 leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed 
 when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be 
 pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons, be- 
 cause she was jealous of her, and because she had injured 
 her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten ; 
 perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite 
 so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been 
 before the fall of her mandarin ; but this was the utmost 
 extent of her malice, if it can be called malice. 
 
 " What are you doing there, little one ?" said Cecilia, in 
 a sharp tone : " are you eating your early strawberries here 
 all alone ?" 
 
 " No," said Louisa, mysteriously, " I am not eating them." 
 
 " What are you doing with them ? Can't you answer, 
 then ? I'm not playing with you, child." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you 
 unless I choose it ; not but what I would if you would only 
 ask me civilly, and if you would not call me child" 
 
 " Why should I not call you child ?" 
 
 " Because because I do n't know : but I wish you would 
 stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon 
 all my strawberries." 
 
 " I have not touched one, you covetous little creature !" 
 
 " Indeed indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous : I have not 
 eaten one of them they are all for your friend Leonora. 
 See how unjust you are !" 
 
 "Unjust! that's a cant word you learned of my friend 
 Leonora, as you call her ; but she is not my friend now." 
 
180 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 " Not your friend now !" exclaimed Louisa ; " then I am 
 Bure you must have done something very naughty." 
 
 " How I" said Cecilia, catching hold of her. 
 
 " Let me go let me go !" cried Louisa, struggling ; " I 
 won't give you one of my strawberries, for I do n't like you 
 at all I" 
 
 "You don't, don't you?" said Cecilia, provoked; and 
 catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries 
 over the hedge. 
 
 " Will nobody help me I" exclaimed Lou'isa, snatching 
 her hat again, and running away with all her force. 
 
 " What have I done !" said Cecilia, recollecting herself. 
 " Louisa ! Louisa !" She called very loud, but Louisa would 
 not turn back ; she was running to her companions. 
 
 They were still dancing hand-in-hand upon the grass, 
 while Leonora, sitting in the middle, sang to them. 
 
 " Stop ! stop ! and hear me 1" cried Louisa, breaking 
 through them ; and rushing up to Leonora, she threw her 
 hat at her feet, and. panting for breath "It was full 
 almost full of my own strawberries," said she, " the first I 
 ever got out of my own garden. They should all have been 
 for you, Leonora, but now I have not one left. They are 
 all gone !" said she, and she hid her face in Leonora's lap. 
 
 " Gone ! gone where ?" said every one, at once running 
 up to her. 
 
 " Cecilia ! Cecilia !" said she, sobbing. 
 
 " Cecilia," repeated Leonora, " what of Cecilia ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was it was." 
 
 " Come along with me," said Leonora, unwilling to have 
 her friend exposed ; " come, and I will get you some more 
 strawberries." 
 
 " Oh, I do n't mind the strawberries indeed ; but I wanted 
 to have had the pleasure of giving them to you." Leonora 
 took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too 
 late. 
 
 " What, Cecilia 1 Cecilia who won the prize this morn- 
 
THE BRACELETS. 181 
 
 Ing! it could not surely be Cecilia!" whispered every 
 busy tongue. 
 
 At this instant the bell summoned them in. " There she 
 is ! There she is !" cried they, pointing to an arbour where 
 Cecilia was standing, ashamed and alone ; and as they passed 
 her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, 
 others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if 
 to avoid her : Leonora walked on, her head a little higher 
 than usual. 
 
 " Leonora I" said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed. 
 
 " Oh, Cecilia ! who would have thought that you had a 
 bad heart !" 
 
 Cecilia turned her head aside, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, no I indeed, she has not a bad heart !" cried Louisa, 
 running up to her, and throwing her arms round her neck ; 
 " she 's very sorry are you not, Cecilia ? But do n't cry 
 any more, for I forgive you with all my heart and I love 
 you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion." 
 
 " Oh, you sweet-tempered girl ! how I love you I" said 
 Cecilia, kissing her. 
 
 " Well, then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your 
 eyes, for they are so red I" 
 
 " Go, my dear, and I '11 come presently." 
 
 " Then I will keep a place for you next to me ; but you 
 must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have 
 all sat down to supper, and then you will be so stared at 1 
 so do n't stay, now." 
 
 Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of 
 sight. "And is Louisa," said she to herself, "the only 
 one who would stop to pity me ? Mrs. Villars told me that 
 this day should be mine ; she little thought how it would 
 end I" Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon 
 the ground ; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she 
 had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and 
 gayety of her heart, she had called her throne. 
 
 At this instant MTS. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity 
 
182 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 of the evening, and passing by the arbour where Cecilia 
 lay, she' started ; Cecilia rose hastily. 
 
 "Who is there?" said Mrs. Villars. 
 
 "It is I, madam." 
 
 " And who is If" 
 
 "Cecilia." 
 
 " "Why, what keeps you here, my dear ? where are your 
 companions? This is, perhaps, one of the happiest days 
 of your life." 
 
 " 1 no, madam !" said Cecilia, hardly able to repress 
 her tears. 
 
 " Why, my dear, what is the matter ?" 
 
 Cecilia hesitated. 
 
 " Speak, my dear ; you know that when I ask you to tell 
 me anything as your friend, I never punish you as your 
 governess ; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what 
 is the matter." 
 
 " No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked 
 me why I was not with my companions. Why, madam, 
 because they have all left me, and " 
 
 "And what, my dear?" 
 
 " And I see that they all dislike me, and yet I do n't know 
 why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any 
 of them ; all my masters seem satisfied with me ; and you 
 yourself, ma'am, were pleased this very morning to give me 
 this bracelet ; and I am sure you would not have given it to 
 any one who did not deserve it." 
 
 " Certainly not : you did deserve it for your application 
 for your successful application. The prize was for the 
 most assiduous, not for the most amiable." 
 
 " Then if it had been for the most amiable, it would not 
 have been for me." 
 
 Mrs. Villars, smiling "Why, what do you think your- 
 self, Cecilia? You 'are better able to judge than I am: I 
 can determine whether or not you apply to what I give you 
 to learn ; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, 
 
THE BRACELETS. 183 
 
 and avoid what I desire you riot to do ; I know that I like 
 you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as 
 a companion, unless I were your companion ; therefore I 
 must judge of what I should do, by seeing what others do in 
 the same circumstances." 
 
 " Oh, pray do n't, ma'am ! for then you would not love 
 me neither. And yet I think you would love me ; for I hope 
 that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured as " 
 
 " Yes, Cecilia, I do n't doubt but that you would be very 
 good-natured to me, but I am afraid that I should not like 
 you unless you were good-tempered too." 
 
 "But, ma'am, by good-natured I mean good-tempered 
 it's all the same thing." 
 
 " No, indeed, I understand by them two very different 
 things : you are good-natured, Cecilia, for you are desirous 
 to oblige and serve your companions ; to gain them praise, 
 and save them from blame ; to give them pleasure, and 
 relieve them from pain : but Leonora is good-tempered, for 
 she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own 
 without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields 
 to those who are in the wrong ; in short, her temper is per- 
 fectly good, for it can bear and forbear." 
 
 " I wish that mine could !" said Cecilia, sighing. 
 
 " It may," replied Mrs. Villars ; " but it is not wishes 
 alone that can improve us in anything. Turn the same 
 exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize 
 to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same suc- 
 cess ; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third 
 attempt, but depend upon it that you will at last : every new 
 effort will weaken your bad habits and strengthen your good 
 ones. But you must not expect to succeed all at once, I 
 repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit. 
 It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults 
 could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so 
 severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of 
 a few days ago, to wish that all the heads of his enemies 
 
184 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 were upon one neck, that he might cut them off at one 
 blow." 
 
 Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they 
 began to walk home. Such was the nature of Cecilia's 
 mind, that when any object was forcibly impressed on her 
 imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her rea- 
 soning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her 
 spirits ; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it 
 was attended with total debility : her vanity was now as 
 much mortified as in the morning it had been elated. She 
 walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence, until they came 
 under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and then, fixing her 
 eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short " Do you think, 
 madam," said she, with hesitation, " do you think, madam, 
 that I have a bad heart ?" 
 
 " A bad heart, my dear I why, what put that into your 
 head?" 
 
 " Leonora said that I had, ma'am, and I felt ashamed 
 jrhen she said so." 
 
 " But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart 
 be good or bad ? However, in the first place, tell me what 
 you mean by a bad heart." 
 
 " Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, ma'am ; but 
 it is something which everybody hates." 
 
 " And why do they hate it?" 
 
 " Because they think that it will hurt them, ma'am, I 
 believe ; and that those who have bad hearts take delight in 
 doing mischief; and that they never do anybody good but 
 for their own ends." 
 
 " Then the best definition which you can give of a bad 
 heart is, that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, 
 and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; but that is not all neither : there is still 
 something else meant ; something which I cannot express 
 which, indeed, I never distinctly understood ; but of 
 which, therefore, I was the more afraid." 
 
THE BRACELETS. 185 
 
 " Well, then, to begin with what you do not understand : 
 tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked 
 merely for the love of wickedness ? No human being 
 becomes wicked all at once ; a man begins by doing wrong 
 because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest ; if he 
 continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame, and 
 lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel 
 such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to 
 improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?" 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I never did, until everybody told me 
 so, and then I began to be frightened about it ; this very 
 evening, ma'am, when I was in a passion, I threw little 
 Louisa's strawberries away ; which, I am sure, I was very 
 sorry for afterward ; and Leonora and everybody cried out 
 that I had a bad heart but I am sure I was only in a pas- 
 sion." 
 
 " Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you 
 call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to 
 others : if they do not feel angry themselves, they do not 
 sympathize with you ; they do not perceive the motive which 
 actuates you, and then they say that you have a bad heart. 
 I dare say, however, when your passion is over, and when 
 you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have 
 done and said, are not you ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, madam very sorry." 
 
 " Then make that sorrow of use to you, Cecilia ; and fix 
 it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and 
 happy, that if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion 
 upon every trifling occasion, anger and its consequences will 
 become familiar to your mind ; and in the same proportion 
 your sense of shame will be weakened, till, what you begin 
 with doing from sudden impulse, you will end with doing 
 from habit and choice ; and then you would indeed, accord- 
 ing to your definition, have a bad heart." 
 
 " Oh, madam ! I hope I am sure I never shall." 
 
 " No, indeed, Cecilia ; I do, indeed, believe that you never 
 
186 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 will ; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good 
 disposition, and what is of infinitely more consequence to 
 you, an active desire of improvement ; show me that you 
 have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall 
 not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish." 
 
 Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up 
 the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in 
 the morning. 
 
 " Good-night to you, Cecilia," said Mrs. Villars, as she was 
 crossing the hall. 
 
 " Good-night to you, madam," said Cecilia ; and she ran 
 up-stairs to bed. 
 
 She could not go to sleep, but she lay awake, reflecting 
 upon the events of the preceding day, and forming reso- 
 lutions for the future ; at the same time considering that 
 she had resolved, and resolved without effect. She wished 
 to give her mind some more powerful motive : ambition she 
 knew to be its most powerful incentive. 
 
 " Have I not," said she to herself, " already won the prize 
 of application, and cannot the same application procure me 
 a much higher prize ? Mrs. Villars said, that if the prize 
 had been promised to the most amiable it would not have 
 been given to me : perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps 
 it might not to-morrow ; but that is no reason that I should 
 despair of ever deserving it." 
 
 In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design 
 of proposing to her companions that they should give a 
 prize, the first of the ensuing month (the first of June), to 
 the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and 
 her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity. 
 
 " Let the prize," said they, " be a bracelet of our own 
 hair ;" and instantly their shining scissors were produced, 
 and each contributed a lock of her hair. They formed the 
 most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn 
 to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of 
 platting them, was now the question. 
 
THE BRACELETS. 
 
 Caroline begged that she might, as she could plat very 
 neatly, she said. 
 
 Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it 
 much better ; and a dispute would inevitably have ensued, 
 if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to 
 scarlet, had not yielded yielded, with no very good grace, 
 indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. 
 For it is habit which confers ease ; and without ease, even 
 in moral actions, there can be no grace. 
 
 The bracelet was platted in the neatest manner by Caro- 
 line, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was 
 worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto " To THE 
 MOST AMIABLE." The moment it was completed, everybody 
 begged to try it on : it fastened with little silver clasps, and 
 as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too 
 large for the youngest; of this they bitterly complained, 
 and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them. 
 
 " How foolish !" exclaimed Cecilia ; " do n't you perceive 
 that, if you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the 
 clasps a little farther from the edge ; but, if we get it, we 
 can't make it larger." 
 
 "Very true," said they; "but you need not to have called 
 us foolish, Cecilia." 
 
 It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these 
 that Cecilia offended; a slight difference in the manner 
 makes a very material one in the effect ; Cecilia lost more 
 love by general petulance, than she could gain by the great- 
 est particular exertions. 
 
 How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect, 
 how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom 
 the bracelet was given, shall be told in the history of the 
 first of June. 
 
 THE first of June was now arrived, and all the young 
 competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspjnse. 
 
188 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates ; 
 their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their dif- 
 ferent pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconcilia- 
 tion. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging 
 any of her faults in public before all her companions, could 
 not humble herself in private to Leonora. Leonora was her 
 equal, they were her inferiors: and submission is much 
 easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, 
 than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. 
 So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed 
 making any apology, or coming to any explanation with 
 Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm. 
 " If I win the bracelet to-day," said she to herself, " I 
 will solicit the return of Leonora's friendship ; it will be 
 more valuable to me than even the bracelet ; and at such a 
 time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse 
 it to me." Animated with this hope of a double triumph, 
 Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity ; by constant 
 attention and exertion she had considerably abated the vio- 
 lence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. 
 Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her 
 abilities to excel ; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, 
 her character was acknowledged to be more amiable; so 
 great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the 
 objects of our ambition. Cecilia was now, if possible, more 
 than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not 
 yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the 
 fundamental error of her mind : it arose in a great measure 
 from her early education. 
 
 Her mother died when she was very young ; and though 
 her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest 
 manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter's mind 
 a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit which he 
 justly deemed essential to the character of her brother ; this 
 brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always 
 been the favourite companion of her youth; what her 
 
THE BRACELETS. 189 
 
 father's precepts inculcated, his example enforced, and Ce- 
 cilia's virtues consequently became such as were more 
 estimable in a man than desirable in a female. 
 
 All small objects, and small errors, she had been taught 
 to disregard as trifles ; and her impatient disposition was 
 perpetually leading her into more material faults ; yet her 
 candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, 
 was sufficient reparation and atonement. 
 
 Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her 
 mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character 
 and virtues more peculiar to a female : her judgment had 
 been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the 
 regulation of her conduct ; she had been habituated to that 
 restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and 
 early accustomed to yield; complaisance in her seemed 
 natural and graceful. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she 
 was in reality more independent than Cecilia ; she had more 
 reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in 
 her own approbation : though far from insensible to praise, 
 she was not liable to be misled by the indiscriminate love 
 of admiration : the uniform kindness of her manner, the 
 consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the 
 esteem and passive love of her companions. 
 
 By passive love, we mean that species of affection which 
 makes us unwilling to offend, rather than anxious to oblige ; 
 which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For 
 Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active 
 in showing her love to them. 
 
 Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feel- 
 ing particular instances of kindness, without reflection on 
 the past conduct or general character ; it exceeds the meritH 
 of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, 
 rather than with a sense of justice. 
 
 Without determining which species of love is the more 
 flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most 
 
190 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 agreeable feeling to our own minds ; we give our hearts 
 more credit for being generous than for being just ; and we 
 feel more self-complacency when we give our love volunta- 
 rily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot 
 withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know 
 all this in theory, they proved it in practice ; for they loved 
 her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they 
 loved Leonora. 
 
 Each of the young judges were to signify their choice, by 
 putting a red or a white shell in a vase prepared for the 
 purpose. Cecilia's colour was red, Leonora's white. In the 
 morning nothing was to be seen but these shells, nothing 
 talked of but the long-expected event of the evening. Ce- 
 cilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of 
 honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previous 
 to her final determination. 
 
 They were both sitting together in Louisa's room : Louisa 
 was recovering from the measles : every one during her ill- 
 ness had been desirous of attending her ; but Leonora and 
 Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as 
 they alone had had the distemper. They were both assidu- 
 ous in their care of Louisa ; but Leonora's want of exertion 
 to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often 
 deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from 
 being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the con- 
 trary, often made too much noise and bustle with her offi- 
 cious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements, 
 and to procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that 
 illness takes away the power of enjoying them. 
 
 As she was sitting in the window in the morning, exert- 
 ing herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an 
 old pedler, who often used to come to the house. Down- 
 stairs she ran immediately to ask Mrs. Villars's permission 
 to bring him into the hall. 
 
 Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim 
 the news to her companions ; then first returning into the 
 
THE BRACELETS. 191 
 
 hall, she found the pedler just unbuckling his box, and 
 taking it off his shoulders. " What would you be pleased 
 to want, miss ?" said he ; "I 've all kinds of tweezer-cases, 
 rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening all 
 the glittering drawers successively. 
 
 " Oh !" said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which 
 tempted her most, " these are not the things which I want ; 
 have you any china figures, any mandarins ?" 
 
 " Alack-a-day ! miss, I had a great stock of that same 
 china-ware, but now I 'm quite out of them kind of things ; 
 but I believe," said he, rummaging one of the deepest 
 drawers, " I believe I have one left, and here it is." 
 
 "Oh, that is the very thing! what's its price?" 
 
 "Only three shillings, ma'am." Cecilia paid the money, 
 and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the 
 pedler took out of his great-coat pocket a neat maho'gany 
 case : it was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by 
 two little clasps ; it had, besides, a small lock in the middle. 
 
 " What is that ?" said Cecilia, eagerly. 
 
 " It's only a china figure, miss, which I am going to carry 
 to an elderly lady, who lives nigh-hand, and who is mighty 
 fond of such things." 
 
 " Could you let me look at it?" 
 
 " And welcome, miss," said he, and opened the case. 
 
 " Oh goodness ! how beautiful !" exclaimed Cecilia. 
 
 It was the figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and car- 
 rying a basket of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated 
 it with delight. " How I should like to give this to Louisa," 
 said she to herself; and at last, breaking silence, "Did you 
 promise it to the old lady?" 
 
 " Oh no, miss ; I did n't promise it, she never saw it ; and 
 if so be that you 'd like to take it, I 'd make no more worda 
 about it." 
 
 " And how much does it cost ?" 
 
 "Why, miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half a 
 guinea." 
 
192 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept 
 her treasure, and emptying it upon the table, she began to 
 count the shillings : alas ! there were but six shillings. 
 " How provoking !" said she, " then I can't have it 
 where's the mandarin? Oh I have it," said she, taking it 
 up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust. " Is this the 
 same that I had before ?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, the very same," replied the pedler, who, 
 during this time, had been examining the little box out of 
 which Cecilia had taken her money : it was of silver. 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said he, " since you 've taken such a 
 fancy to the piece, if you 've a mind to make up the remain- 
 der of the money, I will take this here little box, if you care 
 to part with it." 
 
 Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. 
 " No," said Cecilia, hastily, blushing a little, and stretching 
 out her hand to receive it. 
 
 " Oh, miss !" said he, returning it carelessly, " I hope 
 there 's no offence ; I meant but to serve you, that 's all ; 
 such a rare piece of china work has no cause to go a beg- 
 ging," added he, putting the Flora deliberately into the case ; 
 then turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his 
 pocket, and lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was 
 preparing to depart. 
 
 " Oh, stay one minute !" said Cecilia, in whose mind 
 there had passed a very warm conflict during the pedler's 
 harangue. "Louisa would so like this Flora," said she, 
 arguing with herself; " besides, it would be so generous in 
 me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin ; that 
 would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to 
 her, and she expects it. Though, when I come to look at 
 this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was ; the gild- 
 ing is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for 
 her. Oh yes, I will, and she will be so delighted ! and then 
 everybody will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, 
 and the broken mandarin will be forgotten for ever." 
 
THE BRACELETS. 193 
 
 "Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to 
 decide ; " Oh ! but stop," said she to herself, " consider Leo- 
 nora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake ; however, now 
 we have quarrelled, and I dare say that she would not mind 
 my parting with it : I 'm sure that I should not care if she 
 was to give away my keepsake the smelling-bottle, or the 
 ring which I gave her ; so what does it signify ? besides, is 
 it not my own, and have I not a right to do what I please 
 with it?" 
 
 At this dangerous instant for Cecilia, a party of her com- 
 panions opened the door ; she knew that they came as pur- 
 chasers, and she dreaded her Flora's becoming the prize of 
 some higher bidder. " Here," said she, hastily putting the 
 box into the pedler's hand, without looking at it ; " take it, 
 and give me the Flora." Her hand trembled, though she 
 snatched it impatiently ; she ran by, without seeming to 
 mind any of her companions she almost wished to turn 
 back. 
 
 Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of 
 future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment 
 and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally 
 depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor, who will 
 prevent their enjoying what they have ill obtained. 
 
 In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions to dis- 
 play her present, in hopes that the applause of others would 
 restore her own self-complacency ; in vain she saw the Flora 
 pass in due pomp from hand to hand, each vying with the 
 other in extolling the beauty of the gift, and the generosity 
 of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with 
 them, and even with their praise ; from Louisa's gratitude, 
 however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately 
 she ran up-stairs to her room. 
 
 In the mean time Leonora had gone into the hall to buy 
 
 a bodkin ; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, 
 
 the pedler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the 
 
 very box which Cecilia had sold to him. Leonora did not 
 
 13 
 
194 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above sus- 
 picion ; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia. 
 " I should like to have that box," said she, " for it is like 
 one of which I was very fond." 
 
 The pedler named the price, and Leonora took the box : 
 she intended to give it to little Louisa. 
 
 On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat 
 down softly by her bedside. Louisa opened her eyes. 
 
 " I hope I did n't disturb you ?" said Leonora. 
 
 " Oh no ; I did n't hear you come in : but what have you 
 got there ?" 
 
 "It's only a little box; would you like to have it? I 
 bought it on purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would 
 please you ; because it 's like that which I gave Cecilia." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! that out of which she used to give me Barbary 
 drops : I am very much obliged to you ; I always thought 
 that exceedingly pretty, and this, indeed, is as like it as 
 possible. I can't unscrew it : will you try ?" 
 
 Leonora unscrewed it. 
 
 " Goodhess !" exclaimed Louisa, " this must be Cecilia's 
 box : look, do n't you see a great L at the bottom of it ?" 
 
 Leonora's colour changed ; " Yes," she replied, calmly, 
 " I see that, but it is no proof that it is Cecilia's ; you know 
 that I bought this box just now of the pedler." 
 
 " That may be," said Louisa ; " but I remember scratch- 
 ing that L with my own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for 
 it, too; do go and ask her if she has lost her box do," 
 repeated Louisa, pulling her by the sleeve, as she did not 
 seem to listen. 
 
 Leonora, indeed, did not hear, for she was lost in thought ; 
 she was comparing circumstances, which had before escaped 
 her attention ; she recollected that Cecilia had passed her, 
 as she came into the hall, without seeming to see her, but 
 had blushed as she passed. She remembered that the ped- 
 ler appeared unwilling to part with the box, and Avas going 
 to put it again into his pocket with the halfpence: "And 
 
THE BRACELETS. 195 
 
 why should he keep it in his pocket, and not show it with 
 his other things?" Combining all these circumstances, 
 Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth ; for though 
 she had honourable confidence in her friends, she had too 
 much penetration to be implicitly credulous. " Louisa," 
 she began ; but at this instant she heard a step, which, by 
 its quickness, she knew to be Cecilia's, coming along the 
 passage. "If you love me, Louisa," said Leonora, "say 
 nothing about the box." 
 
 " Nay, but why not ? I dare say she has lost it." 
 
 "No, my dear, I'm afraid she has not." Louisa looked 
 surprised. 
 
 " But I have reasons for desiring you not to say anything 
 about it." 
 
 " Well, then, I won't indeed." 
 
 Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure 
 of a good reception, and taking the Flora out of the case, 
 she placed it on the mantel-piece opposite to Louisa's bed. 
 " Dear, how beautiful !" cried Louisa, starting up. 
 
 "Yes," said Cecilia, "and guess who it's for?" 
 
 " For me, perhaps !" said the ingenuous Louisa. 
 
 "Yes, take it, and keep it for myself: you know that I 
 broke your mandarin." 
 
 " Oh ! but this is a great deal prettier and larger than 
 that." 
 
 " Yes* I know it is ; and I meant that it should be so ; I 
 should only have done what I was bound to do if I had only 
 given you a mandarin." 
 
 " Well, and that would have been enough, surely ; but 
 what a beautiful crown of roses ! and then that basket of 
 flowers ! they almost look as if I could smell them. Dear 
 Cecilia ! I 'm very much obliged to you, but I won't take it 
 by way of payment for the mandarin you broke ; for I 'm 
 sure you could not help that ; and besides, I should have 
 broken it myself by this time. You shall give it to me 
 entirely, and I '11 keep it as long as I live as your keepsake." 
 
196 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 Louisa stopped short, and coloured. The word keepsake 
 recalled the box to her mind, and all the train of ideas 
 which the Flora had banished. " But," said she, looking 
 up wistfully in Cecilia's face, and holding the Flora doubtr 
 fully, " did you" 
 
 Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head 
 back, and gave Louisa a look which silenced her. 
 
 Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she nei- 
 ther perceived Leonora's sign nor Louisa's confusion, but 
 continued showing off her present, by placing it in various 
 situations, till at length she put it into the case, and laying 
 it down with an affected carelessness upon the bed, " I must 
 go now, Louisa. Good-bye," said she, running up, and kiss- 
 ing her ; " but I '11 come again presently ;" then, clapping 
 the door after her, she went. 
 
 But, as soon as the fermentation of her spirits subsided, 
 the sense of shame, which had been scarcely felt when 
 mixed with so many other sensations, rose uppermost in her 
 mind. "What!" said she to herself, "is it possible that I 
 have sold what I promised to keep for ever ? and what Leo- 
 nora gave me ? and I have concealed it too, and have been 
 making a parade of my generosity. Oh, what would Leo- 
 nora, what would Louisa, what would everybody think of 
 me, if the truth were known ?" 
 
 Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began 
 to search in her own mind for some consoling idea. She 
 began to compare her conduct with the conduct of others 
 of her own age ; and, at length, fixing her comparison upon 
 her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her 
 infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she 
 recollected that an almost similar circumstance had once 
 happened to him, and that he had not only escaped disgrace, 
 but had acquired glory by an intrepid confession of his fault. 
 Her father's words to her brother on the occasion she also 
 perfectly recollected. 
 
 " Come to me, George," he said, holding out his hand ; 
 
THE BRACELETS. 197 
 
 " you are a generous brave boy : they who dare to confess 
 their faults will make great and good men." 
 
 These were his words ; but Cecilia, in repeating them to 
 herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word men, which 
 would have placed it in contradistinction to the word women. 
 She willingly believed, that the observation extended equally 
 to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed 
 her brother in merit if she owned a fault which she thought 
 that it would be so much more difficult to confess. 
 
 "Yes, but," said she, stopping herself, " how can I confess 
 it ? This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will be 
 decided ; Leonora or I shall win it : I have now as good a 
 chance as Leonora, perhaps a better ; and must I give up 
 all my hopes all that I have been labouring for this month 
 past ? Oh, I never can ! If it were but to-morrow, or yes- 
 terday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate ; but now 
 I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it well, 
 why then I will I think I will, tell all yes, I will ; I am 
 determined," said Cecilia. 
 
 Here a bell summoned them to dinner ; Leonora sat oppo- 
 site to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia 
 look so gay and unconstrained. " Surely," said she to herself, 
 " if Cecilia had done this that I suspect, she would not, she 
 could not, look as she does." But Leonora little knew the 
 cause of her gayety ; Cecilia was never in higher spirits or 
 better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved 
 upon a sacrifice or a confession. 
 
 " Must not this evening be given to the most amiable ? 
 Whose, then, will it be ?" All eyes glanced first at Cecilia, 
 and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled, Leonora blushed. " I 
 see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs. Villars ; and imme- 
 diately she ran up-stairs, amid confused whisperings. 
 
 Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest. 
 
 " How can she be so happy !" said Leonora to herself: 
 " oh, Cecilia ! there was a time when you could not have 
 neglected me so ! when we were always together, the best 
 
198 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 of friends and companions ; our wishes, tastes, and plea- 
 sures the same ! Surely she did once love me," said Leo- 
 nora ; " but now she is quite changed, she has even sold my 
 keepsake ; and she would rather win a bracelet of hair from 
 girls whom she did not always think so much superior to 
 Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my 
 friendship for her whole life ; yes, for her whole life, for I 
 am sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh, that this brace- 
 let had never been thought of, or that I were certain of her 
 winning it ! for I am sure that I do not wish to win it from 
 her: I would rather, a thousand times rather, that we were 
 as we used to be, than have all the glory in the world : and 
 how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please ! 
 How candid she is! how much she can improve herself! let 
 me'be just, though she has offended me ; she is wonderfully 
 improved within the last month : for one fault, and that 
 against myself, shall I forget all her merits ?" 
 
 As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear 
 the voices of her companions ; they had left her alone in 
 the gallery ; she knocked softly at Louisa's door. " Come 
 in," said Louisa ; " I 'm not asleep ; oh," said she, starting 
 up with the Flora in her hand the instant that the door was 
 opened, " I 'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so 
 long to hear what you were all making such a noise about. 
 Have you forgot that the bracelet " 
 
 "Oh, yes ! is this the evening?" 
 
 " Well, here 's my white shell for you ; I have kept it in 
 my pocket this fortnight ; and though Cecilia did give me 
 this Flora, I still love you a great deal better." 
 
 " I thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully ; " I will 
 take your shell, and I shall value it as long as I live ; but 
 here is a red one, and if you wish to show me that you love 
 me, you will give this to Cecilia ; I know that she is parti- 
 cularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she 
 deserves it." 
 
 " Yes, if I could I would choose both of you ; but you 
 know I can only choose which I like the best." 
 
THE BRACELETS. 199 
 
 " If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, " that you 
 like me the best, I am very much obliged to you ; for, indeed, 
 1 wish you to love me, but it is enough for me to know it in 
 private ; I should not feel the least more pleasure at hear- 
 ing it in public, or in having it made known to all my com- 
 panions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia 
 a great deal of pain." 
 
 " But why should it give her pain ? I do n't like her for 
 being jealous of you." 
 
 "Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous; 
 she only tries to excel and to please ; she is more anxious 
 to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal 
 more activity, and perhaps more ambition; and it would 
 really mortify her to lose this prize : you know that she 
 proposed it herself; it has been her object for this month 
 past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it." 
 
 "But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?" 
 
 " Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me ; and if it 
 were, I would willingly suffer it for Cecilia ; for, though we 
 seem not to be such good friends as we used to be, I love 
 her very much, and she will love me again, I am sure she 
 will ; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will again 
 love me as a friend." 
 
 Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running 
 along the gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, 
 calling, " Leonora ! Leonora ! will you never come ? Cecilia 
 has been with us this half-hour." 
 
 Leonora smiled : " Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, " will 
 you promise me ?" 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sure, by the way they speak to you, that they 
 won't give you the prize !" said the little Louisa, and the 
 tears started into her eyes. 
 
 " They love me, though, for all that ; and as for the prize, 
 you know whom I wish to have it." 
 
 " Leonora ! Leonora !" called her impatient companions ; 
 " do ri't you hear us ? What are you about?" 
 
200 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 " Oh, she never will take any trouble about anything," 
 said one of the party ; " let's go away." 
 
 "Oh, go! go! make haste," cried Louisa; "don't stay, 
 they are so angry ! I will, I will, indeed I" 
 
 "Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leo- 
 nora, and she left the room. During all this time Cecilia 
 had been in the garden with her companions. The ambi- 
 tion which she had felt to win the first prize the prize of 
 superior talents and superior application was not to be 
 compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed 
 to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of 
 her equals and rivals. 
 
 To employ her exuberant activity she had been dragging 
 branches of lilacs and laburnums, roses and sweetbrier, to 
 ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided. It 
 was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was 
 indefatigable. She stood still, at last, to admire her works, 
 her companions all joining in loud applause ; they were not 
 a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness 
 which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great 
 importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of 
 each individual. At last, " Where is Leonora ?" cried one 
 of them, and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call 
 her. 
 
 Cecilia was left alone ; overcome with heat, and too vio- 
 lent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; 
 each moment appeared to her intolerably long ; she was in 
 a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed 
 her ; even hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial which 
 leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled. " The time is now 
 come," said Cecilia ; " in a few moments it will be decided. 
 In a few moments ! goodness ! how much do I hazard ! If 
 I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have 
 done ? how shall I beg Leonora to forgive me ? I who hoped 
 to restore my friendship to her as an honour ! They are 
 gone to seek for her the moment she appears I shall be 
 
THE BRACELETS. 201 
 
 
 
 forgotten. What shall what shall I do?" said Cecilia, 
 covering her face with her hands. 
 
 Such was her situation, when Leonora, accompanied by 
 her companions, opened the hall-door ; they most of them 
 ran forward to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, 
 she held out her hand to Cecilia: "We are not rivals, but 
 friends, I hope," said she. Cecilia clasped her hand, but 
 she was in too great agitation to speak. 
 
 The table was now set in the arbour the vase was now 
 placed in the middle. " Well," said Cecilia, eagerly, " who 
 begins ?" Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, 
 and then all the others successively. Cecilia's emotion was 
 hardly conceivable. " Now, they are all in ! count them, 
 Caroline." 
 
 " One, two, three, four ; the numbers are both equal." 
 
 There was a dead silence. 
 
 " No, they are not !" exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward, 
 and putting a shell into the vase ; " I have not given mine, 
 and I give it to Leonora." Then, snatching the bracelet, 
 " It is yours, Leonora," said she ; " take it, and give me 
 back your friendship." The whole assembly gave a univer- 
 sal clap and shout of applause. 
 
 " I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia," said 
 Leonora ; " and do you, then, still love me as you used to 
 do?" 
 
 " Oh, Leonora ! stop ! do n't praise me ! I do n't deserve 
 this !" said she, turning to her loudly applauding compa- 
 nions ; " you will soon despise me oh, Leonora, you will 
 never forgive me ! I have deceived you I have sold " 
 
 At this instant Mrs. Villars appeared ; the crowd divided 
 she had heard all that passed from her window. 
 
 "I applaud your generosity, Cecilia," said she; "but I 
 am to tell you that in this instance it is unsuccessful : you 
 have it not in your power to give the prize to Leonora it 
 is yours I have another vote to give you; you have for- 
 gotten Louisa." 
 
202 THE BRACELETS. 
 
 
 
 " Louisa ! but surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better 
 than she does me." 
 
 " She commissioned me, however," said Mrs. Villars, "to 
 give you a red shell ; and you will find it in this box." 
 
 Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death. It was the 
 fatal box. 
 
 Mrs. Villars produced another box; she opened it it 
 contained the Flora : " And Louisa also desired me," said 
 she, " to return you this Flora ;" she put it into Cecilia's 
 hand Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it Leo- 
 nora caught it. 
 
 " Oh, madam ! oh, Leonora !" exclaimed Cecilia ; " now 
 I have no hope left ; I intended I was just going to tell " 
 
 " Dear Cecilia," said Leonora, " you need not tell it me ; 
 I know it already, and I forgive you with all my heart." 
 
 " Yes, I can prove to you," said Mrs. Villars, " that Leo- 
 nora has forgiven you : it is she who has given you the 
 prize ; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. 
 I went to see her a little while ago, and perceiving by her 
 countenance that something was the matter, I pressed her 
 to tell me what it was. 
 
 " ' Why, madam,' said she, ' Leonora has made me pro- 
 mise to give my shell to Cecilia ; now I do n't love Cecilia 
 half so well as I do Leonora ; besides, I would not have 
 Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.' 
 While Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villers, " I 
 saw this silver box lying on the bed ; I took it up, and asked 
 if it was not yours, and how she came by it. 
 
 " ' Indeed, madam,' said Louisa, ' I could have been 
 almost certain that it was Cecilia's ; but Leonora gave it 
 mo, and she said that she bought it of the pedler this morn- 
 ing ; if anybody else had told me so, I could not have 
 believed them, because I remembered the box so well ; but 
 I can't help believing Leonora.' 
 
 " ' But did you not ask Cecilia about it ?' said I. 
 
 " ' No, madam,' replied Louisa, ' for Leonora forbade me/ 
 
THE BRACELETS. 203 
 
 " I guessed her reason. ' Well/ said I, ' give me the box, 
 and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia.' 
 
 " ' Then, madam,' said she, ' if I must give it her, pray 
 do take the Flora, and return it to her first, that she may 
 not think it is for that I do it.' " 
 
 " Oh, generous Leonora !" exclaimed Cecilia ; " but in- 
 deed, Louisa, I cannot take your shell." 
 
 "Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it: you 
 cannot refuse it, I only follow your example ; as for the 
 bracelet," added Leonora, taking Cecilia's hand, " I assure 
 you I do n't wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it." 
 
 " No," said Cecilia, " indeed I do not deserve it ; next to 
 you, surely Louisa deserves it best." 
 
 " Louisa ! oh yes, Louisa !" exclaimed everybody, with 
 one voice. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Villars ; " and let Cecilia carry the 
 bracelet to her ; she deserves that reward. For one fault I 
 cannot forget all your merits, Cecilia ; nor, I am sure, will 
 your companions." 
 
 " Then, surely, not your best friend," said Leonora, kiss- 
 ing her. 
 
 Everybody present was moved they looked up to Leo- 
 nora witb respectful and affectionate admiration. 
 
 " Oh, Leonora ! how I love you ! and how I wish to be 
 like you !" exclaimed Cecilia ; " to be as good, as gene- 
 rous !" 
 
 " Rather wish, Cecilia," interrupted Mrs. Villars, " to be 
 as just; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably con- 
 sistent. Remember, that many of our sex are capable of 
 as great efforts, of making what they call great sacrifices 
 to virtue or to friendship ; but few treat their friends with 
 habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with 
 prudence and good sense." 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Chi di gattina natce convien che rozole. 
 
 As the old cock crows so crows the young. 
 
 THOSE who have visited Italy give us an agreeable picture 
 of the cheerful industry of the children of all ages in the 
 celebrated city of Naples : their manner of living, and theii 
 numerous employments, are exactly described in the follow- 
 ing " Extract from a Traveller's Journal." * 
 
 " The children are busied in various ways. A great num- 
 ber of them bring fish for sale to town from Santa Lucia ; 
 others are very often seen about the arsenals, or wherever 
 carpenters are at work, employed in gathering up the chips 
 and pieces of wood ; or by the seaside picking up sticks, 
 and whatever else has drifted ashore, which, when their 
 basket is full, they carry away. Children of two or three 
 years old, who can scarcely crawl along upon the ground, 
 in company with boys of five or six, are employed in this 
 petty trade. Hence they proceed with their baskets into 
 the heart of the city, where in several places they form a 
 sort of little market, sitting round with their stock of wood 
 before them. Labourers and the lower order of citizens buy 
 it of them, to burn in the tripods for warming themselves, 
 or to use in their scanty kitchens. Other children carry 
 about for sale the water of the sulphurous wells, which, 
 
 * Varieties of Literature, vol. i. p. 299. 
 
 (204) 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 205 
 
 particularly in the spring season, is drunk in great abun- 
 dance. Others again endeavour to turn a few pence by buy- 
 ing a small matter of fruit, of pressed honey, cakes, and 
 comfits, and then, like little pedlers, offer and sell them to 
 other children, always for no more profit than that they may 
 have their share of them free of expense. It is really curi- 
 ous to see how an urchin, whose whole stock and property 
 consists in a board and a knife, will carry about a water- 
 melon, or a half-roasted gourd, collect a troup of children 
 round him, set down his board, and proceed to divide the 
 fruit into small pieces among them. The buyers keep a 
 sharp look-out, to see that they have enough for their little 
 piece of copper ; and the Lilliputian tradesman acts with no 
 less caution, as the exigencies of the case may require, to 
 prevent his being cheated out of a morsel." 
 
 The advantages of truth and honesty, and the value of a 
 character for integrity, are very early felt among these little 
 merchants in their daily intercourse with each other. The 
 fair dealer is always sooner or later seen to prosper ; the 
 most cunning cheat is at least detected and disgraced. 
 
 Numerous instances of the truth of this common obser- 
 vation were remarked by many Neapolitan children, espe- 
 cially by those who were acquainted with the characters and 
 history of ?iedro and Francisco, two boys originally equal 
 in birth, fortune and capacity, but different in their educa- 
 tion, and consequently in their habits and conduct. Fran- 
 cisco was the son of an honest gardener, who, from the time 
 he could speak, taught him to love to speak the truth ; 
 showed him that liars are never believed ; that cheats and 
 thieves cannot be trusted, and that the shortest way to 
 obtain a good character is to deserve it. Youth and white 
 paper, as the proverb says, take all impressions. The boy 
 profited much by the father's precepts, and more by his 
 example : he always heard his father speak the truth, and 
 saw that he dealt fairly with everybody. In all his childish 
 traffic Francisco, imitating his paronts, was scrupulously 
 
206 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 honest, and therefore all his companions trusted him. " As 
 honest as Francisco I" became a sort of proverb among 
 them. 
 
 " As honest as Francisco," repeated Piedro's father, -when 
 he one day heard this saying ; " let them say so ; I say, ' As 
 sharp as Piedro,' and let us see which will go through the 
 world best." "With the idea of making his son sharp, he 
 made him cunning ; he taught him, that to make a good bar- 
 gain was to deceive as to the value and price of whatever 
 he wanted to dispose of, to get as much money as possible 
 from customers by taking advantage of their ignorance or 
 of their confidence : he often repeated his favourite proverb, 
 " The buyer has need of a hundred eyes ; the seller has need 
 but of one ;" * and he took frequent opportunities of explain- 
 ing the meaning of this maxim to his son. He was a fish- 
 erman, and as his gains depended more upon fortune than 
 upon prudence, he trusted habitually to his good luck. 
 After being idle for a whole day, he would cast his line or 
 his nets, and if he was lucky enough to catch a fine fish, he 
 would go and show it in triumph to his neighbour the gar- 
 dener. " You are obliged to work all day long for your daily 
 bread," he would say ; " look here, I work but five minutes, 
 and I have not only daily bread, but daily fish." Upon 
 these occasions our fisherman always forgot, or neglected to 
 count, the hours and days which were wasted in waiting for 
 a fair wind to put to sea, or angling in vain on the shore. 
 Little Piedro, who used to bask in the sun upon the sea- 
 shore beside his father, and to lounge or sleep away his time 
 in a fishing-boat, acquired habits of idleness, which seemed 
 to his father of little consequence while he was but a child. 
 " What will you do with Piedro as he grows up, neighbour ?" 
 said the gardener ; " he is smart and quick enough, but he 
 is always in mischief. Scarcely a day has passed for this 
 fortnight but I have caught him among my grapes. I track 
 
 * Chi compra ha bisogna di cent occhi, chi vende n'ha assai di uno. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 207 
 
 his footsteps all over my vineyard." "He is but a child 
 yet, and knows no better," replied the fisherman. " But if 
 you do n't teach him better now he is a child, how will he 
 know better when he is a man ?" said the gardener. " A 
 mighty noise about a bunch of grapes, truly 1" cried the 
 fisherman ; " a few grapes more or less in your vineyard, 
 what does it signify ?" "I speak for your son's sake, and 
 not for the sake of my grapes," said the gardener ; " and I 
 tell you again, the boy will not do well in the world, neigh- 
 bour, if you do n't look after him in time." " He '11 do 
 well enough in the world, you will find," answered the fish- 
 erman, carelessly ; " whenever he casts my nets, they never 
 come up empty. ' It is better to be lucky than wise.' " * 
 This was a proverb which Piedro had frequently heard from 
 his father, and to which he most willingly trusted, because 
 it gave him less trouble to fancy himself fortunate than to 
 make himself wise. " Come here, child," said his father to 
 him, when he returned home after the preceding conversa- 
 tion with the gardener ; " how old are you, my boy twelve 
 years old, is it not ?" " As old as Francisco, and older by 
 six months," said Piedro. " And smarter and more know- 
 ing by six years," said his father. " Here, take these fish 
 to Naples, and let us see how you '11 sell them for me. Ven- 
 ture a small fish, as the proverb says, to catch a great one.f 
 I was too late with them at the market yesterday, but 
 nobody will know but what they are just fresh out of the 
 water, unless you go and tell them."-r-" Not I, trust me for 
 that, I 'm not such a fool," replied Piedro, laughing ; " I 
 leave that to Francisco. Do you know I saw him the other 
 day miss selling a melon for his father by turning tho 
 bruised side to the customer, who was just laying down the 
 money for it, and who was a raw servant^boy, moreover ; 
 one who would never have guessed there were two sides to 
 
 * E'meglio esser fortunate cue savio. 
 
 f BuUa una sardella per piglier un luccio. 
 
208 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 a melon, if he had not, as you say, father, been told of it." 
 " Off with you to market ; you are a droll chap," said his 
 father, " and will sell my fish cleverly, I '11 be bound ; as to 
 the rest, let every man take care of his own grapes you 
 understand me, Piedro ?" " Perfectly," said the boy, who 
 perceived that his father was indifferent as to his honesty, 
 provided he sold fish at the highest price possible. He pro- 
 ceeded to the market, and he offered his fish with assiduity 
 to every person whom he thought likely to buy it, especially 
 to those upon whom he thought he could impose. He posi- 
 tively asserted to all who looked at his fish, that they were 
 just fresh out of the water; good judges of men and fish 
 knew that he said what was false, and passed him by with 
 neglect ; but it was at last what he called his good luck to 
 meet with the very same young raw servant-boy who would 
 have bought the bruised melon from Francisco. He made 
 up to him directly, crying, " Fish ! Fine fresh fish ! fresh 
 fish !" " Was it caught to-day ?" said the boy. " Yes, this 
 morning ; not an hour ago," said Piedro, with the greatest 
 effrontery. The servant-boy was imposed upon, and, being 
 a foreigner, speaking the Italian language but imperfectly, 
 and not being expert at reckoning the Italian money, he 
 was no match for the cunning Piedro, who cheated him, not 
 only as to the freshness, but as to the price of the commo- 
 dity. Piedro received nearly half as much again for his 
 fish as he ought to have done. 
 
 On his road homeward from Naples to th'e little village 
 of Resina, where his father lived, he overtook Francisco, 
 who was leading his father's ass ; the ass was laden with large 
 panniers, which were filled with the stalks and leaves of 
 cauliflowers, cabbages, broccoli, lettuces, &c., all the refuse 
 of the Neapolitan kitchens, which are usually collected by 
 the gardeners' boys, and carried to the gardens round Naples, 
 to be mixed with other manure. 
 
 " Well-filled panniers, truly," said Pedro, as he overtook 
 Francisco and the ass. The panniers were, indeed, not 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 209 
 
 only filled to the top, but piled up -with much skill and care, 
 so that the load met over the animal's back. " It is not a 
 very heavy load for the ass, though it looks so large," said 
 Francisco ; " poor fellow, however, he shall have a little of 
 this water," added he, leading the ass to a pool by the road- 
 side. " I was not thinking of the ass, man ; I was not 
 thinking of any ass, but of you, when I said, well-filled 
 panniers, truly ! This is your morning's work, I presume, 
 and you'll make another journey to Naples to-day on the 
 same errand, I warrant, before your father thinks you have 
 done enough." " Not before my father thinks I have done 
 enough, but before I think so myself," replied Francisco. 
 " I do enough to satisfy myself and my father, too, without 
 slaving myself after your fashion. Look here,"said Piedro, 
 producing the money he had received for the fish ; " all this 
 was had for asking for ; it 's no bad thing, you '11 allow, to 
 know how to ask for money properly." "I should be 
 ashamed to beg, or to borrow either," said Francisco. " Nei- 
 ther did I get what you see by begging, or borrowing 
 either," said Piedro, " but by using my wits ; not as you 
 did yesterday, when, like a novice, you showed the bruised 
 side of your melon, and so spoiled your market by your wis- 
 dom." " Wisdom I think it still," said Francisco. " And 
 your father ?" " And my father," said Francisco. " Mine 
 is of a different way of thinking," said Piedro ; " he always 
 tells me, that the buyer has need of a hundred eyes, and if 
 one can blind the whole hundred, so much the better. You 
 must know, I got off the fish to-day that my father could not 
 sell yesterday in the market. Got it off for fresh just out 
 of the river got twice as much as the market price for it, 
 and from whom, think you ? Why, from the very booby 
 that would have bought the bruised melon for a sound one, 
 if you would have let him. You'll allow I'm no fool, Fran- 
 cisco, and that I 'm in a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as, 
 I have begun." "Stay," said Francisco, "you forgot that 
 the booby you took in to-day will not be so easily taken in 
 14 
 
210 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 to-morrow. He will buy no more fish from you, because Ji 
 will be afraid of your cheating him ; but he will be ready 
 enough to buy fruit from me, because he will know I shall 
 not cheat him ; so you '11 have lost a customer, and I gained 
 one." " With all my heart," said Piedro, " one customer 
 does not make a market ; if ho buys no more from me, what 
 care I, there are people enough to buy fish in Naples." 
 " And do you mean to serve them all in the same manner ?" 
 " If they will be only so good as to give me leave," said 
 Piedro, laughing, and repeating his father's proverb, " ven- 
 ture a small fish to catch a large one." He had learned to 
 think, that to cheat in making bargains was witty and cle- 
 ver. " And you have never considered, then," said Fran- 
 cisco, " that all these people will, one after another, find you 
 out in time ?" " Ay, in time, but it will be some time first ; 
 there are a great many of them, enough to last me all sum- 
 mer, if I lose a customer a day," said Piedro. " And next 
 summer, what will you do ?" " Next summer is not come 
 yet ; there is time enough to think what I shall do before 
 next summer comes. Why, now, suppose the blockheads, 
 after they had been taken in, and found it out, all joined 
 against me, and would buy none of our fish What then? 
 Are there no trades going but that of a fisherman ? In Na- 
 ples are there not a hundred ways of making money for a 
 smart lad like me ? as my father says. What do you think 
 of turning merchant, and selling sugar-plums and cakes to 
 the children in their market? Would they be hard to deal 
 with, think you?" "I think not," said Francisco; "but 
 I think the children would find out in time if they wero 
 cheated, and would like it as little as the men." " I do n't 
 doubt them ; then in time I could, you know, change my 
 trade, sell chips and sticks in the wood market ; hand about 
 lemonade to the fine folks, or twenty other things. There 
 are trades enough, man." " Yes, for the honest dealer," 
 said Francisco, " but for no other ; for in all of them you '11 
 find, as my father says, that a good character is the best 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 211 
 
 fortune to set up with. Change your trade ever so often, 
 you '11 be found out for what you are at last." " And what 
 am I, pray?" said Piedro, angrily; "the whole truth of 
 the matter is, Francisco, that you envy my good luck, and 
 can't bear to hear the money jingle in my hand. Ay, stroke 
 the long ears of your ass, and look as wise as you please. 
 It's better to be lucky than wise, as my father says. Good- 
 morning to you ; when I am found out for what I am, or 
 when the worst comes to the worst, I can drive a stupid ass, 
 with his panniers filled with rubbish, as well as you do now, 
 honest Francisco" "Not quite so well; unless you were 
 honest Francisco, you would not fill his panniers quite so 
 readily." 
 
 This was certain, that Francisco was so well known for 
 his honesty among all the people at Naples with whom his 
 father was acquainted, that every one was glad to deal with 
 him ; and as he never wronged any one, all were willing to 
 serve him, at least as much as they could without loss to 
 themselves ; so that after the market was over, his panniers 
 were regularly filled by the gardeners and others with what- 
 ever he wanted. His industry was constant, his gains small, 
 but certain, and he every day had more and more reason to 
 trust to his father's maxim that honesty is the best policy. 
 
 The foreign servant lad, to whom Francisco had so hon- 
 estly, or, as Piedro said, so sillily, showed the bruised side 
 of the melon, was an Englishman. He left his native coun- 
 try, of which he was extremely fond, to attend upon his 
 master, to whom he was still more attached. His master 
 was in a declining state of health, and this young lad 
 waited upon him more to his mind than his other servants. 
 We must, in consideration of his zeal, fidelity, and inexperi- 
 ence, pardon him for not being a good judge of fish. Though 
 he had simplicity enough to be easily cheated once, he had 
 too much sense to be twice made a dupe. The next time he 
 met Piedro in the market, he happened to be in company 
 with several English gentlemen's servants, and he pointed 
 
212 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 Piedro out to them all as an arrant knave ; they heard his 
 cry of " Fresh fish ! fresh fish ! fine fresh fish !'' with incre- 
 dulous smiles, and let him pass, but not without some 
 expressions of contempt, which, though uttered in English, 
 he tolerably well understood, for the tone of contempt is 
 sufficiently expressive in all languages. He lost more by 
 not selling his fish to these people than he gained the day 
 before by cheating the English booby. The market was well 
 supplied, and he could not get rid of his cargo. " Is not 
 this truly provoking?" said he, as he passed by Francisco, 
 who was selling fruit for his father. " Look, my basket is 
 as heavy as when I left home ; and, look at 'ein yourself, 
 they really are fine fresh fish to-day, and yet, because that 
 revengeful booby told how I took him in yesterday, not one 
 of yonder crowd would buy them : and all the time they 
 really are fresh to-day." " So they are," said Francisco ; 
 " but you said so yesterday when they were not, and he that 
 was duped then is not ready to believe you to-day. How 
 does he know that you deserve it better?" "He might 
 have looked at the fish ; they are fresh to-day. I am sure," 
 repeated Piedro, " he need not have been afraid to-day." 
 " Ay," said Francisco, " but, as my father said to you once 
 The scalded dog fears cold water." * 
 
 Here their conversation was interrupted by the approach 
 of this same English lad, who smiled as he came up to Fran- 
 cisco, and taking up a fine pineapple, he said, in a mixture 
 of bad Italian and English "I need not look at the other 
 side of this you will tell me if it is not as good as it 
 looks ; name your price, I know you have but one, and that 
 an honest one ; and as to the rest, I am able and willing to 
 pay for what I buy ; that is to say, my master is, which 
 comes to the same thing. I wish your fruit could make him 
 well, and it would be worth its weight in gold, to me at 
 least. We must have some of your grapes for him." " la 
 
 * II can scottato de 1'acqua calda ha paura poi della fredda. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 213 
 
 not he well ? "We must then pick out the best for him," 
 eaid Francisco, singling out a tempting bunch "I hope 
 he will like these ; but if you could some day come as far 
 as Resina, it is a village but a few miles out of town, where 
 we have our vineyard, you could there choose for yourself, 
 and pluck them fresh from the vines for your poor master." 
 " Bless you, my good boy, I should take you for an Eng- 
 lishman, by your way of dealing. I '11 come to your village, 
 only write me down the name, for your Italian names slip 
 through my head ; I '11 come to your vineyard, if it was ten 
 miles off; and all the time we stay in Naples (may it not 
 be so long as I fear it will !) I '11, with my master's leave, 
 which he never refuses me to anything that 's proper, and 
 that 's what this is, deal with you for all our fruit, as sure 
 as my name's Arthur, and with none else with my good- 
 will. I wish all your countrymen would take after you in 
 honesty so I do," concluded the Englishman, looking 
 full at Piedro, who took up his heavy melancholy basket of 
 fish, and walked off, looking somewhat silly. 
 
 Arthur, the English servant, was as good as his word ; he 
 dealt constantly with Francisco, and proved an excellent 
 customer, buying from him during the whole season as 
 much fruit as his master wanted. His master, who was an 
 Englishman of distinction, was invited to take up his resi- 
 dence, during his stay in Italy, at the Count de F.'s villa, 
 which was in the environs of Naples, an easy walk from 
 Resina. Francisco had the pleasure of seeing his father's 
 vineyard often full of generous visitors ; and Arthur, who 
 had circulated the anecdote of the bruised melon, was, he 
 said, " proud to think that some of this was his doing, and 
 that an Englishman never forgot a good turn, be it from a 
 countryman or foreigner." 
 
 " My dear boy," said Francisco's father to him, while 
 Arthur was in the vineyard helping to tend the vines, " I 
 am to thank you and your honesty, it seems, for our having 
 our hands so full of business this season. It is fair you 
 
214 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 should have a share of our profits." " So I have, father, 
 enough and enough, when I see you and mother going on 
 so well. What can I want more ?" " Oh, my brave boy, 
 we know you are a grateful good son ; but I have been your 
 age myself; you have companions ; you have little expenses 
 of your own. Here, this vine, this fig-tree, and a melon a 
 week next summer, shall be yours with these you '11 make 
 a fine figure among the little Neapolitan merchants and 
 all I wish is, you may prosper as well, and by the same 
 honest means, in managing for yourself, as you have done 
 managing for me." " Thank you, father ; and if I prosper 
 at all, it shall be by those means and no other, or I shall 
 not be worthy to be called your son." 
 
 Piedro the cunning did not make quite so successful a 
 Bummer's work as did Francisco the honest. No extraordi- 
 nary events happened, no singular instance of bad or good 
 luck occurred ; but he felt, as persons usually do, the natu- 
 ral consequences of his own actions. He pursued his 
 scheme of imposing, as far as he could, upon every person 
 he dealt with ; and the consequence was, that at last nobody 
 would deal with him. " It is easy to out-wit one person, 
 but impossible to out-wit all the world," said a man* who 
 knew the world at least as well as either Piedro or his father. 
 Piedro' 8 father, among others, had reason to complain ; he 
 saw his old customers fall off from him, and was told, when- 
 ever he went into the market, that his son was such a cheat 
 there was no dealing with him. One day, when he was 
 returning from market in a very bad humour in consequence 
 of these reproaches, and of his not having found customers 
 for his goods, he espied his smart son Piedro at a little mer- 
 chant's fruit-board, devouring a fine gourd with prodigious 
 greediness. " Where, glutton, do you find money to pay 
 for these dainties ?" exclaimed his father, coming close up 
 
 * The Duke de Rochefoucault " On peut etre plus fin qu'nn 
 autre, mais pas olus fin que tous les autres." 
 
THE LITTLE M E R C H A N T S . 215 
 
 to him with angry gestures. Piedro's mouth was much too 
 full to make an immediate reply, nor did his father wait for 
 any, but darting his hand into the youth's pocket, pulled 
 forth a handful of silver. " The money, father/' said Pie- 
 dro, " that I got for the fish yesterday, and that I meant to 
 give you to-day, before you went out." "Then I'll make 
 you remember it against another time, sirrah !" said his 
 father. " I '11 teach you to fill your stomach with my money ! 
 Am I to lose my customers by your tricks, and then find 
 you here eating my all ? You are a rogue, and everybody 
 has found you out to be a rogue ; and the worst of rogues 
 I find you, who scruples not to cheat his own father." Say- 
 ing these words, with great vehemence he seized hold of 
 Piedro, and in the very midst of the little fruit-market gave 
 him a severe beating. This beating did the boy no good ; 
 it was vengeance, not punishment. Piedro saw that his 
 father was in a passion, and knew that he was beaten 
 because he was found out to be a rogue, rather than for 
 being one ; he recollected perfectly, that his father once said 
 to him, " Let every one take care of his own grapes." In- 
 deed, it was scarcely reasonable to expect that a boy, who 
 had been educated to think that he might cheat every cus- 
 tomer he could in the way of trade, should be afterward 
 scrupulously honest in his conduct towards the father whose 
 proverbs encouraged his childhood in cunning. Piedro 
 writhed with bodily pain, as he left the market after his 
 drubbing ; but his mind was not in the least amended ; on 
 the contrary, he was hardened to the sense of shame by the 
 loss of reputation. All the little merchants were spectators 
 of this scene, and heard his father's words " You are a 
 rogue, and the worst of rogues, who scruples not to cheat 
 his own father." These words were long remembered, and 
 long did Piedro feel their effects. He once flattered himself, 
 that, when his trade of selling fish failed him, he could 
 readily engage in some other ; but he now found, to his 
 mortification, that what Francisco's father said proved true. 
 
216 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 " In all trades, the best fortune to set up -with is a good 
 character." Not one of the little Neapolitan merchants 
 would either enter into partnership with him, give him cre- 
 dit, or even trade with him for ready money. " If you 
 would cheat your own father, to be sure you would cheat 
 us," was continually said to him by these prudent little peo- 
 ple. Piedro was taunted and treated with contempt at home 
 and abroad. His father, when he found that his son's 
 smartness was no longer useful in making bargains, shoved 
 him out of his way whenever he met him ; all the food or 
 clothes that he had at home seemed to be given to him 
 grudgingly, and with such expressions as these " Take 
 that, but it is too good for you ; you must eat this now, 
 instead of gourds and figs, and be thankful you have even 
 this." Piedro spent a whole winter very unhappily ; he 
 expected that all his old tricks, and especially what his 
 father had said of him in the market-place, would be soon 
 forgotten ; but month passed after month, -and still these 
 things were fresh in the memory of all who had known 
 them. It is not easy to get rid of a bad character. A very 
 very great rogue * was once heard to say, that he would, 
 with all his heart, give ten thousand pounds for a good 
 character, because he knew that he could make twenty thou- 
 sand by it. Something like this was the sentiment of our 
 cunning hero, when he experienced the evils of a bad repu- 
 tation, and when he saw the numerous advantages which 
 Francisco's good character procured. Such had been Pie- 
 dro's wretched education, that even the hard lessons of 
 experience could not alter its pernicious effects. He was 
 sorry his knavery had been detected, but he still thought it 
 clever to cheat, and was secretly persuaded, that, if he had 
 cheated successfully, he should have been happy. " But I 
 know I am not happy now," said he to himself one morn- 
 ing, as he sat alone disconsolate by the sea-shore, dressed 
 
 Chartres. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 217 
 
 in tattered garments, weak and hungry, with an empty bas- 
 ket beside him. His fishing-rod, which he held between his 
 knees, bent over the dry sands instead of into the water, for 
 he was not thinking of what he was about ; his ai-ms were 
 folded, his head hung down, and his ragged hat was slouched 
 over his face. He was a melancholy spectacle. Francisco, 
 as he was coming from his father's vineyard with a large dish 
 of purple and white grapes upon his head, and a basket of 
 melons and figs hanging upon his arm, chanced to see Piedro 
 seated in this melancholy posture. Touched with compas- 
 sion, Francisco approached him softly ; his footsteps were not 
 heard upon the sands, and Piedro did not perceive that any 
 one was near him, till he felt something cold touch his 
 hand ; he then started, and looking up, saw a bunch of ripe 
 grapes, which Francisco was holding over his head. " Eat 
 them, you '11 find them very good, I hope," said Francisco, 
 with a benevolent smile. 
 
 "They are excellent most excellent, and I am much 
 obliged to you, Francisco," said Piedro. " I was very hun- 
 gry, and that 's what I often am now, without anybody's 
 caring anything about it. I am not the favourite I was 
 with my father, but I know it is all my own fault." 
 
 " Well, but cheer up," said Francisco, " my father always 
 says, ' One who knows he has been in fault, and acknow- 
 ledges it, will scarcely be in fault again.' Yes, take as 
 many figs as you will," continued he, and he held his bas- 
 ket closer to Piedro, who, as he saw, cast a hungry eye upon 
 one of the ripe figs. " But," said Piedro, after he had 
 taken several, " shall not I get you into a scrape by taking 
 so many? Won't your father be apt to miss them?" 
 
 " Do you think I would give them to you if they were not 
 my own ?" said Francisco, with a sudden glance of indig- 
 nation. " Well, do n't be angry that I asked the question ; 
 it was only from fear of getting you into disgrace that I 
 asked it." " It would not be easy for anybody to do that, 
 I hope," said Francisco, rather proudly. " And to me less 
 
218 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 than anybody," replied Piedro, in an insinuating tone, " /, 
 that am so much obliged to you I" "A bunch of grapes, 
 and a few figs are no mighty obligation," said Francisco, 
 smiling ; " I wish I could do more for you ; you seem, 
 indeed, to have been very unhappy of late; we never see 
 you in the markets as we used to do." " No, ever since 
 my father beat me, and called me rogue before all the chil- 
 dren there, I have never been able to show my face without 
 being gibed at by one or t' other. If you would but take 
 me along with you among them, and only just seem my 
 friend for a day or two, or so, it would quite set me up again, 
 for they all like you." "I would rather be than seem your 
 friend, if I could," said Francisco. " Ay, to be sure, that 
 would be still better," said Piedro, observing that Francisco, 
 as he uttered his last sentence, was separating the grapes 
 and other fruit into two equal divisions " to be sure, I 
 Avould rather you would be than seem a friend to me ; but I 
 thought that was too much to ask at first ; though I have a 
 notion notwithstanding I have been so unlucky lately 
 I have a notion you would have no reason to repent of it ; 
 you would find me no bad hand if you were to try, and take 
 me into partnership." " Partnership !" interrupted Fran- 
 cisco, drawing back alarmed "I had no thoughts of that." 
 " But won't you, can't you," said Piedro, in a supplicating 
 tone ; " can't you have thoughts of it ? You 'd find me a 
 very active partner." Francisco still drew back, and kept 
 his eyes fixed upon the ground he was embarrassed, for 
 he pitied Piedro, and he scarcely knew how to point out to 
 him that something more is necessary in a partner in trade 
 besides activity honesty. " Can't you ?" repeated Piedro, 
 thinking that he hesitated from merely mercenary motives. 
 " You shall have what share of the profits you please." 
 " I was not thinking of the profits," said Francisco ; " but, 
 without meaning to be ill-natured to you, Piedro, I must say 
 that I cannot enter into any partnership with you at pre- 
 sent : but I will do what, perhaps, you will like as well," 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 219 
 
 said he, taking half the fruit out of his basket. " You are 
 heartily welcome to this ; try and sell it in the children's 
 fruit market ; I '11 go on before you, and speak to those I 
 am acquainted with, and tell them that jou are going to set 
 up a new character, and that you hope to make it a good 
 one. Hey, shall I ?" " Thank you for ever, dear Francis- 
 co," said Piedro, seizing his plentiful gift of fruit ; " say 
 what you please for me." " But do n't make me say any- 
 thing that is not true," said Francisco, pausing. " No, to 
 be sure not," said Piedro ; " I do mean to give no room for 
 scandal. If I could get them to trust me as they do you, I 
 should be happy indeed." " That is what you may do, if 
 you please," said Francisco. " Adieu, I wish you well, with 
 all my heart ; but I must leave you now, or I shall be too 
 late for the market." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Chi va piano, va sano, e anche lontano. 
 Fair and softly goes far in a day. 
 
 PIEDRO had now an opportunity to establish a good char- 
 acter. When he went into the market with his grapes and 
 figs, he found that he was not shunned or taunted as usual ; 
 all seemed disposed to believe in his intended reformation, 
 and to give him a fair trial. These favourable dispositions 
 towards him were the consequence of Francisco's benevo- 
 lent representations ; he told them that he thought Piedro 
 had suffered enough to cure him of his tricks, that it would 
 be cruelty in them, because he might once have been in 
 fault, to banish him by their reproaches from among them, 
 and thus to prevent him from the means of gaining his liveli- 
 hood honestly. Piedro made a good beginning, and gave 
 what several of the younger customers thought excellent 
 bargains ; his grapes and figs were quickly sold ; and with 
 
220 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 the money that he got for- them, he the next day pur- 
 chased from a fruit-dealer a fresh supply, and thus he -went 
 on for some time, conducting himself with scrupulous 
 honesty, so that he^cquired some credit among his compa- 
 nions. They no longer watched him with suspicious eyes ; 
 they trusted to his measures and weights, and they counted 
 less carefully the change which they received from him. 
 The satisfaction he felt from this alteration in their manners 
 was at first delightful to him ; but in proportion to his cre- 
 dit, his opportunities of defrauding increased, and these 
 became temptations which he had not the firmness to resist. 
 His old manner of thinking recurred. " I make but a few 
 shillings a day, and this is but slow work," said he to him- 
 self. " What signifies my good character, if I make so little 
 by it ?" " Light gains, and frequent, make a heavy purse,"* 
 was one of Francisco's proverbs. But Piedro was in too 
 great haste to get rich to take time into his account. He 
 set his invention to work, and he did not want for ingenuity 
 to devise means of cheating, without running the risk of 
 detection. He observed that the younger part of the com- 
 munity were extremely fond of certain coloured sugar-plums, 
 and of burnt almonds ; with the money he had earned by 
 two months' trading in fruit he laid in a large stock, or 
 what appeared to these little merchants a large stock, of 
 these almonds and sugar-plums ; and he painted in capital 
 gold-coloured letters upon his board, " The sweetest, largest, 
 most admirable sugar-plums of all colours ever sold in 
 Naples to be had here ; and, in gratitude to his numerous 
 customers, Piedro adds to these, burnt almonds gratis." 
 
 This advertisement attracted the attention of all who 
 could read, and many who could not read heard it repeated 
 with delight. Crowds of children surrounded Piedro's 
 board of promise, and they all went away the first day 
 amply satisfied ; each had a full measure of coloured sugur- 
 
 * Poco e spesso empie il borsetto. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 221 
 
 plums at the usual price, and along with these a burnt 
 almond gratis. The burnt almond had such an effect upon 
 the public judgment, that it was universally allowed the 
 Bugar-plums were, as the advertisement set forth, the largest, 
 sweetest, most admirable ever sold in Naples ; though all 
 the time these were in no respect better than any other 
 sugar-plums. It was generally reported that Piedro gave full 
 measure, fuller than was to be had at any other board in the 
 city ; he measured the sugar-plums in a little cubical tin box, 
 and this, it was affirmed, he heaped up to the top, and pressed 
 down before he poured out the contents into the open hands 
 of his approving customers. This belief, and Piedro's popu- 
 larity, continued longer even than he expected ; and as he 
 thought his sugar-plums had now secured their reputation 
 with the generous public, he gradually neglected to add 
 burnt almonds gratis. One day a boy of about ten years 
 old passed carelessly by, whistling as he went along, and 
 swinging a carpenter's rule in his hand. " Ha ! what have 
 we here ?" cried he, stopping to read what was written on 
 Piedro's board. " This promises rarely. Old as I am, and 
 tall of my age, which makes the matter worse, I am still as 
 fond of sugar-plums as my little sister, who is five years 
 younger than I. Come, signer, fill me quick, for I am in 
 haste to taste them, two measures of the sweetest, largest, 
 most admiraoie sugar-plums in Naples one measure for 
 myself, aud one for my little Rosetta." " You '11 pay for 
 yourself and your sister then," said Piedro, " for no credit 
 is given here." "No credit do I ask," replied the lively 
 boy ; " when I told you I loved sugar-plums, did I tell you I 
 loved them, or even my sister, so well as to run in debt for 
 them ? Here 's for myself, and here 'a for my sister's share," 
 said he, laying down his money ; " and now for the burnt 
 almonds gratis, my good fellow." " They are all out; I 
 have been out of burnt almonds this great while," said Pie- 
 dro. " Then why are they in your advertisement here ?" 
 said Carlo. " I have not had time to scratch them out of 
 
222 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 the board." "What, not when you have, by your own 
 account, been out of them a great while ? I did not know 
 it required so much time to blot out a few words let us 
 try ;" and as he spoke, Carlo, for that was the name of Pie- 
 dro's new customer, pulled a bit of white chalk out of his 
 pocket, and drew a broad score across the line on the board 
 which promised burnt almonds gratis. " You are most 
 impatient," said Piedro; "I shall have a fresh stock of 
 almonds to-morrow." " Why must the board tell a lie 
 to-day?" "It would ruin me to alter it," said Piedro. 
 " A lie may ruin you, but I can scarcely think the truth 
 could." " You have no right to meddle with me, or my 
 board," said Piedro, put off his guard, and out of his usual 
 soft voice of civility, by this last observation. " My charac- 
 ter, and that of my board, are too firmly established now 
 for any chance customer like you to injure." "I never 
 dreamed of injuring you or any one else," said Carlo ; " I 
 wish, moreover, that you may not injure yourself. Do as 
 you please with your board, but give me my sugar-plums, 
 for I have some right to meddle with those, having paid for 
 them." " Hold out your hand then." " No, put them in 
 here, if you please, put my sister's at least in here, she likes 
 to have them in this box ; I bought some for her in it yes- 
 terday, and she '11 think they'll taste the better out of the 
 same box. But how is this ? your measure does not fill my 
 box nearly ; you give us a very few sugar-plums for our 
 money." "I give you full measure, as I give to every- 
 body." "The measure should be an inch cube, I know," 
 said Carlo; "that's what all the little merchants have 
 agreed to, you know." "True," said Piedro, "so it is." 
 " And so it is, I must allow," said Carlo, measuring the 
 outside of it with the carpenter's rule which he held in his 
 hand, "an inch everyway; and yet, by my eye and I 
 have no bad one, being used to measuring carpenters' work 
 for my father by my eye I should think this would have 
 held more sugar-plums." " The eye often deceives us," 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 223 
 
 said Piedro ; " there 's nothing like measuring, you find." 
 
 " There 's nothing like measuring, I find, indeed," replied 
 Carlo, as he looked closely at the end of his rule, which, 
 since he spoke last, he had put into the tin cube to take its 
 depth in the inside. " This is not as deep by a quarter of 
 an inch, Signer Piedro, measured within as it is measured 
 without." Piedro changed colour terribly, and seizing hold 
 of the tin box, endeavoured to wrest it from the youth who 
 measured so accurately. Carlo held his prize fast, and lift- 
 ing it above his head, he ran into the midst of the square 
 where the little market was held, exclaiming, "A discovery! 
 a discovery ! that concerns all who lore sugar-plums. A 
 discovery ! a discovery ! that concerns all who have even 
 bought the sweetest, largest, most admirable sugar-plums 
 ever sold in Naples." 
 
 The crowd gathered from all parts of the square as ho 
 spoke. " We have bought," and " We have bought of those 
 sugar-plums," cried several little voices at once, " if you 
 mean Piedro's." " The same," continued Carlo : " he who, 
 out of gratitude to his numerous customers, gives, or pro- 
 mises to give, burnt almonds gratis." "Excellent they 
 were!" cried several voices. "We all know Piedro well; 
 but what's your discovery?" "My discovery is," said 
 Carlo, " that you none of you know Piedro. Look you here 
 
 look at this box, this is his measure it has a false bot- 
 tom, it holds only three quarters as much as it ought to do, 
 and his numerous customers have all been cheated of one 
 quarter of every measure of the admirable sugar-plums 
 they have bought from him. ' Think twice of a good bar- 
 gain,' says the proverb." " So we have been finely duped 
 indeed," cried some, looking at one another with a morti- 
 fied air. " ' Full of courtesy, full of craft !'" * " So this 
 is the meaning of his burnt almonds gratis," cried others ; 
 
 * Chi te fa piu carezza che non suole, 
 ingannato t'ha, o ingannar te vuole. 
 
224 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 all joined in an uproar of indignation, except one, who, as 
 he stood behind the rest, expressed in his countenance silent 
 surprise and sorrow. " Is this Piedro a relation of yours ?" 
 said Carlo, going up to this silent person ; " I am sorry, if 
 he be, that I have published his disgrace, for I would not 
 hurt you; you don't sell sugar-plums as he does, I'm sure, 
 for my little sister Rosetta has often bought from you. Can 
 this Piedro be a friend of yours ?" "I wished to have been 
 his friend, but I see I can't," said Francisco ; " he is a 
 neighbour of ours, and I pitied him ; but since he is at his 
 old tricks again, there 's an end of the matter. I have rea- 
 son to be obliged to you, for I was nearly taken in ; he has 
 behaved so well for some time past, that I intended this 
 very evening to go to him, and to tell him that I was will- 
 ing to do for him what he has long begged of me to do, to 
 enter into partnership with him." "Francisco! Francis- 
 co I your measure ; lend us your measure !" exclaimed a 
 number of the little merchants, crowding round him. " You 
 have a measure for sugar-plums, and we have all agreed to 
 refer to that, and to fee how much we have been cheated 
 before we go to break Piedro's bench, and declare him bank- 
 rupt,* the punishment for all knaves." They pressed on to 
 Francisco's board, obtained his measure, and found that it 
 held something more than a quarter above the quantity that 
 could be contained in Piedro's. The cries of the enraged 
 populace were now most clamorous ; they hung the just and 
 unjust measure upon high poles, and forming themselves 
 into a formidable phalanx, they proceeded towards Pedro's 
 well-known yellow-lettered board, exclaiming, as they went 
 along, " Common cause ! common cause ! the little Neapoli- 
 tan merchants will have no knaves among them 1 Break 
 
 * This word comes from two Italian words Banco rotto, broken 
 bench. Bankers and merchants used formerly to count their money 
 and write their bills of exchange upon benches in the streets ; and 
 when a merchant or banker lost his credit, and was unable to pay 
 his debts, his bench was broken. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 225 
 
 his bench ! Break his bench ! He is a bankrupt in ho- 
 nesty." 
 
 Piedro saw the mob, heard the indignant clamour, and, 
 terrified at the approach of numbers, he fled with the utmost 
 precipitation, having scarcely time to pack up half his sugar- 
 plums ; there was a prodigious number, more than would 
 have filled many honest measures, scattered upon the ground 
 and trampled under foot by the crowd. Piedro's bench was 
 broken, and the public vengeance wreaked itself upon his 
 treacherous painted board. It was, after being much disfi- 
 gured by various inscriptions expressive of the universal con- 
 tempt for Piedro, hung up in a conspicuous part of the 
 market-place, and the false measure was fastened like a cap 
 upon one of its corners. Piedro could never more show his 
 face in this market, and all hopes of friendship, all hopes of 
 partnership with Francisco, were for ever at an end. 
 
 If rogues could calculate, they would cease to be rogues, 
 for they would certainly discover that it is most for their 
 interest to be honest. Setting aside the pleasure of being 
 esteemed and beloved, of having a safe conscience, with 
 perfect freedom from all the various embarrassments and 
 terrors to which knaves are subject ; is it not clear that our 
 crafty hero would have gained rather more by a partnership 
 with Francisco, and by a fair character, than he could pos- 
 sibly obtain by fraudulent dealing in comfits? 
 
 When the mob had dispersed, after satisfying themselves 
 with executing summary justice upon Piedro's bench and 
 board, Francisco found a carpenter's rule lying upon the 
 ground near Piedro's broken bench, which he recollected to 
 have seen in the hands of Carlo : he examined it carefully, 
 and he found Carlo's name written upon it, and the name 
 of the street where he lived ; and though it was considera- 
 bly out of his way, he set out immediately to restore the 
 rule, which was a very handsome one, to its rightful owner. 
 After a hot walk through several streets, he overtook Carlo, 
 who had just reached the door of his own house. Carlo was 
 15 
 
226 TUB LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 particularly obliged to him, he said, for restoring this rule 
 to him, as it was a, present from the master of a vessel who 
 employed his father to do carpenters' work for him. " One 
 should not praise one's self, they say," continued Carlo ; 
 " but I long so much to give you a good opinion of me, that 
 I must tell yon the whole history of the rule you have 
 saved : it was given to me for having measured the work 
 and made up the bill of a whole pleasure-boat myself. You 
 may guess I should have been sorry enough to lose it. 
 Thank you for its being once more in my careless hands ; 
 and tell me, I beg, whenever I can do you any service 
 by-the-bye, I can make up for you a fruit-stall ; I '11 do it 
 to-morrow, and it shall be the admiration of the market. Is 
 there anything else you could think of for me?" "Why, 
 yes," said Francisco, "since you are so . good-natured, per- 
 haps you'll be kind enough to tell me the meaning of some 
 of those lines and figures that I see upon your rule ; I have 
 a great curiosity to know their use." ''That I'll explain 
 to you with pleasure, as far as I know them myself; but 
 when I 'm at fault, my father, who is cleverer than I am, 
 and understands trigonometry, can help us out." " Trig- 
 onometry !" repeated Francisco, not a little alarmed at this 
 high-sounding word ; " that 's what I certainly shall never 
 understand." "Oh, never fear," replied Carlo, laughing; 
 ." I looked just as you do now, I felt just as you do now, 
 all in a fright and a puzzle, when I first heard of angles, 
 and sines, and ver-sines, and co-sines, and arcs, and centres, 
 and complements, and tangents." " Oh, mercy ! mercy !" 
 interrupted Francisco, while Carlo laughed, with a sense, 
 but with a benevolent sense, of superiority. " Why," said 
 he, " you '11 find all these things are nothing when you are 
 used to them but I cannot explain my rule to you her* 
 broiling in the sun besides, it will not be the work of 8 
 day, I promise you ; but come and see us at your leisure 
 hours, and we'll study it together I have a great notioo 
 we shall become friends, and, to begin, step in with mr 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 227 
 
 uow," said Carlo, "and eat a little maccaroni with us; I 
 know it is ready by this time : besides, you '11 see my father, 
 and he '11 show you plenty of rules and compasses, as you 
 like such things, and then I '11 go home with you in the cool 
 of the evening, and you shall show me your melons and vines, 
 and teach me in time something of gardening. Oh, I see 
 we must be good friends, just made for each other ; so come 
 in no ceremony." 
 
 Carlo was not mistaken in his predictions ; he and Fran- 
 cisco became very good friends, spent all their leisure hours 
 together, either in Carlo's workshop or in Francisco's vine- 
 yard, and they mutually improved each other. Francisco, 
 before he saw his friend's rule, knew but just enough of 
 arithmetic to calculate in his head the price of the fruit 
 which he sold in the market ; but with Carlo's assistance, 
 and with the ambition to understand the tables and figures 
 upon the wonderful rule, he set to work in earnest, and in 
 due time satisfied both himself and his master. "Who 
 knows but these things that I am learning now may be of 
 some use to me before I die ?" said Francisco, as he was 
 sitting one morning with his tutor the carpenter. " To be 
 sure it will," said the carpenter, putting down his com- 
 passes, with which he was drawing a circle : " arithmetic 
 is a most useful and, I was going to say, necessary thing to 
 be known by men in all stations, and a little trigonometry" 
 does no harm ; in short, my maxim is, no knowledge comes 
 amiss, for a man's head is of as much use to him, and more 
 than his hands. 
 
 ' A word to the wise will always suffice.' * 
 
 Besides, to say nothing of making a fortune, is not there a 
 great pleasure in being something of a scholar, and being 
 able to pass one's time with one's book, and one's compasses 
 and pencil ? Safe companions these for young and old ; nc 
 one gets into mischief that has pleasant things to think of 
 
 * A buon intenditor, poche parole. 
 
228 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 and to do when alone ; and I know, for my part, trigono- 
 metry is " 
 
 Here the carpenter, just as he was going to pronounce a 
 fresh panegyric upon his favourite trigonometry, was inter- 
 rupted by the sudden entrance of his little sister Rosetta, 
 all in tears, a very unusual spectacle : Rosetta, take the 
 year round, shed fewer tears than any child of her age in 
 Naples. "Why, my dear good-humoured little Rosetta, 
 what has happened why these large tears ?" said her bro- 
 ther Carlo ; and he went up to her, and wiped them from 
 her cheeks. " And these that are going over the bridge of 
 the nose so fast, I must stop these tears too," said Carlo. 
 Rosetta at this speech burst out a-laughing, and said, " that 
 she did not know till then that she had any bridge on her 
 nose." " And were these shells the cause of your tears ?" 
 Baid her brother, looking at a heap of shells which she held 
 before her in her frock. " Yes, partly," said Rosetta ; " it 
 was partly my own fault, but not all. You know I went out 
 to the carpenters' yard, near the arsenal, where all the chil- 
 dren are picking up chips and sticks so busily ; and I was 
 as busy as any of them, because I wanted to fill my basket 
 soon, and then I thought I should sell my basketful directly 
 in the little wood-market. And as soon as I had filled my 
 basket, and made up my fagot, which was not done, brother, 
 till I was almost baked by the sun, for I was forced to wait 
 by the carpenters for the bits of wood to make up my fagot, 
 I say, when it was all read}', and my basket full, I left it all 
 together in the yard." " That was not wise, to leave it," 
 said Carlo. "But I only left it for a few minutes, brother, 
 and I could not think anybody would be so dishonest as to 
 take it while I was away. I only just ran to tell a boy, who 
 had picked up these beautiful shells upon the sea-shore, and 
 who wanted to sell them, that I should be glad to buy them 
 from him if he would only be so good as to keep them for 
 me for an hour or so, till I had carried my wood to market, 
 and till I had sold it, and so had money to pay him for the 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 229 
 
 shells." " Your heart was set mightily on these shells, 
 Rosetta." " Yes ; for I thought you and Francisco, bro- 
 ther, would like to have them for your nice grotto that you 
 are making at Resina ; that was the reason I was in such a 
 hurry to get them. The boy who had them to sell was very 
 good-natured ; he poured them into my lap, and said I had 
 such an honest face, he would trust me ; and that, as he 
 was in a great hurry, he could not wait an hour while I 
 sold my wood ; but that he was sure I would pay him in the 
 evening, and he told me that he would call here this even- 
 ing for the money ; but now what shall I do, Carlo ? I shall 
 have no money to give him ; I must give him back his 
 shells, and that's a great pity." "But how happened it 
 that you did not sell your wood ?" " Oh, I forgot ; did not 
 I tell you that ? When I went back for my basket, do you 
 know it was empty, quite empty not a chip left. Some 
 dishonest person had carried it all off. Had not I reason 
 to cry now, Carlo ?" "I '11 go this minute into the wood- 
 market, and see if I can find your fagot ; won't that be bet- 
 ter than crying ?" said her brother. " Should you know 
 any of your pieces of wood again, if you were to see them ?" 
 " Yes ; one of them I am sure I should know again," 
 said Rosetta ; " it had a notch at one end of it, where one 
 of the carpenters cut it off from another piece of wood for 
 me." " And is the piece of wood from which the carpen- 
 ter cut it still to be seen ?" said Francisco. " Yes, it is in 
 the yard ; but I cannot bring it to you, for it is very heavy." 
 " We can go to it," said Francisco ; " and I hope we shall 
 recover your basketful." He and Carlo went with Rosetta 
 immediately to the yard near the arsenal, saw the notched 
 piece of wood, and then proceeded to the little wood-market, 
 and searched every heap that lay before the little factors, 
 but no notched bit was to be found, and Rosetta declared 
 that she did not see one stick that looked at all like any of 
 hers. On their part, her companions eagerly untied their 
 fagots to show them to her, and exclaimed, " that they were 
 
230 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 incapable of taking what did not belong to them ; that of 
 all persona they should never have thought of taking any- 
 thing from the good-natured little Rosetta, who was always 
 ready to give to others, and to help them in making up their 
 loads." 
 
 Despairing of discovering the thief, Francisco and Carlo 
 left the market. As they were returning home, they were 
 met by the English servant Arthur, who asked Francisco 
 where he had been, and where he was going. As soon as 
 he heard of Rosetta's lost fagot, and of the bit of wood 
 notched at one end, of which Rosetta drew the shape with 
 a bit of chalk that her brother lent her, Arthur exclaimed, 
 " I have seen such a bit of wood as this within this quarter 
 of an hour, but I cannot recollect where. Stay ! it was at 
 the baker's, I think, where I went for some rolls for my 
 master. It was lying beside his oven." To the baker's they 
 all went as fast as possible, and they got there but just in 
 time ; the baker had in his hand the bit of wood, with which 
 he was that instant going to feed his oven. " Stop, good 
 Mr. Baker !" cried Rosetta, who ran into the baker's shop 
 first ; and as he heard " Stop I stop !" re-echoed by many 
 voices, the baker stopped, and turning to Francisco, Carlo, 
 and Arthur, begged, with a countenance of some surprise, 
 to know why they desired him to stop. The case was easily 
 explained, and the baker told them that he did not buy any 
 wood in the little market that morning ; that this fagot he 
 had purchased, between the hours of twelve and thirteen,* 
 from a lad of about Francisco's height, whom he met near 
 the yard of the arsenal. " This is my bit of wood, I am 
 sure ; I know it by this notch," said Rosetta. " Well," said 
 the baker, " if you will stay here a few minutes, you will 
 probably see the lad who sold it to me : he desired to be 
 paid in bread, and my bread was not quite baked when he 
 
 * The Italians begin their day at sunset, and reckon the hours in 
 an uninterrupted series from one to twenty-four. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 231 
 
 was here ; I bid him call again in an hour, and I fancy ho 
 will be pretty punctual, for he looked desperately hungry." 
 The baker had scarcely finished speaking, when Francisco, 
 who was standing watching at the door, exclaimed, " Here 
 comes Piedro ! I hope he is not the boy who sold you the 
 wood, Mr. Baker ?" : " He is the boy, though," replied the 
 baker, as Piedro, who now entered the shop, started at the 
 sight of Carlo and Francisco, whom he had never seen since 
 the day of his disgrace in the fruit-market. 
 
 " Your servant, Signor Piedro," said Carlo ; " I have the 
 honour to tell you that this piece of wood, and all that you 
 took out of the basket which you found in the yard of the 
 arsenal, belongs to my sister." " Yes, indeed," cried Ro- 
 eetta. Piedro, being very certain that nobody saw him 
 when he emptied Rosetta's basket, and imagining that he 
 was suspected only upon the bare assertion of a child like 
 Rosetta, who might be baffled and frightened out of her 
 story, boldly denied the charge, and defied any one to prove 
 him guilty. 
 
 " He has a right to be heard in his own defence," said 
 Arthur, with the cool justice of an Englishman ; and he 
 stopped the angry Carlo's arm, who was going up to the cul- 
 prit with all the Italian vehemence of oratory and gesture. 
 Arthur went on to say something in bad Italian about the 
 excellence of an English trial by jury, which Carlo was too 
 much enraged to hear, but to which Francisco paid atten- 
 tion, and turning to Piedro, he asked him if he was willing 
 to be judged by twelve of his equals ? " With all my heart," 
 said Piedro, still maintaining an unmoved countenance ; and 
 they returned immediately to the little wood-market. 
 
 In their way they had passed through the fruit-market, 
 and crowds of those who were well-acquainted with Piedro's 
 former transactions followed to hear the event of the pre- 
 sent trial. Arthur could not, especially as he spoko 
 wretched Italian, make the eager little merchants under- 
 stand the nature and advantages of an English trial by jury. 
 
282 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 They preferred their own summary mode of proceeding, 
 Francisco, in whose integrity all had perfect confidence, was 
 chosen with unanimous shouts for the judge, but he declined 
 the oflice, and another was appointed. He was raised upon 
 a bench, and the guilty but insolent-looking Piedro, and the 
 ingenuous modest Rosetta, stood before him. She made her 
 complaint in a very artless manner, and Piedro, with inge- 
 nuity which in a better cause would have deserved admira- 
 tion, spoke volubly and craftily in his own defence ; but all 
 that he could say could not alter the facts. The judge com- 
 pared the notched bit of wood found at the baker's with the 
 piece from which it was cut, which he went to see in the 
 yard of the arsenal. It was found to fit exactly. The judge 
 then found it impossible to restrain the loud indignation of 
 all the spectators. The prisoner was sentenced never more 
 to sell wood in that market ; and the moment sentence was 
 pronounced, Piedro was hissed and hooted out of the mar- 
 ket-place. Thus a third time he deprived himself of the 
 means of earning his bread. 
 
 We shall not dwell upon all his petty methods of cheat- 
 ing in the trades he next attempted. He handed lemonade 
 about in a part of Naples where he was not known ; but he 
 lost his customers by putting too much water and too little 
 lemon into his beverage. He then took to the waters from 
 the sulphurous springs, and served them about to foreign- 
 ers ; but one day, as he was trying to jostle a competitor 
 from a coach-door, he slipped his foot, and broke his glasses. 
 They had been borrowed from an old woman, who hired out 
 glasses to the boys who sold lemonade. Piedro knew that 
 it was the custom to pay of course for all that were broken ; 
 but this he was not inclined to do he had a few shillings 
 in his pocket, and thought that it would be very clever to 
 defraud this poor woman of her right, and to spend his 
 shillings upon what he valued more than he did his good 
 name maccaroni. The shillings were soon <;onc. And 
 we shall for the present leave Piedro to his follies and his 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 283 
 
 fate, or, to speak more properly, to his follies and their ine- 
 vitable consequences. 
 
 Francisco was all this time acquiring knowledge from his 
 new friends, without neglecting his own or his father's busi- 
 ness. He contrived, during the course of the autumn and 
 winter, to make himself a tolerable arithmetician. Carlo's 
 father could draw plans in architecture neatly, and, pleased 
 with the eagerness Francisco showed to receive instruction, 
 he willingly put a pencil and compass into his hand and 
 taught him all he knew himself. Francisco had great per- 
 severance, and, by repeated trials, he at length succeeded 
 in copying exactly all the plans which his master lent him. 
 His copies, in time, surpassed the originals, and Carlo 
 exclaimed, with astonishment, " Why, Francisco, what an 
 astonishing genius you have for drawing ! Absolutely, you 
 draw plans better than father !" " As to genius," said 
 Francisco, honestly, " I have none. All that I have done 
 has been done by hard labour; I don't know how other 
 people do things, but I am sure that I never have been able 
 to get anything well done but by patience ; do n't you 
 remember, Carlo, how you, and even Rosetta, laughed at 
 me the first time your father put a pencil into my awkward, 
 clumsy hands." " Because," said Carlo, laughing again 
 at the recollection, "you held your pencil so drolly; and 
 when you were to cut it, you cut it just as if you were using 
 a pruning-knife to your vines ; but now it is your turn 
 to laugh, for you surpass us all. And the times are changed 
 since I set about to explain this rule of mine to you." 
 "Ay, that rule," said Francisco, "how much I owe to it! 
 Some great people, when they lose any of their fine things, 
 cause the crier to promise a reward of so much money to 
 whoever shall find and restore their trinket: how richly 
 have you and your father rewarded me for returning this 
 rule I" 
 
 Francisco's modesty and gratitude, as they were perfectly 
 sincere, attached his friends to him most powerfully; but 
 
234 THE LITTLE ME II CHANTS. 
 
 there was one person who regretted our hero's frequent 
 absences from his vineyard at Ilesina. Not Francisco's 
 father, for he was well satisfied his son never neglected his 
 business ; and as to the hours spent in Naples, he had so 
 much confidence in Francisco that he felt no apprehension 
 of his getting into bad company. When his son had once 
 said to him, " I spent my time at such a place, and in such 
 a manner," he was as well convinced of its being so as if 
 he had watched and seen him every moment of the day. 
 But it was Arthur who complained of Francisco's absence. 
 " I see, because I am an Englishman," said he, " you do n't 
 value my friendship, and yet that is the very reason you 
 ought to value it no friends so good as the English be 
 it spoken without offence to your Italian friend, for whom 
 you now continually leave me to dodge up and down here 
 in Resina, without a soul that I like to speak to, for you are 
 the only Italian I ever liked." " You shall like another, I 
 promise you," said Francisco ; " you must come with me to 
 Carlo's, and see how I spend my evenings ; then complain 
 of me if you can." It was the utmost stretch of Arthur's 
 complaisance to pay this visit ; but in spite of his national 
 prejudices and habitual reserve of temper, he was pleased 
 with the reception he met with from the generous Carlo and 
 the playful Rosetta. They showed him Francisco's draw- 
 ings with enthusiastic eagerness ; and Arthur, though no 
 great judge of drawing, was in astonishment, and frequently 
 repeated, " I know a gentleman who visits my master, who 
 would like these things I wish I might have them to show 
 him." " Take them, then," said Carlo ; " I wish all Na- 
 ples could see them, provided they might be liked half as 
 well as I like them." 
 
 Arthur carried off the drawings ; and one day when his 
 master was better than usual, and when he was at leisure, 
 eating a desert of Francisco's grapes, he entered respect- 
 fully, with his little portfolio under his arm, and begged 
 permission to show his master a few drawings, done by the 
 
TUB LITTLE MERCHANTS. 236 
 
 gardener's son whoso grapes he was eating. Though not 
 quite so partial a judge as the enthusiastic Carlo, this gen- 
 tleman was both pleased and surprised at the sight of these 
 drawings, considering how short a time Francisco had 
 applied himself to this art, and what slight instructions he 
 had received. Arthur was desired to summon the young 
 artist. Francisco's honest, open manner, joined to the 
 proofs he had given of his abilities, and the character Ar- 
 thur gave him for strict honesty and constant kindness to 
 his parents, interested Mr. L**, this English gentleman, 
 much in his favour. Mr. L** was at this time in treaty 
 with an Italian painter, whom he wished to engage to copy 
 for him, exactly, some of the cornices, mouldings, tablets, 
 and antique ornaments which are to be seen among the 
 ruins of the ancient city of Ilerculaneum.* 
 
 * We must give those of our young English readers who may not 
 be acquainted with the ancient city of Ilerculaneum, some idea of it. 
 None can be ignorant, that near Naples is the celebrated volcanic 
 mountain of Vesuvius ; that from time to time there happen violent 
 eruptions from this mountain, that is to say, flames and immense 
 clouds of smoke issue from different openings, mouths, or eratere, 
 as they are called, but more especially from the summit of the moun- 
 tain, which is distinguished by the name of the crater. A rumbling, 
 and afterward a roaring, noise is heard within, and prodigious quan- 
 tities of stones and minerals burnt into masses (scoriae) are thrown 
 out of the crater, sometimes to a great distance. The hot ashes 
 from Mount Vesuvius have often been seen upon the roofs of the 
 houses of Naples, from which it is six miles distant. Streams of 
 lava run down the sides of the mountain during the time of an erup- 
 tion, destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses 
 and vineyards which are in the neighbourhood. About 1750 years 
 ago, during the reign of the Roman emperor Titus, there happened 
 a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius ; and a large city called Her- 
 culaneuin, which was situated at about four miles' distance from the 
 volcano, was overwhelmed by the streams of lava which poured 
 into it, filled up the streets, and quickly covered over the tops of the 
 houses, so that the whole was no more visible. It remained for 
 
236 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Tutte le granfacende si f anno di poca eoa. 
 Great things bang upon small wires. 
 
 SIGNOR CAMILLO, the artist employed by Mr. L** to 
 copy some of the antique ornaments in Herculaneum, was 
 a liberal-minded man, perfectly free from that mean jeal- 
 ousy which would repress the efforts of rising genius. 
 
 many years buried. The lava which covered it became in time fit 
 for vegetation, plants grew there, a new soil was formed, and a new 
 town called Portici was built over the place where Herculaneum 
 formerly stood. The little village of Resina is also situated near the 
 spot. About fifty years ago, in a poor man's garden at Resina, a 
 hole in a well about thirty feet below the surface of the earth was 
 observed; some persons had the curiosity to enter into this hole, 
 and, after creeping under-ground for some time, they came to the 
 foundations of houses. The peasants, inhabitants of the village, 
 who had probably never heard of Herculaneum, were somewhat 
 surprised at their discovery.* About the same time, in a pit in the 
 town of Portici, a similar passage under-ground was discovered, and, 
 by orders of the King of Naples, workmen were employed to dig 
 away the earth, and clear the passages. They found at length the 
 entrance into the town, which, during the reign of Titus, was buried 
 under lava. It was about eighty-eight Neapolitan palms (a palm 
 contains near nine inches) below the top of the pit. The workmen, 
 as they cleared the passages, marked their way with chalk when 
 they came to any turning, lest they should lose themselves. The 
 streets branched out in many directions, and lying across them the 
 workmen often found large pieces of timber, beams, and rafters; 
 some broken in the fall, others entire. These beams and rafters are 
 burned quite black, and look like charcoal, except those that were 
 found in moist places, which have more the colour of rotten wood, 
 and which are like a soft paste, into which you might run your 
 
 * Philosophical Transactions, vol. ix. p. 440. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 237 
 
 " Here is a lad scarcely fifteen, a poor gardener's son, who, 
 with merely the instructions he could obtain from a com- 
 mon carpenter, has learned to draw these plans and eleva- 
 tions, which, you see, are tolerably neat. What an advan- 
 tage your instructions would be to him !" said Mr. L**, as 
 he introduced Francisco to Signer Camillo. " I am inte- 
 rested for this lad, from what I have learned of his good 
 conduct : I hear he is strictly honest, and one of the best 
 of sons ; let us do something for him : if you will give him 
 some knowledge of your art, I will, as far as money can 
 recompense you for your loss of time, pay whatever you 
 may think reasonable for his instruction." Signer Camillo 
 made no difficulties ; he was pleased with his pupil's appear- 
 ance, and every day he liked him better and better. In the 
 room where they worked together there were some large 
 books of drawings and plates, which Francisco saw now and 
 then opened by his master, and which he had a great desire 
 to look over ; but when he was left in the room by himself, 
 he never touched them, because he had not permission. 
 Signer Camillo, the first day he came into this room with 
 his pupil, said to him, " Here are many valuable books and 
 drawings, young man ; I trust, from the character I have 
 heard of you, that they will be perfectly safe here." 
 
 Some weeks after Francisco had been with the painter, 
 they had occasion to look for the front of a temple in one 
 of these large books. " What ! do n't you know in which 
 
 hand. The walls of the houses slant, some one way, some another, 
 and some are upright. Several magnificent buildings of brick, faced 
 with marble of different colours, are partly seen, where the workmen 
 have cleared away the earth and lava with which they were incrusted. 
 Columns of red and white marble, and flights of marble steps, are 
 seen in different places. And out of the ruins of the palaces some 
 very fine statues and pictures have been dug. Foreigners who visit 
 Naples are extremely curious to see this subterraneous city, and are 
 desirous to carry with them into their own country some proofs of 
 their having examined this wonderful place. 
 
238 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 book to look for it, Francisco ?" cried his master, with s'ime 
 impatience. " Is it possible that you have been here so long 
 with these books, and that you cannot find the print I mean ? 
 Had you half the taste I gave you credit for, you would have 
 singled it out from all the rest, and have it fixed in your 
 memory." "But, signer, I never saw it," said Francisco, 
 respectfully, "or perhaps I should have preferred it." 
 " That you never saw it, young man, is the very thing of 
 which I complain. Is a taste for the arts to be learned, 
 think you, by looking at the cover of a book like this? Is 
 ?.t possible that you never thought of opening it ?" " Often 
 and often," cried Francisco, " have I longed to open it, but 
 I thought it was forbidden me ; and, however great my curi- 
 osity in your absence, I have never touched them. I hoped, 
 indeed, that the time would come when you would have the 
 goodness to show them to me." " And so it is come, excel- 
 lent young man !" cried Camillo ; " much as I love taste, 
 I love integrity more : I am now sure of your having the 
 one, and let me see whether you have, as I believe you have, 
 the other. Sit you down here beside me, and we will look 
 over these books together." 
 
 The attention with which his young pupil examined 
 everything, and the pleasure he unaffectedly expressed in 
 seeing these excellent prints, suificiently convinced his judi- 
 cious master that it was not from the want of curiosity or 
 taste that he had never opened these tempting volumes. 
 His confidence in Francisco was much increased by this cir- 
 cumstance, slight as it may appear. One day Signor Ca- 
 millo came behind Francisco, and tapping him upon the 
 shoulder, he said to him, " Put up your pencils, and follow 
 me: lean depend upon your integrity I have pledged 
 myself for it. Bring your note-book with you, and follow 
 me ; I will this day show you something that will entertain 
 you at least as much as my large book of prints. Follow 
 me." 
 
 Francisco followed, till they came to the pit near the 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 239 
 
 entrance of Herculaneum. " I have obtained leave for you 
 to accompany me," said his master ; " and you know, I sup- 
 pose, that this is not a permission granted to every one." 
 Paintings of great value, besides ornaments of gold and 
 silver, antique bracelets, rings, &c., are from time to time 
 found among these ruins, and therefore it is necessary that 
 no person should be admitted whose honesty cannot be 
 depended upon. Even Francisco's talents could not have 
 advanced him in the world, we may remark, unless they 
 had been united to integrity. He was much delighted and 
 astonished by the new scene that was now opened to his 
 view ; and as he day after day accompanied his master to 
 this subterraneous city, he had leisure for observation. He 
 was employed, as soon as he had gratified his curiosity, in 
 drawing. There are niches in the walls in several places, 
 from which pictures have been dug, and these niches are 
 often adorned with elegant masks, figures, and animals, 
 which have been left by the ignorant or careless workmen, 
 and which are going fast to destruction. Signor Camillo, 
 who was copying these for his English employer, had a mind 
 to try his pupil's skill ; and pointing to a niche bordered 
 with grotesque figures, he desired him to try if he could 
 make any hand of it. Francisco made several trials, and 
 at last finished such an excellent copy, -that his enthusiastic 
 and generous master, with warm encomiums, carried it 
 immediately to his patron ; and he had the pleasure to 
 receive from Mr. L*"* a purse containing five guineas, as a 
 reward and encouragement for his pupil. Francisco had 
 no sooner received this money than he hurried home to his 
 father and mother's cottage. His mother, some months 
 before this time, had taken a small dairy-farm, and her son 
 had once heard her express a wish that she was but rich 
 enough to purchase a remarkably fine brindled cow, which 
 belonged to a farmer in the neighbourhood. " Here, my 
 dear mother," cried Francisco, pouring the guineas into her 
 lap, "and here," continued he, emptying a bag, which con- 
 
240 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 tained about as much more, in small Italian coins, the pro- 
 fits of trade, money he had fairly earned during the two 
 years he had sold fruit among the little Neapolitan mer- 
 chants; "this is all yours, dearest mother, and I hope it 
 will be enough to pay for the brindled cow. Nay, you must 
 not refuse me I have set my heart upon that cow's being 
 milked by you this very evening; and I'll produce my best 
 bunches of grapes, and my father, perhaps, will give us a 
 melon, for I've had no time for melons this season, and 
 I '11 step to Naples, and invite may I, mother ? my good 
 friends, dear Carlo, and your favourite little Rosetta, and 
 my old drawing-master, and my friend Arthur, and we '11 
 sup with you at your dairy." 
 
 The happy mother thanked her son, and the father assured 
 him that neither melon nor pineapple should be spared to 
 make a supper worthy of his friends. The brindled cow 
 was bought, and Arthur, and Carlo, and Rosetta most joy- 
 fully accepted their invitation. The carpenter had unluckily 
 appointed to settle a long account that day with one of his 
 employers, and he could not accompany his children. It 
 was a delicious evening: they left Naples just as the sea- 
 breeze, after the heat of the day, was most refreshingly felt. 
 The walk to Resina, the vineyard, the dairy, and, most of 
 all, the brindled cow, were praised by Carlo and Rosetta, 
 with all the Italian superlatives which signify, "Most beau- 
 .iful ! most delightful ! most charming !" while the English 
 Arthur, with as warm a heart, was more temperate in his 
 praise, declaring " that this was the most like an English 
 summer's evening of any he had ever felt since he came to 
 Italy ; and that, moreover, the cream was almost as good 
 as what he had been used to drink in Cheshire." The com- 
 pany, who were all pleased with each other, and with the 
 gardener's good fruit, which he produced in great abun- 
 dance, did not think of separating till late. It was a bright 
 moonlight night, and Carlo asked his friend if he would 
 walk with them part of the way to Naples. " Yes, all the 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 way, most willingly," cried Francisco, " that I mav have 
 the pleasure of giving to your father, with my own hands, 
 this fine bunch of grapes, that I have reserved for him out 
 of my own share." " Add this fine pineapple for my share, 
 then," said his father ; " and a pleasant walk to you, my 
 young friends." 
 
 They proceeded gayly along, and when they reached Na- 
 ples, as they passed through the square where the little 
 merchants held their market, Francisco pointed to the spot 
 where he found Carlo's rule ; he never missed an opportu- 
 nity of showing his friends that he did not forget their for- 
 mer kindness to him. " That rule," said he, " has been the 
 cause of all my present happiness ; and I thank you for " 
 " Oh, never mind thanking him now," interrupted Rosetta; 
 " but look yonder, and tell me what all those people are 
 about." She pointed to a group of men, women, and chil- 
 dren, who were assembled under a piazza, listening, in vari- 
 ous attitudes of attention, to a man who was standing upon 
 a flight of steps, speaking in a loud voice, and with much 
 action, to the people who surrounded him. Francisco, Carlo, 
 and Rosetta joined his audience. The moon shone full upon 
 his countenance, which was very expressive, and which 
 varied frequently, according to the characters of the persons 
 whose history he was telling, and, according to all the 
 ehanges of their fortune. This man was one of those who 
 are called improvisator! ; persons who, in Italian towns, go 
 about reciting verses or telling stories, which they are sup- 
 posed to invent as they go on speaking. Some of these 
 people speak with great oratory, and collect crowds around 
 them in the public streets. When he sees the attention of 
 his audience fixed, and when he comes to some very inte- 
 resting part of his narrative, the dexterous improvisatore 
 drops his hat upon the ground, and pauses till his auditors 
 have paid their tribute to his eloquence. When he thinks 
 the hat sufficiently full, he takes it up again, and proceeds 
 with his story. The hat was dropped just as Francisco and 
 16 
 
242 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 his two friends came under the piazza ; the orator had fin- 
 ished one story, and was going to commence another. lie 
 fixed his eyes upon Francisco, then glanced at Carlo and 
 Rosetta, and after a moment's consideration, he began a 
 story which bore some resemblance to one that our young 
 English readers may perhaps know by the name of " Cor- 
 naro, or the grateful Turk." Francisco was deeply inte- 
 rested in this narrative, and when the hat dropped, he 
 eagerly threw in his contribution. At the end of his story, 
 when the speaker's voice stopped, there was a momentary 
 silence, which was broken by the orator himself, who 
 exclaimed, as he took up the hat which lay at his feet, " My 
 friends, here is some mistake! this is not my hat; it has 
 been changed while I was taken up with my story. Pray, 
 gentlemen, find my hat among you : it was a remarkably 
 good one, a present from a nobleman for an epigram I 
 made. I would not lose my hat for twice its value. Pray, 
 gentlemen, it has my name written withinside of it, Domi- 
 nicho Improvisatore. Pray, gentlemen, examine your hats." 
 Everybody present examined their hats, and showed them 
 to Dominicho, but his was not among them. No one had left 
 the company; the piazza was cleared, and searched in vain. 
 " The hat has vanished by magic," said Dominicho. " Yes, 
 and by the same magic*a statue moves !" cried Carlo, point- 
 ing to a figure standing in a niche, which had hitherto 
 escaped observation. The face was so much in the shade 
 that Carlo did not at first perceive that the statue was Pie- 
 dro. Piedro, when he saw himself discovered, burst into 
 a loud laugh, and throwing down Dominicho's hat, which 
 he held in his hand behind him, cried, " A pretty set of 
 novices ! Most excellent players at hide-and-seek you would 
 make !" Whether Piedro really meant to have carried off 
 th<! poor man's hat, or whether he was, as he said, merely 
 in jest, wo leave it to those who know his general character 
 to decide. Carlo shook his head ; " Still at your old trirks, 
 Piedro," said he: "remember the old proverb, 'No fox so 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 243 
 
 cunning but he comes to the furrier's at last.' " * "I defy 
 the furrier and you too," replied Piedro, taking up his own 
 ragged hat. " I have no need to steal hats ; I can afford to 
 buy better than you '11 have upon your head. Francisco, a 
 word with you, if you have done crying at the pitiful story 
 you have been listening to so attentively." 
 
 " And what would you say to me ?" said Francisco, fol- 
 lowing him a few steps : " do not detain me long, because 
 my friends will wait for me." "If they are friends, they 
 can wait," said Piedro. " You need not be ashamed of being 
 seen in my company now, I can tell you ; for I am, as I 
 always told you I should be, the richest man of the two." 
 " Rich ! you rich !" cried Francisco ; " well, then, it was 
 impossible you could mean to trick that poor man out of his 
 good hat." " Impossible !" said Piedro. Francisco did 
 not consider, that those who have habits of pilfering conti- 
 nue to practise them often when the poverty which first 
 tempted them to dishonesty ceases. " Impossible ! you stare 
 when I tell you I 'm rich, but the thing is so ; moreover, I 
 am well with my father at home. I have friends in Naples, 
 and I call myself Piedro the Lucky. Look you here," said 
 he, producing an old gold coin ; " this does not smell of fish, 
 does it ? My father is no longer a fisherman, nor I neither ; 
 neither do I sell sugar-plums to children ; nor do I slave 
 myself in a vineyard, like some folks ; but fortune, when I 
 least expected it, has stood my friend. I have many pieces 
 of gold like this. Digging in my father's garden, it was my 
 luck to come to' an old Roman vessel full of gold. I have 
 this day agreed for a house in Naples for my father. We 
 shall live, while we can afford it, like great folks, you will 
 see ; and I shall enjoy the envy that will be felt by some of 
 my old friends, the little Neapolitan merchants, who will 
 change their note when they see my change of fortune. 
 What say you to all this, Francisco the Honest?" "Tha/i 
 
 * Tutti le volpi si trovano in pellicera. 
 
244 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 I wish you joy of your prosperity, and hope you may enjoy 
 it long and well." " Well ! no doubt of that ; every one 
 who has it enjoys it well. ' He always dances well to whom 
 fortune pipes.'"* "Yes, but no longer pipe no longer 
 dance," replied Francisco, and here they parted ; for Piedro 
 walked away abruptly, much mortified to perceive that his 
 prosperity did not excite much envy, or command any addi- 
 tional respect from Francisco. 
 
 " I would rather," said Francisco, when he returned to 
 Carlo and Rosetta, who waited for him under the portico 
 where he left them, " I would rather have such good friends 
 as you, Carlo and Arthur, and some more I could name, and 
 besides that, have a clear conscience, and work honestly for 
 my bread, than be as lucky as Piedro. Do you know he 
 has found a treasure, he says, in his father's garden, a vase 
 full of gold? he showed me one of the gold pieces." 
 " Much good may they do him ; I hope he came honestly 
 by them," said Carlo ; " but ever since the affair of the 
 double measure, I suspect double dealing always from him. 
 It is not our affair, however ; let him make himself happy 
 his way, and we ours. 
 
 ' He that would live in peace and rest 
 Must hear, and see, and say the best.' " f 
 
 All Piedro's neighbours did not follow this peaceable 
 maxim ; for when he and his father began to circulate the 
 story of the treasure found in the garden, the village of 
 Resina did not give them implicit faith. People nodded, 
 and whispered, and shrugged their shoulders ; then crossed 
 themselves, and declared that they would not for all the 
 riches in Naples change places with either Piedro or his 
 father. Regardless, or pretending to be regardless, of these 
 suspicions, Piedro and his father persisted in their asser- 
 
 * Assai ben balla a chi fortuna suona. 
 f Ode, vede, tace, se vuoi viver in pace. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 245 
 
 tions. The fishing-nets were sold, and everything in their 
 cottage was disposed of; they left Resina, went to live at 
 Naples, and, after a few weeks, the matter began to be 
 almost forgotten in the village. The old gardener, Fran- 
 cisco's father, was one of those who endeavoured to think 
 the best; and all that he said upon the subject was, that he 
 would not exchange Francisco the Honest for Piedro the 
 Lucky ; that one can't judge of the day till one sees the 
 evening as well as the morning.* 
 
 Not to leave our readers longer in suspense, we must 
 inform them that the peasants of Resina were right in their 
 suspicions. Piedro had never found any treasure in his 
 father's garden, but he came by his gold in the following 
 manner. After he was banished from the little wood-mar- 
 ket for stealing Rosetta's basketful of wood ; after he had 
 cheated the poor woman, who let glasses out to hire, out of 
 the value of the glasses which he broke ; and, in short, after 
 he had entirely lost his credit with all who knew him, he 
 roamed about the streets of Naples, reckless of what became 
 of him. He found the truth of the proverb, that " Credit 
 lost is like a Venice glass broken it can't be mended 
 again." The few shillings which he had in his pocket sup- 
 plied him with food for a few days ; at last he was glad to 
 be employed by one of the peasants who came to Naples to 
 load their asses with manure out of the streets. They often 
 follow, very early in the morning or during the night-time, 
 the track of carriages that are going or that are returning 
 from the opera ; and Piedro was one night at this work, 
 when the horses of a nobleman's carriage took fright at the 
 sudden blaze of some fire-works. The carriage was over- 
 turned near him ; a lady was taken out of it, and was hur- 
 ried by her attendants into a shop, where she staid till her 
 carriage was set to rights. She was too much alarmed for 
 
 * La vita il fine, e'l di loda la sera. 
 
 " Compute the morn and evening of their day." POPE. 
 
246 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 the first ten minutes after her accident to think of anything ; 
 but, after some time, she perceived that she had lost a val 
 uable diamond cross, which she had worn that night at the 
 opera ; she was uncertain where she had dropped it ; the 
 shop, the carriage, the street, were searched for it in vain. 
 Piedro saw it fall as the lady was lifted out of the carriage, 
 seized upon it, and carried it off. Ignorant as he was of the 
 full value of what he had stolen, he knew not how to satisfy 
 himself as to this point, without trusting some one with the 
 secret. After some hesitation, he determined to apply to a 
 Jew, who, as it was whispered, was ready to buy everything 
 that was offered to him for sale, without making any trou- 
 blesome inquiries. It was late ; he waited till the streets 
 were cleared, and then knocked softly at the back-door of the 
 Jew's house. The person who opened the door for Piedro 
 was his own father. Piedro started back, but his father 
 had fast hold of him. " What brings you here ?" said the 
 father, in a low voice ; a voice which expressed fear and 
 rage mixed. "Only to ask my way my shortest way," 
 stammered Piedro. " No equivocations ! Tell me what 
 brings you here at this time of night ? I will know." Piedro, 
 who felt himself in his father's grasp, and who knew that 
 his father would certainly search him, to find out what he 
 had brought to sell, thought it most prudent to produce the 
 diamond cross. His father could but just see its lustre by 
 the light of a dim lamp, which hung over their heads in the 
 gloomy passage in which they stood. "You would have 
 been duped if you had gone to sell this to the Jew ; it is 
 well it has fallen into my hands. How came you by it ?" 
 Piedro answered that he had found it in the street. " Go 
 your ways home, then," said his father ; " it is safe with 
 me : concern yourself no more about it." 
 
 Piedro was not inclined thus to relinquish his booty, and 
 he now thought proper to vary his account of the manner 
 in which he found the cross. He now confessed that it had 
 dropped from the dress of a lady, whose carriage was over- 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 247 
 
 turned as she was coming home from the opera ; and he 
 concluded by saying, that if his father took his prize from 
 him without giving him his share of the profits, he would 
 go directly to the shop where the lady stopped while her 
 servants were raising the carriage, and that he would give 
 notice of his having found the cross. Piedro's father saw 
 that his smart son, though scarcely sixteen years of age, 
 was a match for him in villany. He promised him that he 
 should have half of whatever the Jew would give for the 
 diamonds, and Piedro insisted upon being present at the 
 transaction. We do not wish to lay open to our young 
 readers scenes of iniquity ; it is sufficient to say, that the 
 Jew, who was a man old in all the arts of villany, contrived 
 to cheat both his associates, and obtained the diamond cross 
 for less than half its value. The matter was managed so 
 that the transaction remained undiscovered ; the lady who 
 lost the cross, after making fruitless inquiries, gave up the 
 search, and Piedro and his father rejoiced in the success of 
 their manoeuvres. It is said that " Ill-gotten wealth is 
 quickly spent,"* and so it proved in this instance ; both 
 father and son lived a riotous life as long as their money 
 lasted, and it did not last many months. What his bad 
 education began, bad company finished ; and Piedro's mind 
 was completely ruined by the associates with whom he 
 became connected during what he called his prosperity. 
 When his money was at an end, these unprincipled friends 
 began to look cold upon him, and at last plainly told him, 
 " If you mean to live with us, you must live as we do." They 
 lived by robbery. Piedro, though familiarized to the idea 
 of fraud, was shocked at the thought of becoming a robber 
 by profession. How difficult it is to stop in the career of vice ! 
 Whether Piedro had power to stop, or whether he was 
 hurried on by his associates, we shall, for the present, leave 
 in doubt. 
 
 * Vien presto consamsito 1'ingiustatnento acquistato. 
 
248 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WE turn with pleasure from Piedro the Cunning to Fran- 
 cisco the Honest. Francisco continued the happy and use- 
 ful course of his life ; by his unremitting perseverance he 
 improved himself rapidly under the instructions of his 
 master and friend, Signer Camillo his friend, we say, for 
 the fair and open character of Francisco won, or rather 
 earned, the friendship of this benevolent artist. The Eng- 
 lish gentleman seemtd to take a pride in our hero's success 
 nnd good conduct ; he was not one of those patrons who 
 think that they have done enough when they have given five 
 guineas. His servant, Arthur, always considered every 
 generous action of his master's as his own, and was parti- 
 cularly pleased whenever this generosity was directed 
 towards Francisco. As for Carlo and the little Rosetta, 
 they were the companions of all the pleasant walks which 
 Francisco used to take in the cool of the evening, after he 
 had been shut up all day at his work. And the old carpen- 
 ter, delighted with the gratitude of his pupil, frequently 
 repeated, " that he was proud to have given the first instruc- 
 tions to such a genius, and that he had always prophesied 
 Francisco would be a great man." " And a good man, 
 papa," said Rosetta ; " for though he has grown so great, 
 and though he goes into palaces now, to say nothing of that 
 place under-ground, where he has leave to go, yet, notwith- 
 standing all this, he never forgets my brother Carlo and 
 you." " That 's the way to have good friends," said the 
 carpenter; "and I like his way he does more than he 
 says. 'Facts are masculine and words are feminine.'"* 
 
 These good friends seemed to make Francisco happier 
 than Piedro could be made by his stolen diamonds. 
 
 * I fatti sono maschii le parole femine. 
 
, THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 249 
 
 One morning Francisco was sent to finish a sketch of the 
 front of an ancient temple, among the ruins of Hercula- 
 neum ; he had just reached the pit, and the men were about 
 to let him down with cords in the usual manner, when his 
 attention was caught by the shrill sound of a scolding 
 woman's voice. He looked, and saw at some paces distant 
 this female fury, who stood guarding the windlass of a well, 
 to which, with threatening gestures and most voluble men- 
 aces, she forbade all access. The peasants men, women, 
 and children, who had come with their pitchers to draw 
 water at this well were held at bay by the enraged female ; 
 not one dared to be the first to advance ; while she grasped 
 with one hand the handle of the windlass, and with the 
 other tanned muscular arm extended, governed the popu- 
 lace, bidding them remember that she was padrona, or the 
 mistress of the well. They retired in hopes of finding a 
 more gentle padrona at some other well in the neighbour- 
 hood ; and the fury, when they were out of sight, divided 
 the long black hair which hung over her face, and, turning 
 to some of the spectators, appealed to them in a sober voice, 
 and asked if she was not right in what she had done. " I, 
 that am padrona of the well," said she, addressing herself 
 to Francisco, who, with great attention, was contemplating 
 her with the eye of a painter, " I, that am padrona of the 
 well, must, in times of scarcity, do strict justice, and pre- 
 serve for ourselves alone the water of our well ; there is 
 scarcely enough even for ourselves. I have been obliged 
 to make my husband lengthen the ropes every day for this 
 week past : if things go on at this rate, there will soon be 
 not one drop of water left in my well." " Nor in any of 
 the wells in the neighbourhood," added one of the work- 
 men, who was standing by ; and he mentioned several in 
 which the water had lately suddenly decreased ; and a mil- 
 ler affirmed that his mill had stopped for want of water. 
 Francisco was struck by these remarks ; they brought to 
 his recollection similar facts which he had often heard hi 
 
250 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 father mention in his childhood, as having been observed 
 previous to the last eruption of Mount Vesuvius.* He had 
 also heard from his father, in his childhood, that it is bet- 
 ter to trust to prudence than to fortune ; and therefore, 
 though the peasants and workmen, to whom he mentioned 
 his fears, laughed, and said, " That as the burning moun- 
 tain had been favourable to them for so many years, they 
 would trust to it and St. Januarius one day longer ;" yet 
 Francisco immediately gave up all thoughts of spending 
 this day amid the ruins of Herculaneum. After having 
 inquired sufficiently, after having seen several wells in 
 which the water had evidently decreased, and after having 
 seen the mill-wheels that were standing still for the want 
 of their usual supply, he hastened home to his father and 
 mother, reported what he had heard and seen, and begged 
 of them to remove, and to take what things of value they 
 could to some distance from the dangerous spot where they 
 now resided. Some of the inhabitants of Resina, whom he 
 questioned, declared that they had heard strange rumbling 
 noises under-ground ; and a peasant and his son, who had 
 been at work the preceding day in a vineyard a little above 
 the village, related that they had seen a sudden puff of 
 smoke come out of the earth close to them, and that they 
 had, at the same time, heard a noise like the going off of a 
 pistol.f The villagers listened, with large eyes and open 
 ears, to these relations ; yet such was their habitual attach- 
 ment to the spot they had lived upon, or such their security 
 in their own good-fortune, that few of them would believe 
 that there could be any necessity for removing. " We '11 
 see what will happen to-morrow ; we shall be safe here one 
 day longer," said they. Francisco's father and mother, 
 more prudent than the generality of their neighbours, went 
 
 * Phil. Trans, vol. ix. 
 
 f These facts are mentioned in Sir William Hamilton's account 
 of the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius. See Phil. Trans. 1795, 1st 
 part 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 251 
 
 to the house of a relation, at some miles' distance from Ve- 
 suvius, and carried with them all their effects. In the mean 
 time, Francisco went to the villa where his English friends 
 resided ; this villa was in a most dangerous situation, near 
 Torre del Greco, a town that stands at the foot of Mount 
 Vesuvius. He related all the facts that he had heard to 
 Arthur, who, not having been, like the inhabitants of Re- 
 eina, familiarized to the idea of living in the vicinity of a 
 burning mountain, and habituated to trust in St. Januarius, 
 was sufficiently alarmed by Francisco's representations : he 
 ran to his master's apartment, and communicated all that 
 he had just heard. The Count di F** and his lady, who 
 were at this time in the house, ridiculed the fears of Arthur, 
 and could not be prevailed upon to move, even as far as 
 Naples. The lady was intent upon preparations for her 
 birthday, which was to be celebrated in a few days with 
 great magnificence at their villa ; and she observed, that it 
 would be a pity to return to town before that day, as they 
 had everything arranged for the festival. The prudent Eng- 
 lishman had not the gallantry to appear to be convinced by 
 these arguments, and he left this place of danger. He left 
 it not too soon, for the next morning exhibited a scene a 
 scene which we shall not attempt to describe. We refer our 
 young readers to the account Sir William Hamilton has 
 published* of the last dreadful eruption of Mount Vesuvius. 
 It is sufficient here to say, that in the space of about five 
 hours, the wretched inhabitants of Torre del Greco saw 
 their town utterly destroyed by the streams of burning lava 
 which poured from the mountain. The villa of Count di 
 F**, with some others which were at a little distance from 
 the town, escaped ; but they were absolutely surrounded by 
 lava. The count and countess were obliged to fly from their 
 house with the utmost precipitation in the night time, and 
 they had not time to remove any of their furniture, their 
 plate, clothes, or jewels. A few days after the eruption, th 
 
 * Philosophical Transactions. 
 
252 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 surface of the lava became so cool that people could walk 
 upon it, though several feet beneath the surface it was still 
 exceedingly hot ; numbers of those who had been forced 
 from their houses now returned to the ruins to try to save 
 whatever they could ; but these unfortunate persons fre- 
 quently found their houses had been pillaged by robbers, 
 who, in these moments of general confusion, enriched them- 
 selves with the spoils of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 " Has the count abandoned his villa ? and is there no one 
 .to take care of his plate and furniture ? The house will 
 certainly be ransacked before morning," said the old car- 
 penter to Francisco, who was at his house giving him an 
 account of their flight. Francisco immediately went to the 
 count's house in Naples, to warn him of his danger. The 
 first person he saw was Arthur, who, with a face of terror, 
 said to him, " Do you know what has happened ? It 's all 
 over with Resina 1" " All over with Resina ! What, has 
 there been a fresh eruption ? Has the lava reached Resina ?" 
 " No : but it will inevitably be blown up. There," said 
 Arthur, pointing to a thin figure of an Italian, who stood 
 pale and trembling, and looking up to heaven, as he crossed 
 himself repeatedly "there," said Arthur, "is a man who 
 has left a parcel of his cursed rockets and fireworks, with I 
 do n't know how much gunpowder, in the count's house from 
 which we have just fled: the wind blows that way; one 
 spark of fire, and the whole is blown up." Francisco waited 
 not to hear more, but instantly, without explaining his 
 intentions to any one, set out for the count's villa, and, with 
 a bucket of water in his hand, crossed the beds of lava with 
 which the house was encompassed, reached the hall where 
 the rockets and gunpowder were left, plunged them iuto the 
 water, and returned with them in safety over the lava, yet 
 warm under his feet. What was the surprise and joy of the 
 poor firework-maker, when he saw Francisco return from 
 this dangerous expedition 1 He could scarcely believe his 
 eyes when he saw the rockets and the gunpowder all safe. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 253 
 
 The count, who had given up all hopes of saving his palace, 
 was in admiration when he heard of this instance of intre- 
 pidity, which probably saved, not only his villa, but the 
 whole village of Resina from destruction. These fireworks 
 had been prepared for the celebration of the countess's 
 birthday, and were forgotten in the hurry of the night on 
 which the inhabitants fled from Torre del Greco. 
 
 " Brave young man !" said the count to Francisco, " I 
 thank you, and shall not limit my gratitude to thanks. You 
 tell me that there is danger of my villa's being pillaged by 
 robbers ; it is from this moment your interest, as well as 
 mine, to prevent their depredations ; for a portion, trust to 
 my liberality, of all that is saved of mine shall be yours." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravissimo I" exclaimed one, who started from 
 a recessed window in the hall where all this passed " Bra- 
 vo ! bravissimo I" Francisco thought he knew the voice 
 and the countenance of this man, who exclaimed with so 
 much enthusiasm ; he remembered to have seen him before, 
 but when, or where, he could not recollect. As soon as the 
 count left the hall, the stranger came up to Francisco " Is 
 it possible," said he, "that you don't know me? It is 
 scarcely a twelvemonth since I drew tears from your eyes." 
 " Tears from my eyes !" repeated Francisco, smiling ; 
 " I have shed but few tears I have had but few misfor- 
 tunes in my life." The stranger answered him by two 
 extempore Italian lines, which conveyed nearly the same 
 idea that has been so well expressed by an English poet : 
 
 " To each of their sufferings all are men 
 
 Condemned alike to groan ; 
 
 The feeling for another's woes^ 
 
 Th' unfeeling for his own." 
 
 " I know you now perfectly well," cried Francisco ; " you 
 are the improvisatore who, one fine moonlight night last 
 summer, told us the story of Cornaro the Turk." " The 
 same," said the improvisatore " the same, though in a 
 
254 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 better dress, which I should not have thought would ha\e 
 made so much difference in your eyes, though it makes all 
 the difference between man and man in the eyes of the 
 stupid vulgar. My genius has broken through the clouds 
 of misfortune of late ; a few happy impromptu verses I 
 made on the Count di F**'s fall from his horse attracted 
 attention. The count patronises me I am here now to 
 learn the fate of an ode I have just composed for his lady's 
 birthday ; my ode was to have been set to music, and to 
 have been performed at his villa near Torre del Greco, if 
 these troubles had not intervened. Now that the mountain 
 is quiet again, people will return to their senses ; I expect 
 to be munificently rewarded. But perhaps I detain you. 
 Go, I shall not forget to celebrate the heroic action you have 
 performed this day. I still amuse myself among the popu- 
 lace in my tattered garb late in the evenings, and I shall 
 sound your praises through Naples in a poem I mean to 
 recite on the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius Adieu." 
 
 The improvisatore was as good as his word ; that evening, 
 with more than his usual enthusiasm, he recited his verses 
 to a great crowd of people in one of the public squares. 
 Among the crowd were several, to whom the name of Fran- 
 cisco was well known, and by whom he was well beloved. 
 These were his young companions, who remembered him 
 as a fruit-seller among the little merchants. They rejoiced 
 to hear his praises, and repeated the lines with shouts of 
 applause. " Let us pass. What is all this disturbance iu 
 the streets?" said a man, pushing his way through the 
 crowd. A lad, who held by his arm, stopped suddenly on 
 hearing the name of Francisco, which the people wero 
 repeating with so much enthusiasm. "Ha! I have found 
 at last a story that interests you more than that of Cornaro 
 the Turk," cried the improvisatore, looking in the face of 
 the youth who had stopped so suddenly. "You are the 
 young man who, last summer, had liked to have tricked me 
 out of my new hat. Promise me you won't touch it now,'' 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 255 
 
 said he, throwing down the hat at his feet, " or you hear 
 not one word I have to say not one word of the heroic 
 action performed at the villa of Count di F**, near Torre 
 del Greco, this morning, by Signer Francisco." Signor 
 Francisco !" repeated the lad, with disdain ; " well, let us 
 hear what you have to tell of him," added he. " Your hat 
 is very safe, I promise you ; I shall not touch it. What 
 of Signor Francisco?" " Signor Francisco I may without 
 impropriety call him," said the Improvisatore ; " for he is 
 likely to become rich enough to command the title from 
 those who might not otherwise respect his merit." " Likely 
 to become rich ! how ?" said the lad, whom our readers have 
 probably before this time discovered to be Piedro. " How, 
 pray, is he likely to become rich enough to be a signer ?" 
 " The Count di F** has promised him a liberal portion 
 of all the fine furniture, plate, and jewels that can be saved 
 from his villa at Torre del Greco. Francisco is gone down 
 thither now with some of the count's domestics, to protect 
 the valuable goods against those villanous plunderers who 
 rob their fellow-creatures of what even the flames of Vesu- 
 vius would spare.'' " Come, we have heard enough of this 
 stuff," cried the man whose arm Piedro held. " Come away ;" 
 and he hurried forward. 
 
 This man was one of the villains against whom the honest 
 orator expressed such indignation. He was one of those 
 with whom Piedro got acquainted during the time that he 
 was living extravagantly upon the money he gained by the 
 sale of the stolen diamond cross. That robbery was not 
 discovered, and his success, as he called it, hardened him in 
 guilt ; he was both unwilling and unable to withdraw him- 
 self from the bad company with whom his ill-gotten wealth 
 connected him. He did not consider that bad company 
 leads to the gallows.* The universal confusion which fol- 
 lowed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius was to these villains 
 a time of rejoicing. No sooner was there any wealthy 
 
 * " La male cornpagnia e quella che men a buomini alia furca. 
 
256 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 house known to be forsaken by the possessors, than it was 
 infested by these robbers. No sooner did Piedro's compa- 
 nion hear of the rich furniture, plate, &c. which the impru- 
 dent orator had described as belonging to the Count di F**'s 
 villa, than he longed to make himself master of the whole. 
 " It is a pity," said Piedro, " that the count has sent Fran- 
 cisco, with his servants, to guard it." "And who is this 
 Francisco, of whom you seem to stand in such awe ?" " A 
 boy, a young lad only, of about my own age ; but I know 
 him to be sturdily honest ; the servants we might corrupt ; 
 but even the old proverb of ' Angle with a silver hook,'* 
 won't hold good with him." "And if he cannot be won 
 with fair means, he must be conquered by foul," said the 
 desperate villain ; " but if we offer him rather more than 
 the count has already promised for his share of the booty, 
 of course he will consult at once his safety and his interest." 
 "No," said Piedro, "this is not his nature: I know him 
 from a child, and we had better think of some other house 
 for to-night's business." "None other; none but this," 
 cried his companion with an oath. " My mind is deter- 
 mined upon this, and you must obey your leader; recol- 
 lect the fate of him who failed me yesterday." The person 
 to whom he alluded was one of the gang of robbers who 
 had been assassinated by his companions, for hesitating to 
 commit some crime suggested by their leader. No tyranny 
 is so dreadful as that which is exercised by villains over 
 their young accomplices, who become their slaves. Piedro, 
 who was of a cowardly nature, trembled at the threatening 
 countenance of his captain, and promised submission. In 
 the course of the morning, inquiries were made secretly 
 among the count's servants ; and the two men who were 
 engaged to sit up at the villa that night along with Fran- 
 cisco were bribed to second the views of this gang of thieves. 
 It was agreed, that about midnight the robbers should be 
 let into the house ; that Francisco should be tied hand and 
 
 * Fescbar col hamo d'argento. 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 257 
 
 foot, while they carried off their booty. " He is a stubborn 
 chap, though so young, I understand," said the captain of 
 the robbers to his men ; " but we carry poniards, and know 
 how to use them. Piedro, you look pale you do n't require 
 to be reminded of what I said to you, when we were alone 
 just now?" 
 
 Piedro's voice failed, and some of his comrades observed, 
 that he was young and new to the business. The captain, 
 who, from being his pretended friend during his wealthy 
 days, had of late become his tyrant, cast a stern look at 
 Piedro, and bid him be sure to be at the old Jew's, which 
 was the place of meeting, in the dusk of the evening : after 
 saying this he departed. Piedro, when he was alone, tried 
 to collect his thoughts : all his thoughts were full of horror. 
 "Where am I?" said he to himself; "what am I about? 
 Did I understand rightly what he said about poniards? 
 Francisco ! Oh, Francisco ! Excellent, kind, generous 
 Francisco! Yes, I recollect 'your look when you held the 
 bunch of grapes to my lips as I sat by the sea-shore deserted 
 by all the world : and now what friends have I ? robbers 
 and " the word murderers he could not utter ; he again re- 
 collected what had been said about poniards, and the longer 
 his mind fixed upon the words, and the looks that accompa- 
 nied them, the more he was shocked. He could not doubt but 
 that it was the serious intention of his accomplices to murder 
 Francisco, if he should make any resistance. Piedro had 
 at this moment no friend in the world to whom he could 
 apply for advice or assistance his wretched father died 
 some weeks before this time, in a fit of intoxication. Piedro 
 walked up and down the street, scarcely capable of think- 
 ing, much less of coming to any rational resolution the 
 hours passed away, the shadows of the houses lengthened 
 under his footsteps ; the evening came on, and when it grew 
 dusk, after hesitating in great agony of mind for some time, 
 his fear of the robber's vengeance prevailed over every other 
 feeling, and he went at the appointed hour to the place of 
 17 
 
258 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 meeting. The place of meeting was at the house of that 
 Jew to whom he, several months before, sold the diamond 
 cross that cross, which he thought himself so lucky to 
 have stolen, and to have disposed of undetected, was, in 
 fact, the cause of his being in his present dreadful situation. 
 It was at the Jew's that he connected himself with this 
 gang of robbers, to whom he was now become an absolute 
 slave. " that I dared to disobey !" said he to himself, 
 with a deep sigh, as he knocked softly at the back-door of 
 the Jew's house. The back-door opened into a narrow 
 unfrequented street, and some small rooms at this side of 
 the house were set apart for the reception of guests who 
 desired to have their business kept secret. These rooms 
 were separated by a dark passage from the rest of the house, 
 and numbers of people came to the shop in the front of 
 the house, which looked into a creditable street, without 
 knowing anything more, from the ostensible appearance 
 of the shop, than that it was a kind of pawnbrokers, where 
 old clothes, old iron, and all sorts of refuse goods, might be 
 disposed of conveniently. At the moment Piedro knocked 
 at the back-door, the front shop was full of customers ; and 
 the Jew's boy, whose office it was to attend to these signals, 
 let Piedro in, told him that none of his comrades were yet 
 come, and left him in a room by himself. He was pale and 
 trembling, and felt a cold dew spread over him he had a 
 leaden image of St. Januarius tied round his neck, which, 
 in the midst of his wickedness, he superstitiously preserved 
 as a sort of charm ; and on this he kept his eyes stupidly 
 fixed, as he sat alone in this gloomy place. He listened, 
 from time to time, but he heard no noise at the side of the 
 house where he was. His accomplices did not arrive ; and, 
 in a sort of impatient terror, the attendant upon an evil 
 conscience, he flung open the door of his cell, and groped 
 his way through the dark passage which he knew led to the 
 public shop he longed to hear some noise, and to mix 
 with the living. The Jew, when Piedro entered the shop, 
 
THE LITTLE MEKC HANTS. 259 
 
 was bargaining with a poor thin-looking man, about some 
 gunpowder. 
 
 " I do n't deny that it has been wet," said the man ; "but 
 since it was in the bucket it has been carefully dried. I 
 tell you the simple truth : so soon after the grand eruption 
 of Mount Vesuvius, the people of Naples will not taste fire- 
 works. My poor little rockets, and even my Catharine's- 
 wheels, will have no effect : I am glad to part with all I have 
 in this line of business. A few days ago I had fine things 
 in readiness for the Countess di F**'s birthday, which waa 
 to have been celebrated at the count's villa." "Why do 
 you fix your eyes on me, friend ? "What is your discourse 
 to me ?" said Piedro, who imagined that the man fixed hia 
 eyes upon him as he mentioned the name of the count's 
 villa. " I did not know that I fixed my eyes upon you ; I 
 was thinking of my fireworks," said the man simply ; 
 " but, now that I do look at you, and hear your voice, I 
 recollect having had the pleasure of seeing you before." 
 "When? where?" said Piedro. "A great while ago; no 
 wonder you have forgotten me," said the man ; " but I can 
 recall the night to your recollection you were in the street 
 with me the night I let off that unlucky rocket which fright- 
 ened the horses, and was the cause of overturning a lady's 
 coach. Do n't you remember the circumstance ?" "I have 
 a confused recollection of some such thing," said Piedro, 
 in great embarrassment, and he looked suspiciously at thia 
 man, in doubt whether he was canning and wanted to sound 
 him, or whether he was so simple as he appeared. " You 
 did not perhaps hear then," continued the man, " that there 
 was a great search made, after the overturn, for a fine dia- 
 mond cross, belonging to the lady in the carriage ? That 
 lady, though I did not know it till lately, was the Countess 
 di F**." "I know nothing of the matter," interrupted 
 Piedro, in great agitation. His confusion was so marked, 
 that the firework-maker could not avoid taking notice of 
 it, and a silence of some moments ensued. The Jew, more 
 
260 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 practised in dissimulation than Picdro, endeavoured to turn 
 the man's attention back to his rockets and his gunpowder 
 
 agreed to take the gunpowder paid for it in haste, and 
 was, though apparently unconcerned, eager to get rid of 
 him. But this was not so easily done ; the man's curiosity 
 was so excited, and his suspicions of Piedro were increased 
 every moment by all the dark changes in his countenance. 
 Piedro, overpowered with the sense of guilt, surprised at 
 the unexpected mention of the diamond cross, and of the 
 Count di F**'s villa, stood like one convicted, and seemed 
 fixed to* the spot, without power of motion. " I want to 
 look at the old cambric that you said you had that would 
 do for making that you could let me have cheap, for arti- 
 ficial flowers," said the firework-maker to the Jew ; and as 
 he spoke, his eye from time to time looked towards Piedro. 
 Piedro felt for the leaden image of the saint which he wore 
 round bis neck ; the string which held it cracked, and broke 
 with the pull he gave it. This slight circumstance affected 
 his terrified and superstitious mind more than all the rest. 
 He imagined that at this moment his fate was decided ; that 
 St. Januarius deserted him, and that he was undone. He 
 precipitately followed the poor firework-man the instant he 
 left the shop, and seizing hold of his arm, whispered, "I 
 must speak to you." " Speak, then," said the man, aston- 
 ished. " Not here, this way," said he, drawing him towards 
 the dark passage ; " what I have to say must not be over- 
 heard. You are going to the Count di F**'s, are not you ?" 
 
 " I am," said the man. He was going there to speak to 
 the countess about some artificial flowers, but Piedro thought 
 he was going to speak to her about the diamond cross. 
 "You are going to give information against me? Nay, 
 hear me, I confess that I purloined a diamond cross ; but I 
 can do the count a great service, upon condition that he 
 pardons me. His villa is to be attacked this night by four 
 well-armed men ; they will set out five hours hence ; I am 
 compelled under the threat of assassination to accompany 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 261 
 
 them, but I shall do no more. I throw myself upon the 
 count's mercy. Hasten to him we have no time to lose." 
 The poor man, who heard this confession, escaped from 
 Piedro the moment he loosed his arm. With all possible 
 expedition he ran to the count's palace in Naples, and 
 related to him all that had been said by Piedro. Some of 
 the count's servants on whom he could most depend were 
 at a distant part of the city attending their mistress ; but 
 the English gentleman offered the services of his man Ar- 
 thur. Arthur no sooner heard the business, and understood 
 that Francisco was in danger, than he armed himself with- 
 out saying one word, saddled his English horse, and was 
 ready to depart before any one else had finished their excla- 
 mations and conjectures. "But we are not to set out yet, 
 it is but four miles to Torre del Greco ; the sbirri (officers 
 of justice) are summoned they are to go with us we 
 must wait for them." They waited, much against Arthur's 
 inclination, a considerable time for these sbirri. At length 
 they set out, and just as they reached the villa, the flash of 
 a pistol was seen from one of the apartments in the house. 
 The robbers were there this pistol was snapped by their 
 captain at poor Francisco, who had bravely asserted that he 
 would, as long as he had life, defend the property committed 
 to his care. The pistol missed fire for it was charged with 
 some of the damaged powder which the Jew had bought 
 that evening from the firework-maker, and which he had 
 sold as excellent immediately afterward to his favourite cus- 
 tomers, the robbers who met at his house. Arthur, as soon 
 as he perceived the flash of the piece, pressed forward 
 through all the apartments, followed by the count's servants 
 and the officers of justice ; at the appearance, the sudden 
 appearance, of so many armed men, the robbers stood dis- 
 mayed. Arthur eagerly shook Francisco's hand, congratu- 
 lating him upon his safety, and did not perceive, until he 
 had given him several rough friendly shakes, that his arm 
 was wounded, and that he was pale with the loss of blood. 
 
262 THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 
 
 " It is not much, only a slight wound," said Francisco ; 
 " one that I should have escaped, if I had been upon my 
 guard; but the sight of a face I little expected to see in 
 such company took from me all presence of mind ; and one 
 of the ruffians stabbed me here in the arm, while I stood in 
 stupid astonishment." 
 
 " Oh 1 take me to prison ! take me to prison I am weary 
 of life I am a wretch not fit to live !" cried Piedro, hold- 
 ing his hands to be tied by the sbirri. 
 
 He was taken to prison the next morning ; and as he 
 passed through the streets of Naples he was met by several 
 of those who had known him when he was a child. " Ay," 
 said they, as he went by, " his father encouraged him in 
 cheating when he was but a child; and see what he 's come 
 to now he is a man !" He was ordered to remain twelve 
 months in solitary confinement. His captain and his accom- 
 plices were sent to the galleys, and the Jew was banished 
 from Naples. And now, having gotten these villains out 
 of our way, let us return to honest Francisco. His wound 
 was soon healed. Arthur was no bad surgeon, for he let 
 his patient get well as fast as he pleased ; and Carlo and 
 Rosetta nursed him with so much kindness, that he was 
 almost sorry to find himself perfectly recovered. " Now 
 that you are able to go out," said Francisco's father to him, 
 " you must come and look at my new house, my dear son." 
 " Your new house, father 1" " Yes, son, and a charm- 
 ing one it is, and a handsome piece of land near it all at 
 a safe distance too from Mount Vesuvius ; and can you 
 guess how I came by it? it was given to me for having 
 a good son." "Yes," cried Carlo, "the inhabitants of 
 Resina, and several who had property near Torre del Greco, 
 and whoso houses and lives were saved by your intrepidity 
 in carrying the materials for the fireworks and the gun- 
 powder out of this dangerous place, went in a body to the 
 duke, and requested that he would mention your name and 
 these facts to the king, who, among the grants he has made 
 
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS. 263 
 
 to the sufferers by the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius, has 
 been pleased to say, that he gives this house and garden to 
 your father, because you have saved the property and lives 
 of many of his subjects." 
 
 The value of a handsome portion of the furniture, plate, 
 &c., in the Count di F**'s villa, was, according to the count's 
 promise, given to him ; and this money he divided between 
 his own family and that of the good carpenter, who first put 
 a pencil into his hands. Arthur would not accept of any 
 
 present from him. To Mr. , the English gentleman, 
 
 he offered one of his own drawings a fruit piece. "Hike 
 this very well," said Arthur, as he examined the drawing ; 
 " but I should like this melon better if it was a little bruised. 
 It is now three years ago since I was going to buy that 
 bruised melon from you ; you showed me your honest nature 
 then, though you were but a boy, and I have found you the 
 Bame ever since. A good beginning makes a good ending 
 an honest boy will make an honest man, and honesty is 
 the best policy, as you have proved to all who wanted the 
 proof, I hope." " Yes," added Francisco's father, " I think 
 it is pretty plain that Piedro the Cunning has not managed 
 quite so well as Francisco the Honest." 
 
OLD POZ. 
 
 Lucr, daughter to the Justice. 
 
 MRS. BUSTLE, landlady of the Saracen's Head. 
 
 JUSTICE HEADSTRONG. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 WILLIAM, a Servant. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The house of Justice Headstrong a hatt. Lucy watering 
 tome myrtles a servant behind the scenes is heard to say 
 
 I TELL you my master is not up you can't see him ; so 
 go about your business, I say. 
 
 Lucy. Who are you speaking to, William ? Who 'B that ? 
 
 Will. Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my 
 master. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, then, do n't send him away do n't send him 
 away. 
 
 Will. But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am. He 
 won't see anybody ever before he drinks his chocolate, you 
 know, ma'am. 
 
 Lucy. But let the old man then come in here perhaps 
 he can wait a little while call him. [Exit servant. 
 
 [Lucy sings, and goes on watering her myrtles, the 
 servant shows in the Old Man. 
 
 Will. You can't see my master this hour, but miss will 
 let you stay here, 
 
 Lucy, (aside.) Poor old man, how he trembles as he 
 
 (264) 
 
OLD POZ. 265 
 
 walks! (Aloud.) Sit down, sit down, my father will see 
 you soon ; pray sit down. 
 
 [He hesitates, she pushes a chair towards him. 
 Lucy. Pray sit down. [He sits down. 
 
 Old Man. You are very good, miss ; very good. 
 
 [Lucy goes to her myrtles again. 
 
 Lucy. Ah! I'm afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead 
 quite dead. [ The Old Man sigJis, and she turns round. 
 
 Lucy, (aside.) I wonder what can make him sigh so! 
 (Aloud.) My father won't make you wait long. 
 
 Old Man. 0, ma'am, as long as he pleases I'm in no 
 haste no haste : it's only a small matter. 
 
 Lucy. But does a small matter make you sigh so? 
 
 Old M. Ah, miss ; because, though it is a small matter 
 in itself, it is not a small matter to me (sighing again) 
 it was my all, and I 've lost it. 
 
 Lucy. What do you mean ? What have you lost ? 
 
 Old M. Why, miss but I won't trouble you about it. 
 
 Lucy. But it won't trouble me at all I mean I wish to 
 hear it so tell it me. 
 
 Old M. Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here in 
 town the Saracen's Head 
 
 Lucy, (interrupts him.) Hark, there is my father coming 
 down-stairs ; follow me you may tell me your story as we 
 go along. 
 
 Old M. I slept at the Saracen's Head, miss, and 
 
 [Exit, talking. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 JUSTICE HEADSTRONG'S Study. 
 
 (He appears in his night-gown and cap, with Ms gouty foot 
 upon a stool a table and chocolate beside him Lucy is 
 leaning on the arm of his chair.) 
 
 Just. Well, well, my darling, presently I'll see him 
 presently. 
 
266 OLD P o z . 
 
 Lucy. "While you are drinking your chocolate, papa ? 
 
 Just. No, no, no I never see anybody till I have done 
 my chocolate, darling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There 's 
 no sugar in this, child. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, indeed, papa. 
 
 Just. No, child there 's no sugar, I tell you that 'a 
 poz! 
 
 Lucy. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps 
 myself. 
 
 Just. There 's no sugar, I say why will you contradict 
 me, child, for ever ? There 's no sugar, I say. 
 
 [Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his teaspoon 
 pulls out two lumps of sugar. 
 
 Lucy. What's this, papa? 
 
 Just. Pshaw I pshaw ! pshaw ! it is not melted, child 
 it is the same as no sugar. Oh, my foot, girl, my foot 
 you kill me go, go, I 'm busy I 've business to do. Go 
 and send William to me : do you hear, love ? 
 
 Lucy. And the old man, papa ? 
 
 Just. What old man ? I tell you what, I 've been plagued 
 ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that 
 old man. If he can't wait, let him go about his business 
 do n't you know, child, I never see anybody till I 've drunk 
 my chocolate ; and I never will, if it was a duke, that 's 
 poz ! Why, it has but just struck twelve ; if he can't wait, 
 he can go about his business, can't he ? 
 
 Lucy. 0, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was impa- 
 tient : (she comes back playfully) it was only I, papa ; do n't 
 be angry. 
 
 Just. Well well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, 
 and pushing the dish away) ; and, at any rate, there was not 
 sugar enough send William, send William, child, and I '11 
 finish my own business, and then 
 
 [Exit Lucy, dancing, "And then! and then!" 
 
 JUSTICE, alone. 
 Oh this foot of mine ! (twinges) oh this foot ! Ay, if 
 
OLD p o z . 267 
 
 Doctor Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I 
 should think something of* him but as to my leaving off 
 my bottle of port, it's nonsense, it's all nonsense, and I 
 can't do it I can't, and I won't for all the Doctor Spare- 
 ribs in Christendom, that's poz ! 
 
 Enter WILLIAM. 
 
 Just. William oh ! ay hey what answer, pray, did 
 you bring from the Saracen's Head ? Did you see Mrs. 
 Bustle herself, as I bid you ? 
 
 Will, Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself she said she 
 would come up immediately, sir. 
 
 Just. Ah, that's well immediately? 
 
 Witt. Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now. 
 
 Just. Oh show her up, show Mrs. Bustle in. 
 
 Enter MRS. BUSTLE, the Landlady of the Saracen's Head. 
 
 Land. Good-morrow to your worship ! I 'm glad to see 
 your worship looking so purely I came up with all speed 
 (taking breath}. Our pie is in the oven that was what 
 you sent for me about, I take it. 
 
 Just. True true; sit down,. good Mrs. Bustle: pray 
 
 Land. 0, your worship 's always very good (settling her 
 apron) ; I came up just as I was, only threw my shawl over 
 me I thought your worship would excuse I'm quite, 
 as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and 
 to find you up so hearty 
 
 Just. 0, I'm very hearty (coughing}, always hearty, and 
 thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, 
 Mrs. Bustle and so our pie is in the oven, I think you 
 say? 
 
 Land. In the oven it is I put it in with my own hands ; 
 and, if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as 
 pretty a goose-pie, though I say it that should not say it, as 
 pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eye upon. 
 
 Just. Will you take a glass of anything this morning, 
 Mrs. Bustle ? I have some nice usquebaugh. 
 
268 OLD POZ. 
 
 Land. Oh, no, your worship ! I thank your worship, 
 though, as much as if I took it ;'but I just took my luncheon 
 before I came up, or, more proper, my sandwich, I should 
 eay, for the fashion's sake, to be sure. A luncheon won't go 
 down with nobody nowaday (laughs] I expect hostler and 
 boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (laughs 
 again) I 'm sure I beg your worship's pardon for mention- 
 ing a luncheon. 
 
 Just. Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word's a good word, for it 
 means a good thing, ha ! ha ! ha ! (pulls out his watch) 
 but pray, is it luncheon-time? Why, it's past one, I 
 declare ! and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, 
 too. 
 
 Land. Well, and to be sure, so it was remarkably good 
 time for your worship ; but folks in our way must be up 
 betimes, you know. I 've been up and about these seven 
 hours 1 
 
 Just, (stretching.) Seven hours 1 
 
 Land. Ay, indeed ! eight, I might say ; for I 'm an early 
 little body, though I say it that should not say it I am an 
 early little body. 
 
 Just. An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle : so I 
 shall have my goose-pie for dinner, eh ? 
 
 Land. For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four ; but 
 I mustn't stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I'm away 
 so I must wish your worship a good-morning. 
 
 [She courtesies. 
 
 Just. No ceremony, no ceremony, good Mrs. Bustle ; your 
 servant. 
 
 Enter WILLIAM, to take away the chocolate the Landlady it 
 
 putting on her shawl. 
 
 Just. You may let that man know, William, that I have 
 despatched my own business, and I am at leisure for his 
 now (taking a pinch of snuff) hum ! pray, William (Jus- 
 tice leans back gravely), what sort of a looking fellow is he, 
 pray? 
 
*^D poz. 209 
 
 Will. Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, 
 eir, or something that way, I take it. 
 
 [At these words the Landlady turns round inquisitively, 
 and delays, that she may listen while she is putting 
 on and pinning her shawl. 
 
 Just. Hum a sort of travelling man hum lay my 
 
 books out open at the title Vagrant : and, William, tell the 
 
 cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner : 
 
 four o'clock, do you hear ? And show the old man in now. 
 
 [The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door as it 
 
 opens, and exclaims . 
 
 Land. My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe I 
 
 Enter the OLD MAN. 
 (Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe the Justice leans back, 
 
 and looks consequential the Landlady sets her arms 
 
 a-kimbo the Old Man starts as he sees her.) 
 
 Just. What stops you, friend? Come forward, if you please, 
 
 Land, (advancing.) So, sir! is it you, sir? Ay, you little- 
 looked, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship ; but 
 there you reckoned without your host out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire. 
 
 Just. What is all this ? what is this ? 
 
 Land, (running on.) None of your flummery stuff will 
 go down with his worship no more than with me, I give ye 
 warning so you may go farther and fare worse, and spare- 
 your breath to cool your porridge. 
 
 Just, (waves his hand with dignity.) Mrs. Bustle, good 
 Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are silence! silence 1 
 Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say. 
 
 [The Old Man comes forward. 
 
 Just. Who and what may you be, friend ? and what is 
 your business with me ? 
 
 Land. Sir, if your worship will give me leave 
 
 [Justice makes a sign to her to be silent. 
 
 Old M. Please your worship, I am an old soldier 
 
270 OLD P Z . 
 
 Land, (interrupting.} An old hypocrite, say. 
 
 Just. Mrs. Bustle, pray I desire let the man speak. 
 
 Old M. For these two years past ever since, please 
 your worship I was n't able to work any longer; for in 
 my youth I did work as well as the best of them. 
 
 Land, (eager to interrupt,) You work 1 you 
 
 Just. Let him finish his story, I say. 
 
 Lucy. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle 
 
 Land, (turning suddenly round to Lucy.) Miss! A good- 
 uaorrow to you, ma'am ! I humbly beg your apologies for 
 not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy. 
 
 [Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on. 
 
 Old M, But, please your worship, it pleased God to take 
 away the use of my left arm, and, since that, I never have 
 been able to work. 
 
 Land, Flummery ! flummery ! 
 
 Just, (angrily.) Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and 
 I will have it, that 's poz ! You shall have your turn pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Old M. For these two years past for why should I bo 
 ashamed to tell the truth ? I have lived upon charity ; and 
 I scraped together a guinea and a half, and upwards, and 1 
 was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with 
 him to end my days, but (sighing.) 
 
 Just. But what? Proceed, pray, to the point. 
 
 Old M. But last night I slept here in town, please your 
 worship, at the Saracen's Head. 
 
 Land, (in a rage.) At the Saracen's Head ! yes, forsooth, 
 none such ever slept at the Saracen's Head afore, or ever 
 shall after, as long as my name 's Bustle, and the Saracen's 
 Head is the Saracen's Head. 
 
 Just. Again ! again ! Mrs. Landlady, this is downright 
 I have said you should speak presently he shall speak 
 first, since I 've said it, that 's poz ! Speak on, friend : you 
 slept last night at the Saracen's Head. 
 
 Old M. Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody ; 
 
OLD P Z. 271 
 
 but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning 
 it was gone. 
 
 Land. Gone ! gone, indeed, in my house ! and this is the 
 way I 'm to be treated ! is it so ? I could n't but speak, 
 please your worship, to such an inhurnan-like, out-o'-the- 
 way, scandalous charge, if King George, and all the royal 
 family, were sitting in your worship's chair, besides you, to 
 silence me. (Turning to ike Old Man.) And this is your 
 gratitude, forsooth ! Did n't you tell me that any hole in 
 my house was good enough for you, you wheedling hypo- 
 crite? and my thanks is, to call me and mine a pack of 
 thieves ! 
 
 Old M. Oh, no, no, no, no, a pack of thieves, by no 
 means ! ' 
 
 Land. Ay, I thought when I came to speak we should 
 have you upon your marrow-bones in 
 
 Just, (imperiously.) Silence ! five times have I commanded 
 silence, and five times in vain ; and I won't command any- 
 thing five times in vain, that's poz! 
 
 Land, (in a pet, aside.) Old Poz ! (Aloud.) Then, your 
 worship, I do n't see any business I have to be waiting here 
 the folks will want me at home. (Returning, and whis- 
 pering.} Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it's 
 ready ? 
 
 Just, (with magnanimity.} I care not for the goose-pie, 
 Mrs. Bustle do not talk to me of goose-pies this is no 
 place to talk of pies. 
 
 Land. Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to- 
 be sure. [Exit Landlady, angry,. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 JUSTICE HEADSTRONG, OLD MAN, and LUCY. 
 
 Lucy. Ah, now I 'm glad he can speak now tell papa : 
 and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very 
 
272 OLD POZ. 
 
 good-natured don't contradict him, though, because he 
 told me not. 
 
 Just. Oh, darling, you shall contradict me as often as you 
 pleas<* only not before I've drunk my chocolate, child, 
 eh ' Go on, my good friend, you see what it is to live in 
 old England, where, thank Heaven ! the poorest of his 
 majesty's subjects may have justice, and speak his mind 
 before the first man in the land. Now speak on, and you 
 hear she tells you you need not be afraid of me speak on. 
 
 Old M. I thank your worship, I 'm sure. 
 
 Just. Thank me ! for what, sir ? I won't be thanked for 
 doing justice, sir! So, but explain this matter. You lost 
 your money, eh, at the Saracen's Head ? you had it safe 
 last night, eh ? and you missed it this morning ? "Are you 
 sure you had it safe at night? 
 
 Old M. Oh, please your worship, quite sure ; for I took 
 it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers. 
 
 Just. You did, did ye so ? hum ! pray, my good friend, 
 where might you put your money when you went to bed ? 
 
 Old M. Please your worship, where I always put it 
 always in my tobacco-box. 
 
 Just. Your tobacco-box 1 I never heard of such a thing 
 to make a strong box of a tobacco-box ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 hum ! and you say the box and all was gone in the morn- 
 ing? 
 
 Old M. No, please your worship, no, not the box the 
 box was never stirred from the place where I put it. They 
 left me the box. 
 
 Just. Tut, tut, tut, man I took the money and left the 
 box I I'll never believe that; I '11 never believe that any 
 one could be such a fool. Tut, tut ! the thing 's impossible : 
 it 's well you 're not upon oath. 
 
 Old M. If I was, please your worship, I should say the 
 same, for it is the truth. 
 
 Just. Do n't tell me, do n't tell me ; I say the thing is 
 impossible* 
 
OLD p o z . 273 
 
 Old M. Please your worship, here 's the box. 
 
 Just, (goes on without looking at it.] Nonsense! nonsense! 
 it's no such thing, it's no such thing, I say no man would 
 take the money and leave the tobacco-box. I won't believe 
 it nothing shall make me believe it ever that's poz ! 
 
 Lucy, (takes the box, and holds it up before her father's 
 eyes.) You did not see the box, did you, papa? 
 
 Just. Yes, yes, yes, child nonsense ! it 's all a lie from 
 beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a hun- 
 dred all a lie, all a lie ! 
 
 Old M. If your worship would give me leave 
 
 Just. Sir, it does not signify it does not signify ; I 've 
 said it, I 've said it, and that 's enough to convince me ; and 
 I '11 tell you more, if my lord chief justice of England told 
 it to me, I would not believe it, that's poz ! 
 
 Lucy, (still playing with the box.) But how comes the box 
 here, I wonder ? 
 
 Just. Pshaw ! pshaw ! pshaw ! darling go to your dolls, 
 iarling, and do n't be positive go to your dolls, and do n't 
 ;alk of what you do n't understand. What can you under- 
 stand, I want to know, of the law ? 
 
 Lucy. No, papa, I did n't mean about the law, but about 
 the box ; because if the man had taken it, how could it be 
 here, you know, papa ? 
 
 Just. Eh, eh, what? Why, what I say is this, that I 
 do n't dispute that that box that you hold in your hands is 
 a box; nay, for aught I know, it may be a tobacco-box 
 but it 's clear to me, that if they left the box, they did not 
 take the money and how do you dare, sir, to come before 
 Justice Headstrong with a lie in your mouth? Recollect 
 yourself, I '11 give you time to recollect yourself. 
 
 [A pause.] 
 
 Just. Well, sir, and what do you say now about the box ? 
 Old M. Please your worship, with submission, I can say 
 nothing but what I said before. 
 18 
 
274 OLD P o z . 
 
 Just. What, contradict me again, after T gave ye time tc 
 recollect yourself! I 've done with ye, I 've done : contradict 
 me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon mo ; 
 I defy you to impose upon me 1 
 
 Old M. Impose ! 
 
 Just, I know the law 1 know the law! and I'll make 
 you know it too. One hour I '11 give you to recollect your- 
 self, and if you do n't give up this idle story, I '11 I '11 com- 
 mit you as a vagrant, that's poz ! go, go, for the present. 
 William, take him into the servants' hall, do you hear? 
 What ! take the money, and leave the box I I '11 never 
 believe it, that 's poz ! 
 
 [Lucy speaks to the Old Man as he is going off, 
 
 Lucy, Do n't be frightened ! do n't be frightened ! I mean, 
 if you tell the truth, never be frightened. 
 
 Old M. If I tell the truth (turning up his eyes.) 
 
 [ Old Man is still held back by Lucy, 
 
 Lucy. One moment answer me one question because 
 of something that just came into my head. Was the box 
 shut fast when you left it ? 
 
 Old M. No, miss, no ! open ; it was open, for I could 
 not find the lid in the dark ; my candle went out. Ifl tell 
 the truth, oh t [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 ' Justice's study the Justice is \eriting. 
 
 Old M. Well ! I shall have but a few days more misery 
 in this world ! 
 
 Just, (looks up.) Why, why why, then, why will you be 
 BO positive to persist in a lie ! Take the money and leave 
 the box ! obstinate blockhead ! Here, William (showing the 
 committal), take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the consta- 
 ble, and give him this warrant. 
 
 Enter LUCY, running, out of breath. 
 Lucy, I've found it! I've found it! I've found it! 
 
OLD p o z . 275 
 
 Here, old man, here 's your money ! here it is all : a guinea 
 and a half, and a shilling and a sixpence just as he said, 
 papa. 
 
 Enter LANDLADY. 
 
 Land. Oh, la, your worship, did you ever hear the like ? 
 
 Just. I've heard nothing, yet, that I can understand. 
 First, have you secured the thief, I say ? 
 
 Lucy, (makes signs to the Landlady to be silent.) Yes, yes, 
 yes 1 we have him safe we have him prisoner. Shall he 
 come in, papa? 
 
 Just. Yes, child, by all means ; and now I shall hear what 
 possessed him to leave the box. I don't understand 
 there's something deep in all this I don't understand it 
 Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single 
 word while I am cross-examining the thief. 
 
 [Landlady puts her finger upon her lips everybody 
 looks eagerly towards the door. 
 
 Re-enter LUCY, with a huge wicker-cage in her hand, contain- 
 ing a magpie the justice drops the committal out of his 
 hand. 
 
 Just. Eh ! what, Mrs. Landlady ! the old magpie, eh I 
 
 Land. Ay, your worship, my old magpie who'd have 
 thought it ! Miss was very clever ; it was she caught the 
 thief. Miss was very clever. 
 
 Old M. Very good ! very good ! 
 
 Just. Ay, darling ! her father's own child ! How was it, 
 child ? Caught the thief with the mainour, eh ? Tell us all 
 I will hear all that 's poz ! 
 
 Lucy. Oh, then ! first, I must tell you how I came to sus- 
 pect Mr. Magpie. Do you remember, papa, that day last 
 summer that I went with you to the bowling-green at the 
 Saracen's Head? 
 
 Land. Oh, of all days in the year but I ask pardon, 
 miss. 
 
 Lucy. Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gen 
 
276 OLD p o z . 
 
 tleman telling stories of magpies hiding money ; and they 
 laid a wager about this old magpie, and they tried him ; 
 they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it 
 and hid it so I thought that he might do so again, you 
 know, this time. 
 
 Just. Right, right ! It 's a pity, child, you are not upon 
 the bench ! ha ! ha I ha 1 
 
 Lucy. And when I went to his old hiding-place, there it 
 was but you see, papa, he did not take the box. 
 
 Just. No, no, no ! because the thief was a magpie. No 
 man would have taken the money and left the box. You 
 see I was right ; no man would have left the box, eh ? 
 
 Lucy. Certainly not, I suppose : but I 'm so very glad, 
 old man, that you have gotten your money. 
 
 Just. Well, then, child, here, take my purse, and add 
 that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal, 
 eh? 
 
 Land. Ay, and I fear I was so, too ; but when one is 
 touched about the credit of one's house, one 's apt to speak 
 warmly. 
 
 Old M. Oh, I'm the happiest old man alive! You are 
 all convinced I told you no lies. Say no more, say no more 
 I am the happiest man ! Miss, you have made me the 
 happiest man alive ! Bless you for it 1 
 
 Land. Well, now, I'll tell you what I know what I 
 think you must keep that there magpie, and make a show 
 of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest 
 penny ; for it 's a true story, and folks will like to hear it, I 
 hopes 
 
 Just, (eagerly.} And, friend, do you hear? you'll dine 
 here to-day you '11 dine here ; we have some excellent ale 
 I will have you drink my health, that 's poz ! eh, you '11 
 drink my health, won't you, eh? 
 
 Old M. (bows.) Oh, and the young lady's, if you please. 
 
 Just. Ay, ay, drink her health she deserves it ay, 
 drink my darling's health. 
 
OLD POZ. 277 
 
 Land. And, please your worship, it's the right time, f 
 believe, to speak of the goose-pie now ; and a charming pie 
 it is, and it's on the table. 
 
 Will. And Mr. Smack the curate, and Squire Solid, and 
 the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner 's upon the table. 
 
 Just. Then let us say no more, but do justice immediately 
 to the goose-pie and, darling, put me in mind to tell this 
 story after dinner. [After they go out, the Justice stops. 
 
 " Tell this story !" I do n't know whether it tells well for 
 me but I'll never be positive any more that's poz ! 
 
THE MIMIC. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Montague spent the summer of the year 
 1795 at Clifton, with their son Frederick and their two 
 daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much 
 care of the education of their children, nor were they 
 ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience, or 
 temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness 
 of their pupils. 
 
 Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, 
 and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in 
 forming the character and the manners, they were now 
 anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which 
 should strike the minds of their children, should appear in 
 a just point of view. 
 
 "Let children see, and judge for themselves," is often 
 inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part, they 
 cannot judge of the whole ; and from the superficial view 
 which they can have in short visits and desultory conversa- 
 tion, they can form only a false estimate of the objects of 
 human happiness, a false notion of the nature of society, 
 and false opinions of characters. For these reasons Mr. 
 and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice 
 of their acquaintance, as they were well aware that what- 
 ever passed in conversation before their children became 
 part of their education. When they came to Clifton, they 
 wished to have had a house entirely to themselves ; but as 
 they came late in the season, almost all the lodging-housea 
 
 (278) 
 
T II E MIMIC. 279 
 
 were full ; and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain 
 in a house in which some of the apartments were already 
 occupied. 
 
 During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard any- 
 thing of one of the families, who lodged on the same floor 
 with them. An elderly Quaker, with his sister Birtha, 
 were their silent neighbours. The blooming complexion 
 of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the chil- 
 dren, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was 
 getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs. They 
 could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account 
 of her health. Besides her blooming complexion, the deli- 
 cate white of her garments had struck them with admira- 
 tion ; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded 
 these from the wheel of the carriage as he handed her in. 
 From this circumstance, and from the benevolent counte- 
 nance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was 
 very fond of his sister that they were certainly very 
 happy, only they never spoke, and could be seen but for a 
 moment. 
 
 Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground-floor 
 on the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was con- 
 tinually visible ; and she seemed to possess the art of being 
 present in all these places at once. Her voice was eternally 
 to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious. The 
 very first day she met Mrs. Montague's children on the 
 stairs, she stopped to tell Marianne that she was a " charm- 
 ing dear !" and a " charming little dear I" to kiss her, to 
 inquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was 
 " Mrs. Theresa Tattle ;" a circumstance of which there was 
 little danger of their long remaining in ignorance ; for in 
 the course of one morning at least twenty single, and as 
 many double, raps at the door, were succeeded by vocifera- 
 tions of "Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant!" "Mrs. The- 
 resa Tattle at home ?" " Mrs. Theresa Tattle not at 
 home I" 
 
280 THE MIMIC. 
 
 No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad 
 than Mrs. Tattle. She had, as she deemed it, the happiness 
 to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton. 
 She had for years kept a register of arrivals. She regularly 
 consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and 
 the lists at the ball and the pump-rooms ; so that, with a 
 memory unencumbered with literature, and free from all 
 domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing 
 and correct list of births, deaths, and marriages, together 
 with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, 
 which are necessary to the conversation of a water-drinking 
 place, and essential to the character of a " very pleasant 
 woman." 
 
 " A very pleasant woman " Mrs. Tattle was usually 
 called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was 
 eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new 
 neighbours ; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected 
 from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be 
 known, or, rather, all that could be told about them. The 
 name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, 
 and justified her courting this acquaintance. She courted 
 it first by nods, and becks, and smiles, at Marianne, when- 
 ever she met her ; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, 
 began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that 
 a lady who smiled so much could not be ill-natured. Be- 
 sides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour-door was sometimes left more 
 than half-open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Mari- 
 anne sometimes passed very slowly by this door. One 
 morning it was left quite wide open ; she stopped to say, 
 "Pretty Poll," and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she 
 would do her the honour to walk in and see " Pretty Poll ;" 
 at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of 
 iced plum-cake. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour 
 to wait upon Mrs. Montague, " to apologize for the liberty 
 she had taken, in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss 
 
THE MIMIC. 281 
 
 Marianne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll : and for 
 the still greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece 
 of plumcake, inconsiderate creature that she was ! which 
 might possibly have disagreed with her, and which certainly 
 were liberties she never should have been induced to take, 
 if she had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miss Mari- 
 anne's striking, though highly nattering, resemblance to a 
 young gentleman, an officer, with whom she had danced, 
 she was sorry to say, now nearly twelve years ago, at the 
 
 races in shire, of the name of Montague, a most 
 
 respectable young man, and of a most respectable family ; 
 with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, 
 she herself was some way connected, having the honour to 
 be nearly related to the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were 
 cousins to the Manwairings of Bedfordshire, who married 
 into the family of the Griffithses, the eldest branch of which, 
 she understood, had the honour to be cousin-german to Mr. 
 Montague, on which account she had been impatient to 
 pay a visit so likely to be productive of most agreeable con- 
 sequences, in the acquisition of an acquaintance whose 
 society must do her infinite honour." 
 
 Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there 
 seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further 
 acquaintance. In the course of the first week, she only 
 hinted to Mr. Montague, that " some people thought his 
 system of education rather odd ; that she should be obliged 
 to him if he would, some time or other, when he had nothing 
 else to do, just sit down and make her understand his 
 notions, that she might have something to say to her 
 acquaintance, as she always wished to have, when she heard 
 any friend attacked, or any friend's opinions." 
 
 Mr. Montague declining to sit down and make this lady 
 understand a system of education only to give her some- 
 thing to say, and showing unaccountable indifference about 
 the attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next 
 addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophesying, in a most 
 
282 THE MIMIC. 
 
 serious whisper, "that the charming Miss Marianne would 
 shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not 
 immediately provided with a back-board, a French dancing- 
 master, and a pair of stocks. This alarming whisper could 
 not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's 
 understanding, because, three days afterward, Mrs. The- 
 resa, upon the most anxious inspection, mistook the hip and 
 shoulder, which should have been the highest. This danger 
 vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face 
 and formal preface, " hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague 
 that she was greatly distressed about her daughter Sophy ; 
 that she was convinced her lungs were affected ; and that 
 she certainly ought to drink the waters morning and even- 
 ing ; and, above all things, must keep one of the patirosa 
 lozenges constantly in her mouth, and directly consult Dr. 
 Cardamum, the best physician in the world, and the person 
 she would send for herself upon her deathbed ; because, to 
 her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a 
 relation of her own, after she had lost one whole globe of 
 her lungs. 
 
 The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical 
 precision could not have much weight ; nor was this uni- 
 versal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a 
 tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want one to 
 perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead languages, 
 of which, she observed, it would be impertinent for a woman 
 to talk ; only she might venture to repeat what she had 
 heard said by good authority, that a competency of the dead 
 tongues could be had nowhere but at a public school, or 
 else from a private tutor who had been abroad (after the 
 advantage of a classical education, finished in one of the 
 universities) with a good family, without which introduction 
 it was idle to think of reaping solid advantages from any 
 continental tour ; all which requisites she could, from per- 
 sonal knowledge, aver concentrated in the gentleman she 
 had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a 
 
THE MIMIC. 283 
 
 young nobleman, who had now no further occasion for him, 
 being, unfortunately for himself and his family, killed in 
 an untimely duel. 
 
 All her suggestions being lost upon these unthinking 
 parents, Mrs. Theresa Tattle's powers were next tried upon 
 the children, and presently her success was apparent. On 
 Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though 
 she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flat- 
 tery. Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of 
 her friends, was not very desirous to win the favour of 
 strangers. She was about thirteen, that dangerous age at 
 which ill-educated girls, in their anxiety to display their 
 accomplishments, are apt to become dependent for applauso 
 upon the praise of every idle visiter ; when, the habits not 
 being formed, and the attention being suddenly turned to 
 dress and manners, girls are apt to affect and imitate, indis- 
 criminately, everything that they fancy to be agreeable. 
 
 Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time 
 with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into 
 these errors ; she found that she could please those whom 
 she wished to please, without affecting to be anything but 
 what she really was ; and her friends listened to what she 
 said, though she never repeated the sentiments, or adopted 
 the phrases, which she might easily have caught from the 
 conversation of those who were older or more fashionable 
 than herself. This word " fashionable " Mrs. Theresa Tattle 
 knew had usually a great effect even at thirteen ; but she 
 had not observed that it had much power upon Sophy ; nor 
 were her documents concerning grace and manners much 
 attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy, that it was 
 best to let herself alone, and not to distort either her person 
 or her mind in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the 
 fashion of the moment can support, and which is always 
 detected and despised by people of real good sense and 
 politeness. 
 
 " Bless me !" said Mrs. Tattle to herself, " if I had such 
 
284 THE MIMIC. 
 
 a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from 
 morning to-night, it would certainly break my poor heart. 
 Thank Heaven, I am not a mother 1 Miss Marianne for me, 
 if I was !'' 
 
 Miss Marianne had heard so often from Mrs. Tattle that 
 she was very charming, that she could not help believing 
 it ; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, 
 she in a short time grew so conceited that she could neither 
 speak, look, move, nor be silent, without imagining that 
 everybody was, or ought to be, looking at her ; and when 
 Mrs. Theresa saw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave 
 upon these occasions, she, to repair the ill she had done, 
 would say, after praising Marianne's hair or her eyes, "0, 
 but little ladies should never think about their beauty, you 
 know ; nobody loves anybody, you know, for being hand- 
 some, but for being good." People must think children are 
 very silly, or else they can never have reflected upon the 
 nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that 
 children will believe the words that are said to them by way 
 of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every conco- 
 mitant circumstance tells them a different tale. Children 
 are excellent physiognomists ; they quickly learn the uni- 
 versal language of looks, and what is said of them always 
 makes a greater impression than what is said to them ; a 
 truth of which those prudent people surely cannot be aware 
 who comfort themselves and apologize to parents by saying, 
 " but I would not say so and so to the child." 
 
 Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague, 
 " that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incom- 
 parable mimic ;" but she had said so of him in whispers, 
 which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his 
 ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable 
 abilities ; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been 
 surfeited ; even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, 
 and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that 
 he became quite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters 
 
THE MIMIC. 285 
 
 and manners, that he might judge of them and form hia 
 own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might 
 detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their ges- 
 ture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic. 
 
 Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been 
 honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for 
 new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp. 
 They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending 
 a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their 
 family. They had heard of a house in the country which 
 was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly 
 to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they fore- 
 saw their officious neighbour would probably interfere with 
 their children. They did not choose to exact any promise 
 from them, which they might be tempted to break, and 
 therefore they only said at parting, " If Mrs. Theresa Tattle 
 should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper." 
 
 Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage gone out of hear- 
 ing, when a note was brought, directed to " Frederick Mon- 
 tague, junior, Esq.," which he immediately opened, and read 
 as follows : 
 
 " Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments 
 to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague ; she hopes he 
 will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and 
 bring his charming sister Marianne with him, as Mrs. The- 
 resa will be quite alone, with a shocking headache, and is 
 sensible her nerves are affected ; and Dr. Cardamum says, 
 that (especially in Mrs. T. T.'s case) it is downright death 
 to nervous patients to be alone an instant ; she therefore 
 trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her 
 laugh. 
 
 " Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons 
 for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond 
 >f them the other day. 
 
286 THE MIMIC. 
 
 " Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, 
 not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be cf 
 the party." 
 
 At the first reading of this note, " the entertaining " Mr. 
 Frederick and the "charming" Miss Marianne laughed 
 heartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that 
 she should think it possible they could like such gross flat- 
 tery ; but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that 
 it certainly was good-natured of Mrs. Theresa to remember 
 the macaroons ; and Frederick allowed that it was wrong to 
 laugh at the poor woman because she had the headache. 
 Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy ; 
 "Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an instant, and tell us, 
 what answer can we send ?" " Can ! we can send what 
 answer we please." " Yes, I know that," said Frederick ; 
 " I would refuse if I could, but we ought not to do anything 
 rude, should we ? So I think we might as well go. Hey 1 
 because we could not refuse if we would, I say." 
 
 " You have made such confusion," replied Sophy, " be- 
 tween ' could n't,' and ' would n't,' and should n't,' that I 
 can't understand you ; surely they are all different things." 
 
 " Different ! no," cried Frederick ; " could, would, should, 
 might, and ought are all the same thing in the Latin gram- 
 mar ; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know." 
 
 Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be con- 
 founded even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked 
 up soberly from her drawing, and answered, " That very 
 likely those words might be signs of the same thing in the 
 Latin grammar, but that she believed they meant perfectly 
 different things in real life." 
 
 "That's just as people please," said her sophistical bro- 
 ther ; " you know words mean nothing in themselves. If I 
 choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would under- 
 stand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, 
 that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put 
 
THE MIMIC. 287 
 
 apon my head ; cadwallader and hat would then be j ust the 
 same thing to you." 
 
 "Then why have you two words for the same thing?" 
 said Sophy ; " and what has this to do with could and 
 should ? You wanted to prove " 
 
 " I wanted to prove," interrupted Frederick, " that it 's 
 not worth while to dispute for two hours about two words. 
 Do keep to the point, Sophy, and do n't dispute with me." 
 
 " I was not disputing, I was reasoning." 
 
 " Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no business 
 to do either, for how should they know how to chop logic 
 like men?" 
 
 At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's 
 colour rose. " There 1" cried Frederick, exulting, " now 
 we shall see a philosopheress in a passion ; I 'd give sixpence, 
 half-price for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a 
 passion. Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbling so 
 fast in the water !" 
 
 Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with 
 some little indignation said, " Brother, I wish " 
 
 " There ! there !" cried Frederick, pointing to the colour 
 which rose in her cheek almost to her temples ; " rising ! 
 rising ! rising ! Look at the thermometer. Blood heat I 
 Blood 1 Fever heat ! Boiling-water heat ! Marianne." 
 
 " Then," said Sophy, smiling, " you should stand a little 
 farther off, both of you ; leave the thermometer to itself a 
 little while ; give it time to cool. It will come down to 
 temperate by the time you look again." 
 
 " Oh, brother," cried Marianne, " she 's so good-humoured, 
 do n't tease her any more ; and do n't draw heads upon her 
 paper ; and do n't stretch her rubber out ; and do n't let us 
 dirty any more of her brushes. See ! the sides of her tum- 
 bler are all manner of colours." 
 
 "Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green, and yellow, to show 
 you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. 
 But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; 
 
288 THE MIMIC. 
 
 she shall chop logic if she likes it, though she is a wo- 
 man." 
 
 "But that's not fair, brother," said Marianne, "to say 
 'woman' in that way. I'm sure Sophy found out how to 
 tie that difficult knot, which papa showed to us yesterday, 
 long before you did, though you are a man." 
 
 " Not long," said Frederick ; " besides, that was only a 
 conjuring trick." 
 
 " It was very ingenious, though," said Marianne, " and 
 papa said so ; and, besides, she understood the rule of three, 
 which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though 
 she is a woman ; and she may reason too, mamma says." 
 
 "Very well, let her reason away," said the provoking 
 wit ; " all I have to say is, she '11 never be able to make a 
 pudding." "Why not, pray, brother?" inquired Sophy, 
 looking up again very gravely. " Why, you know papa 
 himself, the other day at dinner, said, that that woman who 
 talks Greek and Latin as well as I do is a fool after all ; and 
 that she had better have learned something useful ; and 
 Mrs. Tattle said she 'd answer for it she did not know how 
 to make a pudding." 
 
 " Well, but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I ?" 
 
 " No, but you 're drawing, and that 's the same thing." 
 
 " The same thing ! oh, Frederick !" said little Marianne, 
 laughing. 
 
 " You may laugh, but I say it is the same sort of thing. 
 Women that are always drawing and reasoning never know 
 how to make puddings ; Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when 
 I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday." 
 
 " Mrs. Theresa Tattle might say so," replied Sophy, 
 calmly, " but I do not perceive the reason, brother, why 
 drawing should prevent me from learning how to make a 
 pudding." 
 
 " Well, I say you '11 never learn to make a good pudding." 
 
 "I have learned," continued Sophy, who was mixing her 
 colours, " to mix such and such colours together to make 
 
THE MIMIC. 289 
 
 the colour that I want ; and why should I not be able to 
 mix flour, and butter and sugar, and egg together, to make 
 the taste that I want ?" 
 
 " Oh, but mixing will never do, unless you know the 
 quantities, like a cook ; and you would never learn the right 
 quantities." 
 
 " How did the cook learn them? cannot I learn them aa 
 she did?" 
 
 " Yes, but you 'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoon- 
 fulls right, by the receipt, like a cook, exactly." 
 
 " Indeed ! indeed ! but she would !" cried Marianne, 
 eagerly; "and a great deal more exactly; for mamma has 
 taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully ; and 
 when I was ill, she always weighed my bark so nicely, and 
 dropped my drops so carefully not like the cook. When 
 mamma took me down to see her make a cake once, I saw 
 her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls ; she dashed 
 and splashed without minding exactness, or the receipt, or 
 anything. I 'm sure Sophy would make a much better pud- 
 ding, if exactness only is wanting." 
 
 " Well, granting that she could make the best pudding in 
 the whole world, what does that signify ? I say she never 
 would, so it comes to the same thing." 
 
 " Never would ! how can you tell that, brother ?" 
 
 " Why, now look at her, with her books, and her draw 
 ings, and all this apparatus ; do you think she would ever 
 jump up, with all her nicety too, and put by all these 
 things, to go down into the greasy kitchen, and plump up 
 to the elbows in suet, like a cook, for a plum-pudding ?" 
 
 " I need not plump up to the elbows, brother," said Sophy, 
 smiling ; " nor is it necessary that I should be a cook ; but 
 if it were necessary, I hope I should be able to make a pud- 
 ding." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes !" cried Marianne, warmly, " she would 
 jump up and put by all her things in a minute, if it was 
 necessary, and run down-stairs and up again like lightning, 
 19 
 
290 THE MIMIC. 
 
 or do anything that was ever so disagreeable to her, even 
 about the suet, with all her nicety, brother, I assure you, an 
 she used to do anything, everything for me when I was ill 
 last winter. Oh, brother, she can do anything ; and she 
 could make the best plum-pudding in the whole world, I am 
 sure, in a minute, if it was necessary." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A KNOCK at the door from Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant 
 recalled Marianne to the business of the day. 
 
 " There," said Frederick, " we have sent no answer all 
 this time. It's necessary to think of that in a minute." 
 
 The servant came with his mistress's compliments, to let 
 the young ladies and Mr. Frederick know that she was wait- 
 ing tea for them. 
 
 " Waiting ! then we must go," said Frederick. 
 
 The servant opened the door wider, to let him pass, and 
 Marianne thought she must follow her brother ; so they 
 went down-stairs together, while Sophy gave her own mes- 
 sage to the servant, and quietly staid at her usual occupa- 
 tions. 
 
 Mrs. Tattle was seated at her tea-table, with a large plate 
 of macaroons beside her, when Frederick and Marianne 
 entered. She was "delighted" they were come, and 
 "grieved" not to see Miss Sophy along with them. Mari- 
 anne coloured a little ; for though she had precipitately fol- 
 lowed her brother, and though he had quieted her conscience 
 for a moment by saying, " You know papa and mamma told 
 us to do what we thought best," yet she did not feel quite 
 pleased with herself; and it was not till after Mrs. Theresa 
 had exhausted all her compliment* and half her macaroons, 
 that she could restore her spirits to their usual height. 
 
 "Come, Mr. Frederick," said she, after tea, "you pro- 
 
THE MIMIC. 291 
 
 mised to make me laugh ; and nobody can make me laugh 
 so well as yourself." 
 
 " 0, brother," said Marianne, " show Mrs. Theresa Dr. 
 Carbuncle eating his dinner, and I '11 be Mrs. Carbuncle." 
 
 Marianne. Now, my dear, what shall I help you to ? 
 
 Frederick. My dear ! she never calls him my dear, you 
 know, but always doctor. 
 
 Mar. Well, then, doctor, what will you eat to-day ? 
 
 Fred. Eat, madam! eat! nothing! nothing! I do n't 
 eee anything here that I can eat, ma'am. 
 
 Mar. Here 's eels, sir ; let me help you to some eel 
 stewed eel, sir you used to be fond of stewed eel. 
 
 Fred. Used, ma'am, used ! But I'm sick of stewed eels. 
 You would tire one of anything. Am I to see nothing but 
 eels ? and what 's this at the bottom ? 
 
 Mar. Mutton, doctor, roast mutton ; if you '11 be so good 
 as to cut it. 
 
 Fred. Cut it, ma'am ! I can't cut it, I say : it 'B as hard 
 as a deal board. You might as well tell me to cut the table, 
 ma'am. Mutton, indeed ! not a bit of fat. Roast mut- 
 ton, indeed ! not a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly ! quite 
 a cinder. I ; 11 have none of it. Here, take it away ; take 
 it down-stairs to the cook. It 's a very hard case, Mrs. Car- 
 buncle, that I can never have a bit of anything that I can 
 eat at my own table. Mrs. Carbuncle, since I was married, 
 ma'am, I, that am the easiest man in the whole world to 
 please about my dinner. It 's really very extraordinary, 
 Mrs. Carbuncle ! What have you at that corner there, under 
 the cover? 
 
 Mar. Patties, sir oyster-patties. 
 
 Fred. Patties, ma'am ! kickshaws ! I hate kickshaws. 
 Not worth putting under a cover, ma'am. And why have 
 not you glass covers, that one may see one's dinner before 
 one, before it grows cold with asking questions, Mrs. Car- 
 buncle, and lifting up covers ? But nobody has any sense ; 
 aud I see no water-plates anywhere lately. 
 
292 THE MIMIC. 
 
 Mar. Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken 
 before it gets cold, my dear. 
 
 Fred, (aside.) "My dear" again, Marianne! 
 
 Mar. Yes, brother, because she is frightened, you know ; 
 and Mrs. Carbuncle always says " my dear " to him when 
 she 's frightened, and looks so pale from side to side, and 
 sometimes ehe cries before dinner's done, and then all the 
 company are quite silent, and do n't know what to do. 
 
 " Oh, such a little creature ! to have so much sense, too !" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. " Mr. Frederick, 
 you '11 make me die with laughing ! Pray, go on, Dr. Car- 
 buncle." 
 
 Fred. Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send 
 me a bit of fowl, a leg and wing, the liver-wing, and a 
 bit of the breast ; oyster-sauce, and a slice of that ham, if 
 you please, ma'am. 
 
 [Dr. Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to 
 his plate, and, dropping the sauce, he buttons up 
 his coat tight across the breast. 
 
 Fred. Here ! a plate, knife, and fork bit o' bread 
 a glass of Dorchester ale ! , 
 
 " Oh, admirable I" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her 
 hands. 
 
 " Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner," said Ma- 
 rianne, " and show us how the doctor goes to sleep." 
 
 Frederick threw himself back in an arm-chair, leaning 
 his head back, with his mouth open, snoring ; nodded from 
 time to time, crossed and uncrossed his legs, tried to awaken 
 himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing 
 his nose, and rapping on the lid of his snuff-box. 
 
 All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle, who, when she 
 could stop herself from laughing, declared " it made her 
 sigh, too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with 
 that man, and all for nothing, too ; for her jointure was 
 nothing next to nothing, though a great thing, to be sure, 
 her friends thought, for her, when she was only Sally Ridge- 
 
THE MIMIC. 293 
 
 way, before she was married. Such a wife as she makes," 
 continued Mrs. Theresa, lifting up her hands and eyes to 
 heaven, " and so much as she has gone through, the brute 
 ought to be ashamed of himself, if he does not leave her 
 something extraordinary in his will ; for, turn it which way 
 she may, she can never keep a carriage, or live like anybody 
 else, on her jointure, after all, she tells me, poor soul ! A 
 sad prospect after her husband's death to look forward to, 
 instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected ; and 
 she, poor young thing, knowing no better when they mar- 
 ried her ! People should look into these things beforehand, 
 or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne." 
 
 Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this 
 affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle 
 would be so unhappy after her husband's death, turned to 
 Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa 
 as a future character to mimic. " Brother," said Marianne, 
 i( now sing an Italian so&g for us like Miss Croker. Pray, 
 Miss Croker, favour us with a song. Mrs. Theresa Tattle 
 has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing she's 
 quite impatient to hear you sing." 
 
 " Yes, indeed I am," said Mrs. Theresa. 
 
 Frederick put his hands before him affectedly : " Oh, 
 indeed, ma'am ! indeed, ladies ! I really am so hoarse, it 
 distresses me so to be pressed to sing ; besides, upon my 
 word, I have quite left off singing. I 've never sung once, 
 except for very particular people, this winter." 
 
 Mar. But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person ; 
 I 'm sure you '11 sing for her ! 
 
 Fred. Certainly, ma'am, I'll allow you use a powerful 
 argument ; but I assure you, now, I would do my best to 
 oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English 
 songs. Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have 
 been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. 
 Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without 
 an accompaniment. 
 
294 THE MIMIC. 
 
 Mar. try, Miss Croker, for once. 
 
 [ Frederick sings, after much preluding. 
 
 Violante, in the pantry, 
 (gnawing of a mutton-bone : 
 
 How she gnaw'd it ! 
 
 How she claw'd it! 
 When she found herself alone ! 
 
 " Charming !" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle ; " so like Misa 
 Croker 1 I 'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, 
 when I hear her asked to sing again. Her voice, however, 
 introduces her to very pleasant parties, and she 's a girl 
 that 's very much taken notice of, and I do n't doubt will go 
 off vastly well. She 's a particular favourite of mine, you 
 must know ; and I mean to do her a piece of service the 
 first opportunity, by saying something or other, that shall 
 go round to her relations in Northumberland, and make 
 them do something for her ; as well they may, for they 're 
 all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny." 
 
 Mar. Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor 
 Puff. 
 
 " 0, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you 
 of all things 1 you are quite yourself to-night. Here 's a 
 newspaper, sir. Pray let us have Counsellor Puff. It 's not 
 late." 
 
 [ Frederick reads in a pompous voice. 
 
 " As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a dis- 
 tinguishing ornament in either sex, Messrs. Valiant and Wise 
 conceive it to be their duty to take the earliest opportunity 
 to advertise the nobility and gentry of Great Britain in gene- 
 ral, and their friends in particular, that they have now ready 
 for sale, as usual, at the Hippocrates' Head, a fresh assort- 
 ment of new-invented; much-admired primrose-soap. To 
 prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are re- 
 quested to take notice, that the only genuine primrose-soap 
 '* stamped on the outside, ' Valiant and Wise.' 
 
THE MIMIC. 295 
 
 " Oh, you most incomparable mimic ! 't is absolutely the 
 counsellor himself. I absolutely must show you, some day, 
 to my friend Lady Battersby ; you'd absolutely make her 
 die with laughing ; and she 'd quite adore you," said Mrs. 
 Theresa, who was well aware that every pause must be filled 
 with flattery. " Pray go on, pray go on : I shall never be 
 tired, if I were to sit looking at you these hundred years." 
 
 Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show 
 how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, nourished his cambric 
 handkerchief, bowed to Lady Di. Periwinkle, and admired 
 her work, saying, " Done by no hands, as you may guess, 
 but those of Fairly Fair," While Lady Di., he observed, 
 simpered so prettily, and took herself so quietly for Fairly 
 Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own 
 nails all the while. 
 
 Next to Colonel Epaulette, Frederick, at Marianne's par- 
 ticular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang. 
 
 " Very well, brother," cried she, " your hand down to the 
 very bottom of your pocket, and your other shoulder up to 
 your ear ; but you are not quite wooden enough, and you 
 should walk as if your hip was out of joint. There, now, 
 Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes ? They stare so like 
 his, without seeming to see anything all the while." 
 
 "Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick. I must say, you 
 are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I 'm sure 
 Lady Battersby will think so too. That is Sir Charles to 
 the very life. But, with all that, you must know, he 's a 
 mighty pleasant, fashionable young man, when you oome 
 to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, 
 and is of a very good family, the Slangs, you know. Sir 
 Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if 
 he can keep clear of gambling, which, I hear, is his foible, 
 poor young man 1 Pray go on ; I interrupt you, Mr. Frede- 
 rick." 
 
 " Now, brother," said Marianne. 
 
 " No, Marianne, I can do no more ; I 'm quite tired, and 
 
296 THE MIMIC. 
 
 I will do no more," said Frederick, stretching himself at 
 full length upon a sofa. 
 
 Even in the midst of laughter, and while the voice of flat- 
 tery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased 
 with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa. 
 
 " What a deep sigh was there !" said Mrs. Theresa ; 
 "what can make you sigh so bitterly? You, who make 
 everybody else laugh. 0, such another sigh again !" 
 
 " Marianne," cried Frederick, " do you remember the man 
 in the mask ?" 
 
 "What man in the mask, brother?" 
 
 " The man the actor the buffoon, that my father told 
 us of, who used to cry behind the mask, that made every- 
 body else laugh." 
 
 " Cry ! bless me," said Mrs. Theresa, " mighty odd ! very 
 extraordinary ! but one can't be surprised at meeting with 
 extraordinary characters among that race of people, actors 
 by profession, you know ; who are brought up from the egg 
 to make their fortune, or at least their bread, by their oddi- 
 ties. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite 
 exhausted no wonder what will you have ? a glass of 
 cowslip-wine ?" 
 
 " no, thank you, ma'am," said Frederick. 
 
 " yes ; indeed you must not leave me without taking 
 something ; and Miss Marianne must have another maca- 
 roon ; I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. 
 " It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the 
 cowslip-wine in a minute." 
 
 " But Sophy ! and papa and mamma, you know, will 
 come home just now," said Marianne. 
 
 " 0, Miss Sophy has her books and drawings ; you know 
 she 'a never afraid of being alone ; besides, to-night it was 
 her own choice ; and as to your papa and mamma, they 
 won't be home to-night, I 'm pretty sure ; for a gentleman, 
 who had it from their own authority, told me where they 
 were going, which is farther off than they think, but they 
 
THE MIMIC. 297 
 
 did not consult me ; and I fancy they '11 be obliged to sleep 
 out so you need not be in a hurry about them. "We'll 
 have candles." 
 
 The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the 
 bell again for candles, and the cowslip-wine. " Christopher ! 
 Christopher !" said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the 
 fire, with her back to the door when it opened, "Christo- 
 pher! pray bring do you hear?" but no Christopher 
 answered ; and upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of 
 Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood 
 perfectly still and silent. It was so dark that their forms 
 could scarcely be discerned. 
 
 " In the name of Heaven ! who and what may you be ? 
 Speak, I conjure you ! What are ye ?" 
 
 " The chimney-sweepers, ma'am, an please your lady- 
 Bhip." 
 
 " Chimney-sweepers !" repeated Frederick and Marianne, 
 bursting out a-laughing. 
 
 " Chimney-sweepers !" repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked 
 at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. 
 " Chimney-sweepers ! and could not you say so a little 
 sooner ? And pray what brings you here, gentlemen, at 
 this time of night?" 
 
 " The bell rang, ma'am," answered the squeaking voice. 
 
 " The bell rang ! yes, for Christopher. The boy 's mad, 
 or drunk." 
 
 " Ma'am," said the tallest of the chimney-sweepers, who 
 had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt 
 manner ; " ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when 
 the bell rang ; so we did." 
 
 " My brother ! I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. The- 
 resa. 
 
 "Mr. Eden, madam." 
 
 " 0, ho !" said Mrs t Tattle, in a more complacent tone, 
 " the boy takes me for Miss Birtha Eden, I perceive ;" and, 
 flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney-sweeper foi 
 
298 THE MIMIC. 
 
 a young and handsome iady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and 
 informed him, " that they had mistaken the room ; that 
 they must go up another pair of stairs, and turn to the left." 
 
 The chimney-sweeper with the squeaking voice bowed, 
 thanked her ladyship for this information, said, " Good- 
 night to ye, quality," and they both moved towards the door. 
 
 " Stay," said Mrs. Tattle, whose curiosity was excited ; 
 "what can the Edens want with chimney-sweepers at this 
 time o' the night, I wonder? Christopher, did you hear 
 anything about it ?" said the lady to her footman, who was 
 now lighting the candles. 
 
 " Upon my word, ma'am," said the servant, " I can't say, 
 but I '11 step down below and inquire. I heard them talk- 
 ing about it in the kitchen, but I only got a word here and 
 there, for I was hunting for the snuff-dish ; as I knew it 
 must be for candles, when I heard the bell ring, ma'am ; BO 
 I thought to find the snuff-dish before I answered the bell ; 
 for I knew it must be for candles you rang. But, if you 
 please, I '11 step down now, ma'am, and see about the chim- 
 ney-sweeps." 
 
 " Yes, step down, do ; and, Christopher, bring up the 
 cowslip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Mari- 
 anne." 
 
 Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. 
 Tattle was going to give her ; for she was somewhat sur- 
 prised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her 
 footman. She had not been used to these manners in her 
 father and mother, and she did not like them. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who had now 
 returned, "what is the news?" 
 
 " Ma'am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has 
 been telling me the whole story. The other morning, 
 ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill, sweep- 
 ing in Paradise-row: those chimneys, they say, are difficult; 
 and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, 
 got wedged in the chimney ; the other little fellow was up 
 
THE MIMIC. 299 
 
 at the top at the time, and he heard the cry, but, in his 
 fright and all, he did not know what to do, ma'am ; for he 
 looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul 
 could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make 
 mind his screech ; the boy within almost stifling, too. So 
 he screeched and screeched, all he could, and by the greatest 
 chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was just going down 
 the hill to fetch his morning walk." . 
 
 " Ay/' interrupted Mrs. Theresa, " friend Ephraim is one 
 of your early risers." 
 
 " Well," said Marianne, impatiently. 
 
 " So, ma'am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the 
 sweep, and the moment he understands the matter " 
 
 " I 'm sure he must have taken some time to understand 
 it," interposed Mrs. Tattle, " for he 's the slowest creature 
 breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. 
 So the sweep did make him hear ?" 
 
 " So he says, ma'am. And so the old gentleman went in. 
 
 / * O 
 
 and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa ; " but did old Eden 
 go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?" 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said Christopher, with a look of great 
 delight, " that was all as one as the very 'dentical words I 
 put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, 
 ma'am, that was what I could n't get out of him, neither, 
 rightly, for he is a churl the big boy that was stuck in 
 the chimney, I mean ; for when I put the question to him 
 about the wig, laughing-like, he would n't take it laughing- 
 like at all, but would only make answer to us like a bear, 
 ' He saved my life, that's all I know ;' and this over again, 
 ma'am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. 
 So when I finds him so stupid and ill-mannered like (for I 
 offered him a shilling, ma'am, myself, to tell about the wig), 
 but he put it back in a ways that did not become such aa 
 he to no lady's butler, ma'am ; whereupon I turns to the 
 
300 THE MIMIC. 
 
 slim fellow, and he 's smarterer and more mam.erly, ma'am, 
 with a tongue in his head for his betters, but he could not 
 resolve me my question neither, for he was up at the top of 
 the chimney the best part o' the time ; and when he came 
 down, Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare 
 and bloody, ma'am." 
 
 " Poor Mr. Eden 1" exclaimed Marianne. 
 
 " Oh, miss," continued the servant, " and the chimney- 
 sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed." 
 
 " Well, well ! but he 's alive now ; go on with your story, 
 Christopher," says Mrs. T. " Chimney-sweepers get wedged 
 in chimneys every day; it's part of their trade, and it's a 
 happy thing when they come off with a few bruises. To be 
 sure," added she, observing that both Frederick and Mari- 
 anne look displeased at this speech, " to be sure, if one may 
 believe this story, there was some real danger." 
 
 " Real danger I yes, indeed," said Marianne ; " and I 'm 
 sure I think Mr. Eden was very good." 
 
 " Certainly, it was a most commendable action, and quite 
 providential ; so I shall take an opportunity of saying, when 
 I tell the story in all companies ; and the boy may thank 
 his kind stars, I 'm sure, to the end of his days, for such an 
 escape. But pray, Christopher," said she, persisting in her 
 conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the 
 cloth for supper, " pray, which house was it in Paradise- 
 row? where the Eagles or the Misses Roper lodge, or 
 which?" 
 
 " It was at my Lady Battersby's, ma'am." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, "I thought we should 
 get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent ! 
 This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby 
 the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly ! Old 
 Eden, I know, has long wanted to get himself introduced 
 in that house, and a charming charitable expedient he hit 
 upon My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things." 
 
THE MIMIC. 301 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 " Now," continued Mrs. Theresa, turning to Frederick, 
 as soon as the servant had left the room, " now, Mr. Frede- 
 rick Montague, I have a favour such a favour to ask of 
 you; it's a favour which only you can grant; you have 
 such talents, and would do the thing so admirably ! and my 
 Lady Battersby would quite adore you for it. She will do 
 me the honour to be here to spend the evening to-morrow. 
 I 'm convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themselves 
 obliged to stay out another day, and I so long to show you 
 off to her ladyship ; and your Dr. Carbuncle, and your Coun- 
 sellor Puff, and your Miss Croker, and all your charming 
 characters. You must let me introduce you to her ladyship 
 to-morrow evening. Promise me." 
 
 " Oh, ma'am," said Frederick, " I cannot promise you any 
 such thing. Indeed, I am much obliged to you ; but I can- 
 not come, indeed." 
 
 " Why not, my dear sir ? why not ? You do n't think I 
 mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and 
 mamma will be home?" 
 
 " If they do come home, I will ask them about it," said 
 Frederick, hesitating ; for though he by no means wished 
 to accept the invitation, he had not yet acquired the neces- 
 sary power of saying NO, decidedly. 
 
 " Ask them !" repeated Mrs. Theresa ; " my dear sir, at 
 your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such 
 things ?" 
 
 " Must ! no, ma'am," said Frederick ; " but I said I 
 would ; I know I need not, because my father and mother 
 always let me judge for myself about everything almost." 
 
 " And about this, I am sure," cried Marianne ; " papa 
 and mamma, you know, just as they were going away, said, 
 * If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best/ " 
 
302 THE MIMIC. 
 
 " Well, then," said Mrs. Theresa, " you know it rests with 
 yourselves, if you may do as you please." 
 
 " To be sure I may, ma'am," said Frederick, colouring 
 from that species of emotion which is justly called false 
 shame, and which often conquers real shame ; " to be sure, 
 ma'am, I may do as I please." 
 
 " Then I may make sure of you," said Mrs. Theresa ; " for 
 now it would be downright rudeness to tell a lady you won't 
 do as she pleases. Mr. Frederick Montague, I am sure, is 
 too well-bred a young gentleman to do so impolite, so ungal- 
 lant a thing!" 
 
 The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently 
 brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to con- 
 fuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new 
 and unintelligible system is presented to them in a language 
 foreign to their understanding and contradictory to their 
 feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old prin- 
 ciples ; from the fear of being thought ignorant, they become 
 affected ; and from the dread of being thought to be chil- 
 dren, act like fools. But all this they feel only when they 
 are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle. 
 
 " Ma'am," Frederick began, " I do n't mean to be rude, 
 but I hope you '11 excuse me from coming to drink tea with 
 you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not 
 acquainted with Lady Battersby, and maybe they might not 
 like" 
 
 " Take care, take care," said Mrs. Theresa, laughing at 
 his perplexity ; " you want to get off from obliging me, and 
 you do n't know how. You had very nearly made a most 
 shocking blunder, in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. 
 Now you know it 'a impossible Mr. and Mrs. Montague could 
 have in nature the slightest objection to my introducing you 
 to my Lady Battersby at my own house; for, don't you 
 know that, besides her ladyship's many unexceptionable 
 qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but 
 once removed, to the Trotters of Lancashire, your mother's 
 
THE MIMIC. 303 
 
 great favourites ? And there is not a person at the "Wells, 
 I '11 venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sis- 
 ter Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go to 
 the balls, which it 's to be supposed she will some time or 
 other ; and as you are so good a brother, that 'a a thing to 
 be looked to, you know. Besides, as to yourself, there 's 
 nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good 
 mimic ; and she '11 quite adore you 1" 
 
 " But I do n't want her to adore me, ma'am," said Frede- 
 rick, bluntly ; then, correcting himself, added, " I mean for 
 being a mimic." 
 
 " Why not, my love ? Between friends, can there be any 
 harm in showing one's talents, you that have such talents 
 to show ? She '11 keep your secret, I '11 answer for her ; 
 and," added she, " you need n't be afraid of her criticism ; 
 for, between you and me, she is no great critic : so you '11 
 come. Well, thank you, that's settled. How you have 
 made me beg and pray ! but you know your own value, I 
 see as you entertaining people always do. One must ask 
 a wit, like a fine singer, so often. Well, but now for the 
 favour I was going to ask you." 
 
 Frederick look surprised ; for he thought that the favour 
 of his company was what she meant ; but she explained 
 herself further. 
 
 " The old Quaker who lodges above, old Ephraim Eden, 
 my Lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about 
 him ; he is the best character, the oddest creature ! If you 
 were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff 
 skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Birtha, and his 
 everlasting broad-brimmed hat, one knows him a mile 
 off! But then his voice, and way, and all together, if one 
 could get them to the life, they 'd be better than anything 
 on the stage ; better even than anything I have seen to- 
 night ; and I think you 'd make a capital Quaker for my 
 Lady Battersby : but then the thing is, one can never get 
 to hear the old quiz talk. Now you who have so much 
 
304 THE MIMIC. 
 
 invention and cleverness I have no invention myself' 
 but could not you hit upon some way of getting to see him, 
 BO that you might get him by heart? I'm sure you, who 
 are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him for 
 half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one 
 with laughing. But I 've no invention." 
 "0, as to the invention," said Frederick, "I know an 
 admirable way of doing the thing, if that was all ; but then 
 remember, I do n't say I will do the thing, for I will not. 
 But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing 
 him, without his knowing I was there." 
 
 " tell it me, you charming, clever creature I" 
 
 " But remember, I do not say I will do it." 
 
 " Well, well, let us hear it, and you shall do as you please 
 afterward." 
 
 " Merciful goodness !" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, " do my 
 ears deceive me? I declare I looked round, and thought the 
 squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room." 
 
 " So did I, Frederick, I declare," cried Marianna, laugh- 
 ing ; " I never heard anything so like his voice in my life." 
 
 Frederick imitated the squeaking voice of this chimney- 
 sweeper to great perfection. 
 
 " Now," continued he, " this fellow is just my height ; the 
 old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to 
 change clothes with the chimney-sweeper, I '11 answer for 
 it, would never know me." 
 
 "Oh, it's an admirable invention! I give you infinite 
 credit for it !" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. " It shall, it must 
 be done : I '11 ring, and have the fellow up this minute." 
 
 " 0, no ; do not ring," said Frederick, stopping her hand ; 
 "I do n't mean to do it. You know you promised that I 
 should do as I pleased ; I only told you my invention." 
 
 " Well, well, but only let me ring, and ask whether the 
 chimney-sweepers are below; you shall do as you please 
 afterward." 
 
 " Christopher, shut the door ; Christopher," said she to 
 
THE MIMIC. 305 
 
 the servant, who caine up when she rang, " pray, are the 
 sweeps gone yet?" 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " But have they been up to old Eden yet ?" 
 " no, ma'am ; nor be not to go till the bell rings ; foi 
 Miss Birtha, ma'am, was asleep, laying down, and her bro- 
 ther would n't have her waked on no account whatsomever ; 
 he came down his self to the kitchen to the sweeps, though ; 
 but would n't have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for 
 no account. But Migs Birtha's bell will ring, when she 
 awakens, for the sweeps, ma'am ; 't was she wanted to see 
 the boy as her brother saved, and I suppose sent for 'em to 
 give 'em something charitable, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, never mind your suppositions," said Mrs. Theresa ; 
 " run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney- 
 sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don't let the 
 other bear come up with him." 
 
 Christopher, who had curiosity as well as his mistress, 
 when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his 
 own stay in the room, by sweeping the hearth, throwing 
 down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again. 
 
 " That will do, Christopher ; Christopher, that will do, I 
 say," Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to 
 say, " Christopher, you may go," before he would depart. 
 
 " Now," said she to Frederick, " step in here to the next 
 room with this candle, and you will be equipped in an 
 instant. Only just change clothes with the boy ; only just 
 let me see what a charming chimney-sweeper you 'd make ; 
 you shall b as you please afterward." 
 
 "Well, I'll only change clothes with him, just to show 
 you for one minute." 
 
 " But," said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa, while Frederick 
 was changing his clothes, " I think Frederick is right 
 about" 
 
 " About what, love ?" 
 
 " I think he is in the right not to go up, though he can 
 20 
 
306 TIIE MIMIC. 
 
 do it so easily, to see that gentleman, 1 mean on purpose 
 to mimic and laugh at him afterward ; I do n't think that 
 would be quite right." 
 
 " Why, pray, Miss Marianne ?" 
 
 " Why, because he is so good-natured to his sister. He 
 would not let her be waked." 
 
 " Dear, it 's easy to be good in such little things ; and he 
 won't have long to be good to her neither ; for I do n't think 
 she '11 trouble him long in this world, anyhow." 
 
 " What do you mean?" said Marianne. 
 
 " That she '11 die, child." 
 
 " Die ! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks I How 
 sorry her poor, poor brother will be ! But she will not die, 
 I 'm sure, for she walks about, and runs up-stairs so lightly ! 
 0, you must be quite entirely mistaken, I hope." 
 
 "If I'm mistaken, Dr. Panado Cardamum's mistaken 
 too, then, that 's my comfort. He says, unless the waters 
 work a miracle, she stands a bad chance ; and she won't fol- 
 low my advice, and consult the doctor for her health." 
 
 " He would frighten her to death, perhaps," said Mari- 
 anne. " I hope Frederick won't go up to disturb her." 
 
 "Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden; 
 how can your brother disturb her more than the real chim- 
 ney-sweeper ?" 
 
 " But I do n't think it 's right," persisted Marianne, " and 
 I shall tell him so." 
 
 " Nay, Miss Marianne, I do n't commend you now ; young 
 ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice 
 to their elder brothers unasked ; and Mr. Frederick and I, 
 I presume, must know what 's right, as well as Miss Mari- 
 anne. Hush ! here he is ! the capital figure !" cried 
 Mrs. Theresa. " Bravo 1 bravo !" cried she, as Frederick 
 entered in the chimney-sweeper's dress ; and as he spoke, 
 saying, " I 'm afraid, please your ladyship, to dirty your 
 ladyship's carpet," she broke out into immoderate raptures, 
 calling him " her charming chimney-sweeper 1" and repeat- 
 
THE MIMIC. 307 
 
 ing that she knew beforehand the character would do for 
 him. 
 
 She instantly rang the bell, in spite of all expostulation 
 ordered Christopher to send up the other chimney-sweeper 
 triumphed in observing that Christopher did not in the 
 least know Frederick when he came into the room and 
 offered to lay any wager that the other chimney-sweeper 
 would mistake him for his companion. And so he did, and 
 when Frederick spoke, the voice was so very like *jat it 
 was scarcely possible that he should have perceived the dif- 
 ference. 
 
 Marianne was diverted by this scene ; but she started 
 when in the midst of it they heard a bell ring. 
 
 " That 's the lady's bell, and we must go," said the blunt 
 chimney-sweeper. 
 
 " Go, then, about your business, and here 's a shilling for 
 you to drink, my honest fellow. I did not know, you were 
 so much bruised when I first saw you I won't detain you. 
 Go," said she, pushing Frederick towards the door. 
 
 Marianne sprang forward to speak to him ; but Mrs. The- 
 resa kept her off, and, though Frederick resisted, the lady 
 shut the door upon him by superior force ; and having 
 locked it, there was no retreat. 
 
 Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frede 
 rick's return. 
 
 " I hear them," cried Marianne ; " I hear them coming 
 down-stairs." 
 
 They listened again, and all was silent. 
 
 At length they heard suddenly a great noise of many 
 steps, and many voices in confusion in the hall. 
 
 " Merciful I" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, " it must be your 
 father and mother come back." 
 
 Marianne ran to unlock the room-door, and Mrs. Theresa 
 followed her into the hall. 
 
 The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of 
 people. All the servants in the house were gathered together. 
 
308 THE MIMIC. 
 
 As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, 
 and she beheld in the inidst Frederick, blood streaming fronc 
 his face ; his head -was held by Christopher, and the chim- 
 ney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. 
 
 " Merciful ! what will become of me !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Theresa. " Bleeding ! he '11 bleed to death ! Can nobody 
 think of anything that will stop blood in a minute ? A 
 key, a large key down his-back ; a key has nobody a key? 
 Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done 
 bleeding. A key ! cobwebs ! a puff-ball ! for mercy's sake I 
 Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a 
 minute ? Gracious me ! he '11 bleed to death, I believe." 
 
 " He '11 bleed to death ! my brother !" cried Marianne, 
 catching hold of the words ; and, terrified, she ran up-stairs, 
 crying, " Sophy, Sophy ! come down this minute, or he '11 
 be dead ! my brother 's bleeding to death ! Sophy ! Sophy ! 
 come down, or he '11 be dead." 
 
 " Let go the basin, you," said Christopher, pulling the 
 basin out of the chimney-sweeper's hand, who had all this 
 time stood in silence, " you are not fit to hold the basin for 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " Let him hold it," said Frederick ; " he did not mean to 
 hurt me." 
 
 "That's more than he deserves. I'm certain sure he 
 might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the 
 time, and he 'd no business to go to fight such a one a* 
 he with a gentleman." 
 
 " I did not know he was a gentleman," said the chimney- 
 sweeper ; " how could I ?" 
 
 " How could he, indeed ?" said Frederick ; " he shall hold 
 the basin." 
 
 " Gracious me ! I 'm glad to hear him speak like himself 
 again, at any rate," cried Mrs. Theresa. " And here cornea 
 Miss Sophy, too." 
 
 " Sophy 1" cried Frederick. " 0, Sophy ! do n't you come 
 do n't look at me, you '11 despise me." 
 
THE MIMIC. 300 
 
 " My brother ! Where? where?" said Sophy, looking, 
 as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers. 
 
 "It's Frederick," said Marianne ; "that's my brother." 
 
 " Miss Sophy, do n't be alarmed," Mrs. Theresa began ; 
 " but, gracious goodness, I wish Miss Birtha " 
 
 At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon 
 the stairs ; she passed swiftly on, while every One gave way 
 before her. 
 
 " 0, Miss Birtha !" cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of 
 her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. " 0, 
 Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin ! take care of the 
 chimney-sweeper, for Heaven's sake." But she pressed for- 
 ward. 
 
 " It 's my brother ! will he die ?" cried Marianne, throw- 
 ing her arms around her, and looking up as if to a being 
 of a superior order ; " will he bleed to-death ?" 
 
 " No, my love !" answered a sweet voice ; " do not frighten 
 thyself." 
 
 " I 've done bleeding," said Frederick. 
 
 " Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such 
 a rout," cried Mrs. Tattle. "Miss Birtha, it's nothing but 
 a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a mas- 
 querade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma'am. 
 You see he stops bleeding. I was frightened out of my 
 wits at first ; I thought it was his eye, but I see it is only 
 his nose ; all 's well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we '11 
 keep your counsel. Pray, ma'am, let us ask no questions, 
 it's only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, 
 into my room, and I '11 give you a towel and some clean 
 water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make 
 haste, for fear your father and mother should pop in upon 
 us." 
 
 " Do not be afraid of thy father and mother ; they are 
 surely thy best friends," said a mild voice. It was the voice 
 01 an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick. 
 
 "0, sir! 0, Mr. Eden!" said Frederick, turning to him. 
 
310 THE MIMIC. 
 
 " Do n't betray me ! for goodness' sake, say nothing about 
 me," whispered Mrs. Tattle. 
 
 " I 'in not thinking about you. Let me speak," cried he, 
 pushing away her hand, which stopped his mouth. " I shall 
 say nothing about you, I promise you," said Frederick, with 
 a look of contempt. 
 
 " No, but for your own sake, my dear sir, your papa and 
 mamma 1 Bless me ! is not that Mrs. Montague's car- 
 riage ?" 
 
 " My brother, ma'am," said Sophy, " is not afraid of my 
 father and mother's coming back. Let him speak he was 
 going to speak the truth." 
 
 " To be sure, Miss Sophy, I would n't hinder him from 
 epeaking the truth ; but it's not proper, I presume, ma'am, 
 to speak the truth at all times, and in all places, and before 
 everybody, servants and all. I only wanted, ma'am, to 
 hinder your brother from exposing himself. A hall, I 
 apprehend, is not a proper place for explanations." 
 
 " Here," said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, 
 which was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle's, 
 " here 's a place," said he to Frederick, " where thou mayst 
 speak the truth at all times, and before everybody." 
 
 " Nay, my room 's at Mr. Frederick Montague's service, 
 and my door's open too. This way, pray," said she, pull- 
 ing his arm. 
 
 But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden. 
 
 " 0, sir, will you forgive me ?" cried he. 
 
 " Forgive thee ! and what have I to forgive ?" 
 
 "Forgive, brother, without asking what," said Birtha, 
 smiling. 
 
 " He shall know all 1" cried Frederick ; " all that con- 
 cerns myself, I mean. Sir, I disguised myself in this dress ; 
 I came up to your room to-night on purpose to see you, 
 without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The 
 chimney-sweeper, where is he ?" said Frederick, looking 
 round, and he ran into the hall to seek for him " May he 
 
THE MIMIC. 311 
 
 come in? he may he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful 
 boy. He never guessed who I was : after we left you, we 
 went down to the kitchen together, and there I, fool that I 
 was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the 
 servants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy said, ho 
 would not stand by and hear you laughed at ; that you had 
 saved his life ; that I ought to be ashamed of myself; that 
 you had just given me half a crown, and so you had : but 
 I went on, and told him I 'd knock him down if he said ano- 
 ther word. He did ; I gave the first blow we fought I 
 came to the ground the servants pulled me up again. 
 They found out, I do n't know how, that I was not a chim- 
 ney-sweeper the rest you saw. And now can you forgive 
 me, sir?" said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his 
 hand. 
 
 " The other hand, friend," said the Quaker, gently with- 
 drawing his right hand, which everybody now observed was 
 much swelled, and putting it into his bosom again " This, 
 and welcome," offering his other hand to Frederick, and 
 shaking his with a smile. 
 
 " that other hand I" said Frederick, " that was hurt, I 
 remember, -r- How ill I have behaved - extremely ill. But 
 this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I 
 hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman." 
 
 " And like a man and like a good man, I am sure thou 
 wilt," said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick's hand affec- 
 tionately, " or I am much mistaken, friend, in that black 
 countenance." 
 
 " You are not mistaken," cried Marianne : " Frederick 
 will never be persuaded again by anybody to do what he 
 does not think right ; and now, brother, you may wash your 
 black countenance." 
 
 Just when Frederick had gotten rid of half his black 
 countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was 
 Mr. and Mrs. Montague. 
 
 'What will you do now?" whispered Mrs. Theresa 
 
*il2 THE MIMIC. 
 
 to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the 
 room. 
 
 " A chimney-sweeper ! covered with blood 1" exclaimed 
 Mr. and Mrs. Montague. 
 
 "Father, I am Frederick," said he, stepping forward 
 towards them, as they stood in astonishment. 
 
 " Frederick ! my son !" 
 
 " Yes, mother, I 'm not hurt half so much as I deserve ; 
 I '11 tell you " 
 
 " Nay," interrupted Birtha, " let my brother tell the story 
 this time ; thou hast told it once, and told it well no one 
 but my brother could tell it better." 
 
 " A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure," 
 said Mrs. Theresa, " but Mr. Eden will certainly make the 
 best of it." 
 
 Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her appre- 
 hensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all that he knew of the 
 affair in a few words. "Your son," concluded he, "will 
 quickly put off this dirty dress ; the dress hath not stained 
 the mind that is fair and honourable. When he felt him- 
 self in the wrong, he said so ; nor was he in haste to con- 
 ceal his adventure from his father ; this made me think well 
 of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that 
 is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper ? 
 he will want to go home," said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. 
 Theresa. 
 
 Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room 
 as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a 
 ?ook of extreme consternation. 
 
 " Here is a catastrophe, indeed ! now, indeed, Mr. Fre- 
 derick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A 
 new suit of clothes ! the barefaced villain ! gone no 
 ign of them in my closet, or anywhere the door was 
 locked he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the 
 leads, and so escaped ; but Christopher is after him. I pro- 
 test, Mrs. Montague, you take it quietly. The wretch ! 
 
THE MIMIC. 313 
 
 a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I 
 never heard of such a thing ! I declare, Mr. Montague, 
 you are vastly good now, not to be in a passion," added 
 Mrs. Theresa. 
 
 " Madam," replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much 
 civil contempt, " I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and 
 even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this eve- 
 ning, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I 
 am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in 
 future : nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, 
 for the sake of being called ' the best mimic in the world.' " 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Mxs. TEMPLE had two daughters, Emma and Helen. She 
 had taken a great deal of care of their education, and they 
 were very fond of their mother, and particularly happy 
 whenever she had leisure to converse with them ; they used 
 to tell her everything that they thought and felt ; so that 
 she had it in her power early to correct, or, rather, to teach 
 them to correct, any little faults in their disposition, and to 
 rectify those errors of judgment to which young people, 
 from want of experience, are so liable. 
 
 Mrs. Temple lived in the country, and her society was 
 composed of a few intimate friends ; she wished, especially 
 during the education of her children, to avoid the numerous 
 inconveniences of what is called an extensive acquaintance. 
 However, as her children grew older, it was necessary that 
 they should be accustomed to see a variety of characters, 
 and still more necessary that they should learn to judge of 
 them. There was little danger of Emma's being hurt by 
 the first impressions of new faces and new ideas ; but Helen, 
 of a more vivacious temper, had not yet acquired her sis- 
 ter's good sense. We must observe that Helen was a little 
 disposed to be fond of novelty, and sometimes formed a pro- 
 digiously high opinion of persons whom she had seen but 
 for a few hours. " Not to admire " was an art which she 
 had to learn. 
 
 When Helen was between eleven and twelve years old, 
 Lady S*** returned from abroad, and came to reside at her 
 
 (314) 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 315 
 
 country-seat, which was very near Mrs. Temple's. The lady 
 had a daughter, Lady Augusta, who was a little older than 
 Helen. One morning a fine coach drove to the door, and 
 Lady S*** and her daughter were announced. We shall 
 not say anything at present of either of the ladies, except 
 that Helen was much delighted with them, and talked of 
 nothing else to her sister all the rest of the day. 
 
 The next morning, as these two sisters were sitting at 
 work in their mother's dressing-room, the following conver- 
 sation began : 
 
 " Sister, do you like pink or blue the best?" said Helen. 
 
 " I do n't know ; blue, I think." 
 
 "0 blue, to be sure. Mother, which do you like best?" 
 
 " Why, 't is a question of such importance, I must have 
 time to deliberate ; I am afraid I like pink the best." 
 
 "Pink! dear, that's very odd! But, mamma, did n't you 
 think yesterday that Lady Augusta's sash was a remarkably 
 pretty pale blue ?" 
 
 " Yes, I thought it was very pretty ; but as I have seen 
 a great many such sashes, I did not think it was anything 
 very remarkable." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it was not remarkably pretty ; but you '11 
 allow, ma'am, that it was very well put on ?" 
 
 " It was put on as other sashes are, as well as I remem- 
 ber." 
 
 " I like Lady Augusta exceedingly, mother." 
 
 "What! because she has a blue sash?" 
 
 " No, I 'm not quite so silly as that," said Helen, laugh- 
 ing ; " not because she has a blue sash." 
 
 " Why then did you like her ? because it was well put 
 on?" 
 
 " 0, no, no." 
 
 " Why, then ?" 
 
 " Why ! mamma, why do you ask why ? I can't tell why. 
 You know one often likes and dislikes people at first without 
 exactly knowing why." 
 
316 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 " One ! whom do you mean by one ?" 
 
 " Myself, and everybody." 
 
 " You, perhaps, but not everybody ; for only silly people 
 like and dislike without any reason." 
 
 " But I hope I 'm not one of the silly people ; I only 
 meant that I had no thought about it ; I dare say, if I were 
 to think about it, I should be able to give you a great many 
 reasons." 
 
 " I shall be contented with one good one, Helen." 
 
 " Well then, ma'am, in the first place, I liked her because 
 she was so good-humoured." 
 
 " You saw her but for one half-hour. Are you sure that 
 she is good-humoured ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ! but I 'm sure she looked very good-hu- 
 moured." 
 
 " That 's another affair ; however, I acknowledge it is 
 reasonable to feel disposed to like any one who has a good- 
 humoured countenance, because the temper has, I believe, 
 a very strong influence upon certain muscles of the face ; 
 and, Helen, though you are no great physiognomist, we will 
 take it for granted that you are not mistaken : now I did not 
 think Lady Augusta had a remarkably good-tempered coun- 
 tenance, but I hope that I am mistaken. Was this your 
 only reason for liking her exceedingly 1" 
 
 " No, not my only reason ; I liked her because because 
 indeed, ma'am," said Helen, growing a little impatient 
 at finding herself unable to arrange her own ideas, " indeed, 
 ma'am, I don't just remember anything in particular, but 
 I know I thought her very agreeable altogether." 
 
 " Saying that you think a person very agreeable altoge- 
 ther, may be a common mode of expression ; but I am 
 obliged to inform you that it is no reason, nor do I exactly 
 comprehend what it means, unless it means, in other words, 
 that you do n't choose to be at the trouble of thinking. 1 
 am sadly afraid, Helen, that you must be content at last to 
 be ranked among the silly ones who like and dislike without 
 knowing why. Hey, Helen?" 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 317 
 
 " no, indeed, mother," said Helen, putting down her 
 work. 
 
 " My dear, I am sorry to distress you ; but what are 
 become of the great many good reasons ?" 
 
 " 0, I have them still ; but then I 'm afraid to tell them, 
 because Emma will laugh at me." 
 
 "No, indeed, I won't laugh," said Emma; "besides, if 
 you please, I can go away." 
 
 " No, no, sit still ; I will tell them directly. Why, 
 mother, you know, before we saw Lady Augusta, everybody 
 told us how pretty, and accomplished, and agreeable she 
 was." 
 
 " Everybody ! nobody that I remember," said Emma, 
 " but Mrs. H. and Miss K." 
 
 " 0, indeed, sister, and Lady M. too." 
 " Well, and Lady M., that makes three." 
 "But are three people everybody?" 
 " No, to be sure, said Helen, a little disconcerted ; " but 
 you promised not to laugh at me, Emma. However, mother, 
 without joking, I am sure Lady Augusta is very accom- 
 plished at least. Do you know, ma'am, she has a French 
 governess ? But I forget her name." 
 
 " Never mind her name, it is little to the purpose." 
 "0, but I recollect it now Mademoiselle Panache." 
 "Why, undoubtedly Lady Augusta's having a French 
 governess, and her name being Mademoiselle Panache, are 
 incontrovertible proofs of the excellence of her education. 
 But I think you said you were sure that she was very 
 accomplished ; what do you mean by accomplished ?" 
 
 " Why, that she dances extremely well, and that she 
 speaks French and Italian, and that she draws exceedingly 
 well indeed ; takes likenesses, mamma ! likenesses in minia- 
 ture, mother !" 
 
 " You saw them, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Saw them ! No, I did not see them, but I heard of 
 them." 
 
318 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 " That's a singular method of judging of pictures." 
 
 " But, however, she certainly plays extremely well upon 
 the pianoforte, and understands music perfectly. I have a 
 particular reason for knowing this, however." 
 
 " You did not hear her play ?" 
 
 " No ; but I saw an Italian song written in her own hand, 
 and she told me she set it to music herself." 
 
 "You saw her music, and heard of her drawings; 
 excellent proofs ! Well, but her dancing ?" 
 
 " Why, she told me the name of her dancing-master, and 
 it sounded like a foreign name." 
 
 " So, I suppose, he must be a good one," said Emma, 
 laughing. 
 
 " But, seriously, I do believe she is sensible." 
 
 " Well : your cause of belief?" 
 
 " Why, I asked her if she had read much history, and 
 she answered, ' a little ;' but I saw by her look she meant 
 a great deal. Nay, Emma, you are laughing now ; I saw 
 you smile," 
 
 " Forgive her, Helen ; indeed it was very difficult to help 
 it," said Mrs. Temple. 
 
 " Well, mother," said Helen, " I believe I have been a 
 little hasty in my judgment, and all my good reasons are 
 reduced to nothing : I dare say all this time Lady Augusta 
 is very ignorant, and very ill-natured." 
 
 " Nay, now you are going into the opposite extreme ; it 
 is possible she may have all the accomplishments, and good 
 qualities, which you first imagined her to have ; I only 
 meant to show you that you had no proofs of them hith- 
 erto." 
 
 " But surely, mother, it would be but good-natured to 
 believe a stranger to be amiable and sensible when we know 
 nothing to the contrary : strangers may be as good as the 
 people we have known all our lives; so it would be very 
 hard upon them, and very silly in us too, if we were to take 
 :t for granted they were everything that was bad, merely 
 because they were strangers." 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 319 
 
 " You do not yet reason with perfect accuracy, Helen : is 
 there no difference between thinking people everything that 
 is good and amiable, and taking it for granted that they are 
 everything that is bad t" 
 
 "But then, mother, what can one do? To be always 
 doubting and doubting is very disagreeable : and at first, 
 when one knows nothing of a person, how can we judge ?" 
 
 " There is no necessity, that I can perceive, for your judg- 
 ing of people's characters the very instant they come into 
 a room, which, I suppose, is what you mean by ' at first.' 
 And though it be disagreeable to be always ' doubting and 
 doubting,' yet it is what we must submit to patiently, Helen, 
 unless we would submit to the consequences of deciding ill ; 
 which, let me assure you, my little daughter, are infinitely 
 more disagreeable." 
 
 "Then," said Helen, "I had better doubt and doubt a 
 little longer, mother, about Lady Augusta." 
 
 Here the conversation ended. A few days afterward 
 Lady Augusta came with her mother to dine at Mrs. Tem- 
 ple's. For the first hour Helen kept her resolution, and 
 with some difficulty maintained her mind in the painful, 
 philosophic state of doubt: but the second hour Helen 
 thought that it would be unjust to doubt any longer ; espe- 
 cially as Lady Augusta had just shown her a French pocket- 
 fan, and at the very same time observed to Emma that her 
 sister's hair was a true auburn colour. 
 
 In the evening, after they had returned from a walk, they 
 went into Mrs. Temple's dressing-room, to look at a certain 
 black japanned cabinet, in which Helen kept some dried 
 specimens of plants, and other curious things. Half the 
 drawers in this cabinet were hers, and the other half her 
 sister's. Now Emma, though she was sufficiently obliging 
 and polite towards her new acquaintance, was by no means 
 enchanted with her; nor did she feel the least disposition 
 suddenly to contract a friendship with a person she had 
 seen but a few hours. This reserve, Helen thought, showed 
 
320 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 Borne want of feeling, and seemed determined to make 
 amends for it by the warmth and frankness of her own 
 manners. She opened all the drawers of the cabinet ; and 
 while Lady Augusta looked and admired, Helen watched 
 her eye, as Aboulcasem, in the Persian Tales, watched the 
 eye of the stranger to "whom he was displaying his trea- 
 sures. Helen, it seems, had read the story, which had left 
 a deep impression upon her imagination ; and she had long 
 determined, on the first convenient opportunity, to imitate 
 the conduct of the " generous Persian." Immediately, 
 therefore, upon observing that anything struck her guest's 
 fancy, she withdrew it, and secretly set it apart for her, as 
 Aboulcasem set apart the slave, and the cup, and the pea- 
 cock. At night, when Lady Augusta was preparing to 
 depart, Helen slipped out of the room, packed up the things, 
 and as Aboulcasem wrote a scroll with his presents, she 
 thought it necessary to accompany hers with a billet. All 
 this being accomplished with much celerity, and some tre- 
 pidation, she hurried down-stairs, gave her packet to one of 
 the servants, and saw it lodged in Lady S***'s coach. 
 
 When the visit was ended, and Helen and Emma had 
 retired to their own room at night, they began to talk instead 
 of going to sleep. 
 
 " Well, sister," said Helen, " and what did you give to 
 Lady Augusta ?" 
 
 "I! nothing." 
 
 "Nothing!" repeated Helen, in a triumphant tone; 
 " then she will not think you very generous." 
 
 " I do not want her to think me very generous," said 
 Emma, laughing; "neither do I think that giving of pre- 
 sents to strangers is always a proof of generosity." 
 
 " Strangers or no strangers, that makes no difference ; for 
 surely a person's giving away anything that they like them- 
 selves is a pretty certain proof, Emma, of their generosity." 
 
 " Not quite so certain," replied Emma ; " at least I mean 
 as far as I can judge of my own mind. I know I have 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 321 
 
 sometimes given things away that I liked myself, merely 
 because I was ashamed to refuse ; now I should not call 
 that generosity, but weakness : and besides, I think it does 
 make a great deal of difference, Helen, whether you mean 
 to speak of strangers or friends. I am sure at this instant, 
 if there is anything of mine in that black cabinet that you 
 wish for, Helen, I '11 give it you with the greatest pleasure." 
 
 " And not to Lady Augusta?" 
 
 " No ; I could not do both : and do you think I would 
 make no distinction between a person I have lived with and 
 loved for years, and a stranger whom I know and care very 
 little about?" 
 
 Helen was touched by this speech, especially as she 
 entirely believed her sister ; for Emma was not one who 
 made sentimental speeches. 
 
 A short time after this visit, Mrs. Temple took her two 
 daughters with her to dine at Lady S***'s. As they hap- 
 pened to go rather earlier than usual, they found nobody in 
 the drawing-room but the French governess, Mademoiselle 
 Panache. Helen, it seems, had conceived a very sublime 
 idea of a French governess ; and when she first came into 
 the room, she looked up to Mademoiselle Panache with a 
 mixture of awe and admiration. Mademoiselle was not 
 much troubled with any of that awkward reserve which 
 seems in England sometimes to keep strangers at bay for 
 the first quarter of an hour of their acquaintance. She 
 could not, it is true, speak English very -fluently, but this 
 only increased her desire to speak it ; and between two lan- 
 guages she found means, with some difficulty, to express 
 herself. The conversation, after the usual preliminary 
 nothings had been gone over, turned upon France, and 
 French literature ; Mrs. Temple said she was going to pur- 
 chase some French books for her daughters, and very 
 politely begged to know what authors mademoiselle would 
 particularly recommend. " Vat auteurs! you do me much 
 honour, madame Vat auteurs! why, mademoiselles, there's 
 Tekmaque and Bdisairc." 
 21 
 
822 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 Helen and Emma had read Telemaque and Belisaire, so 
 mademoiselle was obliged to think again " Attendez !" 
 cried she, putting her fore-finger in an attitude of recollec- 
 tion. But the result of all her recollection was still " Beli- 
 saire" and " Tehmaque ;" and an Abbe's book, whose name 
 she could not remember, though she remembered perfectly 
 well that the vork was published Van mille six cents quartre- 
 vingts-dix." 
 
 Helen could scarcely forbear smiling, so much was her 
 awe and admiration of a French governess abated. Mrs. 
 Temple, to relieve mademoiselle from the perplexity of 
 searching for the Abb6's name, and to avoid the hazard of 
 going out of her circle of French literature, mentioned Gil 
 Bias ; and observed, that, though it was a book universally 
 put into the hands of very young people, she thought made- 
 moiselle judged well in preferring " 
 
 " Oh '" interrupted mademoiselle, "je me trouve bien heu- 
 reuse I am quite happy, madam, to be of your way of 
 tiriking I would never go to choose to put Gil Bias into 
 no pupil's of mine's hands, until they were perfectly mis- 
 tress of de idiome de la langue." 
 
 It was not the idiom, but the morality, of the book to 
 which Mrs. Temple had alluded ; but that, it was very plain, 
 occupied no part of Mademoiselle Panache's attention ; her 
 object was solely to teach her pupil French. " Mais pour 
 Miladi Augusta," cried she, " c'est vraiment un petit prodige I 
 You, madam, you are a judge. On le voit bien. You 
 know how much difficile it be, to compose French poesie, 
 because of de rhymes, de masculin, feminine, de neutre genre 
 of noun substantive and adjective, all to be consider in spite 
 of de sense in our rhymes. Je ne m'explique pas. Mais 
 enftn de natives themselves very few come to write passably 
 in poesie, except it be your great poets by profession. Cepen- 
 dant, madame, Miladi Augusta, I speak de truth, not one word 
 of lies, Miladi Augusta write poesie jitst the same with prose. 
 Veritablement comme un ange .' Et puts -" continued Made- 
 moiselle Panache. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 823 
 
 But she was interrupted by the entrance of the " little 
 angel " and her mother. Lady Augusta wore a rose-coloured 
 sash to-day, and Helen no longer preferred blue to pink. 
 Not long after they were seated, Lady S*** observed that 
 her daughter's face was burned by being opposite to the fire ; 
 and, after betraying some symptoms of anxiety, cried, 
 " Mademoiselle, why will you always let Augusta sit so 
 near the fire ? My dear, how can you bear to burn your 
 face so ? Do be so good, for my sake, to take a screen." 
 
 " There is no screen in the room, ma'am, I believe," said 
 the young lady, moving, or seeming to move, her chair three 
 quarters of an inch backwards. 
 
 " No screen !" said Lady S***, looking round ; " I 
 thought, mademoiselle, your screens were finished." 
 
 " Oh, oui, madame, dey be finish; but I forget to make dem 
 come down-stairs." 
 
 " I hate embroidered screens," observed Lady S***, turn- 
 ing away her head, "for one is always afraid to use 
 them." 
 
 Mademoiselle immediately rose to fetch one of hers. 
 
 " Ne voiis derangez pas, mademoiselle," said Lady S***, 
 carelessly ; and while she was out of the room, turning to 
 Mrs. Temple, "Have you a French governess?" said she; 
 " I think you told me not." 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Temple ; " I have no thoughts of any 
 governess for my daughters." 
 
 "Why, indeed, I don't know but you are quite right, for 
 they are sad plagues to have in one's house ; besides, I 
 believe, too, in general, they are a sad set of people. But 
 what can one do, you know ? One must submit to all that ; 
 for they tell me there 's no other way of securing to one's 
 children a good French pronunciation. How will you man 
 age about that ?" 
 
 " Helen and Emma," said Mrs. Temple, " read and under- 
 stand French as well as I could wish ; and if ever they go 
 to France, I hope they will be able to catch the accent, as I 
 
324 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 have never suffered them to acquire any fixed bad habits of 
 speaking it." 
 
 " Oh," said Lady S***, " bad habits are what I dread of 
 all things for Augusta. I assure you I was particularly 
 nice about the choice of a governess for her ; so many of 
 these sort of people come over here from Switzerland, or the 
 French provinces, and speak a horrid jargon. It's very 
 difficult to meet with a person you could entirely depend 
 upon." 
 
 " Very difficult, indeed," said Mrs. Temple. 
 
 " However," continued her ladyship, "I think myself most 
 exceedingly fortunate : I am absolutely certain that Made- 
 moiselle Panache comes from Paris, and was born and edu- 
 cated there ; so I feel quite at ease ; and as to the rest " 
 said she, lowering her voice, but only lowering it sufficiently 
 to fix Lady Augusta's attention, " as to the rest, I shall part 
 with her when my daughter is a year or two older ; so, you 
 know, she can do no great harm. Besides," said she, speak- 
 ing louder, " I really have great confidence in her, and Au- 
 gusta and she seem to agree vastly well." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Lady Augusta, " mademoiselle is exceed- 
 ingly good-natured ; I am sure I like her vastly." 
 
 "Well, that's the chief thing: I would work upon a 
 child's sensibility ; that 's my notion of education," said 
 Lady S*** to Mrs. Temple, affecting a sweet smile. " Take 
 care of the heart, at any rate there I 'm sure, at least, I 
 may depend on Mademoiselle Panache, for she is the best 
 creature in the world! I've the highest opinion of her: 
 not that I would trust my own judgment, but she was most 
 exceedingly well recommended to me." 
 
 Mademoiselle Panache came into the room again just as 
 Lady S*** finished her last sentence ; she brought one of 
 her own worked screens in her hand. Helen looked at Lady 
 Augusta, expecting that she would at least have gone to 
 meet her governess ; but the young lady never offered to rise 
 from her seat ; and when poor mademoiselle presented the 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 325 
 
 screen to her, she received it with the utmost nonchalance, 
 only interrupting her conversation by a slight bow of the 
 head. Helen and Emma looked down, feeling both ashamed 
 and shocked at manners which they could neither think 
 kind nor polite. However, it was no wonder that the pupil 
 should not be scrupulously respectful towards a governess 
 whom her mother treated like a waiting-maid. 
 
 More carriages now came to the door, and the room was 
 soon filled with company. The young ladies dined at the 
 side-table with Mademoiselle Panache ; and during dinner 
 Emma and Helen quite won her heart. " Voild des demoi- 
 selles des plus polies I" she said, with emphasis ; and it is 
 true that they were particularly careful to treat her with 
 the greatest attention and respect, not only from their 
 general habits of good-breeding and from a sense of pro- 
 priety, but from a feeling of pity and generosity: they 
 could not bear to think that a person should be treated with 
 neglect or insolence merely because her situation and rank 
 happened to be inferior. 
 
 Mademoiselle, pleased with their manners, was particu- 
 larly officious in entertaining them ; and, when the rest of 
 the company sat down to cards, she offered to show them 
 the house, which was large and magnificent. 
 
 Helen and Emma were very glad to be relieved from their 
 seats beside the card-table, and from perpetually hearing 
 of trumps, odd tricks, and honours ; so that they eagerly 
 accepted mademoiselle's proposal. 
 
 The last room which they went into was Lady Augusta's 
 apartment, in which her writing-desk, her drawing-box, and 
 her pianoforte stood. It was very elegantly furnished ; and 
 at one end was a handsome book-case, which immediately 
 attracted Helen and Emma's attention : not Lady Augus- 
 ta's ; her attention, the moment she came into the room, 
 was attracted by a hat which mademoiselle had been mak- 
 ing up in the morning, and which lay half-finished upon the 
 sofa. " Well, really this is elegant I" said she ; " certainly, 
 
326 MADEMOISELLE PA .N A CHE. 
 
 mademoiselle, you have the best taste in the world ! Is n't 
 it a beautiful hat?" said she, appealing to Helen and 
 Emma. 
 
 " Oh yes," replied Helen, instantly ; for, as she was no 
 great judge, she was afraid to hazard her opinion, and 
 thought it safest to acquiesce in Lady Augusta's. Emma, 
 on the contrary, who did not think the hat particularly 
 pretty, and who dared to think for herself, was silent ; and 
 certainly it requires no common share of strength of mind 
 to dare to think for one's self about a hat. 
 
 In the mean time, mademoiselle put the finishing-stroke 
 to her work ; and, observing that the colour of the riband 
 would become Helen's complexion " merveilleusement ! per- 
 mittez, mademoiselle," said she, putting it lightly upon her 
 head. " Qu'elle est charmante ! Qu'elle est bien comme fa ! 
 Quite another ting! Mademoiselle Helen est charmante!" 
 cried the governess, with enthusiasm ; and her pupil echoed 
 her exclamations with equal enthusiasm, till Helen would 
 absolutely have been persuaded that some sudden metamor- 
 phosis had taken place in her appearance, if her sister's 
 composure had not happily preserved her in her sober 
 senses. She could not, however, help feeling a sensible 
 diminution of merit and happiness when the hat was lifted 
 off her head. 
 
 " What a very pretty coloured riband !" said she. 
 
 "That's pistachio colour," said Lady Augusta. 
 
 " Pistachio colour !" repeated Helen, with admiration. 
 
 " Pistachio colour," repeated her sister, coolly ; " I did 
 not know that was the name of the colour." 
 
 "BonDieu!" said mademoiselle, lifting up her hands and 
 eyes to heaven ; " bon Dieu I not know de pistachea co- 
 lour!" 
 
 Emma, neither humbled nor shocked at her own igno- 
 rance, simply said to herself, " Surely it is no crime not to 
 know a name." But mademoiselle's abhorrent and amazed 
 look produced a very different effect upon Helen's imagina- 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 tion ; she felt all the anguish of false shame, that dangerous 
 infirmity of weak minds. 
 
 " Son !" said Mademoiselle Panache to herself, observing 
 the impression which she made ; " Voild un bon sujet au 
 mains." And she proceeded, with more ofliciousness, per- 
 haps, than politeness, to reform certain minutice in Helen's 
 dress, which were not precisely adjusted according to what 
 she called the mode; she having the misfortune to be pos- 
 sessed of that intolerant spirit which admits but of one 
 mode ; a spirit which is common to all persons who have 
 seen but little of the world, or of good company, and who 
 consequently cannot perceive the liberality of sentiment 
 upon all matters of taste and fashion which distinguishes 
 well-bred and well-educated people. 
 
 " Pardonnez Mademoiselle Helen" said she, " Permittez " 
 altering things to her fancy " un petit plus et un petit 
 plus ; oui, comme ga comme ga. Bien ! bien ! Ah non ! 
 Cela est vilain affreux I Mais tenez, toujours comme $a ; 
 resouvenez vous bien, mademoiselle. Ah, bon! vous voild, 
 mise a quartre epingles !" 
 
 " A quartre epingles !" repeated Helen to herself. 
 
 " Surely," thought Emma, "that is a vulgar expression ; 
 mademoiselle is not as elegant in her taste for language as 
 for dress." Indeed, two or three technical expressions 
 which afterward escaped from this lady, joined to the pro- 
 digious knowledge she displayed of the names, qualities, 
 and value of ribands, gauzes, feathers, &c., had excited a 
 strong suspicion in Emma's mind that Mademoiselle Pa- 
 nache herself might possibly have had the honour to be a 
 milliner. 
 
 The following incident sufficiently confirmed her suspi- 
 cions: While mademoiselle was dressing and undressing 
 Helen, she regularly carried every pin which she took out 
 to her mouth. 
 
 Helen did not perceive this manoeuvre, it being performed 
 with habitual celerity ; but, seeing that all the pins were 
 
328 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 vanished, she first glanced her eye upon the table, and then 
 on the floor, and still not seeing her pins, she felt in her 
 pocket for her pincushion, and presented it. " J'en ai assez, 
 bien obligee, mademoiselle;" and from sonic *ocret recep- 
 tacle in her mouth she produced first one pin. ihen another, 
 till Emma Counted seventeen, to her utter astonishment ; 
 more, certainly, than any mouth could contain but a milli- 
 ner's." 
 
 Unfortunately, however, in mademoiselle's haste to speak, 
 a pin and an exclamation, contending in her mouth, impeded 
 her utterance, and put her in imminent danger of choking. 
 They all looked frightened. " Qu'avez vous done!" cried 
 she, recovering herself with admirable dexterity " qu'avez 
 vous done ! Ce n'est rien ! Ah, si vous avies vue Mademoi- 
 selle Alexandre 1 Ah ! dat would frighten you, indeed ! Many 
 de time I see her put one tirty, forty, ffty, ay, one hundred, 
 two hundred, in her mouth and she all de time laugh, talk, 
 eat, drink, sleep wid dem, and no harm, nonobstant, never hap- 
 pen Mademoiselle Alexandre." 
 
 " And who is Mademoiselle Alexandre ?" said Emma. 
 
 " Eh, done ! fameuse marchande de modes rue St. Ho- 
 nore rivale celebre de Mademoiselle Baulara." 
 
 " Yes, I know !" said Lady Augusta, delighted to appear 
 to know the names of two French milliners, without in the 
 least suspecting that she had the honour to have a third for 
 a governess. 
 
 Emma smiled, but was silent. She fortunately possessed 
 a sound discriminating understanding; observing and judg- 
 ing for herself, it was not easy to impose upon her by names 
 and grimaces. 
 
 It was remarkable, that Mademoiselle Panache had never 
 once attempted to alter anything in Emma's dress, and 
 directed very little of her conversation to her ; seeming to 
 have an intuitive perception that she could make no impres- 
 sion ; and Lady Augusta, too, treated her with less fami- 
 liarity, but with far more respect. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 329 
 
 "Dear Helen," said Lady Augusta, for she seemed, to 
 use her own expression, to have taken a great fancy to her 
 " dear Helen, I hope you are to be at the ball at the 
 races." 
 
 " I do n't know," said Helen ; " I believe my mother 
 intends to be there." 
 
 " Et vous ?" said Mademoiselle Panache, " you, to be sure, 
 T hope ; your mamma could not be so cruel as to leave you 
 \t home une demoiselle faite comme vous!" 
 
 Helen had been quite indifferent about going to the ball 
 jill these words inspired her with a violent desire to go there, 
 r rather with a violent dread of the misfortune and dis- 
 grace of being left " at home." 
 
 We shall, for fe.ar of being tiresome, omit a long conver- 
 sation which passed about the dress and necessary prepara- 
 tions for this ball. It is enough to say, that Helen was 
 struck with despair at the idea that her mother probably 
 would not procure for her all the fine things which Lady 
 Augusta had, and which mademoiselle assured her were 
 absolutely necessary to her being " presentable." In par- 
 ticular, her ambition was excited by a splendid watch-chain 
 of her ladyship's, which Lady Augusta assured her " there 
 was no possibility of living without." 
 
 Emma, however, reflecting, that she had lived all her life 
 without even wishing for a watch-chain, was inclined to 
 doubt the accuracy of her ladyship's assertion. 
 
 In the mean time poor Helen fell into a profound and 
 somewhat painful revery. She stood, with the watch-chain 
 in her hand, ruminating upon the vast, infinite number of 
 things she wanted, to complete her happiness things of 
 which she had never thought before. Indeed, during the 
 short time she had been in the company of Mademoiselle 
 Panache, a new world seemed to have been opened to her 
 imagination new wants, new wishes, new notions of right 
 and wrong, and a totally new idea of excellence and happi- 
 ness had taken possession of her mind. 
 
330 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 So much mischief may be done by a silly governess in a 
 single quarter of an hour ! But we are yet to see more of 
 the genius of Mademoiselle Panache for education. It hap- 
 pened that, while the young ladies were busily talking toge- 
 ther, she had gotten to the other end of the room, and was 
 busily engaged at a looking-glass, receding and advancing 
 by turns, to decide the exact distance at which rouge was 
 liable to detection. Keeping her eye upon the mirror, she 
 went backwards and backwards, until unluckily she chanced 
 to set her foot upon Lady Augusta's favourite little dog, 
 who instantly sent forth a piteous yell. 
 
 " Oh ! my dog ! Oh ! my dog !" exclaimed Lady Au- 
 gusta, running to the dog, and taking it into her lap " Oh, 
 chere Fanfan! where is it hurt, my poor, dear, sweet, 
 darling little creature ?" 
 
 " Chere Fanfan !" cried mademoiselle, kneeling down, 
 and kissing the offended paw, " pardonnez, Fanfan !" and 
 they continued caressing and pitying Fanfan, so as to give 
 Helen a very exalted opinion of their sensibility, and to make 
 her wiser sister doubt of its sincerity. 
 
 Longer would Fanfan have been deplored with all the 
 pathos of feminine fondness, had not mademoiselle suddenly 
 shrieked, and started up. " What 's the matter ? what 's 
 the matter ?" cried they all at once. The affrighted gover- 
 ness, pointing to her pupil's sash, exclaimed, " Regardez! 
 regardez!" There was a moderate-sized spider upon the 
 young lady's sash. "La voila! ah, la voild!" cried she, at 
 an awful distance. 
 
 " It is only a spider," said Emma. 
 
 " A spider I" said Lady Augusta, and threw Fanfan from 
 her lap as she rose ; " where ? where ? on my sash ?" 
 
 " I '11 shake it off," said Helen. 
 
 "Oh ! shake it, shake it!" and she shook it herself till 
 the spider fell to the ground, which seemed to be almost as 
 much frightened as Lady Augusta, and was making his 
 way as fast as possible from the field of battle. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 331 
 
 " Oil est il? ou est il? Le vilain animal!" cried 
 mademoiselle, advancing. "All, que je Vecraise au moins," 
 said she, having her foot prepared. 
 
 "Kill it! 0, mademoiselle, don't kill it," said Emma, 
 stooping down to save it; "I'll put it, out of the window 
 this instant." 
 
 " Ah ! how can you touch it !" said Lady Augusta with 
 disgust, while Emma carried it carefully in her hand ; and 
 Helen, whose humanity was still proof against Mademoi- 
 selle Panache, ran to open the window. Just as they had 
 got the poor spider out of the reach of its enemies, a sudden 
 gust of wind blew it back again ; it fell once more upon the 
 floor. 
 
 "0, kill it! kill it, anybody! for heaven's sake, do 
 kill it !" Mademoiselle pressed forward and crushed the 
 animal to death. 
 
 " Is it dead ? quite dead ?" said her pupil, approaching 
 timidly. 
 
 "Avancez!" said her governess, laughing " Que craig- 
 nez vous done ? Elle est mort, je vous dis." 
 
 The young lady looked at the entrails of the spider, and 
 was satisfied. 
 
 So much for a lesson on humanity. 
 
 It was some time before the effects of this scene were 
 effaced from the minds of either of the sisters ; but at length 
 a subject very interesting to Helen was started. Lady Au- 
 gusta mentioned the little ebony box, which had been put 
 into the coach, and Miss Helen's very obliging note. 
 
 However, though she affected to be pleased, it was evi- 
 dent, by the haughty carelessness of her manner, while she 
 returned her thanks, that she was rather offended than 
 obliged by the present. 
 
 Helen was surprised and mortified. The times, she per- 
 ceived, were changed since the days of Aboulcasem. 
 
 " I am particularly distressed," said Lady Augusta, who 
 often assumed the language of a woman, " I am particu- 
 
332 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 larly distressed to rob you of your pretty prints ; especially 
 as my uncle has just sent me down a set of Bartolozzi's 
 from town." 
 
 " But I hope, Lady Augusta, you liked the little prints 
 which are cut out ; I think you said you wished for some 
 such things, to put on a work-basket." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I 'm sure I 'm exceedingly obliged to you for 
 remembering that, I had quite forgotten it ; but I found 
 some beautiful vignettes the other day in our French books, 
 and I shall set about copying them for my basket directly. 
 I '11 show them to you if you please," said she, going to the 
 book-case. " Mademoiselle, do be so good as to reach for 
 me those little books in the morocco binding." 
 
 Mademoiselle got upon a stool, and touched several books 
 one after another, for she could not translate morocco bind- 
 ing." 
 
 " Wfiich did you mean ? Dis dis dis or dat ?" said 
 she. 
 
 "No, no none of those, mademoiselle ; not in that row. 
 Look just above your hand, in the second row from the top." 
 
 " 0, no ; not in dat row, I hope." 
 
 " Why not there ?" 
 
 " 0, Miladi Augusta, vous slaves bien ce sont la les livres 
 defendus I dare not touch one vous le spaves bien, 
 miladi, votre chere mere." 
 
 " Miladi, votre chere mere !" repeated the young lady, 
 mimicking her governess " pooh, nonsense, give me the 
 books." 
 
 " Eh, non absolument non Croyez moi, mademoiselle, 
 de book is not good. Ce n'est pas comme ttfaut! it is not Jit 
 for young ladies for nobody to read." 
 
 " How do you kbow that so well, mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " N'importe," said mademoiselle, colouring; "n'importe 
 je le sgais. But, not to talk of dat, you know I cannot dis- 
 obey miladi; de row of Romans she forbid to be touch, on no 
 account, by nobody but herself in de house. Ton know dis, 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 333 
 
 | 
 
 Mademoiselle Augusta. So, en conscience" said she, descend- 
 ing from the stool 
 
 "En conscience!" repeated Lady Augusta, with the impa- 
 tient accent of one not used to be opposed, " I can't help 
 admiring the tenderness of your conscience, Mademoiselle 
 Panache. Now, would you believe it ?" continued she, turn- 
 ing to Emma and Helen, "now, would you believe it? 
 mademoiselle has had the second volume of that very book 
 under her pillow this fortnight ; I caught her reading it one 
 morning, and that was what made me so anxious to see it ; 
 or else, ten to one I never should have thought of the book : 
 so, en conscience ! mademoiselle." 
 
 Mademoiselle coloured furiously. 
 
 " Mais vraiment, Miladi Augusta, vous me manguez en 
 face!" 
 
 The young lady made no reply, but sprang upon the stool, 
 to reach the books for herself; and the governess, deeming 
 it prudent not to endanger her authority by an ineffectual 
 struggle for victory, thought proper to sound a timely 
 retreat. 
 
 "Allans! mademoiselles," cried she, "I fancy de tea wait 
 by dis time, descendons ;" and she led the way. Emma 
 instantly followed her. 
 
 " Stay a moment for me, Helen, my dear." 
 
 Helen hesitated. 
 
 " Then you won't take down the books?" said she. 
 
 " Nay, one moment ; just let me show you the vignette." 
 
 "No, no, pray don't; mademoiselle said you must 
 not." 
 
 " Yes, she said I must not ; but you see she went away 
 that I might; and so I will," said Lady Augusta, jumping 
 off the stool with the red books in her hand. " Now, look 
 here." 
 
 " 0, no ; I can't stay, indeed !" said Helen, pulling away 
 her hand. 
 
 " La ! what a child you are !" said Lady Augusta, laugh- 
 
334 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 
 
 ing ; " it 's mamma shan't be angry with it, she shan't. La ! 
 
 what harm can there be in looking at a vignette ?" 
 
 " Why, to be sure there can be no harm in looking at a 
 vignette," said Helen, submitting from the same species of 
 false shame which had conquered her understanding before 
 about the pistachio colour. 
 
 "Well, look!" said Lady Augusta, opening the book, 
 " is n't this exceedingly pretty ?" 
 
 " Exceedingly pretty," said Helen, scarce seeing it ; " now 
 shall we go down ?" 
 
 " No, stay ; as you think that pretty, I can show you a 
 much prettier." 
 
 " Well, only one, then." 
 
 But when she had seen that, Lady Augusta still said, 
 " One other," and " one other," till she had gone through a 
 volume and a half; Helen all the while alternately hesitat- 
 ing and yielding, out of pure weakness and mauvaise honte. 
 
 The vignettes, in fact, were not extraordinarily beautiful ; 
 nor, if they had been, would she have taken the least plea- 
 sure in seeing them in such a surreptitious manner. She 
 did not, however, see all the difficulties into which this first 
 deviation from proper conduct would lead her. Alas ! no 
 one ever can I 
 
 Just when they were within three leaves of the end of the 
 last volume, they heard voices upon the stairs. 
 
 " There 's my mother ! They 're coming ! What shall 
 we do ?" cried lady Augusta ; and though there could be 
 " no harm in looking at a print," yet the colour now forsook 
 her cheek, and she stood the picture of guilt and cowardice. 
 There was not time to put the books up in their places. 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 " Put them into our pockets," said Lady Augusta. 
 
 " 0, no, no ! I won't I can't what meanness !" 
 
 " But you must. I can't get them both into mine," said 
 Lady Augusta, in great distress. " Dear, dear Helen, for 
 my sake 1" 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 335 
 
 Helen trembled, and let Lady Augusta put the book into 
 her pocket. 
 
 "My dear," said Lady S***, opening the door just as 
 this operation was effected, " we are come to see your room ; 
 will you let us in ?" 
 
 " certainly, madam," said Lady Augusta, commanding 
 a smile ; but Helen's face was covered with so deep a crim- 
 son, and she betrayed such evident symptoms of embarrass- 
 ment, that her mother, who came up with the rest of the 
 company, could not help taking notice of it. 
 
 " Arn't you well, Helen, my dear ?" said her mother. 
 
 Helen attempted no answer. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Lady Augusta, " it was the grapes after 
 dinner which disagreed with you." 
 
 Helen refused the look of assent which was expected ; 
 and at this moment she felt the greatest contempt for Lady 
 Augusta, and terror to see herself led on step by step in 
 deceit. 
 
 " My love, indeed you don't look well," said Lady S***, 
 in a tone of pity. 
 
 " It must be de grapes!" said mademoiselle. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Helen, who felt inexpressible shame 
 and anguish, "no, indeed, it is not the grapes;" turning 
 away, and looking up to her mother with tears in her eyes. 
 
 She was upon the point of producing the book before all 
 the company ; but Lady Augusta pressed her arm, and she 
 forbore, for she thought it would be dishonourable to 
 betray her. 
 
 Mrs. Temple did not choose to question her daughter fur- 
 ther at this time, and relieved her from confusion by turn- 
 ing to something else. 
 
 As they went down-stairs to tea, Lady Augusta, with fami- 
 liar fondness, took Helen's hand. 
 
 " You need not fear," said Helen, withdrawing her hand 
 coldly ; " I shall not betray you, Augusta." 
 
 ' You '11 promise me that ?" 
 
336 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 " Yes," said Helen, with a feeling of contempt. 
 
 After tea, Lady Augusta was requested to sit down to the 
 pianoforte, and favour the company with an Italian song. 
 She sat down, and played with the greatest ease and gayety 
 imaginable ; while Helen, incapable of feeling, still more 
 incapable of affecting, gayety, stood beside the harpsichord, 
 her eyes bowed down with "penetrative shame." 
 
 " Why do you look so woe-begone ?" said Lady Augusta, 
 as she stooped for a music-book ; " why do n't you look as I 
 do?" 
 
 " I can't," said Helen. 
 
 Her ladyship did not feel the force of this answer ; for 
 her own self-approbation could, it seems, be recovered at a 
 very cheap rate half a dozen strangers listening, with 
 unmeaning smiles and encomiums, to her execution of one 
 of dementi's lessons, were sufficient to satisfy her ambition. 
 Nor is this surprising, when all her education tended to 
 teach her, that what are called accomplishments are supe- 
 rior to everything else. Her drawings were next to be pro- 
 duced and admired. The table was presently covered with 
 fruit, flowers, landscapes, men's, women's, and children's 
 heads ; while mademoiselle was suffered to stand holding a 
 large portfolio till she was ready to faint ; nor was she, per- 
 haps, the only person in the company who was secretly tired 
 of the exhibition. 
 
 These eternal exhibitions of accomplishments have of late 
 become private nuisances. Let young women cultivate their 
 tastes or their understandings in any manner that can afford 
 them agreeable occupation, or, in one word, that can make 
 them happy ; if they are wise, they will early make it their 
 object to be permanently happy, and not merely to be 
 admired for a few hours of their existence. 
 
 All this time poor Helen could think of nothing but the 
 book which she had been persuaded to secrete. It grew 
 late in the evening, and Helen grew more and more uneasy 
 at not having any opportunity of returning it. Lady An- 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 337 
 
 gusta was so busy talking and receiving compliments, that 
 it was impossible to catch her eye. 
 
 At length Mrs. Temple's carriage was ordered ; and now 
 all the company were seated in form, and Helen saw, with 
 the greatest distress, that she was further than ever from 
 her purpose. She onc.e had a mind to call her mother aside, 
 and consult her ; but that she could not do, on account of 
 her promise. 
 
 The carriage came to the door ; and while Helen put on 
 her cloak, mademoiselle assisted her, so that she could not 
 spoak to Lady Augusta. At last, when she was taking leave 
 of her, she said, " Will you let me give you the book?" and 
 half-drew it from her pocket. 
 
 " 0, goodness ! not now ; I can't take it now." 
 
 " What shall I do with it?" 
 
 "Why, take it home and send it back directed to me 
 remember by the first opportunity when you have done 
 with it." 
 
 " Done with it ! I have done with it. Indeed, Lady Au- 
 gusta, you must let me give it you now." 
 
 " Come, Helen, we are waiting for you, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Temple ; and Helen was hurried into the carriage with 
 the book still in her pocket. Thus was she brought from 
 one difficulty into another. 
 
 Now she had promised her mother never to borrow any 
 book without her knowledge ; and certainly she had not the 
 slightest intention to forfeit her word, when she first was 
 persuaded to look at the vignettes. " Oh," said she to her- 
 self, " where will all this end ? What shall I do now ? Why 
 was I so weak as to stay and look at the prints ? And why 
 did I fancy I should like Lady Augusta, before I knew any- 
 thing of her? Oh, how much I wish I had never seen 
 her I" 
 
 Occupied by these thoughts all the way they were going 
 home, Helen, we may imagine, did not appear as cheerful, 
 or as much at ease, as usual. Her mother and her sister 
 22 
 
338 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 were conversing very agreeably ; but if she had been asked, 
 when the carriage stopped, she could not have told a single 
 syllable of Avhat they had been saying. 
 
 Mrs. Temple perceived that something hung heavy upon 
 her daughter's mind ; but, trusting to her long habits of 
 candour and integrity, she was determined to leave her 
 entirely at liberty : she therefore wished her a gopd-night, 
 without inquiring into the cause of her melancholy. 
 
 Helen scarcely knew what it was to lie awake at night ; 
 she generally slept soundly from the moment she went to 
 bed till the morning, and then wakened as gay as a lark : 
 but now it was quite otherwise ; she lay awake, uneasy and 
 restless, her pillow was wet with tears, she turned from side 
 to side, but in vain ; it was the longest night she ever 
 remembered ; she wished a thousand times for morning, but 
 when the morning came, she got up with a very heavy 
 heart ; all her usual occupations had lost their charms ; and 
 what she felt the most painful was, her mother's kind, open, 
 unsuspicious manner. She had never, at least she had 
 never for many years, broken her word ; she had long felt 
 the pleasure of integrity, and knew how to estimate its 
 loss. 
 
 " And for what," said Helen to herself, " have I forfeited 
 this pleasure ? for nothing." 
 
 But, besides this, she was totally at a loss to know what 
 step she was to take ; nor could she consult the friends she 
 had always been accustomed to apply to for advice. Two 
 ideas of honour, two incompatible ideas, were struggling in 
 her mind. She thought that she should not betray her com- 
 panion, and she knew she ought not to deceive her mother. 
 She was fully resolved never to open the book which she 
 had in her pocket, but yet she was to keep it she knew not 
 how long. Lady Augusta had desired her to send it home ; 
 but she did not see how this was to be accomplished, with- 
 out having recourse to the secret assistance of servants, a 
 species of meanness to which she had never stooped She 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 339 
 
 / 
 
 thought she saw herself involved in inextricable difficulties. 
 She knew not what to do ; she laid her head down upon her 
 arms, and wept bitterly. 
 
 Her mother just then came into the room "Helen, my 
 dear," said she, without taking any notice of her tears, 
 "here's a fan, which one of the servants just brought out 
 of the carriage ; I find it was left there by accident all 
 night. 
 
 " The man tells me, that Mademoiselle Panache put it 
 into the front pocket, and said it was a present from Lady 
 Augusta to Miss Helen." It was a splendid French fan. 
 
 " Oh," said Helen, " I can't take it ! I can't take any 
 present from Lady Augusta I wish " 
 
 "You wish, perhaps," said Mrs. Temple, smiling, "that 
 you had not begun the traffic of presents ; but since you 
 have, it would not be handsome, it would not be proper, to 
 refuse the fan." 
 
 "But I must! I will refuse it!" said Helen. "Oh, 
 mother ! you do n't know how unhappy I am !" She 
 paused. " Did n't you see that something was the matter, 
 madam, when you came up yesterday into Lady Augusta's 
 room?" 
 
 " Yes," said her mother, " I did : but I did not choose to 
 inquire the cause ; I thought if you had wished I should 
 know it, that you would have told it to me. You are now 
 old enough, Helen, to be treated with confidence." 
 
 " No," said Helen, bursting into tears, " I am not indeed 
 I am not I have but, oh, mother ! the worst of all is, 
 that I don't know whether I should tell you anything 
 about it or not I ought not to betray anybody, ought I ?" 
 
 "Certainly not: and as to me, the desire you now show 
 to be sincere is enough ; you are perfectly at liberty : if I 
 can assist to advise you, my dear, I will ; but I do not want 
 to force any secret from you : do what you think right and 
 honourable." 
 
 " But I have done what is very dishonourable," said Helen. 
 
340 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 " At least I may tell you all that concerns myself. I am 
 afraid you will think I have broken my promise," said she, 
 drawing the book from her pocket. " I have brought homo 
 this book." She paused, and seemed to wait for her 
 mother's reproaches : but her mother was silent ; she did 
 ot look angry, but surprised and sorry. 
 
 " Is this all you wished to say ?" 
 
 " All that I can say," replied Helen. " Perhaps, if you 
 heard the whole story, you might think me less to blame ; 
 but I cannot tell it to you. I hope you will not ask me any 
 more." 
 
 " No," said her mother ; " that, I assure you, I will not." 
 
 " And now, mother, will you and you '11 set my heart 
 at ease again will you tell me what I shall do with the 
 book?" 
 
 " That I cannot possibly do. I cannot advise when I 
 do n't know the circumstances : I pity you, Helen, but I 
 cannot help you ; you must judge for yourself." 
 
 Helen, after some deliberation, resolved to write a note 
 to Lady Augusta, and to ask her mother to send it. 
 
 Her mother sent it without looking at the direction. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! how good you are to me !" said Helen ; 
 "and now, madam, what shall be my punishment?" 
 
 " It will be a very severe punishment, I 'm afraid ; but it 
 is not in my power to help it : my confidence in you does 
 not depend upon myself; it must always depend upon you." 
 
 " Oh ! have I lost your confidence ?" 
 
 " Not lost, but lessened it," said her mother. " I cannot 
 possibly feel the same confidence in you now that I did yes- 
 terday morning ; I cannot feel the same dependence upon 
 a person who has deceived me, as upon one who never had 
 could you ?" 
 
 " No, certainly," said Helen, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Oh !" said she to herself, " if Lady Augusta knew the 
 pain she has cost me ! But I 'm sure, however, she '11 tell 
 her mother all the affair, when she reads my note." 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 341 
 
 Helen's note contained much eloquence and more simpli- 
 city ; but as to the effect upon Lady Augusta, she calculated 
 ill. No answer was returned but a few ostensible lines : 
 " Lady Augusta's compliments, and she was happy to hear 
 Miss Helen T. was better," &c. And, strange to tell ! when 
 they met about three weeks after at a ball in town, Lady 
 Augusta did not think proper to take any notice of Helen 
 or Emma. She looked as if she had never seen them before, 
 and by a haughty stare, for girls can stare now almost aa 
 well as women, cancelled all her former expressions of 
 friendship for her " dear Helen." It is to be observed, that 
 ehe was now in company with two or three young ladies of 
 higher rank, whom she thought more fashionable, and con- 
 sequently more amiable. 
 
 Mrs. Temple was by no means sorry to find this intimacy 
 between Lady Augusta and her daughter dissolved. 
 
 " I am sure the next time," said Helen, " I '11 take care 
 not to like a stranger merely for having a blue sash." 
 
 " But, indeed," said Emma, " I do think Mademoiselle 
 Panache, from all I saw of her, is to blame for many of 
 Lady Augusta's defects." 
 
 " For all of them, I '11 answer for it," said Helen ; " I 
 would not have a French governess for the world. Lady 
 S*** might well say, they were a sad set of people." 
 
 " That was too general an expression, Helen," said Mrs. 
 Temple ; " and it is neither wise nor just to judge of any 
 set of people by an individual, whether that individual be 
 good or bad. All French governesses are not like Mademoi- 
 selle Panache." 
 
 Helen corrected her expression ; and said, " Well, I mean, 
 I would not for the world have such a governess as Made- 
 moiselle Panache !" 
 
 [The Second Part of Mademoiselle Panache is given in Miss Edgo- 
 worth's " Moral Tales."] 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 " Toute leur e"tude fitoit de se complaire et de s'entr'aider." 
 
 PAUL ET VIRSINIK. 
 
 Their whole study was how to please and to help one another. 
 
 AT the foot of a steep slippery white hill, near Dunstable, 
 in Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather 
 a hovel, which travellers would scarcely suppose could be 
 inhabited, if they did not see the smoke rising from its 
 peaked roof. An old woman lives in this hovel, and with 
 her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar,' who died, 
 and left these orphans perishing with hunger. They thought 
 themselves very happy the first time the good old woman 
 took them into her hut, bid them warm themselves at her 
 small fire, and gave them a crust of mouldy bread to eat ; 
 she had not much to give, but what she had she gave with 
 good-will. She was very kind to these poor children, and 
 worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting, to 
 support herself and them. She earned money also in ano- 
 ther way : she used to follow all the carriages as they went 
 up Chalk Hill, and when the horses stopped to take breath, 
 or to rest themselves, she put stones under the carriage- 
 wheels, to prevent them from rolling backwards down the 
 steep slippery hill. 
 
 The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good- 
 natured old woman's spinning-wheel, when she was spin- 
 ning, and to talk to her. At these times she taught them 
 something which she said she hoped they would remember 
 all their lives : she explained to them what is meant by 
 
 (342) 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 843 
 
 telling the truth, and what it is to be honest ; she taught 
 them to dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be 
 useful. 
 
 One evening, as they were standing beside her, the little 
 boy said to her, " Grandmother," for that was the name 
 by which she liked that these children should call her 
 " grandmother, how often you are forced to get up from 
 your spinning-wheel, and to follow the chaises and coaches 
 up that steep hill, to put stones under the wheels, to hinder 
 them from rolling back ! The people who are in the car- 
 riages give you a half-penny or a penny for doing this, 
 do n't they?" 
 
 " Yes, child." " But it is very hard work for you to go 
 up and down that hill : you often say that you are tired, 
 and then you know that you cannot spin all that time. Now, 
 if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the 
 wheels, you could sit still at your work ; and would not the 
 people give us the half-pence ? and could not we bring them 
 all to you? Do, pray, dear grandmother, try us for one 
 day ! to-morrow, will you 1" " Yes," said the old woman, 
 "I will try what you can do; but I must go up the hill 
 along with you for the first two or three times, for fear you 
 should get yourselves hurt." So the next day the little boy 
 and girl went with their grandmother, as they used to call 
 her, up the steep hill ; and she showed the boy how to pre- 
 vent the wheels from rolling back, by putting stones behind 
 them ; and she said, " This is called scotching the wheels ;" 
 and she took off the boy's hat, and gave it to the little girl, 
 to hold up to the carriage-windows, ready for the half-pence. 
 When she thought that the children knew how to manage 
 for themselves, she left them and returned to her spinning- 
 wheel. A great many carriages happened to go by this 
 day, and the little girl received a great many half-pence ; 
 she carried them all in her brother's hat to her grandmo- 
 ther, in the evening; and the old woman smiled, and 
 thanked the children : she said that they had been useful 
 
344 THE BASK -EX-WOMAN. 
 
 to her, and that her spinning had gone on finely, because she 
 had been able to sit still at her wheel all day ; " But, Paul, 
 my boy," said she, "vrhat is the matter with your 
 hand?" 
 
 " Only a pinch only one pinch, that I got as I was put- 
 ting a stone behind the wheel of a chaise. It does not hurt 
 me much, grandmother ; and I 've thought of a good thing 
 for to-morrow; I shall never be hurt again, if you will only 
 be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken crutch, 
 grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the chim- 
 ney-corner, and that is of no use ; I '11 make it of some use, 
 if I may have it." 
 
 " Take it, then, dear," said the old woman, " and you '11 
 find the handle of the broken crutch under my bed." 
 
 Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of 
 the pole into the block of wood, so as to make something 
 like a dry rubbing-brush. " Look, grandmother, look at 
 my scotcher; I call this thing my scotcher," said Paul, 
 " because I shall always scotch the wheels with it : I shall 
 never pinch my fingers again ; my hands, you see, will be 
 safe at the end of this long stick ; and, sister Anne, you 
 need not be at the trouble of carrying any more stones after 
 me up the hill ; vre shall never want stones any more ; my 
 ecotcher will do without anything else, I hope. I wish it 
 was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I might 
 run up the hill, and try my scotcher." " And I wish that 
 as many chaises may go by to-morrow as there did to-day, 
 and that we may bring you as many half-pence, too, grand- 
 mother," said the little girl. " So do I, my dear Anne," 
 said the old woman ; " for I mean that you and your bro- 
 ther shall have all the money that you get to-morrow: you 
 may buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some of those 
 ripe plums that you saw at the fruitrstall the other day, 
 which is just going into Dunstable. I told you then that I 
 could not afford to buy such things for you ; but now that 
 you can earn half-pfince for yourselves, children, it is fair 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 345 
 
 that you should taste a ripe plum and a bit of gingerbread 
 for once in your lives, and away, dears." 
 
 " We '11 bring some of the gingerbread home to her, 
 shan't we, brother?" whispered little Anne. The morning 
 came, but no carriages were heard, though Paul and his 
 sister had risen at five o'clock, that they might be sure to 
 be ready for early travellers. Paul kept his scotcher poised 
 upon his shoulder, and watched eagerly at his station at the 
 bottom of the hill ; he did not wait long before a carriage 
 came. He followed it up the hill ; and the instant the pos- 
 tilion called to him, and bid him stop the wheels, he put 
 his scotcher behind them, and found that it answered the 
 purpose perfectly well. Many carriages went by this day ; 
 and Paul and Anne received a great many half-pence from 
 the travellers. When it grew dusk in the evening, Anne 
 said to her brother, " I do n't think any more carriages will 
 come by to-day ; let us count the half-pence, and carry them 
 home now to grandmother." 
 
 "No, not yet," answered Paul; "let them alone; let 
 them lie still in the hole where I have put them : I dare 
 say more carriages will come by before it is quite dark, and 
 then we shall have more half-pence." Paul had taken the 
 half-pence out of his hat, and he had put them into a hole 
 in the high bank by the road-side ; and Anne said that she 
 would not meddle with them, and that she would wait till 
 her brother liked to count them ; and Paul said, " If you 
 will stay and watch here, I will go and gather some black- 
 berries for you in the hedge in yonder field ; stand you 
 hereabouts, half-way up the hill, and the moment you see 
 any carriage coming along the road, run as fast as you can, 
 and call me." 
 
 Anne waited a long time, or what she thought a long 
 time, and she saw no carriage ; and she trailed her brother's 
 ecotcher up and down till she was tired ; then she stood still 
 and looked again, and she saw no carriage ; so she went 
 sorrowfully into the field, and to the hedge where her bro- 
 
346 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 ther was gathering blackberries, and she said, " Paul, I 'm 
 sadly tired sadly tired !" said she, " and my eyes are 
 quite strained with looking for chaises : no more chaises 
 will come to-night, and your scotcher is lying there of no 
 use upon the ground. Have not I waited long enough for 
 to-day, Paul?" "Oh no," said Paul; "here are some 
 blackberries for you ; you had better wait a little longer ; 
 perhaps a carriage might go by while you are standing here 
 talking to me." Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, 
 and who liked to do what she was asked to do, went back 
 to the place where the scotcher lay ; and scarcely had she 
 reached the spot, when she heard the noise of a carriage. 
 She ran to call her brother ; and, to their great joy, they 
 now saw four chaises coming towards them. Paul, as soon 
 as they went up the hill, followed with his scotcher ; first 
 he scotched the wheels of one carriage, then of another ; 
 and Anne was so much delighted with observing how well 
 the scotcher stopped the wheels, and how much better it 
 was than stones, that she forgot to go and hold her brother's 
 hat to the travellers for half-pence, till she was roused by 
 the voice of a little rosy girl, who was looking out of the 
 window of one of the chaises. " Come close to the chaise- 
 door," said the little girl ; " here are some half-pence for 
 you." 
 
 Anne held the hat ; and she afterward went on to the 
 other carriages : money was thrown to her from each of 
 them ; and when they had all gotten safely to the top of the 
 hill, she and her brother sat down upon a large stone by 
 the road-side to count their treasure. First they began by 
 counting what was in the hat " One, two, three, four half- 
 pence." 
 
 " But 0, brother, look at this !" exclaimed Anne ; " this 
 is not the same as the other half-pence." 
 
 " No, indeed, it is not," cried Paul ; " it is^ no half-penny ; 
 it is a guinea, a bright golden guinea!" "Is it?" said 
 Anne, who had never seen a guinea in her life before, and 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 347 
 
 who did not know its value ; " and will it do as well as a 
 half-penny to buy gingerbread ? I '11 run to the fruit-stall, 
 and ask the woman, shall I ?" 
 
 " No, no," said Paul, " you need not ask any woman or 
 anybody but me ; I can tell you all about it as well as any- 
 body in the whole world." 
 
 " The whole worJd ! 0, Paul, you forget ! not so well 
 as my grandmother. 1 ' 
 
 " Why, not so well as my grandmother, perhaps ; but, 
 Anne, I can tell you that you must not talk yourself, Anne ; 
 but you must listen to me quietly, or else you won't under- 
 stand what I am going to tell you ; for I can assure you that 
 I do n't think I quite understood it myself, Anne, the first 
 time my grandmother told it to me, though I stood stock- 
 still listening my best." 
 
 Prepared by this speech to hear something very difficult 
 to be understood, Anne looked very grave ; and her brother 
 explained to her, that, with a guinea, she might buy two 
 hundred and fifty-two times as many plums as she could 
 get for a penny. 
 
 " Why, Paul, you know the fruit-woman paid she would 
 give us a dozen plums for a penny. Now for this little gui- 
 nea would she give us two hundred and fifty-two dozen ?" 
 
 " If she has so many, and if we like to have so many, to 
 be sure she will," said Paul ; " but I think we should not 
 like to have two hundred and fifty-two dozen of plums ; we 
 could not eat such a number." 
 
 " But we could give some of them to my grandmother," 
 said Anne. 
 
 " But still there would be too many for her and for us 
 too," said Paul ; " and when we had eaten the plums, there 
 would be an end of all the pleasure ; but now I '11 tell you 
 what I am thinking of, Ahhe, that we might buy something 
 for my grandmother that would be very useful to her 
 indeed, with this guinea; something that would last a great 
 while. 
 
348 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 "What, brother? what sort of thing?" 
 " Something that she said she wanted very much last 
 winter, when she was so ill of the rheumatism ; something 
 that she said yesterday, when you were making her bed, she 
 wished she might be able to buy before next winter." 
 
 " I know ! I know what you mean," said Anne, " a blan- 
 ket ; yes, Paul, that will be much better than plums ; do 
 let us buy a blanket for her : how glad she will be to see it 1 
 I will make her bed with the new blanket, and then 
 bring her to look at it. But, Paul, how shall we buy a 
 blanket ? Where are blankets to be got ?" 
 
 "Leave that to me, I'll manage that I know where 
 blankets can be got ; I saw one hanging out of a shop the 
 day I went last to Dunstable." 
 
 " You have seen a great many things at Dunstable, bro- 
 ther." 
 
 " Yes, a great many ; but I never saw anything there, or 
 anywhere else, that I wished for half so much as I did for 
 the blanket for my grandmother. Do you remember how 
 she used to shiver with the cold last winter ? I '11 buy th* 
 blanket to-morrow ; I 'm going to Dunstable with her spin- 
 ning." 
 
 " And you '11 bring the blanket to me, and I shall make 
 the bed very neatly, that will be all right ! all happy 1" said 
 Anne, clapping her hands. 
 
 " But stay ! hush ! do n't clap your hands so, Anne ; it 
 will not be all happy, I 'm afraid," said Paul, and his coun- 
 tenance changed, and he looked very grave "it will not 
 be all right, I 'm afraid, for there is one thing we have nei- 
 ther of us thought of, but that we ought to think about. We 
 cannot buy the blanket, I 'm afraid." 
 "Why, Paul? why?" 
 
 " Because I do n't think this guinea is honestly ours." 
 " Nay, brother, but I 'm sure it is honestly ours ; it was 
 given to us, and grandmother said all that was given to us 
 to-day was to be our own." 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 349 
 
 " But who gave it to you, Anne V 
 
 " Some of the people in those chaises, Paul ; I do n't 
 know which of them, but I dare say it was the little rosy 
 girl." 
 
 " No," said Paul, " for when she called you to the chaise- 
 door, she said, ' Here 's some half-pence for you.' Now, if 
 she gave you the guinea, she must have given it to you by 
 mistake." 
 
 " Well, but perhaps some of the people in the other 
 chaises gave it to me, and did not give it to me by mistake, 
 Paul. There was a gentleman reading in one of the chaises, 
 and a lady who looked very good-naturedly at me, and then 
 the gentleman put down his book, and put his head out of 
 the window, and looked at your scotcher, brother, and he 
 asked me if that was your own making : and when I said 
 yes, and that I was your sister, he smiled at me, and put 
 his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and threw a handful of 
 half-pence into the hat, and I dare say he gave us the gui- 
 nea along with them, because he liked your scotcher so 
 much." 
 
 " Why," said Paul, " that might be, to be sure ; but I 
 wish I was quite certain of it." 
 
 " Then, as we are not quite certain, had not we best go 
 and ask my grandmother what she thinks about it ?" 
 
 Paul thought this was excellent advice ; and he was not 
 a silly boy, who did not like to follow good advice : he went 
 with his sister directly to his grandmother, showed her the 
 guinea, and told how they came by it. 
 
 " My dear honest children," said she, " I am very glad 
 you told me all this ; I am very glad that you did not buy 
 either the plums or the blanket with this guinea : I 'm sure 
 it is not honestly ours ; those who threw it to you gave it 
 6y mistake, I warrant; and what I would have you do is, 
 4o get to Dunstable, and try if you can, at either of the 
 inns, find out the person who gave it to you. It is now so 
 late in the evening, that perhaps the travellers will sleep at 
 
350 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 Dunstable, instead of going on the next stage ; and it is 
 likely, that whosoever gave you the guinea, instead of a 
 half-penny, has found out his mistake by this time. All 
 you can do is to go and inquire for the gentleman who wa? 
 reading in the chaise." 
 
 " Oh !" interrupted Paul, " I know a good way of finding 
 him out : I remember it was a dark-green chaise with red 
 wheels ; and I remember I read the innkeeper's name upon 
 the chaise, 'John Nelson' (I am much obliged to you for 
 teaching me to read, grandmother.) You told me yesterday, 
 grandmother, that the names written upon chaises are the 
 names of the innkeepers to whom they belong. I read the 
 name of the innkeeper upon that chaise : it was John Nel- 
 son. So Anne and I will go to both the inns in Dunstable 
 and try to find out this chaise John Nelson's. Come, 
 Anne, let us set out before it gets quite dark." 
 
 Anne and her brother passed with great courage the 
 tempting stall, that was covered with gingerbread and ripe 
 plums, and pursued their way steadily through the street 
 of Dunstable ; but Paul, when he came to the shop where 
 he had seen the blankets, stopped for a moment, and said, 
 " It is a great pity, Anne, that the guinea is not ours ; how- 
 aver, we are doing what is honest, and that is a comfort 
 Here, we must go through this gateway, into the inn-yard 
 we are come to the Dun Cow." 
 
 " Cow," said Anne, " I see no cow." 
 
 " Look up, and you '11 see the cow over your head," said 
 Paul, " the sign the picture. Come, never mind looking 
 at it now ; I want to find out the green chaise that has John 
 Nelson's name upon it." 
 
 Paul pushed forward, through a crowded passage, till he 
 got into the inn-yard : there was a great noise and bustle ; 
 the hostlers were carrying in luggage ; the postilions were 
 rubbing down their horses, or rolling the chaises into the 
 coach-house. 
 
 " What now ? what business have you here, pray ?" eaid 
 
TflE BASKET-WOMAN. 851 
 
 a waiter, who almost ran over Paul, as he was crossing the 
 yard in a great hurry to get some empty bottles from the 
 hottle-rack. " You 've no business here, crowding up the 
 yard ; walk off, young gentleman, if you please." 
 
 " Pray give me leave, sir," said Paul, " to stay a few 
 minutes to look among these chaises for one dark-green 
 chaise with red wheels, that has Mr. John Nelson's name 
 written upon it." 
 
 " What 's that he says about a dark-green chaise 1" said 
 one of the postilions. 
 
 " What should such a one as he is know about chaises ?" 
 interrupted the hasty waiter, as he was going to turn Paul 
 out of the yard ; but the hostler caught hold of his arm, and 
 said, "May be the child has some business here; let's 
 know what he has to say for himself." 
 
 The waiter was at this instant luckily obliged to leave 
 them to attend the bell ; and Paul told his business to the 
 hostler, who, as soon as he saw the guinea and heard the 
 story, shook Paul by the hand, and said, " Stand steady, my 
 honest lad ; I '11 find the chaise for you, if it 's to be found 
 here : but John Nelson's chaises almost always drive to the 
 Black Bull." 
 
 After some difficulty, the green chaise with John Nelson's 
 name upon it, and the postilion who drove that chaise, were 
 found ; and the postilion told Paul that he was just going 
 into the parlour to the gentleman he had driven, to be paid, 
 and that he would carry the guinea with him. 
 
 " No," said Paul, " we should like to give it back our- 
 selves." 
 
 " Yes," said the hostler, " that they have a right to do." 
 
 The postilion made no reply, but looked vexed, and went 
 on towards the house, desiring the children would wait in 
 the passage till his return. 
 
 In the passage there was standing a decent, clean, good- 
 natured looking woman, with two huge straw baskets on 
 each side of her. One of the baskets stood a little in the 
 
352 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 way of the entrance. A man who was pushing his way in, 
 and carried in his hand a string of dead larks hung to a 
 pole, impatient at being stopped, kicked down the straw 
 basket, and all its contents were thrown out bright straw 
 hats, and boxes, and slippers were all thrown in disorder 
 upon the dirty ground. 
 
 "Oh, they will be trampled upon! they will be all 
 spoiled 1" exclaimed the woman to whom they belonged. 
 
 " We '11 help you to pick them up, if you will let us," 
 cried Paul and Anne ; and they immediately ran to her 
 assistance. 
 
 When the things were all safe in the basket again, the 
 children expressed a great desire to know how such beautiful 
 things could be made of straw ; but the woman had not 
 time to answer them before the postilion came out of the 
 parlour, and with him a gentleman's servant, who came to 
 Paul, and, clapping him upon the back, said, " So, my little 
 chap, I gave you a guinea for a half-penny, I hear ; and I 
 understand you've brought it back again that's right 
 give me hold of it." 
 
 " No, brother," said Anne ; " this is not the gentleman 
 that was reading." 
 
 "Pooh, child, I came in Mr. Nelson's green chaise. 
 Here's the postilion can tell you so. I and my master came 
 in that chaise. It was my master that was reading, as you 
 say : and it was he that threw the money out to you : he is 
 going to bed ; he is tired, and can't see you himself: he 
 desires that you '11 give me the guinea." 
 
 Paul was too honest himself to suspect that this man was 
 telling him a falsehood ; and he now readily produced his 
 bright guinea, and delivered it into the servant's hands. 
 
 " Here 's sixpence apiece for you, children," said he, " and 
 good-night to you." Ho pushed them towards the door ; 
 but the basket-woman whispered to them as they went out, 
 " Wait in the street till I come to you." 
 
 " Pray, Mrs. Landlady," cried this gentleman's servant, 
 
THE BASKET- WOMAN. 353 
 
 addressing himself to the landlady, who just then came 
 out of a room where some company were at supper "pray, 
 Mrs. Landlady, please to let me have roasted larks for my 
 supper. You are famous for larks at Dunstable ; and I make 
 it a rule to taste the best of everything, wherever I go ; and, 
 waiter, let me have a bottle of claret do you hear ?" 
 
 " Larks and claret for his supper !" said the basket- 
 woman to herself, as she looked at him from head to foot. 
 The postilion was still waiting, as if to speak to him ; and 
 she observed them afterward whispering and laughing 
 together. " No bad hit," was a sentence which the servant 
 pronounced several times. 
 
 Now it occurred to the basket-woman that this man had 
 cheated the children out of the guinea to pay for the larks 
 and claret ; and she thought that perhaps she could discover 
 the truth. She waited quietly in the passage. 
 
 " Waiter ! Joe ! Joe !" cried the landlady, " why do n't 
 you carry in the sweetmeat puff's and the tarts here to the 
 company in the best parlour?" 
 
 " Coming, ma'am," answered the waiter ; and with a 
 large dish of tarts and puffs the waiter came from the bar ; 
 the landlady threw open the door of the best parlour, to let 
 him in, and the basket-woman had now a full view of a large 
 cheerful company, and among them several children sitting 
 round a supper-table. 
 
 " Ay," whispered the landlady, as the door closed after 
 the waiter and the tarts, " there are customers enough, I 
 warrant, for you in that room, if you had but the luck to be 
 called in. Pray what would you have the conscience, I 
 wonder now, to charge me for these here half-dozen little 
 mats, to put under my dishes ?" 
 
 " A trifle, ma'am," said the basket-woman. She let the 
 
 landlady have the mats cheap ; and the landlady then 
 
 declared she would step in, and see if the company in the 
 
 beat parlour had done supper "When they come to their 
 
 23 
 
354 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 wine," added she, " I '11 speak a gdod word for you, and get 
 you called in afore the children are sent to bed." 
 
 The landlady, after the usual speech of "I hope the sup- 
 per and everything is to your liking, ladies and gentlemen" 
 began with, " if any of the young gentlemen or ladies would 
 have a cur'osity to see any of our famous Dunstable straw- 
 work, there 's a decent body without would, I dare to say, 
 be proud to show them her pincushion-boxes, and her bas- 
 kets and slippers, and her other cur'osities." 
 
 The eyes of the children all turned towards their mother, 
 their mother smiled, and immediately their father called in 
 the basket-woman, and desired her to produce her curiosi- 
 ties." 
 
 The children gathered round her large pannier as it 
 opened ; but they did not touch any of her things. 
 
 " 0, papa !" cried a little rosy girl, " here are a pair of 
 straw slippers that would just fit you, I think ; but would 
 not straw shoes wear^out very soon? and would not they let 
 in the wet?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said her father, " but these slippers are 
 meant " " For powdering slippers, miss," interrupted the 
 basket-woman. 
 
 " To wear when people are powdering their hair," con- 
 tinued the gentleman, " that they may not spoil their other 
 shoes." 
 
 "And will you buy them, papa?" 
 
 " No, I cannot indulge myself," said her father, " buying 
 them now ; I must make amends," said he, laughing, " for 
 my carelessness ; and as I threw away a guinea to-day, I 
 must endeavour to save sixpence at least." 
 
 " Ah, the guinea that you threw by mistake into the little 
 girl's hat, as we were coming up Chalk Hill. Mamma, I 
 wonder that the little girl did not take notice of its being a 
 guinea, and that she did not run after the chaise to give it 
 back again. I should think, if she had been an honest girl, 
 she would have returned it." 
 
SHE BASKET-WOMAN. 355 
 
 "Miss! Ma'am Sir!" said the basket-woman, "if it 
 would not be impertinent, may I speak a word ? A little 
 boy and girl have just been here inquiring for a gentleman 
 who gave them a guinea instead of a half-penny by mis- 
 take ; and, not five minutes ago, I saw the boy give the gui- 
 nea to a gentleman's servant, who is there without, and who 
 said his master desired it should be returned to him." 
 
 " There must be some mistake, or some trick in this," 
 said the gentleman ; " are the children gone ? I must see 
 them. Send after them." 
 
 " I '11 go for them myself," said the good-natured basket- 
 woman ; " I bid them wait in the street yonder ; for my 
 mind misgave me that the man who spoke so short to them 
 was a cheat with his larks and his claret." 
 
 Paul and Anne were speedily summoned, and brought 
 back by their friend the basket-woman ; and Anne, the 
 moment she saw the gentleman, knew that he was the very 
 person who smiled upon her, who admired her brother's 
 scotcher, and who threw a handful of halfpence into the 
 hat ; but she could not be certain, she said, that she received 
 the guinea from him ; she only thought it was most likely 
 that she did. 
 
 " But I can be certain whether the guinea you returned 
 be mine or not," said the gentleman ; " I marked the gui- 
 nea : it was a light one ; the only guinea I had, which I 
 put in my waistcoat-pocket this morning." 
 
 He rang the bell, and desired the waiter to let the gen- 
 tleman who was in the room opposite to him know that he 
 wished to see him. 
 
 " The gentleman in the white parlour, sir, do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean the master of the servant who received a guinea 
 from this child." 
 
 " He is a Mr. Pembroke, sir," said the waiter. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke came, and as soon as he heard what had 
 happened, he desired the waiter to show him to the room 
 where his servant was at supper. 
 
356 THE BASKET-WOMAN. 
 
 The dishonest servant, who was supping upon larks and 
 claret, knew nothing of what was going on ; but knife and 
 fork dropped from his hand, and he overturned a bumper 
 of claret, as he started up from the table, in great surprise 
 and terror, when his master came in with a face of indig- 
 nation, and demanded, " The guinea the guinea, sir ! that 
 you got from this child that guinea which you said I 
 ordered you to ask for from this child." 
 
 The servant, confounded and half-intoxicated, could only 
 stammer out that he had more guineas than one about him, 
 and that he really did not know which it was. He pulled 
 his money out and spread it upon the table with trembling 
 hands. The marked guinea appeared. His master instantly 
 turned him out of his service, with strong expressions of 
 contempt. 
 
 " And now, my little honest girl," said the gentleman 
 who had admired her brother's scotcher, turning to Anne, 
 " and now tell me who you are, and what you and your bro- 
 ther want or wish for most in the world." 
 
 In the same moment, Anne and Paul exclaimed, " The 
 thing we wish for the most in the world is a blanket for our 
 grandmother." 
 
 " She is not our grandmother in reality, I believe, sir," 
 said Paul; "but she is just as good to us, and taught me 
 to read, and taught Anne to knit, and taught us both that 
 we should be honest so she has; and I wish she had a 
 new blanket before next winter, to keep her from the cold 
 and the rheumatism. She had the rheumatism sadly last 
 winter, sir ; and there is a blanket in this street that would 
 be just the thing for her." 
 
 " She shall have it then ; and," continued the gentleman, 
 "I will do something more for you. Do you like to be 
 employed, or to be idle, best ?" 
 
 " We like to have something to do always if we could, 
 sir," said Paul ; " but we are forced to be idle sometimes, 
 because grandmother has not always things for us to do, 
 that we can do well." 
 
THE BASKET-WOMAN. 357 
 
 " Should you like to learn how to make such baskets as 
 these ?" said the gentleman, pointing to one of the Dunsta- 
 ble straw-baskets. 
 
 " 0, very much \". said Paul. 
 
 " Very much !" said Anne, 
 
 " Then I should like to teach you how to make them," 
 said the basket-woman ; " for I am sure of one thing, that 
 you 'd behave honestly to me." 
 
 The gentleman put a guinea into the good-natured basket- 
 woman's hand, and told her that he knew she could not 
 afford to teach them her trade for nothing. " I shall come 
 through Dunstable again in a few months," added he ; " and 
 1 hope to see that you and your scholars are going on well. 
 If I find they are, I will do something more for you." 
 
 " But," said Anne, " we must tell all this to grandmother, 
 and ask her about it : and I 'm afraid though I 'm very 
 happy that it is getting very late, and that we should not 
 stay here any longer." 
 
 "It is a fine moonlight night," said the basket-woman; 
 " and it is not far ; I '11 walk with you, and see you safe 
 home myself." 
 
 The gentleman detained them a few minutes longer, till 
 a messenger, whom he had despatched to purchase the 
 much-wished-for blanket, returned. 
 
 " Your grandmother will sleep well under this good blan- 
 ket, I hope," said the gentleman, as he gave it into Paul's 
 opened arms ; " it has been obtained for her by the honesty 
 of her adopted children." 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 THE little town of Somerville, in Ireland, has, within 
 these few years, assumed the neat and cheerful appearance 
 of an English village. Mr. Somerville, to whom this town 
 belongs, wishatto inspire his tenantry with a taste for order 
 and domestic happiness, and took every means in his power 
 to encourage industrious well-behaved people to settle in 
 his neighbourhood. When he had finished building a row 
 of good slated houses in his town, he declared that he would 
 let them to the best tenants he could find, and proposals 
 were publicly sent to him from all parts of the country. By 
 the best tenants, Mr. Somerville did not, however, mean the 
 best bidders ; and many, who had offered an extravagant 
 price for the houses, were surprised to find their proposals 
 rejected. Among these was Mr. Cox, an alehouse-keeper, 
 who did not bear a very good character. 
 
 "Please your honour, sir," said he to Mr. Somerville, 
 " I expected, since I bid as fair and fairer for it than any other, 
 that you would have let me the house next the apothecary's. 
 Was not it fifteen guineas I mentioned in my proposal ? and 
 did not your honour give it against me for thirteen ?" 
 
 "My honour did just so," replied Mr. Somerville, calmly. 
 
 " And, please your honour, but I do n't know what it is I 
 or mine have done to offend you I'm sure there is not a 
 gentleman in all Ireland I 'd go farther to sarve. Would 
 not I go to Cork to-morrow for the least word from your 
 
 honour ?" 
 
 (358) 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 359 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, Mr. Cox, but I have no busi- 
 ness at Cork at present," answered Mr. Somerville, dryly. 
 
 " It is all I wish," exclaimed Mr. Cox, " that I could find 
 out and light upon the man that has belied me to your 
 honour." 
 
 " No man has belied you, Mr. Cox ; but your nose belies 
 you much, if you do v not love drinking a little ; and your 
 black eye and cut chin belie you much, if you do not love 
 quarrelling a little." 
 
 " Quarrel ! I quarrel, please your honour ! I defy any 
 man or set of men, ten mile round, to prove such a thing ; 
 and I am ready to fight him that dares to say the like of 
 me ; I 'd fight him here in your honour's presence, if he 'd 
 only come out this minute, and meet me like a man." 
 
 Here Mr. Cox put himself into boxing attitude ; but 
 observing that Mr. Somerville looked at his threatening 
 gesture with a smile, and that several people, who had 
 gathered round him as he stood in the street, laughed at the 
 proof he gave of his. peaceable disposition, he changed his 
 attitude, and went on to vindicate himself against the charge 
 of drinking. 
 
 " And as to drink, please your honour, there 's no truth 
 in it. Not a drop of whiskey, good or bad, have I touched 
 these six months, except what I took with Jemmy M'Doole 
 the night I had the misfortune to meet your honour coming 
 home from the fair of Ballynagrish." 
 
 To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned 
 away to look at the bow-window of a handsome new inn, 
 which the glazier was at this instant glazing. 
 
 " Please your honour, that new inn is not let, I hear, as 
 yet," resumed Mr. Cox ; " if your honour recollects, you 
 promised to make me a compliment of it, last Seraphtide 
 was twelvemonth." 
 
 "Impossible!" cried Mr. Somerville, "for I had no 
 thought of building an inn at that time." 
 
 " 0, I beg your honour's pardon ; but if you 'd be just 
 
360 THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 pleased to recollect, it was coming through the gap in the 
 bog-meadows, forenent Thady O'Connor you made me the 
 promise I '11 leave it to him, so I will." 
 
 " But I will not leave it to him, I assure you," cried Mr. 
 Somerville ; " I never made such promise : I never thought 
 of letting this inn to you." 
 
 " Then your honour won't let me have it ?" 
 
 " No. You have told me a dozen falsehoods. I do not 
 wifh to have you for a tenant." 
 
 " Well, God bless your honour ; I 've no more to say, but 
 God bless your honour," said Mr. Cox ; and he walked away, 
 muttering to himself, as he slouched his hat over his face, 
 
 " I hope I '11 live to be revenged on him !" 
 
 Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to 
 look at the new inn, which he expected to see perfectly fin- 
 ished ; but he was met by the carpenter, who, with a rueful 
 face, informed him that six panes of glass in the large bow- 
 window had been broken during the night. 
 
 " Ha ! perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows in 
 revenge for my refusing to let him my house," said Mr. So- 
 merville ; and many of the neighbours, who knew the mali- 
 cious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like 
 one of his tricks. 
 
 A boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped for- 
 ward and said, " I do n't like Mr. Cox, I 'm sure, for he once 
 beat me when he was drunk ; but, for all that, no one should 
 be accused wrongfully: he could not be the person who 
 broke these windows last night; for he was six miles off; 
 he slept at his cousin's last night, and he has not returned 
 home yet ; so I think he knows nothing of the matter." 
 
 Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of 
 this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the 
 staircase when the house-door was opened, he asked him 
 whether he should like to go in and see the new house. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the boy, " I should like to go up those 
 Btairs, and to see what I should come to." 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 361 
 
 " Up -with you, then !" said Mr. Somerville ; and the boy 
 ran up the stairs. He went from room to room with great 
 expressions of admiration and delight; at length, as he was 
 examining one of the garrets, he was startled by a flutter- 
 ing noise over his head ; and looking up, he saw a white 
 pigeon, which, frightened at his appearance, began to fly 
 round and round the room, till it found its way out at the 
 door, and flew into the staircase. The carpenter was speak- 
 ing to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place of the stairs ; 
 but the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off in 
 the midst of his speech about the nose of the stairs, and 
 exclaimed, "There he is, please your honour! There's 
 he that has done all the damage to our bow-window that's 
 the very same wicked white pigeon that broke the church 
 windows, last Sunday was sennight ; but he 's down for it 
 now ; we have him safe, and I '11 chop his head off, as he 
 deserves, this minute." 
 
 "Stay! Ostay! don't chop his head off: he does not 
 deserve it," cried the boy, who came running out of the 
 garret with the greatest eagerness 
 
 "/broke your window, sir," said he to Mr. Somerville, 
 " I broke your window with this ball ; but I did not know 
 that I had done it till this moment, I assure you, or I 
 should have told you before. Do n't chop his head off," 
 added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the white 
 pigeon in his hands. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Somerville, "the pigeon's head shall not 
 be chopped off, nor yours neither, my good boy, for break- 
 ing a window. I am persuaded, by your open, honest coun- 
 tenance, that you are speaking the truth : but pray explain 
 this matter to us, for you have not made it quite clear ; how 
 happened it that you could break my windows without 
 knowing it? and how came you to find it out at last?" 
 
 " Sir," said the boy, " if you '11 come up here, I '11 show 
 you all I know, and how I came to know it." 
 
 Mr. Somerville followed him into the garret ; and the boy 
 
362 THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 pointed to a pane of glass that was broken in a small win 
 dow that looked out upon a piece of waste ground behind 
 the house. Upon this piece of waste ground the children 
 of the village often used to play. " We were playing there 
 at ball yesterday evening," continued the boy, addressing 
 himself to Mr. Somerville ; " and one of the lads challenged 
 me to hit a mark in the wall, which I did ; but he said I 
 did not hit it, and bade me give him up my ball as the for- 
 feit. This I would not do ; and when he began to wrestle 
 with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. 
 He ran to look for it in the street, but could not find it, 
 which I was very glad of: but I was very sorry just now to 
 find it myself, lying upon this heap of shavings, sir, under 
 this broken window ; for, as soon as I saw it lying there, I 
 knew I must have been the person that broke the window : 
 and through this window came the white pigeon : here 's 
 one of his white feathers sticking in the gap." 
 
 " Yes," said the carpenter, " and in the bow-window room 
 below there 's plenty of his white feathers to be seen, for 
 I've just been down to look: it was the pigeon broke them 
 windows, sure enough." 
 
 " But he could not have got in if I had not broken thia 
 little window," said the boy eagerly: "and I am able to 
 earn sixpence a day, and I '11 pay for all the mischief, and 
 welcome. The white pigeon belongs to a poor neighbour, 
 a friend of ours, who is very fond of him ; and I would not 
 have him killed for twice as much money." 
 
 " Take the pigeon, my honest, generous lad," said Mr. 
 Somerville, " and carry him back to your neighbour. I for- 
 give him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, 
 for your sake. As to the rest, we can have the windows 
 mended ; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn for 
 yourself." 
 
 " That 's what he never did yet," said the carpenter ; 
 " many 's the sixpence he earns, but not a half-penny goes 
 into his own pocket ; it goes every farthing to his poor father 
 and mother. Happy for them to have such a son !" 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 363 
 
 " More happy for him to have such a father and mother !" 
 exclaimed the boy ; " in their good days they took all the best 
 care of me that was to be had for love or money, and would, 
 if I would let them, go on paying for my schooling now, 
 fallen as they be in the world ; but I must learn to mind 
 the shop now. Good-morning to you, sir, and thank you 
 kindly," said he to Mr. Somerville. 
 
 " And where does this boy live, and who are his father 
 and mother ? they cannot live in town," said Mr. Somer- 
 ville, " or I should have heard of them." 
 
 " They are but just come into town, please your honour," 
 said the carpenter ; " they lived formerly upon Counsellor 
 O'DonneFs estate ; but they were ruined, please your honour, 
 by taking a joint-lease with a man, who fell afterward into 
 bad company, ran out all he had, so could not pay the land- 
 lord ; and these poor people were forced to pay his share 
 and their own too, which almost ruined them : they were 
 obliged to give up the land ; and now they have furnished 
 a little shop in this town with what goods they could afford 
 to buy with the money they got by the sale of their cattle 
 and stock. They have the good-will of all who know them ; 
 and I am sure I hope they will do well. The boy is very 
 ready in the shop, though he said that he could earn only 
 ixpence a day ; he writes a good hand, and is quick at 
 casting up accounts for his age. Besides, he is likely to do 
 well in the world, because he is never in idle company ; and 
 I've known him since he was two feet high, and never heard 
 of his telling, a lie." 
 
 " This is an excellent character of the boy, indeed," said 
 Mr. Somerville ; " and from his behaviour this morning I 
 am inclined to think that he deserves all your praises." Mr. 
 Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this 
 poor family, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully 
 determined to assist them, if he should find them such as 
 they had been represented. 
 
 In the mean time this boy, whose name was Brian O'Neill, 
 went to return the white pigeon to ita owner. 
 
364 THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 "You have saved its life," said the woman to whom it 
 belonged, " and I '11 make you a present of it." 
 
 Brian thanked her, and he from that day began to grow 
 fond of the pigeon. He always took care to scatter some 
 oats for it in his father's yard ; and the pigeon grew so tame 
 at last, that it^ would hop about the kitchen, and eat off thi 
 same trencher with the dog.* 
 
 Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse 
 himself with reading some little books which the school- 
 master who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as 
 to lend him. Among these he one evening met with a little 
 book full of the history of birds and beasts ; he looked 
 immediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned 
 among the birds, and to his great joy he found a full 
 description and history of his favourite bird. 
 
 " So, Brian, I see your schooling has not been thrown 
 away upon you ; you like your book, I see, when you have 
 no master over you to bid you read," said his father, when 
 he came in and saw him reading his book very attentively. 
 
 " Thank you for having taught me to read, father," said 
 Brian : " here I 've made a great discovery ; I 've found out 
 in this book, little as it looks, father, a most curious way of 
 making a fortune ; and I hope it will make your fortune, 
 father: and if you'll sit down, I'll tell it you." 
 
 Mr. O'Neill, in hopes of pleasing his son, rather than in 
 the expectation of having his fortune made, immediately 
 sat down to listen ; and his son explained to him that he 
 had found in his book an account of pigeons who carried 
 notes and letters ; " And, father," continued Brian, " I find 
 my pigeon is of this sort ; and I intend to make my pigeon 
 carry messages: why should not he, sir? If other pigeons 
 have done so before him, I think he is as good, and I dare 
 say will be as easy to teach, as any pigeon in the world ; 
 and I shall begin to teach him to-morrow morning ; and 
 then, father, you know people often pay a great deal for 
 
 * This is a fact 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 365 
 
 sending messengers ; and no boy can run, no horse can gal- 
 lop, so fast as a bird can fly : therefore the bird must be the 
 best messenger, and I should be paid best price hey, 
 father?" 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure, my dear," said his father, laugh- 
 ing, " I wish you may make the best messenger in Ireland 
 of your pigeon ; but all I beg, my dear boy, is, that you 
 won't neglect our shop for your pigeon : for I 've a notion, 
 we have a better chance of making a fortune by the shop 
 than by the white pigeon." 
 
 Brian never neglected the shop ; but at his leisure hours 
 he amused himself with training his pigeon ; and, after 
 much patience, he at last succeeded so well, that one day he 
 went to his father, and offered to send him word by his 
 pigeon what beef was a pound in the market at Ballyna- 
 grish, where he was going " The pigeon will be home long 
 before me, father ; and he will come in at the kitchen win- 
 dow, and light upon the dresser : then you must untie the 
 little note which I shall have tied under his left wing, and 
 you'll know the price of beef directly." 
 
 The pigeon carried his message well, and Brian was much 
 delighted with his success. He soon was employed by the 
 neighbours, who were amused by Brian's fondness for his 
 swift messenger ; and soon the fame of the white pigeon 
 was spread among all who frequented the markets and fairs 
 of Somerville. 
 
 At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes 
 met to drink, and to concert plans of robberies. Their 
 place of meeting was at the alehouse of Mr. Cox, the man 
 who, as our readers may remember, was offended by Mr. 
 Somerville's hinting that he was fond of drinking and of 
 quarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been 
 refused the new inn. 
 
 While these men were talking over their schemes, one of 
 them observed that one of their companions was not arrived ; 
 another said, no ; he 's six v miles off, said another ; and a 
 
366 THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 third wished that he could make him hear at that distance. 
 Thia turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending 
 messages secretly and quickly. Cox's son, a lad of about 
 nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white 
 carrier-pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get 
 it into his possession. Accordingly, the next day young 
 Cox went to Brian O'Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion, 
 and afterward by threats, to prevail upon him to give up 
 the pigeon. Brian was resolute in his refusal, more espe- 
 cially when the petitioner began to bully him. 
 
 " If we can't have it by fair means, we will by foul," said 
 Cox ; and a few days afterward the pigeon was gone. Brian 
 searched for it in vain inquired from all the neighbours 
 if they had seen it, and applied, but to no purpose, to Cox. 
 He swore that he knew nothing about the matter but this 
 was false, for it was he who, during the night-time, had 
 stolen the white pigeon ; he conveyed it to his employers, 
 and they rejoiced that they had gotten it into their posses- 
 sion, as they thought it would serve them for a useful mes- 
 senger. 
 
 Nothing can be more short-sighted than cunning. The 
 very means which these people took to secure secrecy were 
 the means of bringing their plots to light. They endea- 
 voured to teach the pigeon which they had stolen to carry 
 messages for them in a part of the country at some distance 
 from Somerville ; and when they fancied it had forgotten 
 its former habits and its old master, they thought that they 
 might venture to employ him nearer home. However, the 
 pigeon had a better memory than they imagined. They loosed 
 him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrish, in hopes 
 that he would stop at the house of Cox's cousin, which was 
 on the road between Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the 
 pigeon, though he had been purposely fed at this house for 
 a week before his trial, did not stop there, but flew on to 
 his old master's house in Somerville, and pecked at the 
 kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do. His 
 
THE WHITE PIGEON. 367 
 
 master fortunately was within hearing, and poor Brian ran 
 with the greatest joy to open the window, and to let him in. 
 
 " 0, father, here 's my white pigeon come back of hia 
 own accord," exclaimed Brian ; " I must run and show him 
 to my mother." 
 
 At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian 
 discovered under one of them a small and very dirty-looking 
 billet: he opened it in his father's presence: the scrawl 
 was scarcely legible, but these words were at length deci- 
 phered : 
 
 " Thare are eight of uz sworn ; I send yo at bottom thare 
 names. We meat at tin this nite at my fader's, and have 
 harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate ouse. Mr. 
 Summervill is to lye out to night keep the pigeon untill 
 to morrow. For ever yours, 
 
 " MURTAGH COX, 
 
 Scarcely had they finished reading this note than both 
 father and son exclaimed, " Let us go and show it to Mr. 
 Somerville." Before they sat out, they had, however, the 
 prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he could not be seen 
 by any one but themselves. 
 
 Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate disco- 
 very, took proper measures for the apprehension of the 
 eight men who had sworn to rob his house ; and when they 
 were all safely lodged in the county jail, he sent for Brian 
 O'Neill and his father ; and after thanking them for the ser- 
 vice they had done him, he counted out ten bright guineas 
 upon the table, and pushed them towards Brian, saying, "I 
 suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas was offered 
 some weeks ago for the discovery of John MacDermod, one 
 of the eight men whom we have just taken up." 
 
 " No, sir," said Brian ; " I did not know it, and I did not 
 bring that note to you to get ten guineas, but because 1 
 thought it was right. I do n't want to be paid for doing 
 right." 
 
868 THE WHITE PIGEON. 
 
 " That *s my own boy," said his father. " "We thank you, 
 sir, but we '11 not take the money ; I do n't like to take the 
 price of blood." * 
 
 " I know the difference, my good friends," said Mr. Somer- 
 ville, " between vile informers and courageous honest men." 
 
 "Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are 
 poor, I hope we are honest." 
 
 " And, what is more," said Mr. Somerville, " I have a 
 notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you 
 were rich." 
 
 " Will you, my good lad," continued Mr. Somerville, after 
 a moment's pause, " will you trust me with your white 
 pigeon a few days ?" 
 
 " 0, and welcome, sir," said the boy, with a smile ; and 
 he brought the pigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, 
 and nobody saw him. A few days afterward, Mr. Somer- 
 ville called at O'Neill's house, and bid him and his son fol- 
 low him. They followed him till he stopped opposite to the 
 bow-window of the new i'nn. The carpenter had just put 
 up a sign, which was covered with a bit of carpeting. 
 
 "Go up the ladder, will you," said Mr. Somerville to 
 Brian, " and pull that sign straight, for it hangs quite 
 crooked. There, now it is straight. Now pull off. the car- 
 pet, and let us see the new sign." 
 
 The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon 
 painted upon the sign, and the name of O'Neill in large 
 letters underneath. 
 
 " Take care you do not tumble down and break your neck 
 upon this joyful occasion," said Mr. Somerville, who saw 
 that Brian's surprise was too great for his situation. " Come 
 down from the ladder, and wish your father joy of being 
 master of the new inn called ' The White Pigeon.' And I 
 wish him joy of having such a son as you are. Those who 
 bring up their children well will certainly be rewarded for 
 it, be they poor or rich." 
 
THE ORPHANS. 
 
 NEAR the ruins of the castle of Rossmore, in Ireland, Is 
 a small cabin, in which there once lived a widow and her 
 four children. As long as she was able to work, she was 
 very industrious, and was accounted the best spinner in the 
 parish ; but she overworked herself at last, and fell ill, so 
 that she could not sit to her wheel as she used to do, and 
 was obliged to give it up to her eldest daughter, Mary. 
 
 Mary was at this time about twelve years old. One even- 
 ing she was sitting at the foot of her mother's bed, spinning, 
 and her little brother and sisters were gathered round the 
 fire, eating their potatoes and milk for supper. 
 
 " Bless them, the poor young creatures 1" said the widow ; 
 who, as she lay on the bed, which she knew must be her 
 death-bed, was thinking of what would become of her chil- 
 dren after she was gone. Mary stopped her wheel, for she 
 was afraid that the noise of it had waked her mother, and 
 would hinder her from going to sleep again. 
 
 " No need to stop the wheel, Mary dear, for me," said 
 her mother ; " I was not asleep ; nor is it that which keeps 
 me from sleep. But do n't overwork yourself, Mary." 
 
 " Oh, no fear of that," replied Mary ; " I 'm strong and 
 hearty." 
 
 " So was I once," said her mother. 
 
 " And so will you be again, I hope," said Mary, " wnen 
 the fine weather comes again." 
 
 " The fine weather will never come again to me," said 
 24 (369) 
 
370 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 her mother ; " 't is a folly, Mary, to hope for that ; but what 
 I hope is, that you '11 find some friend some h,lp 
 orphans as you '11 soon all of you be. And one thing com- 
 forts my heart, even as I am lying here, that not a soul in 
 the wide world I am leaving has to complain of me. 
 Though poor, I have lived honest, and I have brought you 
 up to the same, Mary ; and I am sure the little ones will 
 take after you ; for you '11 be good to them as good to them 
 as you can." 
 
 Here the children, who had finished eating their suppers, 
 came round the bed to listen to what their mother was say- 
 ing. She was tired of speaking, for she was very weak ; 
 but she shook their little hands, as they laid them on the 
 bed; and joining them all together, she said, "Bless you, 
 dears bless you love and help one another all you can 
 good-night good-bye." 
 
 Mary took the children away to their bed, for she saw 
 that their mother was too ill to say more ; but Mary did not 
 herself know how ill she was. Her mother never spoke 
 rightly afterward, but talked in a confused way about some 
 debts, and one in particular, which she owed to a school- 
 mistress for Mary's schooling ; and then she charged Mary 
 to go and pay it, because she was not able to go in with it. 
 At the end of the week she was dead and buried, and the 
 orphans were left alone in their cabin. 
 
 The two youngest girls, Peggy and Nancy, were six and 
 seven years old ; Edmund was not yet nine, but he was a 
 stout-grown healthy boy, and well-disposed to work. He 
 had been used to bring home turf from the bog on his back, 
 to lead cart-horses, and often to go on errands for gentle- 
 men's families, who paid him sixpence or a shilling, accord- 
 ing to the distance which he went ; so that Edmund, by 
 some or other of these little employments, was, as he said, 
 likely enough to earn his bread ; and he told Mary to have 
 a good heart, for that he ehould every year grow able to do 
 more and more, and that he should never forget his 
 
THE ORPHANS. 37 1 
 
 mother's words, when she last gave him her blessing, and 
 joined their hands all together. 
 
 As for Peggy and Nancy, it was little that they could do ; 
 but they were good children ; and Mary, when she consi- 
 dered that so much depended upon her, was resolved to 
 exert herself to the utmost. Her first care was to pay those 
 debts which her mother had mentioned to her, for which 
 she left money done up carefully in separate papers. When 
 all these were paid away, there was not enough left to pay 
 both the rent of the cabin and a year's schooling for herself 
 and sisters, which was due to the schoolmistress in a neigh- 
 bouring village. 
 
 Mary was in hopes that the rent would not be called for 
 immediately ; but in this she was disappointed. Mr. Har- 
 vey, the gentleman on whose estate she lived, was in Eng- 
 land ; and, in his absence, all was managed by a Mr. 
 Hopkins, an agent, who was a hard man.* The driver 
 came to Mary about a week after her mother's death, and 
 told her that the rent must be brought in the next day, and 
 that she must leave the cabin, for a new tenant was coming 
 into it ; that she was too young to have a house to herself, 
 and that the only thing she had to do was, to get some 
 neighbour to take her and her brother and sisters in for 
 charity's sake. 
 
 The driver finished by hinting that she would not be so 
 hardly used, if she had not brought upon herself the ill- 
 will of Miss Alice, the agent's daughter. Mary, it is true, 
 had refused to give Miss Alice a goat, upon which she had 
 set her fancy ; but this was the only offence of which she had 
 been guilty: and at the time she refused it, her mother 
 wanted the goat's milk, which was the only thing she then 
 liked to drink. 
 
 Mary went immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the agent, to 
 pay her rent ; and she begged of him to let her stay ano- 
 
 * A hard-hearted man. 
 
372 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 ther year in her cabin ; but this he refused. It was now 
 the 25th of September, and he said that the new tenant 
 must come in on the 29th, so that she must quit it directly. 
 Mary could not bear the thoughts of begging any of the 
 neighbours to take her and her brothers and sisters in for 
 charity's sake, for the neighbours were all poor enough them- 
 selves ; so she bethought herself that she might find shel- 
 ter in the ruins of the old castle of Rossmore, where she 
 and her brother in better times had often played at hide- 
 and-seek. The kitchen, and two other rooms near it, were 
 yet covered in tolerably well ; and a little thatch, she thought, 
 would make them comfortable through the winter. The 
 agent consented to let her and her brother and sisters go in 
 there, upon her paying him half a guinea in hand, and 
 promising to pay the same yearly. 
 
 Into these lodgings the orphans now removed, taking 
 with them two bedsteads, a stool, a chair, and a table, a sort 
 of press, which contained what little clothes they had, and 
 a chest, in which they had two hundred of meal. The chest 
 was carried for them by some of the charitable neighbours, 
 who likewise added to their scanty stock of potatoes and 
 turf what would make it last through the winter. 
 
 These children were well thought of and pitied, because 
 their mother was known to have been all her life honest and 
 industrious. 
 
 " Sure," says one of the neighbours, " we can do no less 
 than give a helping hand to the poor orphans, that are so 
 ready to help themselves." So one helped to thatch the 
 room in which they were to sleep, and another took their 
 cow to graze upon his bit of land, on condition of having 
 half the milk ; and one and all said, they should be wel- 
 come to take share of their potatoes and buttermilk, if they 
 should find their own ever fall short. 
 
 The half-guinea which Mr. Hopkins, the agent, required for 
 letting Mary into the castle was part of what she had to pay 
 to tne schoolmistress, to whom above a guinea was due. Mary 
 
THE ORPHANS. 373 
 
 went to her, and took her goat along with her, and offered 
 it in part payment for the debt, as she had no more money 
 ieft ; but the schoolmistress would not receive the goat. She 
 said that she could afford to wait for her money till Mary 
 was able to pay it ; that she knew her to be an honest indus- 
 trious little girl, and she would trust her with more than 
 a guinea. Mary thanked her ; and she was glad to take 
 the goat home again, as she was very fond of it. 
 
 Now, being settled in their house, they went every day 
 regularly to work. Mary spun nine cuts a day, besides 
 doing all that was to be done in the house ; Edmund got 
 fourpence a day by his work ; and Peggy and Anne earned 
 twopence apiece at the paper-mills near Navan, where they 
 were employed to sort rags, and to cut them into small 
 pieces. 
 
 When they had done work one day, Anne went to the 
 master of the paper-mill, and asked him if she might have 
 two sheets of large white paper, which were lying on the 
 press ; she offered a penny for the paper, but the master 
 would not take anything from her, but gave her the paper, 
 when he found that she wanted it to make a garland for her 
 mother's grave. Anne and Peggy cut out the garland, and 
 Mary, when it was finished, went along with them and 
 Edmund to put it up : it was just a month after their mother's 
 death.* 
 
 It happened that, at the time the orphans were putting 
 up this garland, two young ladies, who were returning home 
 after their evening walk, stopped at the gate of the church- 
 yard, to look at the red light which the setting sun cast 
 upon the window of the church. As the ladies were stand- 
 ing at the gate, they heard a voice near them crying, " 
 mother ! mother ! Are you gone for ever 1" They could 
 not see any one ; so they walked softly round to the other 
 
 * Garlands are usually put on the graves of young people ; these 
 children, perhaps, did not know this. 
 
374 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 side of the church, and there they saw Mary, kneeling 
 beside a grave, on which her brother and sisters were hang- 
 ing their white garlands. 
 
 The children all stood still when they saw the two ladies 
 passing near them ; but Mary did not know anybody was 
 passing, for her face was hid in her hands. 
 
 Isabella and Caroline (so these ladies were called) would 
 not disturb the poor children, but they stopped in the vil- 
 lage to inquire about them. It was at the house of the 
 schoolmistress that they stopped ; and she gave them a good 
 account of these orphans. She particularly commended 
 Mary's honesty, in having immediately paid all her mother's 
 debts to the utmost farthing, as far as her money would go : 
 she told the ladies how Mary had been turned out of her 
 house, and how she had offered her goat, of which she was 
 very fond, to discharge a debt due for her schooling ; and, 
 in short, the schoolmistress, who had known Mary for seve- 
 ral years, spoke so well of her, that these ladies resolved 
 that they would go to the old castle of Rossmore to see her 
 the next day. 
 
 When they went there, they found the room in which 
 the children lived as clean and neat as such a ruined place 
 could be made. Edmund was out working with a farmer, 
 Mary was spinning, and her little sisters were measuring 
 out some bog-berries, of which they had gathered a basket- 
 ful for sale. Isabella, after telling Mary what an excellent 
 character she had heard of her, inquired what it was she 
 most wanted ; and Mary said, that she had just worked up 
 all her flax, and she was most in want of more flax for her 
 wheel. 
 
 Isabella promised that she would send her a fresh supply 
 of flax, and Caroline bought the bog-berries from the little 
 girls, and gave them money enough to buy a pound of coarse 
 cotton for knitting, as Mary said that she could teach them 
 how to knit. 
 
 The supply of flax, which Isabella sent the next day, was 
 
THE ORPHANS. 875 
 
 of great service to Mary, as it kept her in employment for 
 above a month : and when she sold the yarn which she had 
 spun with it, she had money enough to buy some warm 
 flannel for winter wear. Besides spinning well, she had 
 learned, at school, to do plain-work tolerably neatly, and 
 Isabella and Caroline employed her to work for them ; by 
 which she earned a great deal more than she could by spin- 
 ning. At her leisure hours she taught her sisters to read 
 and write ; and Edmund, with part of the money which he 
 earned by his work out of doors, paid a schoolmaster for 
 teaching him a little arithmetic. When the winter-nights 
 came on, he used to light his rush candles for Mary to work 
 by. He had gathered and stripped a good provision of 
 rushes in the month of August ; and a neighbour gave him 
 grease to dip them in. 
 
 One evening, just as he had lighted his candle, a footman 
 came in, who was sent by Isabella with some plain-work to 
 Mary. This servant was an Englishman ; and he was but 
 newly come over to Ireland. The rush-candles caught his 
 attention ; for he had never seen any of them before, as he 
 came from a part of England where they were not used.* 
 
 * See White's " Natural History of Selborne," page 198, quarto 
 edition. This eloquent, well-informed, and benevolent writer thought 
 that no subject of rural economy, which could be of general utility, 
 was beneath his notice. We cannot forbear quoting from him the 
 following passage : 
 
 " The proper species of rush for 'our purpose seems to be thejuncw* 
 effusus, or common soft rush, which is to be found in moist pastures, 
 by the sides of streams, and under hedges. The rushes are in the 
 best condition in the height of summer, but may be gathered so as 
 to serve the purpose well quite on to autumn. It would be needless 
 to add, that the largest and longest are best. Decayed labourers, 
 women, and children make it their business to procure and prepare 
 them. As soon as they are cut, they must be flung into water, and 
 kept there; for otherwise they will dry and shrink, and the peel will 
 not run. At first a person would find it no easy matter to divest a 
 rush of its peel or rind/ so as to leave one regular, narrow, even rib 
 
376 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 Edmund, who was ready to oblige, and proud that his 
 candles were noticed, showed the Englishman how they 
 
 from top to bottom, that may support the pith : but this, like other 
 feats, soon becomes familiar, even to children; and we have seen an 
 old woman, stone blind, performing this business with great despatch, 
 and seldom failing to strip them with the nicest regularity. When 
 these junci are thus far prepared, they must lie out on the grass to 
 be bleached, and take the dew for some nights, and afterward be 
 dried in the sun. Some address is required in dipping these rushes 
 in the scalding fat or grease; but this knack is also to be attained 
 by practice. A pound of common grease may be procured for four- 
 pence, and about six pounds of grease will dip a pound of rushes, 
 and one pound of rushes may be bought for one shilling; so that a 
 pound of rushes, medicated and ready for use, will cost three shil- 
 lings. If men that keep bees will mix a little wax with the grease, 
 it will give it consistency, and render it more cleanly, and make the 
 rushes burn longer. Mutton suet would have the same effect. 
 
 "A good rush, which measured in length two feet four inches, 
 being minuted, burned only three minutes short of an hour. In a 
 pound of dry rushes, avoirdupois, which I caused to be weighed and 
 numbered, we found upwards of one thousand six hundred indivi- 
 duals. Now suppose each of these burns, one with another, only 
 half an hour, then a poor man will purchase eight hundred hours of 
 light, a time exceeding thirty-three entire days, for three shillings. 
 According to this account, each rush, before dipping, costs 1-33 of a 
 farthing, and 1-11 afterward. Thus a poor family will enjoy five 
 hours and a half of comfortable light for a farthing. An experienced 
 old housekeeper assures me that one pound and a half of rushes 
 completely supply his family the year round, since working-people 
 burn no candles in the long days, because they rise and go to bed 
 by daylight. 
 
 " Little farmers nse rushes much in the short days, both morning 
 and evening, in the dairy and kitchen : but the very poor, who are 
 always the worst economists, and therefore must continue very poor, 
 buy a halfpenny candle every evening, which, in their blowing, open 
 rooms, does not burn much more than two hours. Thus they have 
 only two hours' light for their money, instead of eleven." 
 
 If Mr. White had taken the trouble of extending his calculations, 
 he would have found, that the seemingly trifling article of economy 
 which he recommends would save to the nation a sum equal to the 
 produce of a burdensome tax. 
 
THE ORPHANS. 377 
 
 were made, and gave him a bundle of rushes. The servant 
 was pleased with his good-nature in this trifling instance, 
 and remembered it long after it was forgotten by Edmund. 
 
 Whenever his master wanted to send a messenger any 
 where, Gilbert (for that was the servant's name) always 
 employed his little friend Edmund, whom, upon further 
 acquaintance, he liked better and better. He found that 
 Edmund was both quick and exact in executing commissions. 
 One day, after he had waited a great while at a gentleman's 
 house for an answer to a letter, he was so impatient to get 
 home that he ran off without it. When he was questioned 
 by Gilbert, why he did not bring an answer, he did not 
 attempt to make any excuse: he did not say, " There was no 
 answer, please your honour," or " They bid me not wait," 
 &c., but he told exactly the truth ; and though Gilbert 
 scolded him for being so impatient as not to wait, yet hia 
 telling the truth was more to the boy's advantage than any 
 excuse he could have made. After this, he was always 
 believed when he said, " There was no answer," or, " They 
 bid me not wait ;" for Gilbert knew that he would not tell a 
 lie to save himself from being scolded. 
 
 The orphans continued to assist one another in their work, 
 according to their strength and abilities : and they went on 
 in this manner for three years ; and with what Mary got by 
 her spinning and plain-work, and Edmund by leading car- 
 horses, going on errands, &c., and with little Peggy and 
 Anne's earnings, the family contrived to live comfortably. 
 Isabella and Caroline often visited them, and sometimes 
 gave them clothes, and sometimes flax or cotton for their 
 spinning and knitting; and these children did not expect, 
 that because the ladies did something for them, they should 
 do everything : they did not grow idle or wasteful. 
 
 When Edmund was about twelve years old, his friend 
 Gilbert sent for him one day, and told him that his master 
 had given him leave to have a boy in the house to assist 
 hira, and that his master told him he might choose one in 
 
378 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 the neighbourhood. Several were anxious to get into such 
 a place ; but Gilbert said that he preferred Edmund before 
 them all, because he knew him to be an industrious, honest, 
 good-natured lad, who always told the truth. So Edmund 
 went into service at the vicarage; and his master was the 
 father of Isabella and Caroline. He found his new way of 
 life very pleasant, for he was well fed, well clothed, and 
 well treated ; and he every day learned more of his business, 
 in which at first he was rather awkward. He was mindful 
 to do all that Mr, Gilbert required of him, and he was so 
 obliging to all his fellow-servants that they could not help 
 liking him ; but there was one thing which was at first 
 rather disagreeable to him, he was obliged to wear shoes 
 and stockings, and they hurt his feet. Besides this, when 
 he waited at dinner, he made such a noise in walking that 
 his fellow-servants laughed at him. He told his sister Mary 
 of this his distress ; and she made for him, after many trials, 
 a pair of cloth shoes, with soles of platted hemp.* In these 
 he could walk without making the least noise : and as these 
 shoes could not be worn out of doors, he was always sure 
 to change them before he went out of doors ; and conse- 
 quently he had always clean shoes to wear in the house. It 
 was soon remarked by the men-servants that he had left off 
 clumping so heavily ; and it was observed by the maids that 
 he never dirtied the stairs or passages with his shoes. When 
 he was praised for these things, he said it was his sister 
 Mary who should be thanked, and not he ; and he showed 
 the shoes which she had made for him. 
 
 Isabella's maid bespoke a pair immediately, and sent 
 Mary a pretty piece of calico for the outside. The last- 
 maker made a last for her, and over this Mary sewed the 
 calico vamps tight. Her brother advised her to try platted 
 packthread instead of hemp for the soles ; and she found 
 
 * The author has seen a pair of shoes, such as are here described, 
 made in a few hours. 
 
THE ORPHANS. 379 
 
 that *.his looked more neat than the hemp soles, and was 
 likely to last longer. She platted the packthread together 
 in strands of about half an inch thick ; and these were 
 sewed firmly together at the bottom of the shoe. When 
 they were finished, they fitted well, and the maid showed 
 them to her mistress. Isabella and Caroline were so well 
 pleased with Mary's ingenuity and kindness to her brother, 
 that they bespoke from her two dozen of these shoes, and 
 gave her three yards of coloured fustian to make them of, 
 and galloon for the binding. When the shoes were com- 
 pleted, Isabella and Caroline disposed of them for her among 
 their acquaintance, and got three shillings a pair for them. 
 The young ladies, as soon as they had collected the money, 
 walked to the old castle, where they found everything neat 
 and clean as usual. They had great pleasure in giving to 
 this industrious girl the reward of her ingenuity, which she 
 received with some surprise and more gratitude. They 
 advised her to continue the shoemaking trade, as they found 
 the shoes were liked, and they knew that they could have 
 a sale for them at the Repository in Dublin. 
 
 Mary, encouraged by these kind friends, went on with 
 her little manufacture with increased activity. Peggy and 
 Anne platted the packthread, and pasted the vamps and the 
 lining together, ready for her. Edmund was allowed tc 
 come home for an hour every morning, provided he was 
 back again before eight o'clock. It was summer-time, and 
 he got up early, because he liked to go home to see his sis- 
 ters, and he took his share in the manufactory. It was hia 
 business to hammer the soles flat: and as soon as he came 
 home every morning, he performed his task with so much 
 cheerfulness, and sung so merrily at his work, that the hour 
 of his arrival was always an hour of joy to the family. 
 
 Mary had presently employment enough upon her hands. 
 Orders came to her for shoes from many families in the 
 neighbourhood, and she could not get them finished fast 
 enough. She, however, in the midst of her hurry, found 
 
380 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 time to make a very pretty pair with neat roses as a present 
 for her schoolmistress, who, now that she saw her pupil in a 
 good state of business, consented to receive the amount of 
 her old debt. Several of the children who went to her 
 school were delighted with the sight of Mary's present, and 
 went to the little manufactory at Rossmore castle, to find 
 out how these shoes were made. Some went from curiosity, 
 others from idleness ; but when they saw how happy the 
 little shoemakers seemed while busy at work, they longed 
 to take some share in what was going forward. One begged 
 Mary to let her plat some packthread for the soles ; another 
 helped Peggy and Anne to paste in the linings ; and all who 
 could get employment were pleased, for the idle ones were 
 shoved out of the way. It became a custom with the chil- 
 dren of the village to resort to the old castle at their play- 
 hours ; and it was surprising to see how much was done by 
 ten or twelve of them, each doing but a little at a time. 
 
 One morning Edmund and the little manufacturers were 
 assembled very early, and they were busy at their work, 
 all sitting round the meal-chest, which served them for a 
 table. 
 
 " My hands must be washed," said George, a little boy 
 who came running in ; "I ran so fast, that I might be in 
 time to go to work along with you all, that I tumbled down, 
 and look how I have dirtied my hands. More haste worse 
 speed. My hands must be washed before I can do any- 
 thing." 
 
 While George was washing his hands, two other little 
 children, who had just finished their morning's work, came 
 to him to beg that he would blow some soap-bubbles for 
 them ; and they were all three eagerly blowing bubbles, and 
 watching them mount into the air, when suddenly they were 
 startled by a noise as loud as thunder : they were in a sort 
 of outer court of the castle, next to the room in which all 
 their companions were at work, and they ran precipitately 
 into the room, exclaiming, ' Did you hear that noise ?" 
 
THE ORPHANS. 381 
 
 " I thought I heard a clap of thunder," said Mary ; " but 
 why do you look so frightened ?" 
 
 As she finished speaking, another and a louder noise, and 
 the walls round about them shook. The children turned 
 pale, and stood motionless ; but Edmund threw down his 
 hammer, and ran out to see what was the matter. Mary 
 followed him, and they saw that a great chimney of the old 
 ruins at the farthest side of the castle had fallen down, and 
 this was the cause of the prodigious noise. 
 
 The part of the castle in which they lived seemed, as 
 Edmund said, to be perfectly safe ; but the children of the 
 village were terrified, and thinking that the whole would 
 come tumbling down directly, they ran to their homes as 
 fast as they could. Edmund, who was a courageous lad, 
 and proud of showing his courage, laughed at their coward- 
 ice ; but Mary, who was very prudent, persuaded her bro- 
 ther to ask an experienced mason, who was building at his 
 master's, to come and give his opinion, whether their part 
 of the castle was safe to live in or not. The mason came, 
 and gave it as his opinion that the rooms they inhabited 
 might last through the winter, but that no part of the ruins 
 could stand another year. Mary was sorry to leave a place 
 of which she had grown fond, poor as it was, having lived 
 in it in peace and content ever since her mother's death, 
 which was now nearly four years : but she determined to 
 look out for some place to live in ; and she had now money 
 enough to pay the rent of a comfortable cabin. Without 
 losing any time, she went to a village that was at the end 
 of the avenue leading to the vicarage, for she wished to get 
 a lodging in this village, because it was so near to her bro- 
 ther, and to the ladies who had been so kind to her. She 
 found that there was one newly-built house in this village 
 unoccupied ; it belonged to Mr. Harvey, her landlord, who 
 was still in England ; it was slated, and neatly fitted up 
 withinside ; but the rent of it was six guineas a year, and 
 this was far above what Mary could afford to pay : three 
 
382 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 guineas a year she thought was the highest rent for which 
 she could venture to engage ; besides, she heard that seve- 
 ral proposals had been made to Mr. Harvey for this house, 
 and she knew that Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was not her 
 friend ; therefore she despaired of getting it. There was 
 no other to be had in this village. Her brother was still 
 more vexed than she was, that she could not find a place 
 near him. He offered to give a guinea yearly towards the 
 rent out of his wages ; and Mr. Gilbert spoke about it for 
 him to the steward, and inquired whether, among any of 
 those who had given in proposals, there might not be one 
 who would be content with a part of the house, and who 
 would join with Mary in paying the rent. None could be 
 found but a woman who was a great scold, and a man who 
 was famous for going to law about every trifle with his 
 neighbours. Mary did not choose to have anything to do 
 with these people ; she did not like to speak either to Miss 
 Isabella or Caroline about it, because she was not of an 
 encroaching temper ; and when they had done so much for 
 her, she would have been ashamed to beg for more. She 
 returned home to the old castle, mortified that she had no 
 good news to tell Anne and Peggy, who she knew expected 
 to hear that she had found a nice house for them in the vil- 
 lage near their brother. 
 
 " Bad news for you, Peggy," cried she, as soon as she got 
 home. 
 
 " And bad news for you, Mary," replied her sisters, who 
 looked very sorrowful. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " Your poor goat is dead," replied Peggy ; " there she ia 
 yonder, lying under the great corner-stone ; you can just 
 see her leg. We cannot lift the stone from off her, it is so 
 heavy. Betsy (one of the neighbours' girls) says she remem- 
 bers, when she came to us to work early this morning, she 
 saw the goat rubbing itself, and butting with its horns 
 against thn old tottering chimney." 
 
THE ORPHANS. 383 
 
 " Many 's the time," said Mary, " that I have driven the 
 poor thing away from that place ; I was always afraid she 
 would shake that great ugly stone down upon her at last." 
 
 The goat, which had long been the favourite of Mary and 
 her sisters, was lamented by them all. When Edmund 
 came, he helped them to move the great stone from off the 
 poor animal, who was crushed so as to be a terrible sight. 
 As they were moving away this stone, in order to bury the 
 goat, Anne found an odd-looking piece of money, which 
 Beemed neither like a half-penny, nor a shilling, nor a 
 guinea. 
 
 " Here are more, a great many more of them," cried 
 Peggy ; and upon searching among the rubbish, they disco- 
 vered a small iron pot, which seemed as if it had been filled 
 with these coins, as a vast number of them were found 
 about the spot where it fell. On examining these coins, 
 Edmund thought that several of them looked like gold, and 
 the girls exclaimed with great joy, "0 Mary! Mary! this 
 is come to us just in right time now you can pay for the 
 slated house. Never was anything so lucky I" 
 
 But Mary, though nothing could have pleased her better 
 than to be able to pay for the house, observed, that they 
 could not honestly touch any of this treasure, as it belonged 
 to the owner of the castle. Edmund agreed with her that 
 they ought to carry it all immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the 
 agent. Peggy and Anne were convinced by what Mary 
 said, and they begged to go along with her and their bro- 
 ther, to take the coins to Mr. Hopkins. In their way they 
 stopped at the vicarage, to show the treasure to Mr. Gilbert, 
 who took it to the young ladies, Isabella and Caroline, and 
 told them how it had been found. 
 
 It is not only by their superior riches, but it is yet more 
 by their superior knowledge, that persons in the higher 
 ranks of life may assist those in a lower condition. 
 
 Isabella, who had some knowledge of chymistry, disco- 
 vered, by touching the coins with aqua regia (the only acid 
 
384 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 which affects gold), that several of them were of gold, and 
 consequently of great value. Caroline also found out that 
 many of the coins were very valuable as curiosities. She 
 recollected her father having shown to her the prints of the 
 coins at the end of each king's reign, in Rapin's History of 
 England ; and upon comparing these impressions with the 
 wins found by the orphans, she perceived that many of them 
 irere of the reign of Henry the Seventh. 
 
 People who are fond of collecting coins set a great value 
 n these, as they are very scarce. Isabella and Caroline, 
 knowing something of the character of Mr. Hopkins, the 
 agent, had the precaution to count the coins, and to mark 
 each of them with a cross, so small that it was scarcely visi- 
 ble to the naked eye, though it was easily to be seen through 
 a magnifying-glass. They also begged their father, who 
 was well acquainted with Mr. Harvey, the gentleman to 
 whom Rossmore castle belonged, to write to him, and tell 
 him how well these orphans had behaved about the treasure 
 which they had found. The value of the coins was esti- 
 mated at about thirty or forty guineas. 
 
 A few days after the fall of the chimney at Rossmore 
 castle, as Mary and her sisters were sitting at their work, 
 there came hobbling in an old woman, leaning on a crab- 
 stick, that seemed to have been newly cut. She had a 
 broken tobacco-pipe in her mouth ; her head was wrapped 
 up in two largo red and blue handkerchiefs, with their cor- 
 ners hanging far down over the back of her neck, no shoes 
 on her broad feet, nor stockings on her many-coloured legs ; 
 her petticoat was jagged at the bottom, and the skirt of her 
 gown turned up over her shoulders, to serve instead of her 
 cloak, which she had sold for whiskey. This old woman 
 was well known among the country people by the name of 
 Goody Grope :* because she had, for many years, been in 
 
 * Goody is not a word used in Ireland Collyogh is the Irish 
 appellation of an old woman : 'but as Oollyogh might sound strangely 
 to English ears, we have translated it by the word Goody. 
 
THE ORPHANS. 385 
 
 the habit of groping in old castles, and in the moats,* and 
 at the bottom of a round tower f in the neighbourhood, in 
 search of treasure. In her youth she had heard some one 
 talking, in a whisper, of an old prophecy, found in a bog, 
 which said that, " before many St. Patrick's days should 
 come about, there would be found a treasure underground, 
 by one within twenty miles round." 
 
 This prophecy made a deep impression upon her : she 
 also dreamed of it three times ; and as the dream, she 
 thought, was a sure token that the prophecy was to come 
 truo, she, from that time forward, gave up her spinning- 
 wheel and her knitting, and could think of nothing but 
 hunting for the treasure, that was to be found by one " within 
 twenty miles round." Year after year, St. Patrick's day 
 came about, without her ever finding a farthing by all her 
 groping ; and as she was always idle, she grew poorer and 
 poorer ; besides, to comfort herself for her disappointments, 
 and to give her spirits for fresh searches, she took to drink- 
 ing : she sold all she had by degrees ; but still she fancied 
 that the lucky day would come, sooner or later, that would 
 pay for all. 
 
 Goody Grope, however, reached her sixtieth year, without 
 ever seeing this lucky day ; and now, in her old age, she 
 was a beggar, without a house to shelter her, a bed to lie 
 on, or food to put into her mouth, but what she begged from 
 the charity of those who had trusted more than she had to 
 industry, and less to luck. 
 
 " Ah ! Mary, honey ! give me a potatoe, and a sup of 
 something, for the love o' mercy ; for not a bit have I had 
 all day, except half a glass of whiskey, and a half-penny- 
 worth of tobacco !" 
 
 * What are in Ireland called moats are in England called Danish 
 mounts, or barrows. 
 
 f Near Kells, in Ireland, there is a round tower, which was in 
 imminent danger of being pulled down by an old woman's rooting 
 at its foundation, in hopes of finding treasure. 
 25 
 
386 THE OEPHANS. 
 
 Mary immediately set before her some milk, and picked 
 a good potatoe out of the bowl for her ; she was sorry to see 
 such an old woman in such a wretched condition. Goody 
 Grope said she would rather have spirits of some kind or 
 other than milk ; but Mary had no spirits to give her ; so 
 she sat herself down close to the fire, and after she had 
 sighed and groaned, and smoked for some time, she said to 
 Mary, 
 
 " Well, and what have you done with the treasure you 
 had the luck to find?" 
 
 Mary told her that she had carried it to Mr. Hopkins, the 
 agent. 
 
 " That 's not what I would have done in your place, 
 replied the old woman. " When good luck came to you, 
 what a shame to turn your back upon it ! But it is idle 
 talking of what 's done that 's past ; but I '11 try my luck 
 in this here castle before next St. Patrick's day comes 
 about: I was told it was more than twenty miles from our 
 bog, or I would have been here long ago : but better late 
 than never." 
 
 Mary was much alarmed, and not without reason, at this 
 speech : for she knew that if Goody Grope once set to work 
 at the foundation of the old castle of Rossmore, she would 
 soon bring it all down. It was in vain to talk to Goody 
 Grope of the danger of burying herself under the ruins, or 
 of the improbability of her meeting with another pot of 
 gold coins. She set her elbow upon her knees, and stopping 
 her ears with her hands, bid Mary and her sisters not to 
 waste their breath advising their elders ; for that, let them 
 say what they would, she would fall to work the next 
 morning ; "barring* you'll make it worth my while to let 
 it alone." 
 
 " And what will make it worth your while to let it alone ?" 
 said Mary, who saw that she must either get into a quarrel, 
 
 * Unless. 
 
THE ORPHANS. 387 
 
 or give up her habitation, or comply with the conditions of 
 this provoking old woman. 
 
 Half a crown, Goody Grope said, was the least she could 
 be content to take. 
 
 Mary paid the half-crown, and was in hopes she had got 
 rid for ever of her tormentor : but she was mistaken ; for 
 scarcely was the week at an end, before the old woman 
 appeared before her again, and repeated her threats of fall- 
 ing to work the next morning, unless she had something 
 given her to buy tobacco. 
 
 The next day, and the next, and the next, Goody Grope 
 came on the same errand ; and poor Mary, who could ill 
 afford to supply her constantly with half-pence, at last 
 exclaimed, " I am sure the finding of this treasure has not 
 been any good-luck to us, but quite the contrary ; and I 
 wish we never had found it." 
 
 Mary did not yet know how much she was to suffer on 
 account of this unfortunate pot of gold coins. Mr. Hop- 
 kins, the agent, imagined that no one knew of the discovery 
 of this treasure but himself and these poor children ; so, 
 not being as honest as they were, he resolved to keep it for 
 his own use. He was surprised, some weeks afterward, to 
 receive a letter from his employer, Mr. Harvey, demanding 
 from him the coins which had been discovered at Rcssmore 
 castle. Hopkins had sold the gold coins, and so mo of the 
 others ; but he flattered himself that the children, and the 
 young ladies to whom he now found they had been shown, 
 could not tell whether what they had seen were gold or not ; 
 and he was not in the least apprehensive that those of Henry 
 the Seventh's reign would be reclaimed from him, as he 
 thought they had escaped attention. So he sent over the 
 silver coins and others of little value, and apologised for his 
 not having mentioned them before, by saying that he con- 
 sidered them as mere rubbish. 
 
 Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed, that he could not consi- 
 der as rubbish the gold coins which were among them when 
 
388 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 they were discovered ; and he inquired why these gold coins 
 and those of the reign of Henry the Seventh were not now 
 sent to him. 
 
 Mr. Hopkins denied that he had ever received any such : 
 but he was thunderstruck when Mr. Harvey, in reply to 
 this falsehood, sent him a list of the coins which the 
 orphans had deposited with him, and exact drawings of 
 those that were missing. He informed him that this list 
 and these drawings came from two ladies who had seen the 
 coins in question. 
 
 Mr. Hopkins thought that he had no means of escape but 
 by boldly persisting in falsehood. He replied, that it was 
 very likely such coins had been found at Rossmore castle, 
 and that the ladies alluded to had probably seen them : but 
 he positively declared that they never came to his hands ; 
 that he had restored all that were deposited with him ; and 
 that, as to the others, he supposed they must have been 
 taken out of the pot by the children, or by Edmund or Mary 
 in their way from the ladies' house to his. 
 
 The orphans were shocked and astonished when they 
 heard from Isabella and Caroline the charge that was made 
 against them : they looked at one another in silence for some 
 moments ; then Peggy exclaimed, " Sure, Mr. Hopkins has 
 forgotten himself strangely 1 Does not he remember Ed- 
 mund's counting the things to him upon the great table in 
 his hall, and we all standing by ? I remember it as well 
 as if it was this instant." 
 
 " And so do I," cried Anne. " And do n't you recollect, 
 Mary, your picking out the gold ones, and telling Mr. Hop- 
 kins that they were gold ? and he said you knew nothing 
 of the matter ; and I was going to tell him that Miss Isa- 
 bella had tried them, and knew that they were gold ; but 
 just then there came in some tenants to pay their rent, and 
 he pushed us out, and twitched from my hand the piece of 
 gold which I had taken up to show him the bright spot 
 which Miss Isabella had cleaned by the stuff she had poured 
 
THE ORPHANS. 389 
 
 on it. I believe he was afraid I should steal it, he twitched 
 it from my hand in such a hurry. Do, Edmund, do, Mary, 
 let us go to him, and put him in mind of all this." 
 
 " I '11 go to him no more," said Edmund, sturdily. " He 
 is a bad man I '11 never go to him again. Mary, do n't 
 be cast down we have no need to be cast down we are 
 honest." 
 
 " True," said Mary ; " but is not it a hard case, that we, 
 who have lived, as my mother did all her life before us, in 
 peace and honesty with all the world, should now have our 
 good name taken from us, when " Mary's voice faltered 
 and stopped. 
 
 "It can't be taken from us," cried Edmund, "poor 
 orphans though we are, and he a rich gentleman, as he calls 
 himself. Let him say and do what he will, he can't hurt 
 our good name." 
 
 Edmund was mistaken, alas ! and Mary had but too much 
 reason for her fears. The affair was a great deal talked of, 
 and the agent spared no pains to have the story told his 
 own way. The orphans, conscious of their own innocence, 
 took no pains about the matter ; and the consequence was, 
 that all who knew them well had no doubt of their honesty ; 
 but many who knew nothing of them concluded that the 
 agent must be in the right, and the children in the wrong. 
 The buzz of scandal went on for some time without reach- 
 ing their ears, because they lived very retiredly ; but one 
 day, when Mary went to sell some stockings of Peggy's 
 knitting at the neighbouring fair, the man to whom she sold 
 them bid her write her name on the back of a note, and 
 exclaimed, on seeing it, "Ho! ho! mistress! I'd not 
 have had any dealings with you, had I known your name 
 sooner. Where's the gold that you found at Rossmore 
 castle ?" 
 
 It was in vain that Mary related the fact ; she saw that 
 she gained no belief, as her character was not known to this 
 man, or to any of those who were present. She left the 
 
390 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 fair as soon as she could ; and though she struggled against 
 it, she felt very melancholy. Still she exerted herself every 
 day at her little manufacture ; and she endeavoured to con- 
 sole herself by reflecting that she had two friends left -who 
 would not give up her character, and who continued stea- 
 dily to protect her and her sisters. 
 
 Isabella and Caroline everywhere asserted their belief in 
 the integrity of the orphans ; but to prove it was in this 
 instance out of their power. Mr. Hopkins the agent and 
 his friends constantly repeated that the gold coins were 
 taken away in coming from their house to his ; and these 
 ladies were blamed by many people for continuing to coun- 
 tenance those that were, with great reason, suspected to be 
 thieves. The orphans were in a worse condition than ever 
 when the winter came on, and their benefactresses left the 
 country to spend some months in Dublin. The old castle, 
 it was true, was likely to last through the winter, as the 
 mason said ; but though the want of a comfortable house to 
 live in was a little while ago the uppermost thing in Mary's 
 thoughts, now it was not so. 
 
 One night, as Mary was going to bed, she heard some one 
 knocking hard at the door. " Mary ! are you up ? let us 
 in 1" cried a voice, which she knew to be that of Betsy 
 Green, the postmaster's daughter, who lived in a village 
 near them. 
 
 She let Betsy in, and asked what she could want at such 
 a time of night. 
 
 " Give me sixpence, and I '11 tell you," said Betsy ; " but 
 waken Anne and Peggy. Here's a letter just come by the 
 post for you ; and I stepped over to you with it, because I 
 guessed you 'd be glad to have it, seeing it is your brother's 
 handwriting." 
 
 Peggy and Anne were soon roused, when they heard that 
 there was a letter from Edmund. It was by one of his 
 rush-candles that Mary read it ; and the letter was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
THE ORPHANS. 391 
 
 " DEAR MARY, NANCT, AND LITTLE PEG, 
 "Joy! joy ! I always said the truth would come out at 
 last, and that he could not take our good name from us. But 
 I will not tell you how it all came about till we meet, which 
 will be next week, as we (I mean master and mistress and 
 the young ladies, bless them ! and Mr. Gilbert and I) 
 are coming down to the vicarage to keep the Christmas 
 and a happy Christmas 't is likely to be for honest folks ; as 
 for they that are not honest, it is not for them to expect to 
 be happy, at Christmas or at any other time. You shall 
 know all when we meet ; so, till then fare ye well, dear 
 Mary, Nancy, and little Peg ! 
 
 "Your joyful and affectionate brother, 
 
 " Edmund." 
 
 To comprehend why Edmund is joyful, our readers must 
 be informed of certain things which happened after Isabella 
 and Caroline went to Dublin. One morning they went with 
 their father and mother to see the magnificent library of a 
 nobleman, who took generous and polite pleasure in thus 
 sharing the advantages of his wealth and station with all 
 who had any pretensions to science or literature. Knowing 
 that the gentleman who was now come to see his library 
 was skilled in antiquities, the nobleman opened a drawer 
 of medals, to ask his opinion concerning the age of some 
 coins which he had lately purchased at a high price. They 
 were the very same which the orphans had found at Ross- 
 more castle. Isabella and Caroline knew them again 
 instantly ; and as the cross which Isabella had made on 
 each of them was still visible through a magnifying-glass, 
 there could be no possibility of doubt. 
 
 The nobleman, who was much interested both by the 
 story of these orphans, and the manner in which it was 
 told to him, sent immediately for the person from whom he 
 had purchased the coins. He was a Jew broker. At first 
 he refused to tell from whom he got them, because he had 
 
392 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 bought them, he said, under a promise of secrecy. Being 
 further pressed, he acknowledged that it was made a con- 
 dition in his bargain that he should not sell them to any 
 one in Ireland ; but that he had been tempted by the high 
 price Lord had offered. 
 
 At last, when the Jew was informed that the coins were 
 stolen, and that he would be proceeded against as a receiver 
 of stolen goods, if he did not confess the whole truth, he 
 declared that he had purchased them from a gentleman 
 whom he had never seen before or since ; but he added that 
 he could swear to his person if he saw him again. Now 
 Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was at this time in Dublin ; and 
 Caroline's father posted the Jew the next day in the back- 
 parlour of a banker's house, with whom Mr. Hopkins had 
 on this day appointed to settle some accounts. Mr. Hop- 
 kins came the Jew knew him swore that he was the 
 man who had sold the coins to him ; and thus the guilt of 
 the agent, and the innocence of the orphans, were com- 
 pletely proved. 
 
 A full account of all that happened was sent to England 
 to Mr. Harvey, their landlord ; and, a few posts afterward, 
 there came a letter from him, containing a dismissal of the 
 dishonest agent, and a reward for the honest and industri- 
 ous orphans. Mr. Harvey desired that Mary and her sis- 
 ters might have the slated house rent free, from this time 
 forward, under the care of the ladies Isabella and Caroline, 
 as long as Mary or her sisters should carry on in it any 
 useful business. This was the joyful news which Edmund 
 had to tell his sisters. 
 
 All the neighbours shared in their joy ; and the day of 
 their removal from the ruins of Rossmore castle to their 
 new house was the happiest of the Christmas holydays. 
 They were not envied for their prosperity, because every- 
 body saw that it was the reward of their good conduct ; 
 everybody except Goody Grope: she exclaimed, as she 
 wrung her hands with violent expressions of sorrow, " Bad 
 
THE ORPHANS. 393 
 
 luck to me ! bad luck to me ! Why didn't I go sooner to 
 that there castle ! It is all luck all luck, in this world ; 
 but I never had no luck ! Think of the luck of these cliil- 
 der, that have found a pot of gold, and such great grand 
 friends, and a slated house, and all ; and here am I, -with 
 scarce a rag to cover me, and not a potatoe to put into my 
 mouth ! I, that have been looking under-ground all my 
 days for treasure, not to have a half-penny at the last to buy 
 me tobacco !" 
 
 " That is the very reason that you have not a half- 
 penny," said Betsy : " here Mary has been working hard, 
 and so have her two little sisters and her brother, for these 
 five years past ; and they have made money for themselves 
 by their own industry and friends too not by luck, but 
 by-" 
 
 " Phoo 1 phoo !" interrupted Goody Grope ; " do n't be 
 prating ; do n't I know, as well as you do, that they found 
 a pot of gold, by good luck f and is not that the cause why 
 they are going to live in the slated house now ?" 
 
 " No," replied the postmaster's daughter ; " this house is 
 given to them as a reward that was the word in the letter, 
 for I saw it ; Edmund showed it to me, and will show it to 
 any one that wants to see. This house was given to them 
 4 as a reward for their honesty.' " 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW. 
 
 MR. GRESHAM, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honour- 
 able industry and economy, accumulated a considerable for- 
 tune, retired from business to a new house which he had 
 built upon the downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, 
 did not imagine that a new house alone could make him 
 happy : he did not propose to live in idleness and extrava- 
 gance, for such a life would have been equally incompatible 
 with his habits and his principles. He was fond of chil- 
 dren, and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt one of 
 his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both 
 of them to his house, that he might have an opportunity of 
 judging of their dispositions, and of the habits which they 
 had acquired. 
 
 Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about 
 ten years old ; they had been educated very differently. 
 Hal was the son of the elder branch of the family ; his 
 father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he 
 could afford ; and Hal, from the example of the servants in 
 his father's family, with whom he had passed the first years 
 of his childhood, learned to waste more of everything than 
 he used. He had been told, that "gentlemen should be 
 above being careful and saving ;" and he had unfortunately 
 
 (394) 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 395 
 
 imbibed a notion, that extravagance is the sign of a gene- 
 rous, and economy of an avaricious, disposition. 
 
 Benjamin,* on the contrary, had been taught habits of 
 care and foresight ; his father had but a very small fortune, 
 and was anxious that his son should early learn that eco- 
 nomy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the 
 power of those who are not very rich to be very generous. 
 
 The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's, 
 they were eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gre- 
 sham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and 
 exclamations. 
 
 " ! what an excellent motto 1" exclaimed Ben, when he 
 read the following words, which were written in large cha- 
 racters over the chimney-piece, in his uncle's spacious 
 kitchen : 
 
 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 " Waste not, want not !" repeated his cousin Hal, in 
 rather a contemptuous tone ; " I think it looks stingy to ser- 
 vants ; and no gentleman's servants, cooks especially, would 
 like to have such a mean motto always staring them in the 
 face." 
 
 Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways 
 of cooks and gentlemen's servants, made no reply to these 
 observations. 
 
 Mr. Gresham was called away while his nephews were 
 looking at the other rooms in the house. Some time after- 
 ward, he heard their voices in the hall. 
 
 " Boys," said he, " what are you doing there ?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir," said Hal; "you were called away from 
 us, and we did not know which way to go." 
 
 " And have you nothing to do ?" said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 " No, sir, nothing," answered Hal in a careless tone, like 
 one who was well content with the state of habitual idle- 
 ness. 
 
 * Benjamin, so called from Dr. Benjamin Franklin. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 " No, sir, nothing !" replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation. 
 
 " Come," said Mr. Gresham, " if you have nothing to do, 
 lads, will you unpack these two parcels for me?" 
 
 The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied 
 up with good whip-cord. Ben took his parcel to a table, 
 and, after breaking off the sealing-wax, began carefully to 
 examine the knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, 
 exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, 
 and tried first at one corner, and then at another, to pull 
 the string off by force: "I wish these people wouldn't tie 
 up their parcels so tight, as if they were never to be 
 undone," cried he, as he tugged at the cord ; and he pulled 
 the knot closer, instead of loosening it. 
 
 " Ben ! why, how did ye get yours undone, man ? what's 
 in your parcel ? I wonder what is in mine ! I wish I 
 could get this string off I must cut it." 
 
 " 0, no," said Ben, who had now undone the last knot of 
 his parcel, and who drew out the length of string with 
 exultation, " do n't cut it, Hal look what a nice cord this 
 is, and yours is the same ; it 's a pity to cut it : ' Waste not, 
 want not !' you know." 
 
 " Pooh !" said Hal, " what signifies a bit of packthread "' 
 
 " It is whip-cord." 
 
 " Well, whip-cord ! what signifies a bit of whip-cord ! you 
 can get a bit of whip-cord twice as long as that for two- 
 pence ; and who cares for twopence ! Not I, for one ! so, 
 here it goes," cried Hal, drawing out his knife ; and he cut 
 the cord, precipitately, in sundry places. 
 
 " Lads I have you undone the parcels for me ?" said Mr. 
 Gresham, opening the parlour-door as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, sir," cried Hal ; and he dragged off his half-cut, 
 half-entangled string ; " here 's the parcel." 
 
 " And here 's my parcel, uncle ; and here 's the string," 
 said Ben. 
 
 " You may keep the striflg for your pains," said Mr. Gre- 
 eham. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 397 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Ben ; " what an excellent whip- 
 cord it is !" 
 
 "And you, Hal," continued Mr. Gresham, "you may 
 keep your string too, if it will be of any use to you." 
 
 " It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir," said Hal. 
 
 " No, I am afraid not, if this be it," said his uncle, taking 
 up the jagged, knotted remains of Hal's cord. 
 
 A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to each of his 
 nephews a new top. 
 
 " But how 's this ?" said Hal ; " these tops have no 
 strings ; what shall we do for strings ?" 
 
 " I have a string that will do very well for mine," said 
 Ben ; and he pulled out of his pocket the fine long smooth 
 string which had tied up the parcel. With this he soon set 
 up his top, which spun admirably well. 
 
 " 0, how I wish that I had but a string !" said Hal : 
 " what shall I do for a string ? I '11 tell you what ; I can 
 use the string that goes round my hat." 
 
 "But then," said Ben, "what will you do for a hat- 
 band?" 
 
 "I'll manage to do without one," said Hal: and he 
 took the string off his hat for his top. It soon was worn 
 through ; and he split his top by driving the peg too tightly 
 into it. His cousin Ben let him set up his the next day ; but 
 Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he med- 
 dled with other people's things than when he managed his 
 own. He had scarcely played half an hour before he split 
 it, by driving in the peg too violently. 
 
 Ben bore this misfortune with good-humour. " Come," 
 said he, " it can't be helped ; but give me the string, because 
 that may still be of use for something else." 
 
 It happened, some time time afterward, that a lady, who 
 had been intimately acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath, 
 that is to say, who had frequently met her at the card-table 
 during the winter, now arrived at Clifton. She was 
 informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's ; 
 
398 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 and her sons, vvho were friends of his, came to see him, and 
 ravited mm to spend the next day with them. 
 
 Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad 
 o go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, 
 something to think of, or, at least, something to say. 
 Besides this, he had been educated to think it was a fine 
 ehing to visit fine people ; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes 
 ^for that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was 
 A very fine lady ; and her two sons intended to be very great 
 gentlemen. 
 
 He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentle- 
 men knocked at his uncle's door the next day: but just aa 
 ie got to the hall-door, little Patty called to him from the 
 top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped his 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, 
 child ?" cried Hal, " for Lady Di.'s sons are waiting for 
 me." 
 
 Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di/s sons ; 
 but as she was very good-natured, and saw that her cousin 
 Hal was, for some reason or other, in a desperate hurry, she 
 ran down-stairs as fast as she possibly could towards the 
 landing-place, where the handkerchief lay: but, alas! 
 before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down 
 a whole flight of stairs ; and when her fall was at last 
 stopped by the landing-place, she did not cry, but she 
 writhed, as if she was in great pain. 
 
 " Where are you hurt, my love ?" said Mr. Gresham, who 
 came instantly, on hearing the noise of some one falling 
 down-stairs "where are you hurt, my dear?" 
 
 "Here, papa," said the little girl, touching her ankle, 
 which she had decently covered with her gown ; " I believe 
 I am hurt here, but not much," added she, trying to rise ; 
 " only it hurts me when I move." 
 
 " I '11 carry you, do n't move then," said her father ; and 
 he took her up in his arms. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 399 
 
 "My shoe I've lost one of my shoes," said she. Ben 
 looked for it upon the stairs, and found it sticking in a loop 
 of whip-cord, which was entangled round one of the balus- 
 ters. When this cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it 
 was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had 
 pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with run- 
 ning up and down-stairs, whipping the balusters with it, as 
 he thought he could convert it to no better use ; and, with 
 his usual carelessness, he left it hanging just where he hap- 
 pened to throw it when the dinner-bell rang. Poor little 
 Patty's ankle was terribly sprained, and Hal reproached 
 himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself 
 longer, perhaps, if Lady Di. Sweepstakes' sons had not hur- 
 ried him away. 
 
 In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to 
 do ; but she sat upon the sofa, and she said that, " she did 
 not feel the pain of her ankle so much while Ben was so 
 good as to play at jack-straws with her." 
 
 " That 's right, Ben ; never be ashamed of being good- 
 natured to those who are younger and weaker than your- 
 self," said his uncle, smiling at seeing him produce his 
 whip-cord, to indulge his little cousin with a game at her 
 favourite cat's-cradle. " I shall not think you one bit less 
 manly because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a little 
 child of six years old." 
 
 Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion ; 
 for when he returned in the evening and saw Ben playing 
 with his little cousin, he could not help smiling contemptu- 
 ously, and asked if he had been playing at cat's-cradle all 
 night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries after 
 Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the 
 news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes' news 
 which he thought would make him appear a person of vast 
 importance. 
 
 "Do you know, uncle do you know, Ben," said he, 
 " there 's to be the most famous doings that ever were heard 
 
400 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 of upon the Downs here the first day of next month, which 
 will be in a fortnight, thank my stars ! I wish the fortnight 
 was over ; I shall think of nothing else, I know, till that 
 happy day comes !" 
 
 Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to 
 be so much happier than any other day in the year. 
 
 " Why," replied Hal, " Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you 
 know, is a famous rider, and archer, and all that " 
 
 " Very likely," said Mr. Gresham, soberly " but what 
 then?" 
 
 " Dear uncle !" cried Hal, " but you shall hear. There's 
 to be a race upon the Downs the first of September, and 
 after the race there 's to be an archery meeting for the 
 ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one of them. 
 And after the ladies have done shooting now, Ben, comes 
 the best part of it! we boys are to have our turn, and 
 Lady Di. is to give a prize to the best marksman among us 
 of a very handsome bow and arrow ! Do you know I 've 
 been practising already, and I '11 show you to-morrow, as 
 soon as it comes home, the famous bow and arrow that 
 Lady Diana has given me : but, perhaps," added he, with 
 a scornful laugh, " you like a cat's-cradle better than a bow 
 and arrow." 
 
 Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment ; but the 
 next day, when Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he 
 convinced him that he knew how to use it very well. 
 
 " Ben," said his uncle, " you seem to be a good marks- 
 man, though you have not boasted of yourself. I '11 give 
 you a bow and arrow ; and, perhaps, if you practise, yon 
 may make yourself an archer before the first of September ; 
 and, in the mean time, you will not wish the fortnight to 
 be over, for you will have something to do." 
 
 " 0, sir," interrupted Hal, " but if you mean that Ben 
 ghould put in for the prize, he must have a uniform." 
 
 "Why must he?" said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 "Why, sir, because everybody has I mean everybody 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 401 
 
 that 's anybody ; and Lady Diana was talking about the 
 uniform all dinner-time, and it 'a settled all about it except 
 the buttons : the young Sweepstakes are to get theirs made 
 first, for patterns ; they are to be white, faced with green ; 
 and they '11 look very handsome, I 'm sure ; and I shall 
 write to mamma to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about 
 mine ; and I shall tell her to be sure to answer my letter, 
 without fail, by return of the post ; and then, if mamma 
 makes no objection which I know she won't, because she 
 never thinks much about expense, and all that then I 
 shall bespeak my uniform, and get it made by the same 
 tailor that makes for Lady Diana and the young Sweep- 
 stakes." 
 
 " Mercy upon us !" said Mr. Gresham, who was almost 
 stunned by the rapid vociferation with "-which this long 
 speech about a uniform was pronounced. 
 
 " I don't pretend to understand these things," added he, 
 with an air of simplicity, " but we will inquire, Ben, into 
 the necessity of the case ; and if it is necessary or if you 
 think it necessary, that you shall have a uniform why 
 I '11 give you one." 
 
 " You, uncle! Will you, indeed?" exclaimed Hal, with 
 amazement painted in his countenance. " Well, that's the 
 last thing in the world I should have expected ! You are 
 not at all the sort of person I should have thought would 
 care about a uniform ; and now I should have supposed 
 you 'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on pur- 
 pose only for one day ; and I 'm sure Lady Diana Sweep- 
 stakes thought as I do : for when I told her that motto over 
 your kitchen chimney, WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, she laughed, 
 and said, that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, 
 and that my mother was the proper person to write to about 
 my uniform ; but I '11 tell Lady Diana, uncle, how good you 
 are, and how much she was mistaken." 
 
 " Take care how you do that," said Mr. Gresham ; " for 
 perhaps the lady was not mistaken." 
 26 
 
402 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 " Nay, did not you say, just now, you would give poor 
 Ben a uniform ?" 
 
 " I said I would, if he thought it necessary to have one." 
 
 "Oh, I'll answer for it he'll think it necessary," said 
 Hal, laughing, " because it is necessary." 
 
 "Allow him, at least, to judge for himself," said Mr. 
 Gresham. 
 
 " My dear uncle, but I assure you," said Hal, earnestly, 
 "there's no judging about the matter, because really, upon 
 my word, Lady Diana said distinctly that her sons were to 
 have uniforms, white faced with green, and a green and 
 white cockade in their hats." 
 
 " Maybe so," said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look 
 of calm simplicity : " put on your hats, boys, and come with 
 me. I know a gentleman whose sons are to be at this arch- 
 ery meeting ; and we will inquire into all the particulars 
 from him. Then, after we have seen him (it is not eleven 
 o'clock yet), we shall have time enough to walk on to Bris- 
 tol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform, if it is neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " I cannot tell what to make of all he says," whispered 
 Hal, as he reached down his hat ; " do you think, Ben, he 
 means to give you this uniform or not?" 
 
 " I think," said Ben, " that he means to give me one, if 
 it is necessary ; or, as he said, if I think it is necessary." 
 
 "And that, to be sure, you will; won't you? or else 
 you '11 be a great fool, I know, after all I 've told you. How 
 can any one in the world know so much about the matter 
 as I, who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but 
 yesterday, and heard all about it, from beginning to end ? 
 and as for this gentleman that we are going to, I 'm sure, 
 if he knows anything about the matter, he '11 say exactly 
 the same as I do." 
 
 " We shall hear," said Ben, with a degree of composure 
 which Hal could by no means comprehend, when a uniform 
 was in question. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 403 
 
 The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three 
 BODS, who were all to be at this archery meeting ; and they 
 unanimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, 
 that they had never thought of buying uniforms for this 
 grand occasion ; and that, among the number of their 
 acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends 
 intended to be at such an unnecessary expense. Hal stood 
 amazed "Such are the varieties of opinion upon all the 
 grand affairs of life," said Mr. Gresham, looking at his 
 nephews : " what among one set of people you hear asserted 
 to be absolutely necessary, you will hear, from another set 
 of people, is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my 
 dear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves 
 which opinions, and which people, are the most reason- 
 able." 
 
 Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what 
 was fashionable than of what was reasonable, without at 
 all considering the good sense of what his uncle said to 
 him, replied, with childish petulance, "Indeed, sir, I don't 
 know what other people think; I only know what Lady 
 Diana Sweepstakes said." 
 
 The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must 
 impress all present with respect: he was highly astonished, 
 when, as he looked round, he saw a smile of contempt upon 
 every one's countenance ; and he was yet further bewildered 
 when he heard her spoken of as a very silly, extravagant, 
 ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would 
 ask upon any subject, and whose example was to be shun- 
 ned, instead of being imitated. 
 
 " Ay, my dear Hal," said his uncle, smiling at his look 
 of amazement, " these are some of the things that young 
 people must learn from experience. All the world do not 
 agree in opinion about characters ; you will hear the same 
 person admired in one company, and blamed in another: so 
 that we must still come round to the same point Judge 
 for yourself." 
 
404 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 Hal's thoughts were, however, at present, too full of the 
 uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impar- 
 tiality. As soon as their visit was over, and all the time 
 they walked down the hill from Prince's Buildings towards 
 Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the same arguments, 
 which he had formerly used, respecting necessity, the uni- 
 form, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. 
 
 To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply ; and longer had 
 the young gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which 
 had so strongly seized upon his imagination, had not his 
 senses been forcibly assailed at this instant by the delicious 
 odours and tempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a 
 pastry-cook's shop. 
 
 " 0, uncle," said he, as his uncle was going to turn the 
 corner to pursue the road to Bristol, " look at those jellies I" 
 pointing to a confectioner's shop ; " I must buy some of 
 those good things ; for I have got some half-pence in my 
 pocket." 
 
 " Your having half-pence in your pocket is an excellent 
 reason for eating," said Mr. Gresham, smiling. 
 
 " But I really am hungry," said Hal ; " you know, uncle, 
 it is a good while since breakfast." 
 
 His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act with- 
 out restraint, that he might judge of their characters, bid 
 them do as they pleased. 
 
 " Come, then, Ben, if you 've any half-pence in your 
 pocket." 
 
 " I am not hungry," said Ben. 
 
 " I suppose that means, that you 've no half-pence," said 
 Hal, laughing with the look of superiority which he had 
 been taught to think the rich might assume towards those 
 who were convicted either of poverty or economy. 
 
 "Waste not, want not," said Ben to himself. Contrary 
 to his cousin's surmise, he happened to have two penny- 
 worth of half-pence actually in his pocket. 
 
 At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastry-cook's 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 405 
 
 shop, a poor industrious man with a wooden leg, who usu- 
 ally sweeps the dirty corner of the walk which turns at this 
 spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing 
 his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom, instantly pro- 
 duced his twopence. " I wish I had more half-pence for you, 
 my good man," said he ; " but I 've only twopence." 
 
 Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, 
 with a hatful of cakes in his hand. 
 
 Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door ; 
 and he looked up, with a wistful, begging eye, at Hal, who 
 was eating a queen-cake. 
 
 Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a 
 whole queen-cake to the dog, who swallowed it for a single 
 mouthful. 
 
 " There goes twopence in the form of a queen-cake," said 
 Mr. Gresham. 
 
 Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cou- 
 sin ; but they thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, 
 they said, they were not hungry ; so he ate and ate, as he 
 walked along, till at last he stopped, and said, " This bun 
 tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear it !" and 
 he was going to fling it from him into the river. 
 
 " 0, it is a pity to waste that good bun ; we may be glad 
 of it yet," said Ben ; " give it to me, rather than throw it 
 away." 
 
 " Why, I thought you said you were not hungry," said 
 Hal. 
 
 " True, I am not hungry now ; but that is no reason why 
 I should never be hungry again." 
 
 "Well, there is the cake for you take it; for it has 
 made me sick ; and I do n't care what becomes of it." 
 
 Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece 
 of paper, and put it into his pocket. 
 
 " I 'm beginning to be exceeding tired, or sick or some- 
 thing," said Hal, " and as there is a stand of coaches some- 
 where hereabout, had we not better take a coach, instead 
 of walking all the way to Bristol ?" 
 
406 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 " For a stout archer !" said Mr. Gresham : " you are more 
 easily tired than one might have expected. However, with 
 all my heart ; let us take a coach : for Ben asked me to 
 show him the cathedral yesterday ; and I believe I should 
 find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I am 
 not sick with eating good things." 
 
 "The cathedral!" said Hal, after he had been seated in 
 the coach about a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat 
 recovered from his sickness. " The cathedral ! Why, are 
 we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral ? I thought 
 we came out to see about a uniform." 
 
 There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in 
 Hal's countenance, as he pronounced these words like one 
 waking from a dream, which made both 'his uncle and cou- 
 sin burst out a laughing. 
 
 " Why," said Hal, who was now piqued, "I'm sure you 
 did say, uncle, you would go to Mr. ***'s, to choose the 
 cloth for the uniform." 
 
 " Very true : and so I will," said Mr. Gresham, " but we 
 need not make a whole morning's work, need we, of looking 
 at a piece of cloth ? Cannot we see a uniform and a cathe- 
 dral both in one morning ?" 
 
 They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full 
 of the uniform to take any notice of the painted window, 
 which immediately caught Ben's unembarrassed attention. 
 He looked, at the large stained figures on the Gothic win- 
 dow ; and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor 
 and walls. 
 
 Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all sub- 
 jects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling 
 him several things about the lost art of painting on glass, 
 Gothic arches, <fcc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome. 
 
 " Come ! come ! we shall be late indeed," said Hal ; 
 " surely you 've looked long enough, Ben, at this blue and 
 red window." 
 
 " I 'm only thinking about these coloured shadows," said 
 Ben. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 407 
 
 " I can show you, when we go home, Ben," said his uncle, 
 " an entertaining paper on such shadows." * 
 
 "Hark 1" cried Ben, " did you hear that noise?" 
 
 They all listened ; and heard a bird singing in the cathe- 
 dral. 
 
 "It's our old robin, sir," said the lad who had opened 
 the cathedral door for them. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Gresham, "there he is, boys look 
 perched upon the organ ; he often sits there, and sings, 
 while the organ is playing." " And," continued the lad 
 who showed the cathedral, " he has lived here these many 
 winters:f they say he is fifteen years old; and he is so 
 tame, poor fellow, that if I had a bit of bread, he 'd come 
 down and feed in my hand." 
 
 " I 've a bit of bun here," cried Ben, joyfully, producing 
 the remains of the bun which Hal but an hour before 
 would have thrown away. " Pray let us see the robin eat 
 out of your hand." 
 
 The lad crujnbled the bun, and called to the robin, who 
 fluttered and chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of 
 the bread ; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle 
 on the organ. 
 
 " He is afraid of us," said Ben ; " he is not used to eat 
 before strangers, I suppose." 
 
 " Ah, no, sir," said the young man, with a deep sigh, 
 " that is not the thing : he is used enough to eat afore com- 
 pany ; time was, he 'd have come down for me before ever 
 so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs out of my 
 hand, at my first call; but, poor fellow, it's not his fault 
 now : he does not know me now, sir, since my accident, 
 because of this great black patch." 
 
 The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was 
 covered with a huge black patch. 
 
 Ben asked what accident he meant ; and the lad told him 
 
 * Vide Priestley's History of Vision, chapter on coloured shadows. 
 f This is true. 
 
408 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye 
 by the stroke of a stone, which reached him as he was pass- 
 ing under the rocks of Clifton, unluckily, when the work- 
 men were blasting. 
 
 " I do n't mind so much for myself, sir," said the lad ; 
 " but I can't work so well now, as I used to do before my 
 accident, for my old mother, who has had a stroke of the 
 palsy ; and I 've a many little brothers and sisters, not well 
 able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be willing 
 as willing can be." 
 
 "Where does your mother live?" said Mr. Gresham. 
 " Hard-by, sir, just close to the church here : it was Tier 
 that always had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost 
 the use of her poor limbs." 
 
 " Shall we, may we, uncle, go that way ? This is the 
 house: is not it?" said Ben, when they went out of the 
 cathedral. 
 
 They went into the house : it was rather a hovel than a 
 house ; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as misery could 
 make it. 
 
 The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed wind- 
 ing worsted ; four meagre, ill-clothed, pale children were 
 all busy, some of them sticking pins in paper for the pin- 
 maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker. 
 
 " What a horrid place it is \" said Hal, sighing ; " I did 
 not know there were such shocking places in the world. 
 I 've often seen terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we 
 drove through the town in mamma's carriage ; but then I 
 did not know who lived in them ; and I never saw the inside 
 of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that 
 people are forced to live in this way. I wish mamma would 
 send me some more pocket-money, that I might do some- 
 thing for them. I had half a crown ; but," continued he, 
 feeling in his pockets, " I 'm afraid I spent the last shilling 
 of it this morning, upon those cakes that made me sick. I 
 wish I had my shilling now, I'd give it to these poor people." 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 409 
 
 Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as 
 his talkative cousin for these poor people. But there was 
 some difference between the sorrow of these two boys. 
 
 Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and 
 had rattled through the busy streets of Bristol for a few 
 minutes, quite forgot the spectacle of misery which he had 
 seen ; and the gay shops in Wine-street, and the idea of 
 his green and white uniform, wholly occupied his imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Now for our uniforms I" cried he, as he jumped eagerly 
 out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-dra- 
 per's door. 
 
 " Uncle," said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got 
 out of the carriage, " I do n't think a uniform is at all neces- 
 sary for me. I 'm very much obliged to you ; but I would 
 rather not have one. I have a very good coat ; and I think 
 it would be waste." 
 
 " Well, let me get out of the carriage, and we will see 
 about it," said Mr. Gresham ; " perhaps the sight of the 
 beautiful green and white cloth, and the epaulets (have you 
 ever considered the epaulets ?) may tempt you to change 
 your mind." 
 
 " no," said Ben, laughing ; " I shall not change my 
 mind." 
 
 The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulets 
 were produced, to Hal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle 
 took up a pen, and calculated for a few minutes ; then, 
 showing the back of the letter, upon which he was writing, 
 to his nephews, " Cast up these sums, boys," said he, " and 
 tell me whether I am right." 
 
 " Ben, do you do it," said Hal, a little embarrassed : " I 
 am not quick at figures." 
 
 Ben was, and he went over his uncle's calculation very 
 expeditiously. 
 
 " It is right, is it ?" said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 " Yes, sir, quite right." 
 
410 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 " Then, by this calculation, I find I could for less than 
 half the money your uniforms would cost purchase for each 
 of you boys a warm great-coat, which you will want, I have 
 a notion, this winter upon the Downs." 
 
 " 0, sir," said Hal, with an alarmed look ; " but it is not 
 winter yet; it is not cold weather yet. We shan't want 
 great-coats yet." 
 
 " Do n't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day 
 before yesterday, in that sharp wind, when we were flying 
 our kite upon the Downs ? and winter will come, though 
 it is not come yet I am sure, I should like to have a good 
 warm great-coat very much." 
 
 Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse ; and he 
 placed three of them before Hal, and three before Ben. 
 
 " Young gentlemen," said he, " I believe your uniforms 
 would come to about three guineas apiece. Now I will lay 
 out this money for you j ust as you please : Hal, what say 
 you ?" 
 
 " Why, sir," said Hal, " a great-coat is a good thing, to 
 be sure ; and then, after the great-coat, as you said it would 
 only cost half as much as the uniform, there would be some 
 money to spare, would not there ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings." 
 
 " Five-and-twenty shillings ! I could buy and do a great 
 many things, to be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings ; but 
 then, the thing is, I must go without the uniform, if I have 
 the great-coat." 
 
 " Certainly," said his uncle. 
 
 " Ah !" said Hal, sighing as he looked at the epaulets, 
 " uncle, if you would not be displeased, if I choose the uni- 
 form" 
 
 " I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you 
 like best," said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 " Well, then, thank you, sir, I think I had better have the 
 uniform, because if I have not the uniform now directly it- 
 will be of no use to me, as the archery meeting is the week 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 411 
 
 after next, you know; and as to the great-coat, pjrhapa 
 between this time and the very cold weather, which, per- 
 haps, won't be till Christmas, papa will buy a great-coat for 
 me j and I '11 ask mamma to give me some pocket-money to 
 give away, and she will, perhaps." 
 
 To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which 
 depended upon perhaps three times repeated, Mr. Gresham 
 made no reply ; but he immediately bought the uniform for 
 Hal, and desired that it should be sent to Lady Diana 
 Sweepstakes' sons' -tailor, to be made up. The measure of 
 Hall's happiness was now complete. 
 
 " And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, 
 Ben ?" said Mr. Gresham ; " speak, what do you wish for 
 first?" 
 
 " A great-coat, uncle, if you please." 
 
 Mr. Gresham bought the coat ; and, after it was paid for, 
 five-and-twenty shillings of Ben's three guineas remained. 
 
 " What 's next, my boy ?" said his uncle. 
 
 " Arrows, uncle, if you please : three arrows." 
 
 " My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows." 
 
 " No, uncle, you only said a bow." 
 
 " Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I 'm glad you are so 
 exact, however. It is better to claim less than more than 
 what is promised. The three arrows you shall have. But, 
 go on ; how shall I dispose of these five-and-twenty shillings 
 for you ?" 
 
 " In clothes, if you will be s good, uncle, for that poor 
 boy who has the great black patch on his eye." 
 
 " I always believed," said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands 
 with Ben, " that economy and generosity were the best 
 friends, instead of being enemies, as some silly extravagant 
 people would have us think them. Choose the poor blind 
 boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There 's no 
 occasion for praising you about the matter; your best 
 reward ia in your mind, child ; and you want no other, or 
 I'm mistaken. Now jump into the coach, boys, and let's 
 
412 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 be off. "We shall be late, I 'm afraid," continued he, as the 
 coach drove on ; " but I must let you stop, Ben, with your 
 goods, at the poor boy's door." 
 
 When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the 
 coach-door, and Ben jumped out with his parcel under his 
 arm. 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! you must take me with you," said his 
 pleased uncle ; " I like to see people made happy, as well 
 as you do." 
 
 " And so do I, too !" said Hal ; " let me come with you ; 
 I almost wish my uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I 
 do." 
 
 And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with 
 which the poor boy received the clothes which Ben gave 
 him, and when he heard the mother and children thank 
 him, Hal sighed, and said, " Well, I hope mamma will give 
 me some more pocket-money soon." 
 
 Upon his return home, however, the sight of the famous 
 bow and arrow which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent 
 him recalled to his imagination all the joys of his green and 
 white uniform ; and he no longer wished that it had not 
 been sent to the tailor's. 
 
 " But I do n't understand, cousin Hal," said little Patty, 
 "why you call thisbowayam<ws bow: you say famous very 
 often ; and I do n't know exactly what it means a famous 
 uniform famous doings I remember you said there are 
 to be famous doings the first of September upon the Downs 
 What does famous mean?" 
 
 "0, why famous means Now don't you know what 
 famous means ? It means It is a word that people say 
 [t is the fashion to say it it means it means famous." 
 
 Patty laughed, and said, " This does not explain it to me." 
 
 " No," said Hal, " nor can it be explained : if you do n't 
 understand it, that's not my fault: everybody but little 
 children, I suppose, understands it ; but there 's no explain- 
 ing those sort of words, if you don't take them at once. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 413 
 
 There 's to be famous doings upon the Downs, the first of 
 September ; that is, grand, fine. In short, what does it 
 signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter ? Give 
 me my bow ; for I must go out upon the Downs and prac- 
 tise." 
 
 Ben accompanied him with a bow and three arrows which 
 his uncle had now given to him ; and every day these two 
 boys went out upon the Downs, and practised shooting with 
 indefatigable perseverance. Where equal pains are taken, 
 success is usually found to be pretty nearly equal. Our two 
 archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen ; 
 and before the day of trial, they were so exactly matched 
 in point of dexterity, that it was scarcely possible to decide 
 which was superior. 
 
 The long-expected first of September at length arrived 
 " What sort of a day is it 1" was the first question that was 
 asked by Hal and Ben, the moment that they awoke. 
 
 The sun shone bright ; but there was a sharp and high 
 wind. 
 
 " Ha 1" said Ben, " I shall be glad of my great-coat 
 to-day ; for I 've a notion it will be rather cold upon the 
 Downs, especially when we are standing still, as we must, 
 while all the people are shooting." 
 
 " 0, never mind ! I do n't think I shall feel it cold at 
 all," said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new green and 
 white uniform ; and he viewed himself with much compla- 
 cency. 
 
 " Good-morning to you, uncle ; how do you do?" said he, 
 in a voice of exultation, when he entered the breakfast- 
 room. 
 
 How do you do ? seemed rather to mean, how do you like 
 tne in my uniform ? 
 
 And his uncle's cool, " Very well, I thank you, Hal," dis- 
 appointed him, as it seemed only to say, Your uniform 
 makes no difference in my opinion of you. 
 
 Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as 
 
414 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 usual, and talked of the pleasure of -walking with her father 
 to the Downs, and of all the little things which interested 
 her; so that Hal's epaulets were not the principal object in 
 any one's imagination but his own. 
 
 " Papa," said Patty, " as we go up the hill where there 
 is so much red mud, I must take care to pick my way nicely : 
 and I must hold up my frock, as you desired me ; and per- 
 haps you will be so good, if I am not troublesome, to lift 
 me over the very bad place where there are no stepping- 
 stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I 'm glad of that, or 
 else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How 
 good you were to me, Ben, when I was in pain, the day I 
 sprained my ankle ! you played at jack-straws, and atcat's- 
 cradle, with me 0, that puts me in mind Here are your 
 gloves, which I asked you that night to let me mend. I 've 
 been a great while about them, but are not they neatly 
 mended, papa ? look at the sewing." 
 
 " I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little 
 girl," said Mr. Gresham, examining the work with a close 
 and scrupulous eye ; " but in my opinion here is one stitch 
 that is rather too long ; the white teeth are not quite even." 
 
 " 0, papa, I '11 take out that long tooth in a minute," said 
 Patty, laughing ; " I did not think that you would have 
 observed it so soon." 
 
 " I would not have you trust to my blindness," said her 
 father, stroking her head fondly : " I observe everything. 
 I observe, for instance, that you are a grateful little girl, 
 and that you are glad to be of use to those who have been 
 kind to you ; and for this I forgive you the long stitch." 
 
 "But it's out, it's out,* papa," said Patty; "and the 
 next time your gloves want mending, Ben, I '11 mend them 
 better." 
 
 " They are very nice, I think," said Ben, drawing them 
 on ; " and I am much obliged to you ; I was just wishing I 
 had a pair of gloves to keep my fingers warm to-day, for I 
 never can shoot well when my hands are numbed. Look, 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 416 
 
 Hal you know how ragged these gloves were ; you said 
 they were good for nothing but to throw away ; now look, 
 there 's not a hole in them," said he, spreading his fingers. 
 
 " Now, is it not very extraordinary/' said Hal to himself, 
 " that they should go on so long talking about an old pair 
 of gloves, without scarcely saying a word about my new 
 uniform ? Well, the young Sweepstakes and Lady Diana 
 will talk enough about it ; that 's one comfort." 
 
 "Is not it time to think of setting out, sir?" said Hal to 
 his uncle; "the company, you know, are to meet at the 
 Ostrich at twelve, and the race to begin at one, and Lady 
 Diana's horses, I know, were ordered to be at the door at 
 ten." 
 
 Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying 
 young gentleman in his calculations " There 's a poor lad, 
 sir, below, with a great black patch on his right eye, who is 
 come from Bristol, and wants to speak a word with the 
 young gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were just 
 going out with you, but he says he won't detain them above 
 half a minute." 
 
 " Show him up, show him up," said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 " But I suppose," said Hal, with a sigh, " that Stephen 
 mistook, when he said the young gentlemen; he only wants 
 to see Ben, I dare say ; I 'm sure he has no reason to want 
 to see me." 
 
 " Here he comes. 0, Ben, he is dressed in the new coat 
 you gave him," whispered Hal, who was really a good- 
 natured boy, though extravagant. " How much better he 
 looks than he did in the ragged coat ! Ah ! he looked at 
 you first, Ben ; and well he majp !" 
 
 The boy bowed, without any cringing civility, but with 
 an open, decent freedom in his manner, which expressed 
 that he had been obliged, but that he knew his young bene- 
 factor was not thinking of the obligation. He made as little 
 distinction as possible between his bows to the two cousins. 
 
 " As I was sent with a message, by the clerk of our par- 
 
416 
 
 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 ish, to Redland Chapel, on the Downs to-day, sir," said he 
 to Mr. Gresham, " knowing your house lay in my way, my 
 mother, sir, bid me call, and make bold to offer the young 
 gentlemen two little worsted balls that she had worked for 
 them," continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two 
 worsted balls worked in green and orange-coloured stripes : 
 " they are but poor things, sir, she bid me say, to look at, 
 but, considering she had but one hand to work with, and 
 that her left hand, you '11 not despise 'em, we hopes." 
 
 He held the balls to Ben and Hal. "They are both 
 alike, gentlemen," said he ; " if you '11 be pleased to take 
 'em, they are better than they look, for they bound higher 
 than your head ; I cut the cork round for the inside myself, 
 which was all I could do." 
 
 " They are nice balls indeed ; we are much obliged to 
 you," said the boys as they received them, and they proved 
 them immediately. The balls struck the floor with a 
 delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr. Gresham's 
 head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully ; but now a 
 thundering double rap at the door was heard. 
 
 " The Masters Sweepstakes, sir," said Stephen, " are come 
 for Master Hal ; they say that all the young gentlemen who 
 have archery uniforms are to walk together in a body, I 
 think they say, sir ; and they are to parade along the Well 
 Walk, they desired me to say, sir, with a drum and fife, and 
 so up the hill by Prince's Place, and all go upon the Downs 
 together, to the place of meeting. I am not sure I 'm right, 
 sir, for both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the 
 wind is very high at the street-door, so that I could not 
 well make out all they sajd ; but I believe this is the sense 
 of it." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Hal, eagerly, " it 's all right ; I know 
 that is just what was settled the day I dined at Lady 
 Diana's ; and Lady Diana and a great party of gentlemen 
 are to ride " 
 
 " Well, tHat is nothing to the purpose," interrupted Mr. 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 41T 
 
 Gresham. " Do n't keep the Masters Sweepstakes waiting ; 
 decide do you choose to go with them, or with us ?" 
 
 " Sir uncle sir, you know, since all the uniforms agreed 
 to go together " 
 
 " Off with you, then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go," 
 said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 Hal ran down-stairs in such a hurry that he forgot his 
 bow and arrows. Ben discovered this when he went to 
 fetch his own; and the lad from Bristol, who had been 
 ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before he pro- 
 ceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his 
 cousin's bow and arrows. 
 
 " I know," said Ben, " he will be sorry not to have his 
 bow with him, because here are the green knots tied to it, 
 to match his cockade ; and he said that the boys were all to 
 carry their bows, as a part of the show." 
 
 " If you '11 give me leave, sir," said the poor Bristol lad, 
 "I shall have plenty of time; and I'll run down to the 
 Well Walk . after the young gentleman, and take him his 
 bow and arrows." 
 
 " Will you ? I shall be much obliged to you," said Ben ; 
 and away went the boy with the bow that was ornamented 
 with green ribands. 
 
 The public walk leading to the Wells was full of com- 
 pany. The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent's 
 parade were crowded with well-dressed ladies, who were 
 looking out in expectation of the archery procession. Par- 
 ties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spec- 
 tators, wore seen moving backward and forward under the 
 rocks, on the opposite side of the water. A barge, with 
 coloured streamers flying, was waiting to take up a party, 
 who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested 
 upon their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity 
 upon th busy scene that appeared upon the public walk. 
 
 The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the 
 flags undor the semicircular piazza just before*Mrs. Years- 
 27 
 
418 WASTE NOT, W4.NT NOT. 
 
 ley's library. A little band of children, who ha4 been 
 mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes' spirited exertions, 
 closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. 
 The drummer only waited for her ladyship's signal ; and 
 the archers' corps only waited for her ladyship's word of 
 command to march. 
 
 " Where are your bow and arrows, my little man ?" said 
 her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regi- 
 ment. " You can't march, man, without your arms !" 
 
 Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, 
 but the messenger returned not ; he looked from side to side 
 in great distress " 0, there 's my bow coming, I declare !" 
 cried he "look, I see the bow and the ribands; look 
 now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hot- 
 well "Walk ; it is coining !" 
 
 "But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time," 
 said his impatient friend. 
 
 " It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I pro- 
 test, that has brought it to me ; I 'm sure I do n't deserve it 
 from him," said Hal to himself, when he saw the lad with 
 the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, 
 towards him with his bow and arrows. 
 
 " Fall back, my good friend, fall back," said the military 
 lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow to Hal ; " I 
 mean, stand out of the way, for your great patch cuts no 
 figure among us. Don't follow so close, now, as if you 
 belonged to us, pray." 
 
 The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph ; 
 he fell baek as soon as he understood the meaning of the 
 lady's words. The drum beat, the fife played, the archers 
 marched, the spectators admired. Hal stepped proudly, 
 and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon his 
 epaulets, or upon the facings of his uniform ; while all the 
 time he was considered only as part of a show. The walk 
 appeared much shorter than usual ; and he was extremely 
 sorry that Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 419 
 
 leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse, because the 
 road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who accom- 
 panied her followed her example. " We can leave the chil- 
 dren to walk, you know," said she to the gentleman who 
 helped her to mount her horse. " I must call to some of 
 them, though, and leave orders where they are to join." 
 
 She beckoned : and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to 
 show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship's orders. 
 Now, as we have before observed, it was a sharp and windy 
 day ; and though Lady Diana Sweepstakes was actually 
 speaking to him, and looking at him, he could not prevent 
 his nose from wanting to be blowed : he pulled out his 
 handkerchief, and out rolled the new ball which had been 
 given to him just before he left home, and which, according 
 to his usual careless habits, he had stuffed into his pocket 
 in a hurry. " 0, my new ball !" cried he, as he ran after 
 it. As he stooped to pick it up, he let go his hat, to which he 
 had hitherto held on with anxious care ; for the hat, though 
 it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string 
 round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful 
 hero had used in spinning his top. The hat was too large 
 for his head without this band ; a sudden gust of wind blew 
 it off Lady Diana's horse started and reared. She was a 
 famous horsewoman, and sat him to the admiration of all 
 beholders ; but there was a puddle of red clay and water 
 in this spot, and her ladyship's uniforrn-habit was a sufferer 
 by the accident. 
 
 "Careless brat!" said she, "why can't he keep his hat 
 upon his head?" 
 
 In the mean time, the wind blew the hat down the hill, 
 and Hal ran after it, amid the laughter of his kind friends, 
 the young Sweepstakes, and the rest of the little regiment. 
 The hat was lodged, at length, upon a bank. Hal pursued 
 it : he thought this bank was hard, but, alas ! the moment 
 he set his foot upon it, the foot sank. He tried to draw it 
 , his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, iu hia 
 
420 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 green and white uniform, into the treacherous bed of red 
 mud. His companions, who had halted upon the top of the 
 hill, stood laughing spectators of his misfortune. 
 
 It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon 
 his eye, who had been ordered by Lady Diana to "fall back," 
 and to " keep at a distance," was now coming up the hill ; 
 and the moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to his 
 assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a deplorable 
 spectacle, out of the red mud; the obliging mistress of a 
 lodging-house, as soon as she understood that the young 
 gentleman was nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had 
 formerly let her house, received Hal, covered as he was 
 with dirt. 
 
 The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean 
 stockings and shoes for Hal. He was unwilling to give up 
 his uniform ; it was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here 
 and there was washed out ; and he kept continually repeat- 
 ing "When it's dry it will all brush off; when it's dry 
 it will all brush off, won't it ?" But soon the fear of being 
 too late at the archery-meeting began to balance the dread 
 of appearing in his stained habiliments ; and he now as 
 anxiously repeated, while the woman held the wet coat to 
 the fire, " 0, I shall be too late ; indeed, I shall be too late ; 
 make haste ; it will never dry ; hold it nearer nearer to 
 the fire ; I shall lose my turn to shoot ; 0, give me the coat ; 
 I do n't mind how it is, if I can but get it on." 
 
 Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, 
 to be sure, but it shrank it also, so that it was no easy mat- 
 ter to get the coat on again. 
 
 However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes which, in 
 spite of all the operations, were too visible upon his shoul- 
 ders, and upon thenskirts of his white coat behind, was 
 pretty well satisfied td observe, that there was not one spot 
 upon the facings. " Nobody," said he, " will take notice 
 of my coat behind, I dare say. I think it looks as smart 
 almost as ever 1" and uiider this persuasion our young 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 421 
 
 archer resumed his bow his bow with green ribands now 
 no more ! and he pursued his way to the Downs. 
 
 All his companions were far out of sight. " I suppose," 
 said he to his friend with the black patch "I suppose my 
 uncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes 
 and stockings for me ?" 
 
 " 0, yes, sir ; the butler said they had been gone to the 
 Downs a matter of a good half-hour or more." 
 
 Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he 
 got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages, and 
 crowds of people, all going towards the place of meeting, 
 at the Ostrich. He pressed forward ; he was at first so 
 much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice of the 
 mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At 
 length he reached the appointed spot. There was a great 
 crowd of people : in the midst, he heard Lady Diana's loud 
 voice betting upon some one, who was just going to shoot 
 at the mark. 
 
 " So, then, the shooting is begun, is it?" said Hal. "0, 
 let me in ! pray let me into the circle ! I 'm one of the 
 archers I am, indeed ; do n't you see my green and white 
 uniform ?" 
 
 " Your red and white uniform, you mean," said the man 
 to whom he addressed himself; and the people, as they 
 opened a passage for him, could not refrain from laughing 
 at the mixture of dirt and finery which it exhibited. In 
 vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, 
 he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their 
 countenance and support: they were among the most 
 unmerciful of the laughers. Lady Diana also seemed 
 more to enjoy than to pity his confusion. 
 
 " Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, 
 man ?" said she, in her masculine tone. " You have been 
 almost the ruin of my poor uniform-habit ; but I 've escaped 
 rather better than you have. Do n't stand there, in the 
 
422 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 middle of the circle, or you '11 have an arrow in your eyes 
 just now, I've a notion." 
 
 Hal looked round, in search of better friends "0, 
 where's my uncle where 's Ben?" said he. He was in 
 euch confusion that, among the number of faces, he could 
 scarcely distinguish one from another ; but he felt somebody 
 at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he 
 heard the friendly voice, and saw the good-natured face, of 
 his cousin Ben. 
 
 " Come back ; come behind these people," said Ben ; 
 " and put on my great-coat ; here it is for you." 
 
 Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with 
 the rough greatrcoat which he had formerly despised. He 
 pulled the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate 
 hat ; and he was now sufficiently recovered from his vexa- 
 tion to give an intelligible account of his accident to his 
 uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had detained 
 him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst 
 of the history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty 
 that his taking his hat-band to spin his top had nothing to 
 do with his misfortune ; and he was at the same time endea- 
 vouring to refute his uncle's opinion, that the waste of the 
 whip-cord that tied the parcel was the original cause of all 
 his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his 
 famous bow. 
 
 " My hands are numbed, I can scarcely feel," said he, 
 rubbing them, and blowing upon the ends of his fingers. 
 
 " Come, come," cried young Sweepstakes, " I 'm within 
 one inch of the mark ; who '11 go nearer, I shall like to see. 
 Shoot away, Hal ; but first understand our laws : we settled 
 them before you came upon the green. You are to have 
 three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows ; and 
 nobody 's to borrow or lend under pretence of other bows 
 being better or worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, 
 Hal?" 
 
 This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict 
 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 423 
 
 in these laws, as he had observed that none of his compa- 
 nions had such an excellent bow as he had provided for 
 himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bring more 
 than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation, 
 that each person should shoot with his own arrows, many 
 had lost one or two of their shots. 
 
 " You are a lucky fellow ; you have your three arrows," 
 said young Sweepstakes. " Come, we can't wait while you 
 rub your fingers, man shoot away." 
 
 Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his 
 friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintances, 
 who call themselves friends, can change, when their inte- 
 rest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their 
 friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his 
 hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how 
 to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow 
 was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes' 
 mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit. Hal 
 seized his second arrow "If I have any luck," said he 
 But just as he pronounced the word luck, and as he bent his 
 bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his 
 hands. 
 
 " There, it's all over with you," cried Master Sweepstakes, 
 with a triumphant laugh. 
 
 " Here 's my bow for him, and welcome," said Ben. 
 
 " No, no, sir ; that is not fair ; that 's against the regula- 
 tion. You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, 
 or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must 
 not lend it, sir." 
 
 It was now Ben's turn to make his trial. His first arrow 
 was not successful. His second was exactly as near as 
 Hal's first. 
 
 " You have but one more," said Master Sweepstakes ; 
 " now for it !" 
 
 Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently exam- 
 ined the string of his bow ; and as he pulled it to try its 
 strength, it cracked. 
 
424 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exulta- 
 tions, and exulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when 
 our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excel- 
 lent piece of whip-cord. 
 
 " The everlasting whip-cord, I declare !" exclaimed Hal, 
 when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the 
 parcel. 
 
 " Yes," said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, " I put it 
 into my pocket to-day on purpose, because I thought I might 
 happen to want it." 
 
 He drew his bow the third and last time. 
 
 " 0, papa," cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, 
 " it 's the nearest ; is not it the nearest l n 
 
 Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. 
 There could be no doubt. Ben was victorious ! The bow, 
 the prize bow, was now delivered to him ; and Hal, as he 
 looked at the whip-cord, exclaimed, " How lucky this whip- 
 cord has been to you, Ben I" 
 
 " It is lucky, perhaps you mean, that he took care of it," 
 said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 " Ay," said Hal, " very true ; he might well say, ' Waste 
 not, want not :' it is a good thing to have two strings to 
 one's bow." 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 IN the neighbourhood of a sea-port town in the west of 
 England, there lived a gardener, who had one son, called 
 Maurice, of whom he was very fond. One day his father 
 sent him to the neighbouring town, to purchase some gar- 
 den-seeds for him. When Maurice got to the seed-shop, it 
 was full of people, who were all impatient to be served ; 
 first a great tall man, and next a great fat woman, pushed 
 before him, and he stood quietly beside the counter, waiting 
 till somebody should be at leisure to attend him. At length, 
 when all the other people in the shop had got what they 
 wanted, the shopman turned to Maurice " And what do 
 you want, my patient little fellow ?" said he. 
 
 "I want all these seeds for -my father," said Maurice, 
 putting a list of seeds into the shopman's hand ; " and I 
 have brought money to pay for them all." 
 
 The seedsman looked out all the seeds that Maurico 
 wanted, and packed them up in a paper : he was folding up 
 some painted lady-peas, when, from a door at the back of 
 the shop, there came in a square, rough-faced man, who 
 exclaimed, the moment he came in, " Are the seeds I ordered 
 ready ? The wind 's fair they ought to have been aboard 
 yesterday. And my china jar, is it packed up and directed ? 
 where is it ?" 
 
 " It is up there on the shelf over your head, sir," answered 
 the seedsman, " it is very safe, you see, but we have not had 
 
 (425) 
 
426 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 time to pack it yet it shall be done to-day: and we will 
 get the seeds for you, sir, immediately." 
 
 "Immediately! then stir about it the seeds will not 
 pack themselves up make haste, pray." 
 
 " Immediately, sir, as soon as I have done up the parcel 
 for this little boy." 
 
 "What signifies the parcel for this little boy? he can 
 wait, and I cannot wind and tide wait for no man. Here, 
 my good lad, take your parcel and sheer off," said the impa- 
 tient man ; and, as he spoke, he took up the parcel of seeds 
 from the counter, as the shopman stooped to look for a sheet 
 of thick brown paper and packthread to tie it up. 
 
 The parcel was but, loosely folded up, and as the impa- 
 tient man lifted it, the weight of the peas which were with- 
 inside of it burst the paper, and all the seeds fell out upon 
 the floor, while Maurice in vain held his hand to catch them. 
 The peas rolled to all parts of the shop : the impatient man 
 swore at them ; but Maurice, without being out of humour, 
 set about collecting them as fast as possible. While he was 
 busied in this manner, the man got what seeds he wanted, 
 and as he was talking about them, a sailor came into the 
 shop, and said, " Captain, the wind has changed within 
 these five minutes, and it looks as if we should have ugly 
 weather." 
 
 " Well, I 'm glad of it," replied the rough-faced man, who 
 was the captain of a ship. "I'm glad to have a day 
 longer to stay ashore, for I've business enough on my 
 hands." 
 
 The captain pushed forward towards the shop-door. 
 Maurice, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up his 
 seeds, saw that the captain's foot was entangled in some 
 packthread, which hung down from the shelf on which the 
 china jar stood. Maurice saw that if the captain took one 
 more^tep forward, he must pull the string, so that it would 
 throw down the jar, round the bottom of which the pack- 
 thread was entangled. He immediately caught hold of the 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 427 
 
 captain's leg, and stopped him "Stay! stand still, sir!" 
 said he, " or you will break your china jar." 
 
 The man stood still, looked, and saw how the packthread 
 had caught in his shoebuckle, and how it was near dragging 
 down his beautiful china jar ; " I am really very much 
 obliged to you, my little fellow," said he ; " you have saved 
 my jar, which I would not have broken for ten guineas ; for 
 it is for my wife, and I 've brought it safe from abroad many 
 a league ; it would have been a pity if I had broken it just 
 when it was safe landed. I am really much obliged to you, 
 my little fellow ; this was returning good for evil. I am 
 sorry I threw down your seeds, as you are such a good- 
 natured, forgiving boy. Be so kind," continued he, turning 
 to the shopman, " as to reach down that china jar for me." 
 
 The shopman lifted down the jar very carefully, and the 
 captain took off the cover, and pulled out some tulip-roots ; 
 " You seem, by the quantity of seeds you have got, to 
 belong to a gardener. Are you fond of gardening ?" said 
 he to Maurice. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Maurice, " very fond of it ; for my 
 father is a gardener, and he lets me help at his work, and 
 he has given me a little garden of my own." 
 
 " Then here are a couple of tulip-roots for you, and if you 
 take care of them, I '11 promise you that you will have the 
 finest tulips in England in your little garden. These tulips 
 were given to me by a Dutch merchant, who told me that 
 they were some of the rarest and finest in Holland. They 
 will prosper with you, I 'm sure, wind and weather permit- 
 ting." 
 
 Maurice thanked the gentleman, and returned home, eager 
 to show his precious tulip-roots to his father, and to a com- 
 panion of his, the son of a nursery-man, who lived near 
 him. Arthur was the name of the nursery-man's son. 
 
 The first thing Maurice did, after showing his tulip-roote 
 to his father, was to run to Arthur's garden, in search of 
 him. Their gardens were separated only by a low wall of 
 
428 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 loose stones : " Arthur ! Arthur ! where are you ? Are 
 you in your garden ? I want you." But Arthur made no 
 answer, and did not, as usual, come running to meot his 
 friend. " I know where you are," continued Maurice, " and 
 I am coming to you as fast as the raspberry bushes will le> 
 me. I have good news for you something you '11 bf 
 delighted to see, Arthur ! Ha ! but here is something thai 
 I am not delighted to see, I am sure," said poor Maurice, 
 who, when he had got through the raspberry bushes, and 
 had come in sight of his own garden, beheld his bell-glass 
 his beloved bell-glass, under which his cucumbers were 
 growing so finely his only bell-glass broken to pieces 1 
 
 " I am sorry for it," said Arthur, who stood leaning upon 
 his spade in his own garden: "I am afraid you will be 
 very angry with me." 
 
 " Why, was it you, Arthur, broke my bell-glass ? 0, how 
 could you do so !" 
 
 " I was throwing weeds and rubbish over the wall, and 
 by accident a great lump of couch-grass, with stones hang- 
 ing to the roots, fell upon your bell-glass, and broke it aa 
 you see." 
 
 Maurice lifted up the lump of couch-grass, which had 
 fallen through the broken glass upon his cucumbers, and he 
 looked at his cucumbers for a moment in silence. " 0, my 
 poor cucumbers ! you must all die now ; I shall see all your 
 yellow flowers withered to-morrow : but it is done, and it 
 cannot be helped ; so, Arthur, let 's say no more about it." 
 
 " You are very good ; I thought you would have been 
 angry. I am sure I should have been exceedingly angry 
 if you had broken the glass, if it had been mine." 
 
 " 0, forgive and forget, as my father always says that's 
 the best way. Look what I have got for you." Then he 
 told Arthur the story of the captain of the ship, and the 
 china jar ; of the seeds having been thrown down, and of 
 tie fine tulip-roots which had been given to him ; and Mau- 
 rice concluded by offering one of the precious roots to Ar- 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 429 
 
 thur, who thanked him with great joy, and repeatedly said, 
 " How good you were, not to be angry with me for breaking 
 your bell-glass : I am much more sorry for it than if you 
 had been in a passion with me !" 
 
 Arthur now went to plant his tulip-root ; and Maurice 
 looked at the beds which his companion had been digging, 
 and at all the things which were coming up in his garden. 
 
 "I don't know how it is," said Arthur, "but you always 
 seem as glad to see the things in my garden coming up and 
 doing well as if they were all your own. I am much hap- 
 pier since my father came to live here, and since you and I 
 have been allowed to work and to play together, than I ever 
 was before ; for you must know, before we came to live 
 here, I had a cousin in the house with me, who used to 
 plague me : he was not nearly so good-natured as you are ; 
 he never took pleasure in looking at my garden, or at any- 
 thing that I did, that was well done ; and he never gave me 
 a share of anything that he had ; and so I did not like him ; 
 how could I ? But I believe that hating people makes us 
 unhappy ; for I know I never was happy when I was quar- 
 relling with him ; and I am always happy with you, Mau- 
 rice ; you know we never quarrel." 
 
 It would be well for all the world, if they could be con- 
 vinced, like Arthur, that to live in friendship is better than 
 to quarrel : it would be well for all the world, if they fol- 
 lowed Maurice's maxim of " Forgive and forget," when they 
 receive, or when they imagine that they receive, an injury. 
 
 Arthur's father, Mr. Oakley, the nursery-man, was apt to 
 take offence at trifles ; and when he thought that any of his 
 neighbours disobliged him, he was too proud to ask them 
 to explain their conduct ; therefore he was often mistaken 
 in his judgment of them. He thought that it showed spirit 
 to remember and to resent an injury ; and therefore, though 
 he was not an ill-natured man, he was sometimes led, by 
 this mistaken idea of spirit, to do ill-natured things : " A 
 warm friend, and a bitter enemy," was one of his maxims, 
 
430 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 and he had more enemies than friends. He was not verj 
 rich, but he was proud, and his favourite proverb was, 
 " Better live in spite than in pity." 
 
 When first he settled near Mr. Grant the gardener, he felt 
 inclined to dislike him, because he was told, that Mr. Grant 
 was a Scotchman, and he had a prejudice against Scotchmen, 
 all of whom he believed to be cunning and avaricious, 
 because he had once been overreached by a Scotch pedler. 
 Grant's friendly manners, in some degree, conquered this 
 prepossession ; but still he secretly suspected that this civi- 
 lity, as he said, was all a show, and that he was not, nor could 
 not, being a Scotchman, be such a hearty friend as a true-born 
 Englishman. 
 
 Grant had some remarkably fine raspberries. The fruit 
 was so large as to be quite a curiosity. When it was in 
 season, many strangers came from the neighbouring town, 
 which was a sea-bathing place, to look at these raspberries, 
 which obtained the name of Brobdignay raspberries. " How 
 came you, pray, neighbour Grant, if a man may ask, by 
 these wonderful fine raspberries ?" said Mr. Oakly one even- 
 ing, to the gardener. 
 
 "That's a secret," replied Grant, with an arch smile. 
 
 " 0, in case it's a secret, I 've no more to say, for I never 
 meddle with any man's secrets that he does not choose to 
 trust me with. But I wish, neighbour Grant, you would 
 put down that book. You are always poring over some 
 book or another when a man comes to see you, which is 
 not, according to my notions (being a plain, unlarned Eng- 
 lishman bred and born), so civil and neighbourly as might 
 be." 
 
 Mr. Grant hastily shut his book, but remarked, with a 
 shrewd glance at his son, that it was in that book he found 
 his Brobdignag raspberries. 
 
 " You are pleased to be pleasant upon them that have not 
 the luck to be as book-larned as yourself, Mr. Grant ; but I 
 take it, being only a plain-spoken Englishman, as I observed 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 431 
 
 afore, that one is to the full as like to find a raspberry in 
 one's garden, as in one's book, Mr. Grant." 
 
 Grant, observing that his neighbour spoke rather in a 
 Burly tone, did not contradict him : being well versed in the 
 Bible, he knew that " A soft word turneth away wrath ;" 
 and he answered, in a good-humoured voice, " I hear, neigh- 
 bour Oakly, you are likely to make a great deal of money 
 of your nursery this year. Here 's to the health of you and 
 youra, not forgetting the seedling larch, which I see are 
 coming on finely." 
 
 " Thank ye, neighbour, kindly ; the larch are coming on 
 tolerably well, that 's certain ; and here 'B to your good 
 health, Mr. Grant, you and yours, not forgetting your what 
 d'ye call 'em, raspberries;" (Drinks) and, after a 
 pause, resumes " I 'm not apt to be a beggar, neighbour, 
 but if you could give me " 
 
 Here Mr. Oakly was interrupted by the entrance of some 
 strangers, and he did not finish making his request. Mr. 
 Oakly was not, as he said of himself, apt to ask favours, 
 and nothing but Grant's cordiality could have conquered 
 his prejudices so far as to tempt him to ask a favour from 
 a Scotchman. He was going to ask for some of the Brob- 
 dignag raspberry-plants. The next day the thought of tho 
 raspberry plants recurred to his memory ; but being a bash- 
 ful man, he did not like to go himself on purpose to make 
 his petition, and he desired his wife, who was just, setting 
 out to market, to call at Grant's gate, and, if he was at 
 work in his garden, to ask him for a few plants of his rasp- 
 berries. 
 
 The answer which Oakly's wife brought to him was, that 
 Mr. Grant had not a raspberry-plant in the world to givo 
 him, and that if he had ever so many, he would not give 
 one away, except to his own son. Oakly flew into a passion 
 when he received such a message, declared it was just 
 such a mean shabby trick as might have been expected from 
 a Scotchman called himself a booby, a dupe, and a block- 
 
432 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 head, for ever having trusted to the civil speeches of a 
 Scotchman swore that he would die in the parish work- 
 house before he would ever ask another favour, be it never 
 so small, from a Scotchman related for the hundredth 
 time to his wife the way in which ho had been taken in by 
 the Scotch pedler ten years ago, and concluded by forswear- 
 ing all further intercourse with Mr. Grant, and all belong- 
 ing to him. 
 
 " Son Arthur," said he, addressing himself to the boy, 
 who just then came in from work, " son Arthur, do you hear 
 me ? let me never again see you with Grant's son." 
 
 "With Maurice, father?" 
 
 " With Maurice Grant, I say. I forbid you from this day 
 and hour forward to have anything to do with him." 
 
 "0, why, dear father?" 
 
 " Ask me no questions, but do as I bid you." 
 
 Arthur burst out a-crying, and only said, "Yes, father, 
 I '11 do as you bid me, to be sure." 
 
 "Why, now, what does the boy cry for? Is there no 
 other boy, simpleton, think you, to play with, but this 
 Scotchman's son ? I '11 find out another playfellow for ye, 
 child, if that be all." 
 
 " That 's not all, father," said Arthur, trying to stop him- 
 self from sobbing ; " but the thing is, I shall never have 
 such another playfellow, I shall never have such another 
 friend, as Maurice Grant." 
 
 " Ah, poor fool !" said his father, pressing his son's head 
 to him, "thee be'st just such another as thy father ready 
 to be taken in by a fair word or so. But when you 've lived 
 as long as I have, you '11 find that friends are not as plenty 
 as blackberries, and do n't grow upon every bush." 
 
 " No, indeed, I do n't think they do," said Arthur : " I 
 never had a friend before, and I shall never have such ano- 
 ther as Maurice Grant." 
 
 " Like father like son you may think yourself well off 
 to have done with him." 
 
FORGIVE AND FOKGET. 433 
 
 ''Done with him ! 0, father, and shall I never go again 
 o work in his garden, and may not he come to mine ?" 
 
 " No," replied Oakly, sturdily ; " his father has used me 
 uncivil, and no man shall use me uncivil twice. I say, no. 
 Wife, sweep up this hearth. Boy, do n't take on like a fool, 
 but eat thy bacon and greens, and let 's hear no more of 
 Maurice Grant." 
 
 Arthur promised to obey his father ; he only begged that 
 he might once more speak to Maurice, and tell him that it 
 was by his father's orders he acted. This request was 
 granted ; but when Arthur further begged to know what 
 reason he might give for this separation, his father refused 
 to tell his reasons. 
 
 The two friends took leave of one another very sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavoured to dis- 
 cover what could have offended his neighbour; but all 
 explanation was prevented by the obstinate silence of 
 Oakly. 
 
 Now the message which Grant really sent about the 
 Brobdignag raspberries was somewhat different from that 
 which Mr. Oakly received. The message was, that the 
 raspberries were not Mr. Grant's, that therefore he had no 
 right to give them away ; that they belonged to his son 
 Maurice, and that this was not the right time of the year 
 for planting them. This message had been unluckily mis- 
 understood. Grant gave his answer to his wife ; she to a 
 Welsh servant-girl, who did not perfectly comprehend her 
 mistress's broad Scotch ; and she, in her turn, could not 
 make herself intelligible to Mrs. Oakly, who hated the 
 Welsh accent, and whose attention, when the servant-girl 
 delivered the message, was principally engrossed by the 
 management of her own horse. The horse on which Mrs. 
 Oakly rode this day, being ill-broken, would not stand still 
 quietly at the gate, and she was extremely impatient to 
 28 
 
434 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 receive her answer, and to ride 011 to market. On such 
 slight things do the quarrels of neighbours often depend. 
 
 Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his neigh- 
 bour Grant, could not long remain without finding fresh 
 causes of complaint. There was in Grant's garden a plum- 
 tree, which was planted close to the loose stone wall that 
 divided the garden from the nursery. The soil in which 
 the plum-tree was planted happened not to be quite so good 
 as that which was on the opposite side of the wall, and the 
 plum-tree had forced its way through the wall, and gradu- 
 ally had taken possession of the ground which it liked best. 
 Oakly thought the plum-tree, as it belonged to Mr. Grant, 
 had no right to make its appearance on his ground : an 
 attorney told him that he might oblige Grant to cut it down ; 
 but Mr. Grant refused to cut down his plum-tree at the 
 attorney's desire ; and the attorney persuaded Oakly to go 
 to law about the business, and the lawsuit went on for some 
 months. The attorney, at the end of this time, came to 
 Oakly with a demand for money to carry on his suit, assur- 
 ing him that in a short time it would be determined in his 
 favour. Oakly paid his attorney ten golden guineas, 
 remarked that it was a great sum for him to pay, and that 
 nothing but the love of justice could make him persevere in 
 this lawsuit about a bit of ground, " which, after all," said 
 he, " is not worth twopence. The plum-tree does me little 
 er no damage, but I do n't like to be imposed upon by a 
 Scotchman." 
 
 The attorney saw and took advantage of Oakly 's preju- 
 dice against the natives of Scotland ; and he persuaded him 
 that, to show the spirit of a true-born Englishman, it was 
 necessary, whatever it might cost him, to persist in this 
 lawsuit. 
 
 It was soon after this conversation with the attorney, that 
 Mr. Oakly walked with resolute steps towards the plum- 
 tree, saying to himself, " If it cost me a hundred pound, I 
 will not let this cunning Scotchman get the better of me." 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 435 
 
 Arthur interrupted his father's revery by pointing to a 
 book and some young plants, which lay upon the wall. " I 
 fancy, father," said he, " those things are for you, for there 
 is a little note directed to you in Maurice's handwriting ; 
 shall I bring it to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, let me read it, child, since I must." 
 
 It contained these words : 
 
 DEAR MR. OAKLY, 
 
 " I do n't know why you have quarrelled with us ; I am 
 very sorry for it. But, though you are angry with me, I 
 am not angry with you. I hope you will not refuse some 
 of my Brobdignag raspberry plants, which you asked for a 
 great while ago, when we were all good friends. It was not 
 the right time of year to plant them then, which was the 
 reason they were not sent to you : but it is just the right 
 time to plant them now ; and I send you the book, in which 
 you will find the reason why we always put sea-weed ashes 
 about their roots ; and I have got some sea-weed ashes for 
 you. You will find the ashes in the flowerpot upon the wall. 
 I have never spoken to Arthur, nor he to me, since you bid 
 us not. So, wishing your Brobdignag raspberries may turn 
 out as well as ours, and longing to be all friends again, I 
 am, with love to dear Arthur and self, 
 
 " Your affectionate neighbour's son, 
 
 MAURICE GRANT. 
 
 " P. S. It is now four months since the quarrel began, and 
 that is a very long while." 
 
 A great part of the effect of this letter was lost upon 
 Oakly, because he was not very expert at reading writing, 
 and it cost him much trouble to spell it and put it together. 
 However, he seemed touched by it, and said, " I believe thia 
 Maurice loves you well enough, Arthur, and he seems a 
 good sort of boy: but, as to the raspberries, I believe all 
 that he says about them is but an excuse ; and, at any rate, 
 as I could not get 'em when I asked for them, I '11 not have 
 
436 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 them now. Do you hear me, I say, Arthur ? What are you 
 reading there ?" 
 
 Arthur was reading the page that was doubled down in 
 the book which Maurice had left along with the raspberry- 
 plants upon the wall. Arthur read aloud as follows : 
 
 " There is a sort of strawberry cultivated at Jersey, which 
 is almost covered with sea-weed in the winter, in like man- 
 ner as many plants in England are with litter from the sta- 
 ble. These strawberries are usually of the largeness of a 
 middle-sized apricot, and the flavour is particularly grateful. 
 In Jersey and Guernsey, situate scarcely one degree farther 
 south than Cornwall, all kinds of fruit, pulse, and vegeta- 
 bles are produced in their seasons a fortnight or three weeks 
 sooner than in England, even on the southern shores ; and 
 snow will scarcely remain twenty-four hours on the earth. 
 Although this may be attributed to these Islands being sur- 
 rounded with a salt, and consequently a moist, atmosphere, 
 yet the ashes (sea-weed ashes) made use of as manure may 
 also have their portion of influence."* Monthly Magazine, 
 Dec. 1798, p. 421. 
 
 " And here," continued Arthur, " is something written 
 with a pencil, on a slip of paper, and it is Maurice's writ- 
 ing. I will read it to you." 
 
 " When I read in this book what is said about the straw- 
 berries growing as large as apricots, after they had been 
 covered over with sea-weed, I thought that perhaps sea-weed 
 ashes might be good for my father's raspberries ; and I 
 asked him if he would give me leave to try them. He gave 
 me leave, and I went directly and gathered together some 
 sea-weed that had been cast on shore ; and I dried it, and 
 burned it, and then I manured the raspberries with it, and 
 the year afterward the raspberries grew to the size that you 
 have seen. Now the reason I tell you this is first, that 
 
 * It is necessary to observe that this experiment has never been 
 actually tried upon raspberries. 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 437 
 
 you may know how to manage your raspberries ; and next, 
 because I remember you looked very grave, as if you were 
 not pleased with my father, Mr. Grant, when he told you 
 that the way by which he came by his Brobdignag rasp- 
 berries was a secret. Perhaps this was the thing that made 
 you so angry with us all ; for you never have come to see 
 father since that evening. Now I have told you all I know ; 
 and so I hope you will not be angry with us any longer." 
 
 Mr. Oakly was much pleased by this openness, and said, 
 "Why, now, Arthur, this is something like, this is telling 
 one the thing one wants to know, without fine speeches. 
 This is like an Englishman more than a Scotchman Pray, 
 Arthur, do you know whether your friend Maurice was born 
 in England or in Scotland ?" 
 
 "No, indeed, sir, I don't know I never asked I did 
 not think it signified All I know is, that, wherever he 
 was born, he is very good. Look, father, my tulip is blow- 
 ing." 
 
 " Upon my word, this will be a beautiful tulip I" 
 
 " It was given to me by Maurice." 
 
 "And did you give him nothing for it?" 
 
 " Nothing in the world ; and he gave it to me just at a 
 time when he had good cause to be very angry with me, just 
 when I had broken his bell-glass." 
 
 " I have a great mind to let you play together again," 
 said Arthur's father. 
 
 " 0, if you would," cried Arthur, clapping his hands, 
 " how happy we should be ! Do you know, father, I have 
 often sat for an hour at a time up in that crab-tree, looking 
 at Maurice at work in his garden, and wishing that I was 
 at work with him ? My garden, look ye, father, is not nearly 
 in such good order as it used to be ; but everything would 
 go right again if " 
 
 Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, who came 
 to ask Mr. Oakly some question about the law-suit concern- 
 ing the plum-tree. Oakly showed him Maurice's letter j 
 
438 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 and to Arthur's extreme astonishment, the attorney had no 
 sooner read it than he exclaimed, " What an artful little 
 gentleman this is ! I never, in the course of all my prac- 
 tice, met with anything better. Why this is the most cun- 
 ning letter I ever read." 
 
 "Where's the cunning?" said Oakly, and he put on his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " My good sir, do n't you see that all this stuff about 
 Brobdignag raspberries is to ward off your suit about the 
 plum-tree ? They know that is, Mr. Grant, who is sharp 
 enough, knows that he will be worsted in that suit ; that 
 he must, in short, pay you a good round sum for damages, 
 if it goes on." 
 
 " Damages !" said Oakly, staring round him at the plum- 
 tree : " but I do n't know what you mean. I mean nothing 
 but what 's honest. I do n't mean to ask for any good round 
 sum ; for the plum-tree has done me no great harm by com- 
 ing into my garden ; but only I do n't choose it should come 
 there without my leave." 
 
 "Well, well," said the attorney; "I understand all that; 
 but what I want to make you, Mr. Oakly, understand, is, 
 that this Grant and his son only want to make up matters 
 with you, and prevent the thing's coming to a fair trial, by 
 sending you, in this underhand sort of way, a bribe of a few 
 raspberries." 
 
 " A bribe 1" exclaimed Oakly ; " I never took a bribe, 
 and I never will ;" and, with sudden indignation, he pulled 
 the raspberry plants from the ground in which Arthur was 
 planting them ; and he threw them over the wall into 
 Grant's garden. 
 
 Maurice had put his tulip, which was beginning to blow, 
 in a flower-pot, on the top of the wall, in hopes that his 
 friend Arthur would see it from day to day. 
 
 Alas 1 he knew not in what a dangerous situation he had 
 placed it. One of his own Brobdignag raspberry-plants, 
 swung by the angry arm of Oakly, struck off the head of 
 his precious tulip 1 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 439 
 
 Arthur, who was full of the thought of convincing his 
 father that the attorney was mistaken in his judgment of 
 poor Maurice, did not observe the fall of the tulip. 
 
 The next day, when Maurice saw his raspberry-plants 
 scattered upon the ground, and his favourite tulip broken, 
 he was in much astonishment, and for some moments 
 angry ; but anger with him never lasted long. He was 
 convinced that all this must be owing to some accident or 
 mistake ; he could not believe that any one could be so 
 malicious as to injure him on purpose " and even if they 
 did all this on purpose to vex me," said he to himself, " the 
 best thing I can do is not to let it vex me. Forgive and 
 forget." 
 
 This temper of mind Maurice was more happy in enjoy- 
 ing than he could have been made, without it, by the pos- 
 session of all the tulips in Holland. 
 
 Tulips were, at this time, things of great consequence in 
 the estimation of the country, several miles round, where 
 Maurice and Arthur lived. 
 
 There was a florist's feast to be held at the neighbouring 
 town, at which a prize of a handsome set of gardening 
 tools was to be given to the person who could produce the 
 finest flower of its kind. A tulip was the flower which was 
 thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently 
 numbers of people afterward endeavoured to procure tulip- 
 roots, in hopes of obtaining the prize this year. 
 
 Arthur's tulip was beautiful. As he examined it from 
 day to day, and every day thought it improving, he longed 
 to thank his friend Maurice for it ; and he often mounted 
 into his crab-tree, to look into Maurice's garden, in hopes 
 of seeing his tulip also in full bloom and beauty. He never 
 could see it. 
 
 The day of the florist's feast arrived, and Oakly went 
 with his son, and the fine tulip, to the place of meeting. It 
 was on a spacious bowling-green. All the flowers, of vari- 
 ous sorts, were ranged upon a terrace at the upper end of 
 
440 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 the bowling-green ; and, among all this gay variety, the 
 tulip which Maurice had given to Arthur appeared conspi- 
 cuously beautiful. To the owner of this tulip the prize was 
 adjudged; and, as the handsome garden-tools were deli- 
 vered to Arthur, he heard a well-known voice wish him joy. 
 He turned, looked about him, and saw his friend Maurice. 
 "But, Maurice, where is your own tulip?" said Mr. 
 Oakly ; " I thought, Arthur, you told me that he kept one 
 for himself." 
 
 " So I did," said Maurice ; " but somebody (I suppose by 
 accident) broke it." 
 
 " Somebody ! who ?" cried Arthur and Mr. Oakly at 
 once. 
 
 " Somebody who threw the raspberry-plants back again 
 over the wall," replied Maurice. 
 
 "That was me that somebody was me," said Oakly. 
 " I scorn to deny it ; but I did not intend to break your 
 tulip, Maurice." 
 
 " Dear Maurice," said Arthur "you know I may call 
 him dear Maurice now you are by, father Here are all 
 the garden-tools ; take them, and welcome." 
 
 " Not one of them," said Maurice, drawing back. 
 "Offer them to the father offer them to Mr. Grant," 
 whispered Oakly ; " he '11 take them, I '11 answer for it." 
 
 Mr. Oakly was mistaken : the father would not accept of 
 the tools. 
 
 Mr. Oakly stood surprised " Certainly," said he to him- 
 self, " this cannot be such a miser as I took him for !" and 
 he walked immediately up to Grant, and bluntly said to 
 him, " Mr. Grant, your son has behaved very handsome to 
 my son ; and you seem to be glad of it." 
 " To be sure I am," said Grant. 
 
 " Which," continued Oakly, " gives me a better opinion 
 of you than ever I had before I mean, than ever I had 
 since the day you sent me that shabby answer about those 
 foolish, what d' ye call 'em, cursed raspberries." 
 
FORGIVE AND FORGET. 441 
 
 "What shabby answer?" said Grant, with surprise; and 
 Oakly repeated exactly the message which he received ; and 
 Grant declared that he never sent any such message. He 
 repeated exactly the answer which he really sent, and Oakly 
 immediately stretched out his hand to him, saying, "I 
 believe you : no more need be said : I 'm only sorry I did 
 not ask you about this four months ago ; and so I should 
 have done, if you had not been a Scotchman. Till now, I 
 never rightly liked a Scotchman. We may thank this good 
 little fellow," continued he, turning to Maurice, " for our 
 coming at last to a right understanding : there was no hold- 
 ing out against his good-nature. I 'm sure, from the bottom 
 of my heart, I 'm sorry I broke his tulip. Shake hands, 
 boys ; I 'm glad to see you, Arthur, look so happy again, 
 and hope Mr. Grant will forgive " 
 
 " 0, forgive and forget," said Grant and his son at the 
 same moment ; and from this time forward, the two fimi 
 lies lived in friendship with each other. 
 
 Oakly laughed at his own folly, in having been persuaded 
 to go to law about the plum-tree ; and he, in process of time, 
 so completely conquered his early prejudice against Scotch- 
 men, that he and Grant became partners in business. Mr. 
 Grant's book-laming and knowledge of arithmetic he found 
 highly useful to him ; and he, on his side, possessed a great 
 many active, good qualities, which became serviceable to 
 his partner. 
 
 The two boys rejoiced in this family union; and Arthur 
 often declared, that they owed all their happiness to Mau 
 rice's favourite maxim, " Forgive and forget." 
 
THE BARKING OUT; 
 
 OK, 
 
 PARTY SPIRIT. 
 
 " THE mother of mischief," says an old proverb, " is no 
 bigger than a midge's wing." 
 
 At Dr. Middleton's school, there was a great tall dunce 
 of the name of Fisher, who never could be taught how to 
 look out a word in a dictionary. He used to torment every- 
 body with "Do pray help me! I can't make out this 
 one word." The person who usually helped him in his dis- 
 tress was a very clever good-natured boy, of the name of De 
 Grey. De Grey had been many years under Dr. Middleton's 
 care, and by his abilities and good conduct did him great 
 credit. The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of 
 him ; but he was so well beloved, or so much esteemed by 
 his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the 
 odious name of favourite until the arrival of a new scholar 
 of the name of Archer. 
 
 Till Archer came, the ideas of favourites and parties were 
 almost unknown at Dr. Middleton's ; but he brought all 
 these ideas fresh from a great public school, at which he 
 had been educated at which he had acquired a sufficient 
 quantity of Greek and Latin, and a superabundant quantity 
 of party-spirit. His aim, the moment that he came to a 
 
 (442) 
 
BARBING OUT. 443 
 
 new school, was to get to the head of it, or at least to form 
 the strongest party. His influence, for he was a boy of 
 considerable abilities, was quickly felt, though he had a 
 powerful rival, as he thought proper to call him, in De 
 Grey; and with him a rival was always an enemy. De 
 Grey, so far from giving him any cause of hatred, treated 
 him with a degree of cordiality which would probably have 
 had an effect upon Archer's mind, if it had not been for the 
 artifices of Fisher. 
 
 It may seem surprising that a great dunce should be able 
 to work upon a boy like Archer, who was called a great 
 genius: but when genius is joined to a violent temper, 
 instead of being united to good sense, it is at the mercy 
 even of dunces. 
 
 Fisher was mortally offended one morning by De Grey's 
 refusing to translate his whole lesson for him. He went 
 over to Archer, who, considering him as a partisan desert- 
 ing from the enemy, received him with open arms, and 
 translated his whole lesson, without expressing much con- 
 tempt for his stupidity. From this moment Fisher forgot 
 all De Grey's former kindness, and considered only how he 
 could in his turn mortify the person whom he felt to bo so 
 much his superior. 
 
 De Grey and Archer were now reading for a premium, 
 which was to be given in their class. Fisher betted on 
 Archer's head, who had not sense enough to despise the bet 
 of a blockhead. On the contrary, he suffered him to excite 
 the spirit of rivalship in its utmost fury by collecting the 
 bets of all the school. So that this premium now became 
 a matter of the greatest consequence ; and Archer, instead 
 of taking the means to secure a judgment in his favour, was 
 listening to the opinions of all his companions. It was a 
 prize which was to be won by his own exertions, but he suf- 
 fered himself to consider it as an affair of chance. The 
 consequence was, that he trusted to chance his partisans 
 lost their wagers, and he the premium and his temper. 
 
444 BARRING OUT. 
 
 " Mr. Archer," said Dr. Middleton, after the grand affair 
 was decided, " you have done all that genius alone could 
 do ; but you, De Grey, have done all that genius and indus- 
 try united could do." 
 
 " Well I" cried Archer, with affected gayety, as soon as 
 the doctor had left the room " well, I am content with my 
 sentence Genius alone for me ! industry for those who 
 want it," added he, with a significant look at De Grey. 
 
 Fisher applauded this as a very spirited speech, and, by 
 insinuations that Dr. Middleton " always gave the premium 
 to De Grey," and that "those who had lost their bets might 
 thank themselves for it for being such simpletons as to bet 
 against the favourite," he raised a murmur highly flatter- 
 ing to Archer among some of the most credulous boys ; 
 while others loudly proclaimed their belief in Dr. Middle- 
 ton's impartiality. These warmly congratulated De Grey. 
 At this Archer grew more and more angry, and when Fisher 
 was proceeding to speak nonsense for him, pushed forward 
 into the circle to De Grey, crying, " I wish, Mr. Fisher, you 
 would let me fight my own battles !" 
 
 " And /wish," said young Townsend, who was fonder of 
 diversions than of premiums, or battles, or of anything else 
 " /wish that we were not to have any battles ; after hav- 
 ing worked like horses, do n't set about to fight like dogs. 
 Come," said he, tapping De Grey's shoulder, " let us see 
 your new play-house, do. It 's a holyday, and let us make 
 the most of it let us have the School for Scandal, do; 
 and I '11 play Charles for you, and you, De Grey, shall be 
 my little Premium. Come, do open this new play-house of 
 yours to-night." 
 
 " Come, then !" said De Grey, and he ran across the play- 
 ground to a waste building at the farthest end of it, in 
 which, at the earnest request of the whole community, and 
 with the permission of Dr. Middleton, he had, with much 
 pains and ingenuity, erected a theatre. 
 " The new theatre is going to be opened ! Follow the 
 
BARRING OUT. 445 
 
 manager ! follow the manager I" echoed a multitude of 
 voices. 
 
 " Follow the manager !" echoed very disagreeably in 
 Archer's ear ; but as he could not be left alone, he was also 
 obliged to follow the manager. The moment that the door 
 was unlocked, the crowd rushed in ; the delight and wonder 
 expressed at the sight was great, and the applauses and 
 thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long 
 and loud. 
 
 Archer at least thought them long, for he was impatient 
 till his voice could be heard. When at length the exclama- 
 tions had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with 
 a knowing air, and looking round contemptuously, 
 
 "And is this your famous play-house?" cried he. "I 
 wish you had any of you seen the play-house /have been 
 used to !" 
 
 These words made a great and visible change in the feel- 
 ings and opinions of the public. " Who would be a servant 
 of the public ? or who would toil for popular applause ?" 
 A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice 
 operated as a charm, and the play-house was in an instant 
 metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators. All gratitude 
 for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of some- 
 thing better justified to the capricious multitude their dis- 
 dain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent. 
 
 Every one now began to criticise. One observed, " that 
 the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up." 
 Another attacked the scenes " Scenes ! they were not like 
 real scenes. Archer must know best, because he was used 
 to these things." So everybody crowded to hear something 
 of the other play-house. They gathered round Archer to 
 hear a description of his play-house, and at every sentence 
 insulting comparisons were made. When he had done, his 
 auditors looked round sighed and wished that Archer 
 had been their manager. They turned from De Grey, as 
 from a person who had done them an injury. Some of his 
 
446 BARRING OUT. 
 
 friends for he had friends who were not swayed by the 
 popular opinion felt indignation at this ingratitude, and 
 were going to express their feelings ; but De Grey stopped 
 them, and begged that he might speak for himself. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, coming forward as soon as he felt 
 that he had sufficient command of himself " My friends, 
 I see you are discontented with me and my play-house. I 
 have done my best to please you ; but if anybody else can 
 please you better, I shall be glad of it. I did not work so 
 hard for the glory of being your manager. You have my 
 free leave to tear down " here his voice faltered, but he 
 hurried on " you have my free leave to tear down all my 
 work as fast as you please. Archer, shake hands first, 
 however, to show that there 's no malice in the case." 
 
 Archer, who was touched by what his rival said, and 
 stopping the hand of his new partizan Fisher, cried, " No, 
 Fisher 1 no ! no pulling down. We can alter it. There 
 is a great deal of ingenuity in it, considering " 
 
 In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to 
 reason. The time for reason was past, enthusiasm had 
 taken hold of their minds " Down with it ! Down with 
 it ! Archer for ever 1" cried Fisher, and tore down the cur- 
 tain. The riot once begun, nothing could stop the little 
 mob till the whole theatre was demolished. The love of 
 power prevailed in the mind of Archer ; he was secretly 
 flattered by the zeal of his party, and he mistook their love 
 of mischief for attachment to himself. De Grey looked on 
 superior. " I said I could bear to see all this, and I can," 
 said he ; " now it is all over." And now it was all over, there 
 was silence. The rioters stood still to take breath, and to 
 look at what they had done. There was a blank space 
 before them. 
 
 In this moment of silence there was heard something like 
 a female voice. " Hush ! What strange voice is that ?" 
 said Archer. Fisher caught fast hold of his arm every- 
 body looked round to see where the voice came from. It 
 
BARRING OUT. 447 
 
 was dusk two window-shutters at the farthest end of the 
 building were seen to move slowly inwards. De Grey, and 
 in the same instant Archer, went forward, and as the shut- 
 ters opened there appeared through the hole the dark face 
 and shrivelled hands of a very old gipsy. She did not 
 speak ; but she looked first at one and then at another. At 
 length she fixed her eyes upon De Grey "Well, my good 
 woman, what do you want with me ?" 
 
 " Want nothing with you" said the old woman ; " do 
 you want nothing with me ?" 
 
 "Nothing," said De Grey, Her eye immediately turned 
 upon Archer " You want something with me," said she, 
 with emphasis " I ! what do I want ?" replied Archer. 
 "No," said she, changing her tone, "you want nothing 
 nothing will you ever want, or I am much mistaken in that 
 face." 
 
 In that watch-chain, she should have said, for her quick 
 eye had espied Archer's watch-chain. He was the only per- 
 son in company who had a watch, and she therefore judged 
 him to be the richest. 
 
 " Had you ever your fortune told, sir, in your life 1" 
 
 " Not I \" said he, looking at De Grey, as if he was afraid 
 of his ridicule if he listened to the gipsy. 
 
 " Not you ! no ! for you will make your own fortune, 
 and the fortune of all that belong to you I" 
 
 " There 's good news for my friends 1" cried Archer. 
 " And I 'm one of them, remember that," cried Fisher. 
 " And I !" " And I !" joined a number of voices. 
 
 "Good luck to them," cried the gipsy; "good luck to 
 them all !" 
 
 Then, as soon as they had acquired sufficient confidences 
 in her good-will, they pressed up to the window. " There/' 
 cried Townsend, as he chanced to stumble over the carpen- 
 ter's mitre-box, which stood in the way, "there's a good 
 omen for me. I 've stumbled on the mitre-box ; I shall cer- 
 tainly be a bishop." 
 
448 BARKING OUT. 
 
 Happy he who had sixpence, for he bid fair to be a judge 
 upon the bench. And happier he who had a shilling, for 
 he was in the high road to be one day upon the woolsack, 
 lord high chancellor of England. No one had half a crown, 
 or no one would surely have kept it in his pocket upon such 
 an occasion ; for he might have been an archbishop, a king, 
 or what he pleased. 
 
 Fisher, who, like all weak people, was extremely credu 
 lous, had kept his post immoveable in the front row all the 
 time, his mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed on the gipsy, 
 in whom he felt implicit faith. 
 
 Those who have least confidence in their own powers, and 
 who have least expectation from the success of their own 
 exertions, are always most disposed to trust in fortune-tellers 
 and fortune. They hope to win, when they cannot earn ; 
 and as they can never be convinced by those who speak 
 sense, it is no wonder they are always persuaded by those 
 who talk nonsense. 
 
 " I have a question to put," said Fisher, in a solemn tone. 
 
 " Put it then," said Archer ; " what hinders you ?" 
 
 " But they will hear me," said he, looking suspiciously 
 at De Grey. 
 
 "/shall not hear you," said De Grey, "lam going." 
 Everybody else drew back, and left him to whisper his ques- 
 tion in the gipsy's ear. 
 
 " What is become of my Livy ?" 
 
 " Your sister Livy, do you mean ?" said the gipsy. 
 
 " No, my Latin Livy." 
 
 The gipsy paused for further information "It had a 
 leaf torn out in the beginning, and I hate Dr. Middleton " 
 
 "Written in it?" interrupted the gipsy. 
 
 " Right the very book 1" cried Fisher with joy. " But 
 how could you know it was Dr. Middleton's name ? I 
 thought I had scratched it so that nobody could make it 
 out." 
 
 " Nobody could make it out but me," replied the gipsy. 
 
BARRING OUT. 449 
 
 'But never think to deceive me," said she, shaking her 
 head at him in a manner that made him tremble. 
 
 " I do n't deceive you, indeed. I tell you the whole truth. 
 I lost it a week ago." 
 
 " True." 
 
 " And when shall I find it ?" 
 
 " Meet me here at this hour to-morrow evening, and I will 
 answer you No more ! I must be gone Not a word 
 more to-night." 
 
 She pulled the shutters towards her, and left the youth in 
 darkness. All his companions were gone. He had been 
 so deeply engaged in this conference, that he had not per- 
 ceived their departure. He found all the world at supper, 
 but no entreaties could prevail upon him to disclose his 
 secret. Townsend rallied in vain. As for Archer, he was 
 not disposed to destroy by ridicule the effect which he saw 
 that the old woman's predictions in his favour had had upon 
 the imagination of many of his little partisans. He had 
 privately slipped two shillings into the gipsy's hand to 
 secure her ; for he was willing to pay any price for any 
 means of acquiring power. 
 
 The watch-chain had not deceived the gipsy, for Archer 
 was the richest person in the community. His friends had 
 imprudently supplied him with more money than is usually 
 trusted to boys of his age. Dr. Middleton had refused to 
 give him a larger monthly allowance than the rest of his 
 companions ; but he brought to school with him secretly 
 the sum of five guineas. This appeared to his friends and 
 to himself an inexhaustible treasure. 
 
 Riches and talents would, he flattered himself, secure to 
 him that ascendency of which he was so ambitious. " Am 
 I your manager, or not?" was now his question. "I scorn 
 to take advantage of a hasty moment, but since last night 
 you have had time to consider. If you desire me to be your 
 manager, you shall see what a theatre I will make for you. 
 In this purse," said he, showing through the net-work a 
 29 
 
450 BAKKING OUT. 
 
 glimpse of the shining treasure "in this purse is Alad- 
 din's wonderful lamp. Am I your manager? Put it to the 
 vote." 
 
 It was put to the vote. About ten of the most reasonable 
 of the assembly declared their gratitude and hip-It approba- 
 tion of their old friend De Grey ; but the numlwrs were in 
 favour of the new friend. And as no metaphysical distinc- 
 tions relative to the idea of a majority had ever entered 
 their thoughts, the most numerous party considered them- 
 selves as now beyond dispute in the right. They drew off 
 on one side in triumph ; and their leader, who know the 
 consequence of a name in party matters, immediately dis- 
 tinguished his partisans by the gallant name of Archers, 
 stigmatizing the friends of De Grey by the epithet of Grey- 
 beards. 
 
 Among the Archers was a class not very remarkable for 
 their mental qualifications ; but who, by their bodily acti- 
 vity, and by their peculiar advantages annexed to their way 
 of life, rendered themselves of the highest consequence, 
 especially to the rich and enterprising. The judicious 
 reader will apprehend that I allude to the persons called 
 day-scholars. Among these, Fisher was distinguished by 
 his knowledge of all the streets and shops of the adjacent 
 town ; and, though a dull scholar, he had such reputation 
 as a man of business, that whoever had commissions to 
 execute at the confectioners were sure to apply to him. 
 Some of the youngest of his employers had, it is true, at 
 times complained that he made mistakes of half-pence and 
 pence in their accounts ; but as these affairs could never be 
 brought to a public trial, Fisher's character and consequence 
 were undiminished, till the fatal day when his aunt Bar- 
 bara forbade his visits to the confectioner or rather, till 
 she requested the confectioner, who had his private reasons 
 for obeying her, not to receive her nephew's visits, as he had 
 made himself sick at his house, and Mrs. Barbara's fears 
 for his health were incessant. 
 
BARRING OUT. 451 
 
 Though his visits to the confectioner's were thus at an 
 <jnd, there were many other shops open to him ; and with 
 officious zeal, he offered his services to the new manager to 
 purchase whatever might be wanting for the theatre. 
 
 Since his father's death, Fisher had become a boarder at 
 Dr. Middleton's ; but his frequent visits to his aunt Barbara 
 afforded him opportunities of going into the town. The 
 carpenter, De Grey's friend, was discarded by Archer for 
 having said " Lack-a-daisy !" when he saw that the old the- 
 atre was pulled down. A new carpenter and paper-hanger, 
 recommended by Fisher, were appointed to attend, with 
 their tools, for orders, at two o'clock. Archer, impatient to 
 show his ingenuity and his generosity, gave his plan and 
 his orders in a few minutes, in a most decided manner. 
 " These things," he observed, " should be done with some 
 spirit." 
 
 To which the carpenter readily assented, and added, that 
 " Gentlemen of spirits never looked to the expense, but 
 always to the effect." Upon this principle Mr. Chip set to 
 work with all possible alacrity. In a few hours' time he 
 promised to produce a grand effect. High expectations 
 were formed nothing was talked of but the new play- 
 house ; and so intent upon it was every head, that no les- 
 sons could be got. Archer was obliged, in the midst of his 
 various occupations, to perform the part of grammar and 
 dictionary for twenty different people. 
 
 " 0, ye Athenians !" he exclaimed, " how hard do I work 
 to obtain your praise 1" 
 
 Impatient to return to the theatre, the moment the hours 
 destined for instruction, or, as they are termed by school- 
 boys, school-hours, were over, each prisoner started up with 
 a shout of joy. 
 
 " Stop one moment, gentlemen, if you please," said Dr. 
 Middleton, in an awful voice. " Mr. Archer, return to your 
 place. Are you all here?" The names of all the boya 
 were called over, and when each had answered to his name, 
 Dr. Middleton said : 
 
452 BARRING OUT. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt your amusements ; 
 but, till you have contrary orders from me, no one, on pain 
 of my serious displeasure, must go into that building" 
 (pointing to the place where the theatre was erecting) 
 " Mr. Archer, your carpenter is at the door, you will be so 
 good as to dismiss him I do not think proper to give my 
 reasons for these orders ; but you who know me," said the 
 doctor, and his eye turned towards De Grey, " will not sus- 
 pect me of caprice I depend, gentlemen, upon your obe- 
 dience." 
 
 To the dead silence with which these orders were received, 
 succeeded, in a few minutes, a universal groan. " So !" said 
 Townsend, " all our diversion is over." " So," whispered 
 Fisher in the manager's ear, " this is some trick of the Grey- 
 beards ; did you not observe how he looked at De Grey ?" 
 Fired with this idea, which had never entered his mind 
 before, Archer started from his revery, and striking his 
 hand upon the table, swore, " that he would not be outwitted 
 by any Greybeard in Europe, no, not by all of them put 
 together. The Archers are surely a match for them he 
 would stand by them, if they would stand by him," he 
 declared, with a loud voice, " against the whole world ; and 
 Dr. Middle ton himself, with little Premium at his right 
 hand." 
 
 Everybody admired Archer's spirit, but were a little 
 appalled at the sound of standing against Dr. Middleton. 
 
 " Why not ?" resumed the indignant manager. " Neither 
 Dr. Middleton nor any doctor upon earth shall treat me with 
 injustice. This, you see, is a stroke at me and my party, 
 and I won't bear it." 
 
 " 0, you are mistaken !" said De Grey, who was the only 
 one who dared oppose reason to the angry orator "It can- 
 not be a stroke aimed at you and your party, for he does 
 not know that you have a party." 
 
 " I '11 make him know it, and I '11 make you know it too," 
 said Archer. " Before I came here you reigned alone ; now 
 
BARRING OUT. 453 
 
 your reign is over, Mr. De Grey. Remember my majority 
 this morning, and your theatre last night." 
 
 " He has remembered it," said Fisher ; " you see, the 
 moment he was not to be our manager, we are to have no 
 theatre no play-house no plays. We must all sit down 
 with our hands before us all for 'good reasons' of Dr. 
 Middleton's, which he does not vouchsafe to tell us." 
 
 " I won't be governed by any man's reasons that he won't 
 tell me," cried Archer ; " he cannot have good reasons, or 
 why not tell them ?" 
 
 " Nonsense 1 we shall not suspect him of caprice !" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because we, who know him," said De Grey, " have never 
 known him capricious." 
 
 " Perhaps not : /know nothing about him," said Archer. 
 
 " No," said De Grey ; " for that very reason /speak who 
 do know him. Do n't be in a passion, Archer." 
 
 " I will be in a passion I won't submit to tyranny I 
 won't be made a fool of by a few soft words. You do n't 
 know me, De Grey I '11 go through with what I 've begun 
 I am manager, and I will be manager, and you shall see 
 my theatre finished in spite of you, and my party trium- 
 phant." 
 
 "Party!" repeated De Grey "I cannot imagine what 
 is in the word ' party,' that seems to drive you mad. We 
 never heard of parties till you came among us." 
 
 " No ; before I came, I say, nobody dared oppose you, but 
 I dare ; and I tell you to your face take care of me. A 
 warm friend and a bitter enemy is my motto." 
 
 " I am not your enemy ! I believe.you are out of your 
 senses, Archer !" said he, laughing. 
 
 "Out of my senses! No you are my enemy! Are 
 not you my rival ? Did not you win the premium ? Did 
 not you want to be manager ? Answer me, are not you, in 
 one word, a Greybeard ?" 
 
 " You called me a Greybeard, but my name is De Grey," 
 said he, still laughing. 
 
454 BARRING OUT. 
 
 " Laugh on !" cried the other, furiously. " Come, Arch' 
 ers, follow me ! we shall laugh by-and-bye, I promise you." 
 
 At the door Archer was stopped by Mr. Chip " 0, Mr. 
 Chip, I am ordered to discharge you." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and here is a little bill " 
 
 " Bill, Mr. Chip ! why, you have not been at work for 
 two hours I" 
 
 " Not much over, sir ; but if you '11 please to look into it, 
 you '11 see it 's for a few things you ordered. The stuff is 
 laid out and delivered. The paper, and the festoon-border- 
 ing for the drawing-room scene, is cut out, and left yander, 
 within." 
 
 " Yander, within 1 I wish you had not been in such a 
 confounded hurry six-and-twenty shillings!" cried he, 
 " but I can't stay to talk about it now. I '11 tell you, Mr. 
 Chip," said Archer, lowering his voice, " what you must do 
 for me, my good fellow." Then drawing Mr. Chip aside, 
 he begged him to pull down some of the wood-work which 
 had been put up, and to cut it into a certain number of 
 wooden bars, of which he gave him the dimensions, with 
 orders to place them all, when ready, under a hay-stack, 
 which he pointed out. Mr. Chip scrupled and hesitated, 
 and began to talk of "the doctor." Archer immediately 
 began to talk of the bill, and throwing down a guinea and 
 a half, the conscientious carpenter pocketed the money 
 directly, and made his bow. 
 
 " Well, Master Archer," said he, " there 's no refusing 
 you nothing. You have such a way of talking one out of 
 it you manage me just like a child." 
 
 " Ay, ay 1" said .Archer, knowing that he had been 
 cheated, and yet proud of managing a carpenter " ay, ay, 
 I know the way to manage everybody let the things be 
 ready in an hour's time and hark 'e ! leave your tools by 
 mistake behind you, and a thousand of twenty-penny nails 
 Ask no questions, and keep your own counsel, like a wise 
 man off with you, and take care of ' the doctor.' " 
 
BARRING OUT. 455 
 
 " Archers ! Archers ! To the Archers' tree ; follow your 
 loader," cried he, sounding his well-known whistle as a sig- 
 nal. His followers gathered round him ; and he, raising 
 himself upon the mount at the foot of the tree, counted his 
 numbers, and then, in a voice lower than usual, addressed 
 them thus : 
 
 " My friends, is there a Greybeard among us ? If there 
 is, let him walk off now he has my free leave." 
 
 No one stirred " Then we are all Archers, and we will 
 stand by one another join hands, my friends." 
 
 They all joined hands. 
 
 " Promise me not to betray me, and I will go on I ask 
 no security but your honour." 
 
 They all gave their honour to be secret and faithful, as 
 he called it, and he went on 
 
 " Did you ever hear of such a thing as a barring out, my 
 friends ?" 
 
 They had heard of such a thing ; but they had only heard 
 of it. 
 
 Archer gave the history of a barring out, in which he 
 had been concerned at his school ; in which the boys stood 
 out two days against the master, and gained their point at 
 last, which was a week's more holidays at Easter. 
 
 " But if we should not succeed?" said they: "Dr. Mid- 
 dleton is so steady, he never goes back from what he has 
 said." 
 
 " Did you ever try to push him back ? Let us be steady, 
 and he ; 11 tremble tyrants always tremble when " 
 
 " 1" interrupted a number of voices, " but he is not a 
 tyrant, is he ?" 
 
 " All schoolmasters are tyrants, are not they ?" replied 
 Archer ; " and is not he a schoolmaster ?" 
 
 To this logic there was no answer ; but, still reluctant, 
 they asked, " What they should get by a barring out ?" 
 
 " Get ! Everything ! What we want ! which is every- 
 thing to lads of spirit victory and liberty ! Bar him out 
 
456 BARRING OUT. 
 
 till he repeals his tyrannical law till he lets us into ouk" 
 own theatre again, or till he tells us his ' good reasons' 
 against it." 
 
 " But perhaps he has reasons for not telling us ?" 
 
 "Impossible!" cried Archer; "that's the way we are 
 always to be governed by a man in a wig, who says he has 
 good reasons, and can't tell them Are you fools ? Go 
 go back to De Grey I see you are all Greybeards Go 
 who goes first ?" 
 
 Nobody would go first. 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with ye, if ye are resolved to 
 be slaves !" 
 
 " We won't be slaves !" they all exclaimed at once. 
 
 " Then," said Archer, " stand out in the right, and be 
 free." . 
 
 "The right!" It would have taken up too much time 
 to examine what "the right" was. Archer was always 
 sure that " the right " was what his party chose to do that 
 is, what he chose to do himself; and such is the influence 
 of numbers upon each other in conquering the feelings of 
 shame, and in confusing the powers of reasoning, that in a 
 few minutes " the right " was forgotten, and each said to 
 himself " To be sure, Archer is a very clever boy, and he 
 can't be mistaken ;" or, " To be sure, Townsend thinks 
 so, and he would not do anything to get us into a scrape ;" 
 or, " To be sure, everybody will agree to this but myself, 
 and I can't stand out alone, to be pointed at as a Greybeard 
 and a slave. Everybody thinks it is right, and everybody 
 can't be wrong." 
 
 By some of these arguments, which passed rapidly through 
 his mind, without his being conscious of them, each boy 
 decided, and deceived himself: what none would have done 
 alone, none scrupled to do as a party. 
 
 It was determined then that there should be a barring out. 
 The arrangement of the affair was left to their new man- 
 ager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience. 
 
BARRING OUT. 457 
 
 Obedience, it seems, is necessary even from rebels to their 
 ringleaders not reasonable, but implicit obedience. 
 
 Scarcely had the assembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, 
 when Fisher, with an important length of face, came up to 
 the manager, and desired to speak one word to him. 
 
 " My advice to you, Archer, is to do nothing in this till 
 we have consulted you know who about whether it 's right 
 or wrong." 
 
 " You know who! Who do you mean? Make haste, 
 and do n't make so many faces, for I 'm in a hurry Who 
 is ' You know who ?' " 
 
 " The old woman," said Fisher, gravely ; " the gipsy." 
 
 " You may consult the old woman," said Archer, bursting 
 out a laughing, "about what's right and wrong, if you 
 please ; but no old woman shall decide for me." 
 
 " No ; but you do n't take me," said Fisher. " You do n't 
 take me. By right and wrong I mean lucky and unlucky." 
 
 " Whatever I do will be lucky," replied Archer. " My 
 gipsy told you that already." 
 
 "I know, I know," said Fisher; "and what she said 
 about your friends being lucky that went a great way 
 with many," added he, with a sagacious nod of his head, 
 "I can tell you that more than you think Do you 
 know," said he, laying hold of Archer's button, " I 'm in 
 the secret. There are nine of us have crooked our little 
 fingers upon it not to stir a step till we get her advice ; and 
 she has appointed me to meet her about particular business 
 of my own at eight. So I'm to consult her, and to bring 
 her answer." 
 
 Archer knew too well how to govern fools to attempt to 
 reason with them ; and, instead of laughing any longer at 
 Fisher's ridiculous superstition, he was determined to take 
 advantage of it. He affected to be persuaded of the wis- 
 dom of the measure looked at his watch, urged him to be 
 exact to a moment, conjured him to remember exactly the 
 words of the oracle, and, above all things, to demand the 
 
458 BARRING OUT. 
 
 lucky hour and minute when the barring out should 
 begin. 
 
 "With these instructions, Archer put his watch into the 
 solemn dupe's hand, and left him to count the seconds, till 
 the moment of his appointment, while he ran off himself to 
 prepare the oracle. At a little gate, which looked into a 
 lane, through which he guessed that the gipsy must pass, 
 he stationed himself, saw her, gave her half a crown and 
 her instructions, made his escape, and got back unsuspected 
 to Fisher, whom he found in the attitude in which he had 
 left him, watching the motion of the minute-hand. 
 
 Proud of his secret commission, Fisher slouched his hat, 
 he knew not why, over his face, and proceeded towards the 
 appointed spot. To keep, as he had been charged to do by 
 Archer, within the letter of the law, he stood behind the 
 orbidden building, and waited for some minutes. Through 
 a gap in the hedge the old woman at length made her 
 appearance, muffled up, and looking cautiously about her. 
 
 " There 's nobody near us !" said Fisher, and he began to 
 be a little afraid "what answer," said he, recollecting 
 himself, " about my Livy ?" 
 
 "Lost! Lost! Lost!" said the gipsy, lifting up her 
 hands ; " never, never, never to be found ! But no matter 
 for that now that is not your errand to-night no tricks 
 with me speak to me of what is next your heart." 
 
 Fisher, astonished, put his hand upon his heart, told her 
 all that she knew before, and received the answers which 
 Archer dictated "That the Archers should be lucky as 
 long as they stuck to their manager and to one another ; 
 that the barring out should end in wo, if not begun pre- 
 cisely as the clock should strike nine on Wednesday night ; 
 but if begun in that lucky moment, and all obedient to their 
 lucky leader, all should end well." 
 
 A thought, a provident thought, now struck Fisher ; for 
 even he had some foresight, where his favourite passion was 
 concerned " Pray, in our barring out shall we be starved?" 
 
BARRING OUT. 459 
 
 " No," said the gipsy, " not if you trust to me for food, 
 and if you give me money enough silver -won't do for 
 BO many, for gold is what must cross my hand." 
 
 "I have no gold," said Fisher, "and I don't know what 
 you mean by so many. I 'm only talking of number one, 
 you know I must take care of that first." 
 
 So, as Fisher thought that it was possible that Archer, 
 clever as he was, might be disappointed in his supplies, he 
 determined to take secret measures for himself. His aunt 
 Barbara's interdiction had shut him out of the confection- 
 er's shop, but he flattered himself that he could outwit his 
 aunt ; he therefore begged the gipsy to procure him twelve 
 buns by Thursday morning, and bring them secretly to one 
 of the windows of the school-room. 
 
 As Fisher did not produce any money when he made this 
 proposal, it was at first absolutely rejected ; but a bribe at 
 length conquered all difficulties ; and the bribe which Fisher 
 found himself obliged to give for he had no pocket-money 
 left of his own, he being as much restricted in that article 
 as Archer was indulged the bribe that he found himself 
 obliged to give, to quiet the gipsy, was half a crown, which 
 Archer had intrusted to him to buy candles for the theatre. 
 " 0," thought he to himself, " Archer 's so careless about 
 money, he will never think of asking me for the half-crown 
 again ; and now he'll want no candles for the theatre or 
 at any rate it will be some time first, and maybe aunt Bar- 
 bara maybe got to give me that much at Christmas then, 
 if the worst comes to the worst, I can pay Archer. My 
 mouth waters for the buns, and have 'em I must now." 
 
 So, for the hope of twelve buns, he sacrificed the money 
 which had been intrusted to him. The meanest motives, 
 in mean minds, often prompt to the commission of those 
 great faults, to which, one should think, nothing but some 
 violent passion could have tempted. 
 
 The ambassador having thus, in his opinion, concluded 
 his own and the public business, returned, well satisfied 
 
460 BARKING OUT. 
 
 with the result, after receiving the gipsy's reiterated pro- 
 mise to tap three times at the window on Thursday morning. 
 
 The day appointed for the barring out at length arrived ; 
 and Archer, assembling the confederates, informed them 
 that all was prepared for carrying their design into execu- 
 tion ; that he now depended for success upon their punctu- 
 ality and courage. He had, within the last two hours, got 
 all the bars ready to fasten the doors and window-shutters 
 of the school-room ; he had, with the assistance of two of 
 the day-scholars, who were of the party, sent into the town 
 for provision, at his own expense, which would make a 
 handsome supper for that night; he had also negotiated 
 with some cousins of his, who lived in the town, for a con- 
 stant supply in future. 
 
 " Bless me 1" exclaimed Archer, suddenly stopping in 
 this narration of his services, "there's one thing, after all, 
 I 've forgot ; we shall be undone without it Fisher, pray, 
 did you'ever buy the candles for the playhouse ?" 
 
 " No, to be sure," replied Fisher, extremely frightened, 
 " you know you do n't want candles for the play-house now." 
 
 "Not for the play-house, but for the barring out we 
 shall be in the dark, man you must run this minute 
 run." 
 
 " For candles 1" said Fisher, confused ; " how many ? 
 what sort?" 
 
 " Stupidity !" exclaimed Archer ; " you are a pretty fel- 
 low at a dead lift ! Lend me a pencil and a bit of paper, do ; 
 I '11 write down what I want myself. Well, what are you 
 fumbling for?" 
 
 " For money !" said Fisher, colouring. 
 
 " Money, man ! Did n't I give you half a crown the other 
 day?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Fisher, stammering ; " but I was n't sure 
 that that might be enough." 
 
 "Enough! yes, to be sure it will I don't know what 
 you are at." 
 
BARRING OUT. 461 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," said Fisher ; " here, write upon this 
 then," putting a piece of paper into Archer's hand, upon 
 which Archer wrote his orders. " Away, away 1" cried he. 
 
 And away went Fisher. He returned ; bnt not until a 
 considerable time afterward. 
 
 They were at supper when he returned. " Fisher always 
 comes in at supper-time," observed one of the Greybeards, 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Well, and would you have him come in after supper- 
 time ?" said Townsend, who always supplied his party with 
 ready wit. 
 
 "I've got the candles," whispered Fisher, as he passed 
 by Archer to his place. 
 
 " And the tinder-box ?" said Archer. 
 
 " Yes ; I got back from my aunt Barbara under pretence 
 that I must study for repetition-day an hour later to-night. 
 So I got leay. Was not that clever?" 
 
 A dunce <xlways thinks it clever to cheat even by sober 
 lies. 
 
 How Mr. Fisher procured the candles and the tinder-box 
 without money, and without credit, for he had no credit, we 
 shall discover in future. 
 
 Archer and his associates had agreed to stay the last in 
 the schoolroom, and as soon as the Greybeards were gone 
 out to bed, he, as the signal, was to shut and lock one door, 
 Townsend the other ; a third conspirator was to strike a 
 light, in case they should not be able to secure a candle ; a 
 fourth was to take charge of the candle as soon as lighted ; 
 and all the rest were to run to their bars, which were 
 secreted in the room ; then to fix them to the common fast- 
 ening bars of the window, in the manner in which they had 
 been previously instructed by the manager. Thus each 
 had his part assigned, and each was warned, that the suc- 
 cess of the whole depended upon their order and punctu- 
 ality. 
 
462 BARRING OUT. 
 
 Order and punctuality, it appears, are necessary even in 
 a barring out ; and even rebellion must have its laws. 
 
 The long-expected moment at length arrived. De Grey 
 and his friends, unconscious of what was going forward, 
 walked out of the school-room as usual at bedtime. The 
 clock began to strike nine. There was one Greybeard left 
 in the room, who was packing up some of his books, which 
 had been left about by accident. It was impossible to 
 describe the impatience with which he was watched, espe- 
 cially by Fisher and the nine who depended upon the gipsy 
 cracle. 
 
 When he had got all his books together under his arm, 
 he let one of them fall ; and while he stooped to pick it up, 
 Archer gave the signal. The doors were shut, locked, and 
 double-locked in an instant. A light was struck, and each 
 ran to his post. The bars were all in the same moment put 
 up to the windows, and Archer, when he had tried them all, 
 and seen that they were secure, gave a loud "Huzza!" 
 in which he was joined by all the party most manfully 
 by all but the poor Greybeard, who, the picture of astonish- 
 ment, stood stock-still in the midst of them with his books 
 under his arm ; at which spectacle Townsend, who enjoyed 
 the frolic of the fray more than anything else, burst into 
 an immoderate fit of laughter. 
 
 " So, my little Greybeard," said he, holding a candle full 
 in his eyes, "what think you of all this? How came you 
 among the wicked ones ?" 
 
 " I do n't know, indeed," said the little boy, very gravely ; 
 "you shut me up among you won't you let me out?" 
 
 " Let you out ! No, no, my little Greybeard," said 
 Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the 
 window-bars ; " look ye here touch these put your hand 
 to them pull, push, kick put a little spirit into it, man 
 kick like an Archer, if you can away with ye. It 's a 
 pity that the king of the Greybeards is not here to admire 
 me ! should like to show him our fortifications. But 
 
BARKING OUT. 463 
 
 come, my merry-men all, now to the feast. Out with the 
 table into the middle of the room. Good cheer, my jolly 
 Archers ! I 'm your manager !" 
 
 Townsend, delighted with the bustle, rubbed his hands 
 and capered about the room, while the preparations 'for the 
 feast were hurried forward. 
 
 " Four candles ! Four candles on the table ! Let 's have 
 things in style when we are about it, Mr. Manager," cried 
 Townsend. " Places ! Places ! There 's nothing like a 
 fair scramble, my boys. Let every one take care of him- 
 self Hallo ! Greybeard, I 've knocked Greybeard down 
 here in the scuffle. Get up again, my lad, and see a little 
 of life." 
 
 " No, no," cried Fisher, " he shan't sup with us." 
 
 " No, no," cried the manager, " he shan't live with us ; a 
 Greybeard is not fit company for Archers." 
 
 " No, no," cried Townsend, " evil communication corrupts 
 good manners." 
 
 So, with one unanimous hiss, they hunted the poor little 
 gentle boy into a corner ; and having pent him up with 
 benches, Fisher opened his books for him, which he thought 
 the greatest mortification, and set up a candle beside him 
 " There, now he looks like a Greybeard as he is!" cried 
 they. 
 
 " Tell me what 's the Latin for cold roast beef," said 
 Fisher, exulting, and they returned to their feast. 
 
 Long and loud they revelled. They had a few bottles of 
 cider. " Give me the corkscrew, the cider shan't be kept 
 till it 's sour," cried Townsend, in answer to the manager, 
 who, when he beheld the provision vanishing with surpris- 
 ing rapidity, began to fear for the morrow. 
 
 " Hang to-morrow !" cried Townsend, " let Greybeards 
 think of to-morrow ; Mr. Manager, here 's your good health." 
 
 The Archers all stood up as their cups were filled, to 
 drink the health of their chief with a universal cheer. 
 
 But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and 
 
464 BARRING OUT. 
 
 as Archer bowed to thank the company, a sudden shower 
 from above astonished the whole assembly. They looked 
 up, and beheld the hose of a watering-engine, the long neck 
 of which appeared through a trap-door in the ceiling. 
 
 " Your good health, Mr. Manager," said a voice, which 
 was known to be the gardener's, and in the midst of their 
 surprise and dismay the candles were suddenly extin- 
 guished, the trap-door shut down, and they were left in utter 
 darkness. 
 
 " The devil !" said Archer. 
 
 " Do n't swear, Mr. Manager," said the same voice, from 
 the ceiling. " I hear every word you say." 
 
 " Mercy upon us !" exclaimed Fisher. " The clock,* 
 added he, whispering, " must have been wrong, for it had 
 not done striking when we began. Only you remember, 
 Archer, it had just done before you had done locking your 
 door." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, blockhead !" said Archer. " Well, 
 boys ! were ye never in the dark before ? You are not afraid 
 of a shower of rain, I hope. Is anybody drowned ?" 
 
 " No," said they, with a faint laugh ; " but what shall we 
 do here in the dark all night long, and all day to-morrw ? 
 we can't unbar the shutters." 
 
 " It 's a wonder nobody ever thought of that trap-door," 
 said Townsend. 
 
 The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager's observa- 
 tion, as the house was new to him, and the ceiling being 
 newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible. 
 Vexed to be out-generalled, and still more vexed to have it 
 remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent excla- 
 mations and reproaches against those who were thus so 
 soon discouraged by a trifle ; and groping for the tinder- 
 box, he asked " if anything could be easier than to strike 
 a light again." 
 
 The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the 
 tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and 
 
BARRING OUT. 465 
 
 aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, 
 and rendered it totally unfit for further service. 
 
 Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground. And now for 
 the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head 
 of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of the dis- 
 contented, changeable populace, and recollecting all his 
 bars, and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more 
 provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight, 
 than he was grieved at the disaster itself. 
 
 " 0, my hair is all wet I" cried one, dolefully. 
 
 " Wring it, then," said Archer. 
 
 " My hand 's cut with your broken glass," cried another. 
 
 " Glass !" cried a third, " mercy ! is there broken glass? 
 and it's all about, I suppose, among the supper and I had 
 but one bit of bread all th time." 
 
 " Bread !" cried Archer " eat, if you want it. Here 's 
 a piece here, and no glass neof it." 
 
 "It's all wet and I don't like dry bread by itself. 
 That's no feast." 
 
 " Heigh-day ! What, nothing but moaning and grum- 
 bling ! if these are the joys of a barring out," cried Town- 
 Bend, " I 'd rather be snug in my bed. I expected that we 
 should have sat up till twelve o'clock, ttlkin^;, and laughing, 
 and singing." 
 
 "So you may still what hinders you?" said Archer. 
 " Sing, and we'll join you, and I should be glad. tho*e fel- 
 lows overhead heard us singing. Begin, Townsend.: 
 
 'Come, now, all ye social powers, 
 Spread your influence o'er us ' 
 
 or else, 
 
 'Kale, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! 
 Britons never will be slaves !'" 
 
 Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment 
 In vain they roared in chorus ; in vain they tried to appear 
 gay it would not do. The voices died away, and dropped 
 30 
 
466 BARRING OUT. 
 
 off one by one. They had each provided himself with a 
 great-coat to sleep upon, but now in the dark there was a 
 peevish scrambling contest for the coats, and half the com- 
 pany, in very bad humour, stretched themselves upon the 
 benches for the night. 
 
 There is great pleasure in bearing anything that has the 
 appearance of hardship, as long as there is any glory to be 
 acquired by it ; but when people feel themselves foiled, thero 
 is no further pleasure in endurance ; and if in their misfor- 
 tune there is any mixture of the ridiculous, the motives for 
 heroism are immediately destroyed. Dr. Middleton had 
 probably considered this, in the choice he had made of his 
 first attack. 
 
 Archer, who had spent the night as a man that had the 
 cares of government upon his shoulders, rose early in the 
 morning, while everybody else was fast asleep. In the 
 night he had revolved the affair of the trap-door, and a new 
 danger had alarmed him. It was possible that the enemy 
 might descend upon them through the trap-door. The room 
 had been built high, to admit a free circulation of air. It 
 was twenty feet high, so that it was in vain to think of 
 reaching to the trap-door. As soon as daylight appeared, 
 Archer rose softly, that he might reconnoitre, and devise- 
 some method of guarding against this new danger. Luckily 
 there were round holes in the top of the window-shutter, 
 which admitted sufficient light for him to work by. The 
 remains of the soaked feast, wet candles, and broken glass, 
 spread over the table in the middle of the room, looked 
 rather dismal this morning. 
 
 " A pretty set of fellows I have to manage I" said Archer, 
 contemplating the group of sleepers before him. " It is 
 well they have somebody to think for them. Now, if I 
 wanted which, thank goodness, I don't but if I did 
 want to call a cabinet-council to my assistance, whom could 
 I pitch upon? Not this stupid snorer, who is dreaming of 
 gipsies, if he is dreaming of anything," continued Archer, 
 as he looked into Fisher's open mouth. 
 
BARRING OUT. 467 
 
 " This next chap is quick enough, but then he is so fond 
 of having everything his own way. 
 
 " And this curl-pated monkey who is grinning in his sleep 
 is all tongue and no brains. 
 
 " Here are brains, though nobody would think it, in thia 
 lump," said he, looking at a fat, rolled up, heavy-breathing 
 sleeper; "but what signify brains to such a lazy dog? 1 
 might kick him for my foot-ball this half-hour, before I 
 should get him awake. 
 
 " This lank-jawed harlequin beside him is a handy fel- 
 low, to be sure ; but then, if he has hands, he has no head 
 and he 'd be afraid of his own shadow, too, by this light, 
 he is such a coward ! 
 
 " And Townsend, why he has puns in plenty ; but when 
 there 's any work to be done, he 's the worst fellow to be 
 near one in the world he can do nothing but laugh at his 
 own puns. 
 
 " This poor little fellow, that we hunted into the corner, 
 has more sense than all of them put together, but then 
 he 's a Greybeard." 
 
 Thus speculated the chief of a party upon his sleeping 
 friends. And how did it happen, that he should be so ambi- 
 tious to please and govern this set, when for each individual 
 of which it was composed he felt such supreme contempt? 
 He had formed them into a party, had given theai a name, 
 and he was at their head. If these be not good reasons, 
 none better can be assigned for Archer's conduct. 
 
 " I wish ye could all sleep on," said he ; " but I must 
 waken ye, though ye will only be in my way. The sound 
 of my hammering must waken them, so I may as well do 
 the thing, and natter some of them by pretending to ask 
 their advice." 
 
 Accordingly he pulled two or three to waken them. 
 " Come, Townsend ! waken, my boy ! Here 's some diver- 
 sion for you up! up!" 
 
 " Diversion !" cried Townsend ; " I 'm your man 1 I 'm 
 up up to anything !" 
 
468 BARRING OUT. 
 
 So, under the name of diversion, Archer set Townsend to 
 work at four o'clock in the morning. They had nails, a few 
 tools, and several spars still left from the wreck of the play- 
 house. These, by Archer's directions, they sharpened at 
 one end, and nailed them to the ends of several forms. All 
 hands were now called to clear away the supper things, and 
 to erect these forms perpendicularly under the trap-door ; 
 and with the assistance of a few braces, a cheval-de-frise 
 was formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend. 
 At the farthest end of the room they likewise formed a pent- 
 house of the tables, under which they proposed to breakfast, 
 secure from the pelting storm, if it should again assail them 
 through the trap-door. They crowded under the pent-house 
 as soon as it was ready, and their admiration of its inge- 
 nuity paid the workmen for the job. 
 
 " Lord ! I shall like to see the gardener's phiz through 
 the trap-door, when he beholds the spikes under him !" 
 cried Townsend. " Now for breakfast !" 
 
 " Ay, now for breakfast," said Archer, looking at his 
 watch ; " past eight o'clock, and my town-boys not come ! 
 I do n't understand this." 
 
 Archer had expected a constant supply of provision from 
 two boys who lived in the town, who were cousins of his, 
 and who had promised to come every day, and put food in 
 at a certain hole in the wall, in which a ventilator usually 
 turned. This ventilator Archer had taken down, and had 
 contrived it so that it could be easily removed and replaced 
 at pleasure ; but upon examination it was now perceived 
 that the hole had been newly stopped up by an iron back, 
 which it was impossible to penetrate or remove. 
 
 " It never came into my head, that anybody would ever 
 have thought of the ventilator but myself," exclaimed 
 Archer, in great perplexity. He listened, and waited for 
 his cousins, but no cousins came ; and, at a late hour, the 
 company were obliged to breakfast upon the scattered frag- 
 ments of the last night's feast. That feast ^had been spread 
 
BARRING OUT. 469 
 
 with such imprudent profusion, that little now remained to 
 satisfy the hungry guests. Archer, who well knew the effect 
 which the apprehension of a scarcity would have upon his 
 associates, did everything that could be done by a bold 
 countenance and reiterated assertions, to persuade them 
 that his cousins would certainly come at last, and that the 
 supplies were only delayed. The delay, however, was 
 alarming. 
 
 Fisher alone heard the manager's calculations and saw 
 the public fears unmoved. Secretly rejoicing in his own 
 wisdom, he walked from window to window, slyly listening 
 for the gipsy's signal. " There it is 1" cried he, with more 
 joy sparkling in his eyes than had ever enlightened them 
 before. " Come this way, Archer ; but do n't tell anybody. 
 Hark ! do you hear those three taps at the window ? This 
 is the old woman with twelve buns for me. I will give you 
 one whole one for yourself, if you will unbar the window 
 for me." 
 
 " Unbar the window !" interrupted Archer ; " no, that I 
 won't, for you or the gipsy either ; but I have had enough 
 to get your buns without that. But stay, there is something 
 of more consequence than your twelve buns I must think 
 for ye all, I see, regularly." 
 
 So he summoned a council, and proposed that every one 
 should subscribe, and trust the subscription to the gipsy, to 
 purchase a fresh supply of provision. Archer laid down a 
 guinea of his own for his subscription ; at which sight all 
 the company clapped their hands, and his popularity rose 
 to a high pitch with their renewed hopes of plenty. Now, 
 having made a list of their wants, they folded the money 
 in the paper, put it into a bag, which Archer tied to a long 
 string, and having broken the pane of glass behind the 
 round hole in the window-shutter, he let down the bag to 
 the gipsy. She promised to be punctual ; and having filled 
 the bag with Fisher's twelve buns, they were drawn up with 
 triumph, and everybody anticipated the pleasure with which 
 
470 BARRING OUT. 
 
 they should see the same bag drawn up at dinner-time. The 
 buns were a little squeezed in being drawn through the 
 hole in the window-shutter ; but Archer immediately sawed 
 out a piece of the shutter, and broke the corresponding 
 panes in each of the other windows to prevent suspicion, 
 and to make it appear that they had all been broken to 
 admit the air. 
 
 What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been 
 employed to no purpose ! It may have surprised the intel- 
 ligent reader, that the gipsy was so punctual to her promise 
 to Fisher ; but we must recollect that her apparent integrity 
 was only cunning ; she was punctual, that she might be 
 employed again that she might be intrusted with the con- 
 tribution which, she foresaw, must be raised among the 
 famishing garrison. No sooner had she received the money 
 than her end was gained. 
 
 Dinner-time came it struck three, four, .five, six. They 
 listened with hungry ears, but no signal was heard. The 
 morning had been very long, and Archer had in vain tried 
 to dissuade them from devouring the remainder of the pro- 
 vision before they were sure of a fresh supply. And now, 
 those who had been the most confident, were the most impa- 
 tient of their disappointment. 
 
 Archer, in the division of the food, had attempted, by the 
 most scrupulous exactness, to content the public ; and he 
 was both astonished and provoked to perceive that his 
 impartiality was impeached. So differently do people judge 
 in different situations. He was the first person to accuse 
 his master of injustice, and the least capable of bearing 
 such an imputation upon himself from others. He now 
 experienced some of the joys of power, and the delight of 
 managing unreasonable numbers. 
 
 " Have not I done everything I could to please ye ? Have 
 not I spent my money to buy ye food ? Have not I divided 
 the last morsel with ye? I have not tasted one mouthful 
 to-day ! Did not I set to work for ye at sunrise ? Did not 
 
BARRING OUT. 471 
 
 I lie awake all night for ye ? Have not I had all the labour, 
 all the anxiety ? Look round and see my contrivances, my 
 work, my generosity ! And, after all, you think me a tyrant, 
 because I want you to have common sense. Is not this bun 
 which I hold in my hand my own? Did not I earn it by 
 my own ingenuity from that selfish dunce " (pointing to 
 Fisher), " who could never have gotten one of his twelve 
 buns, if I had not shown him how? Eleven of them he has 
 eaten since morning for his own share, without offering any 
 mortal a morsel ; but I scorn to cat even that which is justly 
 my own, when I see so many hungry creatures longing for 
 it. I was not going to touch this last morsel myself; I only 
 begged you to keep it till supper-time, when, perhaps, you '11 
 want it more ; and Townsend, who can't bear the slightest 
 thing that crosses his whims, and who thinks there 's 
 nothing in this world to be minded but his own diversions, 
 calls me a tyrant. You all of you promised to obey me 
 the first thing I ask you to do for your own good, and when, 
 if you had common sense, you must know I can want 
 nothing but your good, you rebel against me. Traitors ! 
 Fools ! Ungrateful fools !" 
 
 Archer walked up and down, unable to command his 
 enaction, while, for the moment, the discontented multitude 
 was silenced. 
 
 " Here," said he, striking his hand upon the little boy's 
 shoulder, " here's the only one among ye who has not uttered 
 one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one 
 bit of bread a bit that I gave him myself this day. 
 Here !" said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared 
 to touch, "take it it's mine I give it to you, though 
 you are a Greybeard you deserve it eat it and be an 
 Archer. You shall be my captain will you?" said he, 
 lifting him up in his arms above the rest. 
 
 "I like you now," said the little boy, courageously; "but 
 I love De Grey better ; he has always been my friend, and 
 he advised me never to call myself any of those names, 
 
472 BARRING OUT. 
 
 Archer or Greybeard, and so I won't ; though I am shut in 
 here, I have nothing to do with it. I love Dr. Middleton ; 
 he was never unjust to me; and I dare say that he has very 
 good reasons, as De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into 
 that house besides, it's his own." 
 
 Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this 
 lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun 
 out of his hands. He flung it at the hole in the window, 
 but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher 
 ate it. 
 
 Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done 
 handsomely in suffering it. A few moments ago he had 
 admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the 
 injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any. He 
 turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one 
 end of the table, hid his face in his hands. He continued 
 immoveable in this posture for some time. 
 
 " Why I" said Townsend, " it was an excellent joke !" 
 
 " Pooh !" said Fisher, " what a fool to think so much 
 about a bun !" 
 
 " Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me," 
 said the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his 
 face. 
 
 Archer stooped down, and lifted him upon the table ; at 
 which sight the enraged partisans set up a general hiss 
 " He has forsaken us ! He deserts his party 1 he wants to 
 be a Greybeard ! After he has got us all into this scrape, 
 he will leave us I" 
 
 " I am not going to leave you," cried Archer. " No one 
 shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I '11 stick by 
 the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment : 
 but this little fellow take it as you please ; mutiny if you 
 will, and throw me out of the window ; call me traitor, 
 coward, Greybeard this little fellow is worth you all put 
 together, and I '11 stand by him against whoever dares to 
 lay a finger upon him : and the next morsel of food that I 
 see shall be his ; touch him who dares." 
 
BARRING OUT. 473 
 
 The commanding air with which Archer spoke and 
 looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his pro- 
 tection, silenced the crowd : but the storm was only hushed. 
 
 No sound of merriment was now to be heard no battle- 
 dore and shuttlecock, no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a 
 corner, whispering their wishes, that Archer would unbar 
 the doors and give up. Others, stretching their arms and 
 gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for 
 air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such 
 firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up 
 to utter despair. It was eight o'clock, growing darker and 
 darker every minute, and no candles, no light, could they 
 have. The prospect of another long dark night made them 
 still moie discontented. Townsend at the head of the 
 yawners, and Fisher at the head of the hungry malecon- 
 tents, gathered around Archer, and a few yet unconquered 
 spirits, demanding how long he meant to keep them in this 
 dark dungeon, and whether he expected that they should 
 starve themselves to death for his sake. 
 
 The idea of giving up was more intolerable to Archer 
 than all the rest; he saw that the majority, his own con- 
 vincing argument, was against him. He was therefore 
 obliged to condescend to the arts of persuasion. He flat- 
 tered some with hopes of food from the town-boys. Some 
 he reminded of their promises, others he praised for former 
 prowess ; and others he shamed by the repetition of their 
 high vaunts in the beginning of the business. 
 
 It was at length resolved that at all events they would 
 hold out. With this determination they stretched them- 
 selves again to sleep for the second night, in weak and 
 weary obstinacy. 
 
 Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next 
 morning, and when he awoke he found his hands tied 
 behind him. Three or four boys had just gotten hold of his 
 feet, which they pressed down, while the trembling hands 
 of Fisher were fastening the cord round them. With all 
 
474 BAR 11 ING OUT. 
 
 the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and 
 roared to " his Archers" his friends, his party ! for 
 help against the traitors. 
 
 But all,kept aloof. Townsend, in particular, stood laugh- 
 ing, and looking on. " I beg your pardon, Archer, but 
 really you look so droll ! All alive and kicking ! Do n't 
 be angry I'm so weak I cannot help laughing to-day." 
 
 The packthread cracked "His hands are free! He's 
 loose !" cried the least of the boys, and ran away, while 
 Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a power- 
 ful grasp, sternly demanded what he meant by this. 
 
 " Ask my party," said Fisher, terrified ; " they set me on ; 
 ask my party." 
 
 " Your party !" cried Archer, with a look of ineffable 
 contempt. " You reptile ! your party ! Can such a thing 
 as you have a party ?" 
 
 " To be sure," said Fisher, settling his collar, which 
 Archer, in his surprise, had let go "To be sure Why 
 not? Any man who chooses it may have a party, as well 
 as yourself, I suppose I have my nine Fishermen." 
 
 At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, 
 Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing 
 "Fishermen!" cried he; "Fishermen!" "And why not 
 Fishermen as well as Archers ?" cried they ; " one party is 
 just as good as another ; it is only a question which can 
 get the upper-hand; and we had your hands tied just 
 now." 
 
 " That 's right, Townsend," said Archer ; " laugh on, my 
 boy 1 Friend or foe, it 's all the same to you. I know how 
 to value your friendship now. You are a mighty good fel- 
 low when the sun shines ; but let a storm come, and how 
 you slink away !" 
 
 At this instant Archer felt the difference between a good 
 companion and a good friend ; a difference which some peo- 
 t>le do not discover till too late in life. 
 
 " Have I no friend ? no real friend among ye all ? And 
 
BARRING OUT. 475 
 
 could ye stand by and see my hands tied behind me, like a 
 thief's ? What signifies such a party ? All mute." 
 
 " We want something to eat," answered the Fishermen. 
 ''What signifies such a party, indeed? and such a man- 
 ager, who can do nothing for one ?" 
 
 "And have I done nothing?" 
 
 " Do n't let 's hear any more prosing," said Fisher ; " we 
 are too many for you. I've advised my party, if they've 
 a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, 
 as you were ; and Dr. Middleton will let us all off, I dare 
 ,say." 
 
 So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, 
 he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of, " No ! 
 no ! no ! do n't tie him !" was feebly raised. 
 
 Archer stood still ; but the moment Fisher touched him, 
 he knocked him down to the ground ; and turning to the 
 rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, " Archers I" 
 cried he. 
 
 A voice at this instant was heard at the door it was De 
 Grey's voice "I have a large basket of provision for your 
 breakfast." 
 
 A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious 
 public " Breakfast ! Provision ! A large basket ! 
 De Grey for ever ! Huzza I" 
 
 De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would 
 unbar the door, nobody should come in with him, and no 
 advantage should be taken of them. This promise was 
 enough, even for Archer. 
 
 " I will let him in," said he, " myself, for I 'm sure he 
 will never break his word." 
 
 He pulled away the bar the door opened and having 
 bargained for the liberty of Melsom (tho little boy who had 
 been shut in by mistake), De Grey pushed in his basket of 
 provision, and locked and barred the door instantly. 
 
 Joy and gratitude sparkled in every face, when he 
 unpacked his basket, and spread the table with a plentiful 
 
476 BARRING OUT. 
 
 breakfast. A hundred questions were asked him at once 
 " Eat first," said he, " and we will talk afterward." This 
 business was quickly despatched by people who had not 
 tasted food for several hours. Their curiosity increased as 
 their hunger diminished. "Who sent us breakfast? Does 
 Dr. Middleton know ?" were questions reiterated from every 
 mouth. 
 
 "He does know," answered De Grey; "and the first 
 thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. 
 I am to stay here till you give up. This was the only con- 
 dition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you 
 food, and he will allow no more." 
 
 Every one looked at the empty basket. But Archer, in 
 whom half-famished party spirit revived with the strength, 
 he had gotten from his breakfast, broke into exclamations 
 in praise of De Grey's magnanimity, as he now imagined 
 that De Grey was become one of themselves. 
 
 "And you will join us, will you? that's a noble fel- 
 low!" 
 
 " No," answered De Grey, calmly, " but I hope to per- 
 suade, or rather to convince you, that you ought to join me." 
 
 " You would have found it no hard task to persuade or 
 convince us, whichever you pleased," said Townsend, " if 
 you had appealed to Archers fasting ; but Archers feasting 
 are quite other animals. Even Caesar himself, after break- 
 fast, is quite another thing !" added he, pointing to Archer. 
 
 " You may speak for yourself, Mr. Townsend," replied 
 the insulted hero, " but not for me, or for Archers in gene- 
 ral, if you please. We unbarred the door upon the faith 
 of De Grey's promise that was not giving up. And it 
 would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade 
 or convince me either, that I should give up against iny 
 honour before breakfast, as after." 
 
 This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had 
 now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not so Fisher, whose 
 memory was upon this occasion very distinct. 
 
BARRING OUT. 477 
 
 " "What nonsense," and the orator paused for a synony- 
 mous expression, but none "was at hand "what nonsense 
 and nonsense is here! Why, don't you remember that 
 dinner-time, supper-time, and breakfast-time will come 
 again ? So, what signifies mouthing about persuading and 
 convincing. We will not go through again what we did 
 yesterday. Honour me no honour, I do n't understand it. 
 I 'd rather be flogged at once, as I 've been many 's the good 
 time for a less thing. I say, we 'd better all be flogged at 
 once, which must be the end of it, sooner or later, than wait 
 here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only 
 because Mr. Archer won't give up, because of his honour 
 and nonsense I" 
 
 Many prudent faces among the Fishermen seemed to 
 deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the argu- 
 ments were brought so " home to each man's business and 
 bosom." 
 
 " But," said De Grey, " when we yield, I hope it will not 
 be merely to get our dinner, gentlemen. When we yield, 
 Archer " 
 
 " Do n't address yourself to me," interrupted Archer, 
 struggling with his pride ; " you have no farther occasion 
 to try to win me I have no power, no party, you see ! 
 and now I find that I have no friends, I do n't care what 
 becomes of myself. I suppose I 'm to be given up as ring- 
 leader. Here 's this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, 
 were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked 
 him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey ; and now, 
 perhaps, you will join Fisher's party against me." 
 
 De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention 
 of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared in 
 Archer's countenance. 
 
 " Silence !" cried Archer, in an imperious tone ; and there 
 was silence. Some one was heard to whistle the beginning 
 of a tune that was perfectly new to everybody present, 
 except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion 
 
478 BARRING OUT. 
 
 " There 1" cried he, looking at De Grey with triumph, 
 " that 's a method of holding secret correspondence, while 
 a prisoner, which I learned from ' Richard Occur de Lion.' 
 I know how to make use of everything. Holloa, friend, 
 are you there at last ?" cried he, going to the ventilator. 
 
 " Yes, but we are barred out here." 
 
 "Round to the window, then, and fill your bag; we'll 
 let it down, my lad, in a trice bar me out who can." 
 
 Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, 
 and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. " Pull 
 away make haste," said the voice without ; " the gardener 
 will come from dinner else, and we shall be caught. He 
 mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator ; and, though 
 I watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near 
 you. I do n't know what has taken him out of the way 
 now make haste, pull away." 
 
 The heavy bag was soon pulled up " Have you any 
 more ?" said Archer. 
 
 " Yes, plenty let down quick : I 've got the tailor's bag 
 full, which is three times as large as yours ; and I 've 
 changed clothes with the tailor's boy, so nobody took notice 
 of me as I came down the street. 
 
 " There's my own cousin I" exclaimed Archer, " there's 
 a noble fellow ! there 's my own cousin, I acknowledge. 
 Fill the bag, then." 
 
 Several times the long bag descended and ascended ; and 
 at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were 
 heard. " I have no more 1" at length the boy with the 
 tailor's bag cried. 
 
 " Off with you, then ; we 've enough, thank you." 
 
 A delightful review was now made of their treasure ; 
 busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass 
 Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknow- 
 ledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in prospe- 
 rity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of 
 his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a 
 
BARKING OUT. 479 
 
 more good-natured and more thoughtful air: "Friend," said 
 he, " you look like a great philosopher, and Archer like a 
 great hero." 
 
 " And you, Townsend," said Archer, " may look like a 
 wit, if you will ; but you will never be a hero." 
 
 " No, no," replied Townsend, " wits are never heroes, 
 because they are wits you are out of your wits, and there- 
 fore may set up for a hero." 
 
 " Laugh and welcome I 'm not a tyrant. I do n't want 
 to restrain anybody's wit ; but I cannot say I admire puns." 
 
 " Nor I neither," said the time-serving Fisher, fiddling 
 up to the manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plum- 
 cake "nor I neither; I hate puns. I can never under- 
 stand Townsend's puns : besides, anybody can make puns; 
 and one doesn't want wit either at all times ; for instance, 
 when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of con- 
 sequence. Bless us all, Archer," continued he, with sudden 
 familiarity, " what a sight of good things are here ! I 'm sure 
 we are much obliged to you and your cousin I never 
 thought he 'd have come. Why now we can hold out as 
 long as you please. Let us see," said he, dividing the pro- 
 vision upon the table, " we can hold out to-day, and all 
 to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe. Why now we 
 may defy the doctor and the Greybeards and the doctor 
 will surely give up to us, for, you see, he knows nothing of 
 all this, and he '11 think we are starving all this while ; and 
 he 'd be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for 
 three whole days, because of what would be said in the 
 town. My aunt Barbara, for one, would be at him, long 
 before that time was out ; and, besides, you know, in that 
 there case, he'd be hanged for murder, which is quite ano> 
 ther thing, in law, from a barring out, you know." 
 
 Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention 
 which it deserved ; for his eye was fixed upon De Grey 
 " What is De Grey thinking of?" he asked impatiently. 
 
 "I am thinking," said De Grey, "that Dr. Middleton 
 
480 BARRING OUT. 
 
 must believe that I have betrayed his confidence in me 
 The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one 
 half-hour when I was admitted ; this half-hour the gardener 
 has made nearly an hour. I never would have come among 
 you if I had foreseen all this. Dr. Middleton trusted me, 
 and now he will repent of his confidence in me." 
 
 "De Grey," cried Archer, with energy, "he shall not 
 repent of his confidence in you, nor shall you repent of 
 coming among us ; you shall find that we have some honour 
 as well as yourself: and I will take care of your honour, as 
 if it were my own !" 
 
 " Hey-day !" interrupted Townsend, " are heroes allowed 
 to change sides, pray ? And does the chief of the Archers 
 stand talking sentiments to the chief of the Greybeards ? 
 In the middle of his own party too 1" 
 
 " Party I" repeated Archer, disdainfully, " I have done 
 with parties ! I see what parties are made of. I have felt 
 the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if 
 I can." 
 
 " That you may do," said De Grey, stretching out his 
 hand. 
 
 " Unbar the doors ! unbar the windows I Away with all 
 these things ! I give up for De Grey's sake : he shall not 
 lose his credit on my account." 
 
 "No," said De Grey, "you shall not give up for my sake." 
 
 " Well, then, I '11 give up to do what is honourable," said 
 Archer. 
 
 " Why not to do what is reasonable ?" said De Grey. 
 
 Reasonable! 0, the first thing that a man of spirit 
 should think of is, what is honourahle." 
 
 " But how will he find out what is honourable, unless he 
 can reason ?" 
 
 " 0," said Archer, " his own feelings always tell him what 
 is honourable." 
 
 " Have not your feelings changed within these few hours " 
 
 " Yes, with circumstances ; but, right or wrong, as 
 
BARRING OUT. 481 
 
 long as I think it honourable to do so and so, I am satis- 
 fied." 
 
 " But you cannot think anything honourable, or the con- 
 trary, without reasoning ; and as to what you call feeling, 
 it 's only a quick sort of reasoning." 
 
 " The quicker the better," said Archer. 
 
 "Perhaps not," said De Grey; "we are apt to reason 
 best when we are not in quite so great a hurry." 
 
 "But," said Archer, "we have not always time enough 
 to reason at first." \ 
 
 "You must, however, acknowledge," replied De Grey, 
 smiling, " that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be 
 in the wrong at last. Is it not, therefore, best to begin by 
 reasoning, to find out the right at first?" 
 
 " To be sure." 
 
 "And did you reason with yourself at first? and did 
 you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of 
 his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into 
 one of his own houses ?" 
 
 " No ; but I should never have thought of heading a bar- 
 ring out, if he had not shown partiality ; and if yo.u had 
 flown into a passion with me openly, at once, for pulling 
 down your scenery, which would have been quite natural, 
 and not have gone slyly and forbid us the house, out of 
 revenge, there would have been none of this work." 
 
 " Why," said De Grey, " should you suspect me of such 
 a mean action, when you have never seen or known me do 
 anything mean, and when in this instance you have no 
 proofs ?" 
 
 " Will you give me your word and honour now, De Grey, 
 before everybody here, that you did not do what I sus- 
 pected ?" 
 
 " I do assure you, upon my honour, I never, directly or 
 indirectly, spoke to Dr. Middleton about the play-house." 
 
 " Then," said Archer, " I ; m as glad as if I had found a 
 thousand pounds ! Now you are my friend, indeed." 
 31 
 
482 BARBING OUT. 
 
 " And Dr. Middleton why should you suspect him with- 
 out reason, any more than me ?" 
 
 " As to that," said Archer, " he is your friend, and you 
 are right to defend him ; and I won't say another word 
 against him : will that satisfy you?" 
 
 " Not quite." 
 
 " Not quite ! Then, indeed, you are unreasonable." 
 
 "No, for I don't wish you to yield out of friendship to 
 me, any more than to honour. If you yield to reason, you 
 will be governed by reason another time." 
 
 "Well, but then don't triumph over me, because you 
 have the best side of the argument." 
 
 " Not 1 1 how can I ?" said De Grey ; " for now you 
 are on the best side as well as myself, are not you ? So we 
 may triumph together." 
 
 " You are a good friend !" said Archer, and with great 
 eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, while every 
 hand assisted. The room was restored to order in a few 
 minutes ; the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light 
 let in. The windows were thrown open, and the first feel- 
 ing of the fresh air was delightful. The green play-ground 
 appeared before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty 
 brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners. 
 
 But, alas ! they were not yet at liberty ! The idea of Dr. 
 Middleton and the dread of his vengeance, smote their 
 hearts ! When the rebels had sent an ambassador with 
 their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, wait- 
 ing for their doom. " Ah I" said Fisher, looking up at the 
 broken panes in the windows, " the doctor will think the 
 most of that he'll never forgive us for that." 
 
 "Hush! here he comes!" His steady step was heard 
 approaching nearer and nearer ! Archer threw open the 
 door, and Dr. Middleton entered. Fisher instantly fell on 
 his knees. 
 
 " It is no delight to me to see people on their knees : 
 stand up, Mr. Fisher. I hope you are all conscious that 
 jou have done wrong." 
 
BARRING OUT. 483 
 
 " Sir," said Archer, " they are conscious that they have 
 done wrong, and so am I. I am the ringleader punish 
 me as you think proper I submit. Your punishments, 
 your vengeance, ought to fall on me alone." 
 
 " Sir," said Dr. Middleton, calmly, " I perceive that, 
 whatever else you may have learned in the course of your 
 education, you have not been taught the meaning of the 
 word punishment. Punishment and vengeance do not, with 
 us, mean the same thing. Punishment is pain given with 
 the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is 
 inflicted from doing in future what will hurt themselves or 
 others. Vengeance never looks to the future, but it is the 
 expression of anger for an injury that is past. I feel no 
 anger you have done me no injury." 
 
 Here many of the little boys looked timidly up at the 
 windows. 
 
 "Yes, I see that you have broken my windows; that is 
 a small evil." 
 
 " 0, sir, how good ! how merciful !" exclaimed those who 
 had been most panic-struck ; " he forgives us !" 
 
 " Stay," resumed Dr. Middleton, " I cannot forgive you 
 I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish. You 
 have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary 
 to conduct and govern you, while you have not sufficient 
 reason to conduct and govern yourselves. Without obedi- 
 ence to your master, as children, you cannot be educated. 
 Without obedience to the laws," added he, turning to 
 Archer, " as men, you cannot be suffered in society. You, 
 sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it a 
 part of a man not to submit to the will of another. I have 
 no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, 
 submit to my will; but my reason and experience are supe- 
 rior to yours your parents at least think so, or they would 
 Hot have intrusted me with the care of your education. As 
 long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I 
 have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punish- 
 
484 BARRING OUT. 
 
 ment, I shall steadily inflict it -whenever I judge it to be 
 necessary, and I judge it to be necessary now. This is a 
 long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own 
 eloquence, but to convince your understanding. Now, as 
 to your punishment." 
 
 "Name it, sir," said Archer; "whatever it is, I will 
 cheerfully submit to it." 
 
 " Name it yourself," said Dr. Middleton, " and show me 
 that you now understand the nature of punishment." 
 
 Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, 
 and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was 
 silent for some time, but at length replied, that he would 
 rather not name his own punishment. He repeated, how- 
 ever, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it 
 might be. 
 
 " I shall then," said Dr. Middleton, " deprive you for two 
 months of pocket-money, as you have had too much, and 
 have made a bad use of it." 
 
 " Sir," said Archer, " I brought five guineas with me to 
 school this guinea is all that I have left." 
 
 Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered 
 him with a look of approbation, and told him that it should 
 be applied to the repairs of the schoolroom. The rest of 
 the boys waited in silence for the doctor's sentence against 
 them, but not with those looks of abject fear with which 
 boys usually expect the sentence of a schoolmaster. 
 
 " You shall return from the play-ground, all of you," said 
 Dr. Middleton, " one quarter of an hour sooner, for two 
 months to come, than the rest of your companions. A bell 
 shall ring at the appointed time. I give you an opportu- 
 nity of recovering my confidence by your punctuality." 
 
 " 0, sir, we will come the instant, the very instant the 
 bell rings you shall have confidence in us," cried they, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I deserve your confidence, I hope," said Dr. Middleton, 
 " for it is my first wish to make you all happy. You do 
 
BARKING OUT. 485 
 
 not know the pain that it has cost me, to deprive you of 
 lood for so many hours." 
 
 Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where 
 they had deposited their last supplies. Archer delivered 
 them up to the doctor, proud to show that they were not 
 reduced to obedience merely by necessity. 
 
 " The reason," resumed Dr. Middleton, having now 
 returned to the usual benignity of his manner, "the 
 reason why I desired that none of you should go to that 
 building " (pointing out of the window) " was this : I had 
 been informed that a gang of gipsies had slept there the 
 night before I spoke to you, one of whom was dangerously 
 ill of a putrid fever. I did not choose to mention my rea- 
 son to you at that time, for fear of alarming you or your 
 friends. I have had the place cleaned, and you may return 
 to it when you please. The gipsies were yesterday removed 
 from the town." 
 
 " De Grey, you were in the right," whispered Archer, 
 " and it was I that was unjust." 
 
 " The old woman," continued the doctor, " whom you 
 employed to buy food, has escaped the fever, but she has 
 not escaped a jail, whither she was sent yesterday, for hav- 
 ing defrauded you of your money. 
 
 " Mr. Fisher," said Dr. Middleton, " as to you, I shall not 
 punish you ! I have no hope of making you either wiser 
 or better. Do you know this paper?" 
 
 The paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder- 
 box. 
 
 " I desired him to buy those things, sir," said Archer, 
 colouring. 
 
 " And did you desire him to pay for them ?" 
 
 " No," said Archer, " he had half a crown on purpose to 
 pay for them." 
 
 " I know he had ; but he chose to apply it to his own 
 private use, and gave it to the gipsy, to buy twelve buns for 
 hia own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and 
 
486 BARRING OUT. 
 
 candles, he made use of this name," said he, turning to the 
 other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey's name, 
 which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey's 
 exenises. 
 
 " I assure you, sir," cried Archer 
 
 " You need not assure me, sir," said Dr. Middleton ; " I 
 cannot suspect a boy of your temper of having any part in 
 so base an action. "When the people in the shop refused 
 to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, 
 he made use of De Grey's name, who was known there. 
 Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the 
 tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circumstance. 
 Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain, 
 as I felt for a moment when I suspected that De Grey was 
 concerned in it." 
 
 A loud cry, in which Archer's voice was heard most dis- 
 tinctly, declared De Grey's innocence. Dr. Middleton looked 
 round at their eager honest faces with benevolent approba- 
 tion. 
 
 "Archer," said he, taking him by the hand, "I am 
 heartily glad to see that you have gotten the better of your 
 party spirit I wish you may keep such a friend as you 
 have now beside you. One such friend is worth two such 
 parties." 
 
 "As for you, Mr. Fisher depart you must neyer 
 return hither again." 
 
 In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for 
 him. Everybody turned away with contempt, and he 
 sneaked out, whimpering, in a doleful voice, " What shall 
 I say to my aunt Barbara I" 
 
Extract from the Courier, May, 1799. 
 
 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 "YESTERDAY this triennial ceremony took place, with 
 which the public are too well acquainted to require a par- 
 ticular description. A collection, called Salt, is taken from 
 the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of 
 the School in his studies at Cambridge. This collection is 
 made by the scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round 
 the country. 
 
 " At eleven o'clock, the youths being assembled in their 
 habiliments at the College, the Royal Family set off from 
 the Castle to see them, and, after walking round the Court 
 Yard, they proceeded to Salt Hill in the following order : 
 
 "His Majesty, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, 
 and the Earl of Uxbridge. 
 
 " Their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and Cum- 
 berland, Earl Morton, and General Gwynne, all on horse- 
 back, dressed in the Windsor uniform, except the Prince of 
 Wales, who wore a suit of dark blue, and a brown surtout 
 over. 
 
 " Then followed the Scholars, preceded by the Marechal 
 Serjeants, the Musicians of the Staffordshire Band, and 
 Mr. Ford, Captain of the Seminary, the Serjeant-Major, 
 Serjeants, Colonels, Corporals, Musicians, Ensign, Lieute- 
 nant, Steward, Salt-Bearers, Polemen, and Runners. 
 
 (487) 
 
488 ETON MONT EM. 
 
 " The cavalcade being brought up by Her Majesty and 
 her amiable daughters in two carriages, and a numerous 
 company of equestrians and pedestrians, all eager to behold 
 their Sovereign and his family. Among the former Lady 
 Lade was foremost in the throng ; only two others dared 
 venture their persons on horseback in such a multitude. 
 
 "The King and Royal Family were stopped on Eton 
 Bridge by Messrs. Young and Mansfield, the Salt-Bearers, 
 to whom their Majesties delivered their customary donation 
 of fifty guineas each. 
 
 " At Salt Hill, His Majesty, with his usual affability, took 
 upon himself to arrange the procession round the Royal 
 carriages ; and even when the horses were taken off, with 
 the assistance of the Duke of Kent, fastened the traces 
 round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any inconveni- 
 ence. 
 
 "An exceeding heavy shower of rain coming on, the 
 Prince took leave, and went to the Windmill Inn till it sub- 
 sided. The King and his attendants weathered it out in 
 their great-coats. 
 
 "After the young gentlemen had walked round the car- 
 riage, Ensign Vince, and the SaltrBearers, proceeded to the 
 summit of the hill ; but, the wind being boisterous, he could 
 not exhibit his dexterity in displaying his flag, and the 
 space being too small before the carriages, from the con- 
 course of spectators, the King kindly acquiesced in not 
 having it displayed under such inconvenience. 
 
 " Their Majesties and the Princesses then returned home, 
 the King occasionally stopping to converse with the Dean 
 of Windsor, the Earl of Harrington, and other Noblemen. 
 
 " The Scholars partook of an elegant dinner at the Wind- 
 mill Inn, and in the evening walked on Windsor-Terrace. 
 
 " Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Duke 
 of Cumberland, after taking leave of their Majesties, set 
 off for town, and honoured the Opera House with their pre- 
 sence in the evening. 
 
ETON M N T E M . 489 
 
 " The profit arising from the Salt collected, according to 
 account, amounted to above 800Z. 
 
 " The Stadtholder, the Duke of Gordon, Lord and Lady 
 Melbourne, Viscount Brome, and a numerous train of fash- 
 ionable Nobility were present. 
 
 " The following is an account of their dresses, made, as 
 usual, very handsomely, by Mrs. Snow, milliner, of Wind- 
 sor: 
 
 " Mr. Ford, Captain, with eight gentlemen to attend him 
 
 as servitors. 
 
 " Mr. Sergeant, Marechal. 
 " Mr. Brandrith, Colonel. 
 " Mr. Plumtree, Lieutenant. 
 "Mr. Vince, Ensign. 
 " Mr. Young, College Salt-Bearer : white and gold dress, 
 
 rich satin bag, covered with gold netting. 
 "Mr. Mansfield, Oppident, white, purple, and orange 
 dress, trimmed with silver ; rich satin bag, purple 
 and silver : each carrying elegant poles, with gold 
 and silver cord. 
 "Mr. Keity, yellow and black velvet, helmet trimmed 
 
 with silver. 
 "Mr. Bartelot, plain mantle and sandals, Scotch bonnet, 
 
 a very Douglas. 
 
 " Mr. Knapp, flesh-colour and blue ; Spanish hat and fea- 
 thers. 
 
 " Mr. Ripley, rose-colour ; helmet. 
 "Mr. Islip (being in mourning), a scarf; helmet, black 
 
 velvet ; and white satin. 
 " Mr. Tomkins, violet and silver ; helmet. 
 " Mr. Thackeray, lilac and silver ; Roman cap. 
 " Mr. Drury, Mazarin blue ; fancy cap. 
 " Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw. 
 " Mr. Routh, pink and silver ; Spanish hat. 
 " Mr. Curtis, purple ; fancy cap. 
 " Mr. Lloyd, blue ; 'ditto. 
 
490 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 " At the conclusion of the ceremony, the Royal family 
 returned to Windsor, and the boys were all sumptuously 
 entertained at the tavern, at Salt Hill. About six in the 
 evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and 
 inarching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed. 
 The captain then paid his respects to the Royal family, at 
 the Queen's Lodge, Windsor, previous to his departure for 
 King's College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the 
 produce of the Montem was presented to him. 
 
 " The day concluded by a brilliant promenade of beauty, 
 rank, and fashion, on Windsor Terrace, enlivened by the 
 performance of several bands of music. 
 
 " The origin of the procession is from the custom by 
 which the Manor was held. 
 
 " The custom of hunting the Ram belonged to Eton Col- 
 lege, as well as the custom of Salt ; but it was discontinued 
 by Dr. Crook, late Dean of Ely. Now this custom we know 
 to have been entered on the register of the Royal Abbey of 
 Bee, in Normandy, as one belonging to the Manor of East 
 or Great Wrotham in Norfolk, given by Ralph De Toni to 
 the Abbey of Bee, and was as follows : When the harvest 
 was finished, the tenants were to have half an acre of bar- 
 ley, and a ram let loose, and if they caught him, he was 
 their own to make merry with, but if he escaped from them, 
 he was the lord's. The Etonians, in order to secure the 
 ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked 
 him with great clubs. The cruelty of this proceeding 
 brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer. See 
 Register of the Royal Abbey of Bee, folio 58. 
 
 " After the dissolution of the alien priories, in 1414, by 
 the Parliament of Leicester, they remained in the Crown 
 till Henry VI., who gave Wrotham Manor to Eton College ; 
 and if the Eton Fellows would search, they would perhaps 
 find the Manor in their possession that was held by the cus- 
 tom of Salt." 
 
ETON MONTEM. 491 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal. 
 Lord John, 
 
 ' Young Gentlemen of Eton, from 17 to 19 
 
 of 
 
 RoryO'Ryan 
 
 Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill. 
 
 Farmer Hearty. 
 
 A Waiter, and Crowd of Eton Lads. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 The Marchioness of Pieroefield, Mother of Lord John. 
 Lady Violetta, her Daughter, a Child of six or seven years 
 
 old. 
 
 Mrs. Talbot. 
 
 Louisa Talbot, her Daughter. 
 Miss Bursal, Daughter to the Alderman. 
 Mrs. Newington, Landlady of the Inn at Salt Hill. 
 Sally, a Chambermaid. 
 Patty, a Country Girl. 
 Pipe and labour, and Dance of Peasants. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 
 
 ACT L SCENE I. 
 
 The Bar of the Windmill Inn, at Salt Hitt. 
 MB. and MRS. NEWINGTON, the Landlord and Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. 'T is an impossibility, Mr. Newington, and 
 that *s enough. Say no more about it ; 'T is an unpossi- 
 bility in the natur of things. (She ranges jellies, &c., in 
 the Bar.} And pray do take your old-fashioned tankard, 
 Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectiona- 
 ries. 
 
 Landlord, (takes his tankard and drinks.} Anything for 
 a quiet life. If it is an unpossibility, I 've no more to say ; 
 only, for the soul of me, I can't see the great unpossibility, 
 wife. 
 
 Landlady. Wife, indeed ! Wife ! wife ! wife every 
 minute. 
 
 Landlord. Heyday 1 Why, what a plague would you 
 have me call you ? The other day you quarrelled with me 
 for calling you Mrs. Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. To be sure I did, and very proper in me I 
 should. I 've turned off three waiters and five chamber- 
 maids already for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady I Mrs. 
 Landlady I But 't is all your ill manners. 
 
 Landlord. Ill manners ! Why, if I may be so bold, if 
 you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what 
 are you ? 
 
 (492) 
 
ETON MONTEM. 493 
 
 Landlady. Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington. 
 
 Landlord, (drinks.) Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newingtos 
 drinks your health ; for I suppose I must not be landlord 
 no more in my own house, (shrugs.) 
 
 Landlady. 0, as to that, I have no objections nor impedi- 
 ments to your being called Landlord: you look it, and 
 become it very proper. 
 
 Landlord. Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look 
 it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it: but every 
 one to their mind, as you, wife, do n't fancy being called 
 Mrs. Landlady. 
 
 Landlady. To be sure I do n't. Why, when folks hear 
 the old-fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady ! Mrs. Landlady ! 
 what do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, 
 fat, featherbed of a woman, coming waddling along with 
 her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o' this fash- 
 ion ? Now, to see me coming nobody would take me to be 
 a landlady ! 
 
 Landlord. Very true, indeed, wife Mrs. Newington, I 
 mean I ask pardon ; but now to go on with what we were 
 saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady and 
 the civil-spoken young lady there above, have them there 
 rooms for another day. 
 
 Landlady. Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more 
 about that old gentlewoman and that civil-spoken young 
 lady. Fair words cost nothing ; and I 've a notion that 's 
 the cause they are so plenty with the young lady. Neither 
 o' them, I take it, by what they 've ordered since their com- 
 ing into the house, are such grand folk that one need be so 
 petticular about them. 
 
 Landlord. Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to 
 be sure ; I can't deny that. 
 
 Landlady. But, bless my stars! what signifies talking? 
 Do n't you know, as well as I do, Mr. Newington, that 
 to-morrow is Eton Montem ; and that if we had twenty 
 times as many rooms, and as many more to the back of 
 
494 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 them, it would not be one too many for all the company 
 we 've a right to expect, and those the highest quality o' the 
 land ? Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow ? is n't my lady 
 Piercefield and suite expected ? and moreover, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bursal '& to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as 
 your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon. 
 So, Mr. Newington, if you don't think proper to go up and 
 inform the ladies above, that the Dolphin rooms are not for 
 them, I must speak myself, though 't is a thing I never do 
 when I can help it. 
 
 Landlord, (aside.) She not like to speak ! (aloud) My 
 dear, you can speak a power better than I can : so take it 
 all upon yourself, if you please, for, old-fashioned as I and 
 roy tankard here be, I can't make a speech that borders on 
 the uncivil order to a lady, like for the life and lungs of 
 me. So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. New- 
 ington. 
 
 Landlady. And so I will, Mr. Newington. Help ye ! 
 Civilities and rarities are out o' season for them that can't 
 pay for them in this world, and very proper. 
 
 [Exit Landlady. 
 
 Landlord. And very proper ! Ha ! who comes yonder ? 
 The Eton chap, who wheedled me into lending him my best 
 hunter last year, and was the ruination of him : but that 
 must be paid for, wheedle or no wheedle ; and, for the mat- 
 ter of wheedling, I 'd stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is 
 making up to me, do you see, against e'er a man, boy, or 
 hobbledehoy in all Eton, London, or Christendom, let the 
 other be who he will. 
 
 Enter WHEELER. 
 
 Wheel. A fine day, Mr. Newington. 
 
 Landlord. A fine day, Mr. Wheeler. 
 
 Wheel. And I hope, for your sake, we may have as fine a 
 day for the Montem to-morrow. It will be a pretty penny 
 in your pocket! Why all the world will be here; and 
 
ETON MONTEM. 495 
 
 (looking round at the jellies, t&c.) so much the better for them ; 
 for here are good things enough, and enough for them. 
 And here 's the best thing of all, the good tankard, still ; not 
 empty, I hope. 
 
 Landlord. Not empty, I hope ! Here 'a to you, Mr. 
 Wheeler. 
 
 Wheel. Mr. Wheeler ! Captain Wheeler, if you please. 
 
 Landlord. You Captain Wheeler ! Why, I thought in 
 former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that 
 was captain at the Montems ; and did n't Mr. Talbot come 
 afore you ? 
 
 Wheel. Not at all ; we came on the same day some say 
 I came first some say Talbot : so the choice of which of 
 us is to be captain is to be put to the vote among the lads 
 most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so 
 I shall be captain to-morrow ; and a pretty deal of salt,* I 
 reckon, I shall pocket. Why, the collection at the last 
 Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand! No bad 
 thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cam- 
 bridge Hey ? 
 
 Landlord. And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cam- 
 bridge or Oxford, 'twould be for a young gentleman to pay 
 his debts. 
 
 Wheel. Debts ! 0, time enough for that. I 've a little 
 account with you for horses, I know; but that's between 
 you and I, you know mum. 
 
 Landlord. Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler. Between 
 you and I, my best hunter has been ruinationed ; and I 
 can't afford to be mum. So you '11 take no offence if I 
 speak ; and as y ;u '11 set off to-morrow as soon as the Mon-| 
 tern's over, you '11 be pleased to settle it with me some way 
 or other to-day, as we 've no other time. 
 
 Wheel. No time so proper, certainly. Where 's the little 
 account? I have money sent me for my Montem dress, 
 
 * Salt, the cant name given by the Eton lads to the money col- 
 lected at Mcntem. 
 
496 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 and I can squeeze that much out of it. I came over from 
 Eton on purpose to settle with you. But as to the hunter, 
 you must call upon Talbot do you understand? to pay 
 for him : for, though Talbot and I had him the same day, 
 'twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay. I spoke to 
 him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I 
 never forget to speak a good word for my friends. 
 
 Landlord. So I perceive. 
 
 Wheel. I'll make bold just to give you my opinion of 
 these jellies, while you are getting my account, Mr. New- 
 ington. 
 
 [He swallows down a jelly or two. Landlord is going. 
 
 Enter TALBOT. 
 
 Talb. Holla, landlord ! where are you making off so fast? 
 Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself. 
 
 Wheeler, (aside.) Talbot ! I wish I was a hundred miles 
 off. 
 
 Landlord. You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot. A 
 good-morning to you, sir : I 'm glad to see you very glad 
 to see you, Mr. Talbot. 
 
 Talb. Then shake hands, my honest landlord. 
 
 [Talbot, in shaking hands with him, puts a 
 purse into the Landlord's hands. 
 
 Landlord. What 's here ? Guineas! 
 
 Talb. The hunter, you know ; since Wheeler won't pay, 
 I must that's all. Good-morning. 
 
 Wheel, (aside.) What a fool! 
 
 [Landlord, as Talbot is going, catches hold 
 I of his coat. 
 
 Landlord. Hold, Mr. Talbot ! this won't do. 
 
 Talb. Won't it? Well, then, my watch must go. 
 
 Landlord. Nay, nay ! but you are in such a hurry to pay, 
 you won't hear a man. Half this is enough for your share 
 o' the mischief, in all conscience. Mr. Wheeler, there, had 
 the horse on the same day. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 497 
 
 Wheel. But Bursal 's my witness 
 
 Talb. 0, say no more about witnesses : a man's conscience 
 is always his best witness or his worst. Landlord, take your 
 money, and no more words. 
 
 Wheel. This is very genteel of you, Talbot. I always 
 thought you would do the genteel thing, as I knew you to 
 be .so generous and considerate. 
 
 Talb. Do n't waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise 
 you, this election-time. Keep them for Bursal, or Lord 
 John, or some of those who like them. They won't go 
 down with me. Good-morning to you. I give you notice 
 I 'm going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop ; and who 
 knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads ? I 
 may be captain yet, Wheeler. Have a care ! Is my horse 
 ready there ? 
 
 Landlord. Mr. Talbot's horse, there ! Mr. Talbot's horse, 
 I say! 
 
 ( Talbot sings.) 
 
 " He carries weight he rides a race 
 'T is for a thousand pound !" 
 
 [Exit Talbot. 
 
 Wheel. And, dear me ! I shall be left behind ! A horse 
 
 for me, pray a horse for Mr. Wheeler! [Exit Wheeler.. 
 
 Landlord, (calls very loud.) Mr. Talbot's horse ! Hang 
 
 the hostler ! I '11 saddle him myself. [Exit Landlord. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Dining-room in the Inn at Salt Hill MRS. TALBOT and 
 LOUISA. 
 
 Louisa, (laughing.} With what an air Mrs. Landlady 
 made her exit ! 
 
 Mrs. Talb. When I was young, they say I was proud ; 
 but I am humble enough now : these petty mortifications 
 do not vex me. 
 
 Louisa. It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. 
 32 
 
498 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Landlady made her entree ; for if he had heard her rude 
 speech, he would have given her at least the retort cour- 
 teous. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Now tell me honestly, my Louisa You were 
 a few days ago at Bursal House. Since you have left it, 
 and have felt something of the difference that is made in 
 this world between splendour and no splendour, have you 
 never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you 
 did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal's little airs ? 
 
 Louisa. Never for a moment. At first Miss Bursal paid 
 me a vast deal of attention ; but, for what reason I know 
 not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely 
 cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright 
 rude. I could not guess the cause of these variations. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. (aside.) I guess the cause too well. 
 
 Louisa. But, as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I 
 was in haste to leave her. I should make a very bad, and, 
 I am sure, a miserable, toad-eater. I had much rather, if 
 I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread than live as 
 toad-eater with anybody. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Fine talking, dear Louisa ! 
 
 Louisa. Do n't you believe me to be in earnest, mother ? 
 To be sure, you cannot know what I would do unless I were 
 put to the trial. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Nor you either, my dear. 
 
 [She sighs, and is silent. 
 
 Louisa, (takes her mother's hand.) What is the matter, 
 dear mother? You used to say, that seeing my brother 
 always made you feel ten years younger ; yet even while he 
 was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal 
 them, these sudden fits of sadness. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. The Montem is not it to-morrow ? Ay, but 
 my boy is not sure of being captain. 
 
 Louisa. No ; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is 
 most likely to be chosen captain. He has taken prodigious 
 pains to flatter and win over many to his interest. My 
 
ETON MONTEM. 499 
 
 brother does not so much care about it ; he is not avari- 
 cious. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. I love your generous spirit and his ; but, alas ! 
 my dear, people may live to want and wish for money with- 
 out being avaricious. I would not say a word to Talbot ; 
 full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a 
 word to him, till after the Montem, of what has hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Louisa. And what has happened, dear mother ? Sit down 
 you tremble. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. (sits down, and puts a letter into Louisa's hand.) 
 Read that, love. A messenger brought me that from town 
 a few hours ago. 
 
 Louisa, (reads.) "By an express from Portsmouth we 
 hear the Bombay Castle, East Indiaman, is lost, with all 
 your fortune on board." All! I hope there is something 
 left for you to live upon. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. About 150Z. a year, for us all. 
 
 Louisa. That is enough, is not it, for you ? 
 
 Mrs. Talb. For me, love ? I am an old woman, and want 
 but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it. 
 
 Louisa, (kneels down beside her.) Do not speak so, dearest 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Enough for me, love ? Yes, enough, and too 
 much for me. I am not thinking of myself. 
 
 Louisa. Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and 
 such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for him- 
 self, most certainly. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. But his education is not completed. How 
 shall we provide him with money at Cambridge ? 
 
 Louisa. This Montem the last time, the captain had 
 eight hundred the time before, a thousand pounds. 0, I 
 hope I fear ! Now, indeed, I know that, without being 
 avaricious, we may want and wish for money. 
 
 [Landlady's voice heard behind the scenes. 
 
 Landlady. Waiter! Miss Bursal's curricle and Mr. 
 
i>00 ETON MONTBM. 
 
 Bursal's vis-a-vis. Run ! see that the Dolphin *s empty. I 
 say, run run. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. I will rest for a few minutes upon the sofa in 
 this bedchamber, before we set off. 
 
 Louisa, (goes to open the door.} They have bolted or 
 locked it. How unlucky ! 
 
 [She turns the key, and tries to unlock the door. 
 
 Enter WAITER. 
 
 Waiter. Ladies, I am sorry Miss Bursal and Mr. Bor- 
 eal are come just coming up-stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Then will you be so good, sir, as to unlock 
 this door ? [ Waiter tries to unlock the door. 
 
 Waiter. It must be bolted on the inside. Chambermaid ! 
 Sally 1 Are you within there I Unbolt this door. 
 
 [Mr. Bursal's voice behind the scenes, " Let me 
 have a basin of good soup directly." 
 
 Waiter. I '11 go round and have the door unbolted imme- 
 diately, ladies. [Exit Waiter. 
 
 Enter Miss BURSAL, in a riding-dress, and with a long whip. 
 
 Miss Burs. Those creatures, the ponies, have a'most pulled 
 my 'and off. Wh 'ave we 'ere? Ha! Mrs. Talbot! Lou- 
 isa ! 'ow ure ye ? I m so vastly glad to see you ! but I 'm 
 so shocked to 'ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle 1 Mrs. 
 Talbot, you look but poorly ; but this Montem will put 
 everybody in spirits. I 'ear everybody 's to be ere, and my 
 brother tells me 't will be the finest ever seen at -ET'Eton. 
 Louisa, my dear, I 'm sorry I J ve not a seat for you in my 
 curricle for to-morrow ; but I ; ve promised Lady Betty, 
 so, you know, 't is impossible for me. 
 
 Louisa. Certainly ; and it would be impossible for me to 
 leave my mother at present. 
 
 Chambermaid, (opens the bedchamber door.} The room's 
 ready now, ladies. 
 
 Mrs. Talb. Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 601 
 
 Mrs. Burs. Nay, why do ye decamp, Mrs. Talbot ? I 'ad 
 
 a thousand things to say to you, Louisa ; but am so tired, 
 
 and so annoyed [Seats Tier self. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, and Chambermaid. 
 
 Enter MR. BURSAL, with a basin of soup in his hand. 
 
 Mr. Burs. Well, thank my stars, the Airy Castle is safe 
 in the Downs. 
 
 Miss Burs. Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe my 
 groom does not make his appearance ? 
 
 Mr. Burs, (eating and speaking.) Yes, that I can, child 
 because he is with his 'orses, where he ought to be. 'T is 
 fit they should be looked after well, for they cost me a pretty 
 penny more than their heads are worth, and yours into 
 the bargain ; but I was resolved, as we were to come to this 
 Montem, to come in style. 
 
 Miss Burs. In style, to be sure : for all the world 's to be 
 here the king, and Prince o' Whales, and Duke o' York 
 and all the first people ; and we shall cut such a dash ! 
 Dash ! dash ! will be the word to-morrow I (playing with 
 her whip.) 
 
 Mr. Burs, (aside.) Dash! dash! Ay, just like her bro- 
 ther. He '11 pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he 'a 
 her age. Well, well, he can afford it ; and I do love to see 
 my children make a figure for their money. As Jack Bur- 
 sal says, What's money for if it e'nt to make a figure. 
 (Aloud.) There's your brother Jack, now the extrava- 
 gant dog ! he '11 have such a dress as never was seen, I 
 suppose, at this here Montem. Why, now, Jack Bursal 
 spends more moftey at Eton, and has more to spend, than 
 my Lord John, though my Lord John 's the son of a mar- 
 chioness. 
 
 Miss Burs. 0, that makes no difference nowadays. I 
 wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem. The 
 only good I Aever got out of those stupid Talbots was an 
 introduction to their friend, Lady Piercefield. What she 
 
602 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 could find to like in the Talbots, Heaven knows. I 've a 
 notion she'll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the 
 Bombay Castle. 
 
 Enter a WAITER with a note. 
 Waiter. A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir. 
 Mi$s B. Charming woman ! Is she here, pray, sir? 
 Waiter. Just come yes, ma'am. [Exit Waiter. 
 
 Miss B. Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it ? 
 Mr. B. (reads.) "Business of importance to communi- 
 cate " Hum What can it be ? [ Going. 
 Miss B. (aside.) Perhaps some match to propose for me 1 
 
 (Aloud.) Mr. Bursal, pray, before you go to her ladyship, 
 do send my woman to me to make me presentable. 
 
 [Exit Miss Bursal at one door. 
 Mr. B. (at the opposite door.) " Business of importance 1" 
 
 Hum ! I 'm glad I 'm prepared with a good basin of 
 soup : there 's no doing business well upon an empty sto- 
 mach. Perhaps the business is to lend cash ; and I 've no 
 great stomach for that : but it will be an honour, to be sure. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Landlady's Parlour. 
 
 LANDLADY MR. FINSBURT, a man-milliner, with bandboxes 
 a fancy-cap, or helmet with feathers, in the landlady's 
 hand a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man- 
 milliner's hand a mantle hanging over his arm a rough- 
 looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating 
 
 bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper. 
 
 s 
 Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best-dressed 
 
 Montem that ever was seen at Eton ; and you Lon'on gen- 
 tlemen have the most fashionablest notions ; and this is the 
 elegantest fancy-cap 
 
 Fins. Why, as you observe, ma'am, that is the most ele- 
 gant fancy-cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hogmor- 
 
ETON MONTEM. 503 
 
 ton's fancy-cap, ma'am ; and here, ma'am, is Mr. Saul's 
 rich satin bag, covered with gold net. He is college salt- 
 bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white 
 and gold dress. But in my humble opinion, ma'am, the 
 marshal's white, and purple, and orange fancy-dress, trim- 
 med with silver, will bear the bell ; though, indeed, I should- 
 n't say that for the colonel's, and lieutenant's, and ensign's, 
 are beautiful in the extreme. And, to be sure, nothing can 
 be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough's lilac and silver, 
 with a Roman cap. And it must be allowed that nothing 
 in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake's flesh- 
 colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma'am, you see. 
 
 [The Farmer looks over his shoulder from time to 
 time, during this speech, with contempt. 
 
 Farmer, (reads the newspaper.} French fleet at sea! 
 Hum! 
 
 Landlady. 0, gemini ! Mr. Drake's Spanish hat is the 
 sweetest, tasty thing ! Mr. Finsbury, I protest 
 
 Fins. Why, ma'am, I knew a lady of your taste could 7 nt 
 but approve of it. My own invention, entirely, ma'am. 
 But it's nothing to the captain's cap, ma'am. Indeed, 
 ma'am, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the pret- 
 tiest taste in dress. To be sure, his sandals were my sug- 
 gestion ; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do 
 him justice ; and when you see it, ma'am, you will be really 
 surprised ; for, for contrast and elegance, and richness, and 
 lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume, you 've 
 never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain 
 Wheeler's mantle, ma'am. 
 
 Farm, (to the Landlady.} Why now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, 
 how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go 
 about in men's clothes ? 
 
 Landlady, (aside to Farmer.} Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush 1 
 This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner. 
 
 Farm. The great man-milliner ! This is a sight I never 
 thought to see in old England. 
 
504 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Fins, (packing up 'bandboxes.} "Well, ma'am, I 'm glad I 
 have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please 
 the ladies. 
 
 Farm, (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat.} And 
 is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowa- 
 days? 
 
 Fins, (taking off the mantle.} Sir, with your leave I 
 ask pardon but the least thing detriments these tender 
 colours ; and as you have just been eating cheese with your 
 hands 
 
 Farm. 'T is my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man. 
 
 Fins. Man! 
 
 Farm. I ask pardon man-milliner, I mean. 
 
 Enter LANDLORD. 
 
 Landlord. Why, wife ! 
 
 Landlady. Wife ! 
 
 Landlord. I ask pardon Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do 
 you know who them ladies are that you have been and 
 turned out of the Dolphin ? 
 
 Landlady, (alarmed.) Not I, indeed. Who are they, 
 pray ? Why, if they are quality, it 's no fault of mine : it 
 is their own fault, for coming like scrubs, without four 
 horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, 
 incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as 
 quality I 'T is no fault of mine ; why did n't you find out 
 sooner who they were, Mr. Newington ? What else, in the 
 'versal world, have you to do, but to go basking about in 
 the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from 
 morning to night ? What have you else to ruminate, all 
 day long, but to find out who 's who, I say ? 
 
 Farm. Clapper ! clapper ! clapper 1 like my mill in a high 
 wind, Landlord. Clapper ! clapper ! clapper I enough to 
 stun a body. 
 
 Landlord. That is not used to it ; but use is all, they say. 
 
 Landlady. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington ? Who 
 
ETON MONTEM. 505 
 
 are the grandees that were in the Dolphin? and what's 
 become on them ? 
 
 Landlord. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be 
 not to call grandees ; but I reckon you 'd be sorry not to 
 treat 'em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot mo- 
 ther and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton ; he that paid 
 me so handsome for the hunter this very morning. 
 
 Landlady. Mercy ! is that all ? What a combustion for 
 nothing in life ! 
 
 Fins. For nothing in life, as you say, ma'am ; that nothing 
 in high life, I'm sure, ma'am; nay, I dare a'tnost Venture 
 to swear : for, would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is OL& of the 
 few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke fi\m me 
 a fancy-dress for this grand Montem. 
 
 Landlady. There, Mr. Newington 1 there 's your Talbot 
 for you ! and there 's your grandees I 0, trust me, I know 
 your scrubs at first sight. 
 
 Landlord. Scrubs, I can't, nor do n't, nor won't call them, 
 that pay their debts honest. Scrubs, I do n't, nor won't, 
 nor can't call them, that behave as handsome as young Mr. 
 Talbot did here to me this morning, about the hunter. A 
 scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. 
 Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub. 
 
 Fins. Dear me 1 'T was not I said scrub. Did I say 
 scrub ? 
 
 Farm. No matter if you did. 
 
 Fins. No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter, for 
 I 'in confident I would n't, for the world, leave it in any 
 one's power to say that I said that I called any young 
 gentleman of Eton a scrub. Why, you know, sir, it might 
 breed a riot 1 
 
 Farm. And a pretty figure you 'd make in a riot ! 
 
 Landlady. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my 
 house. 
 
 Farm. Nor about scrubs. 
 
 Fins. But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I veu 
 
506 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 tured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk 
 of Mr. Talbot's being captain to-morrow, I did n't conceive 
 how he could well appear without any dress. That was 
 all, upon my word and honour. A good-morning to you, 
 gentlemen ; it is time for me to be off. Mrs. Newington, 
 you were so obliging to promise to accommodate me with a 
 return-chaise as far as Eton. [Finsbury bows, and exit. 
 
 Farm. A good-day to you and your bandboxes. There 's 
 a fellow for you, now ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! A man-milliner, for- 
 sooth ! 
 
 Landlord. Mrs. Talbot 's coming stand back. 
 
 Landlady. Lord ! why does Bob show them through this 
 
 Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA, Waiter showing the 
 way. 
 
 Landlady. You are going on, I suppose, ma'am. 
 
 Waiter, (aside to Landlord.) Not if she could help it ; but 
 there 's no beds since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal 's come. 
 
 Landlord. I say nothing, for 't is in vain to say more ; but 
 is n't it a pity she can't stay for the Montem, poor old lady ! 
 Her son as good and fine a lad as ever you saw they 
 say, has a chance, too, of being captain. She may never 
 live to see another such a sight. 
 
 [As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on, the Farmer puts 
 himself across her way, so as to stop her 
 short. 
 
 Farm. No offence, madam, I hope ; but I 've a good snug 
 farm-house, not far off hand, and if so be you 'd be so good 
 to take a night's lodging, you and the young lady with you, 
 you 'd have a hearty welcome that 's all I can say ; and 
 you 'd make my wife very happy, for she 's a good woman, 
 to say nothing of myself. 
 
 Landlord. If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, 
 you 'd have as good beds, and be as well lodged with Farmer 
 Hearty, as in e'er a house at Salt Hill. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 507 
 
 Mrs. Talb. I am very much obliged 
 
 Farm. 0, say nothing o' that, madam ; I am sure I shall 
 be as much obliged, if you do come. Do, miss, speak for 
 me 
 
 Louisa. Pray, dear mother 
 
 Farm. She will. (Calls behind the scenes.} Here, waiter 1 
 hostler! driver! what's your name drive the chaise up 
 here to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, 
 and we '11 have you in and at home in a whiff. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, Farmer, Landlord, 
 and Waiter. 
 
 Landlady, (sola.) What a noise and a rout this farmer 
 man makes ! and my husband, with his great broad face, 
 bowing, as great a nincompoop as t' other. The folks are 
 all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe. (Aloud.) 
 A good-morning to you, ladies. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 Afield near Eton College. several boys crossing backwards 
 and forwards in the background. In front, TALBOT, 
 WHEELER, LORD JOHN, and BURSAL. 
 
 Talb. Fair play, Wheeler ! Have at ; em, my boy ! There 
 they stand, fair game ! There 's Bursal there, with his dead 
 forty-five votes at command ; and Lord John with his how 
 many live friends ? 
 
 Lord J. (coolly.} Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe. 
 
 Talb. Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes 1 ; Wheeler 
 inclusive, no doubt. 
 
 Lord J. That's as hereafter may be. 
 
 Wheel. Hereafter ! fy, my lud ! You know your own 
 Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been 
 your fast friend. 
 
 Talb. Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw 
 you, my lord! That's well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; 
 
508 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 stick fast. Fifty-six friends, Wheeler inclusive, hey, my 
 lord, hey, my lud! 
 
 Lord J. Talbot exclusive, I find, contrary to my expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 Talb. Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that 
 Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust ; but then there 'B 
 enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for 
 hey, Wheeler? 
 
 Bur sal. (aside to Wheeler.) A d d bad electioneerer ! 
 So much the better for you, Wheeler. Why, unless he 
 bought a vote, he 'd never win one, if he talked from this 
 to the day of judgment. 
 
 Wheel, (aside to Bursal.} And as he has no money to buy 
 votes he ! he I he ! we are safe enough. 
 
 Talb. That's well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle 
 there with Bursal ; now you are sure of the main with Lord 
 John. 
 
 Lord J. Sure ! I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise 
 yet. 
 
 Wheel. 0, 1 ask no promise from his lordship ; we are upon 
 honour ; I trust entirely to his lordship's good-nature and 
 generosity, and to his regard for his own family, I having 
 the honour, though distantly, to be related. 
 
 LordJ. Related! How, Wheeler? 
 
 Wheel. Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may 
 say, to being related related slipped out by mistake I 
 beg pardon, my Lord John. 
 
 Lord J. Related ! A strange mistake, Wheeler. 
 
 Talb. Overshot yourself, Wheeler overshot yourself, by 
 all that 's awkward. And yet, till now I always took you 
 for " a dead shot at a yellow hammer." * 
 
 Wheel, (taking Bursal by the arm.) Bursal, a word with 
 
 * Young noblemen at Oxford wear yellow tufts at the tops of their 
 caps. Hence their flatterers are said to be dead shots at yellow 
 hammers. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 509 
 
 you. (Aside to Bursal.) What a lump of family pride that 
 Lord John is ! 
 
 Talb. Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should 
 spoil sport. But never fear, you'll please Bursal sooner 
 than I shall I can't, for the soul of me, bring myself to 
 say that Bursal's not purse-proud, and you can Give you 
 
 joy! 
 
 Burs. A choice electioneerer ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Wheel, (faintly.} He! he! he! a choice electioneerer, 
 as you say. 
 
 [Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal. Moment Lord J. 
 and Talbot. 
 
 Lord J. There was a time, Talbot 
 
 Talb. There was a time, my lord to save trouble and a 
 long explanation there was a time when you liked Talbots 
 better than spaniels : you understand me. 
 
 Lord J. I have found it very difficult to understand you 
 of late, Mr. Talbot. 
 
 Talb. Yes, because you have used other people's under- 
 standings instead of your own. Be yourself, my lord. See 
 with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then 
 you'll find me still what I've been these seven years not 
 your under-strapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but 
 your friend ! If you choose to have me for a friend, here 's 
 my hand I am your friend and you '11 not find a better. 
 
 Lord J. (giving his hand.} You are a strange fellow, Tal- 
 bot ; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what 
 you said last night. 
 
 Talb. What ? for I do n't keep a register of my sayings 
 0, it was something about gaming Wheeler was flat- 
 tering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion I 
 forget what I said But whatever it was, I 'm sure it was 
 well meant, and I believe it was well said. 
 
 Lord J. But you laugh at me sometimes to my face. 
 
 Talb. Would you rather I should laugh at you behind 
 your back? 
 
510 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Lord J. But of all things in the world, I hate to bo 
 laughed at. Listen to me, and do n't fumble in your pock- 
 ets while I am talking to you. 
 
 Talb. I 'm fumbling for oh, here it is. Now, Lord 
 John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and, what's 
 droll enough, it was at your back I laughed. Here 's a cari- 
 catura I drew of you I really am sorry I did it ; but 't is 
 best to show it to you myself. 
 
 Lord J. (aside.) It is all I can do to forgive this. (After 
 a pause, he tears the papers.) I have heard of this caricatura 
 before ; but I did not expect that you would come and show 
 it to me yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such 
 a time as this. Wheeler might well say you are a bad elec- 
 tioneerer. 
 
 Talb. 0, hang it, I forgot my election, and your fifty-six 
 friends. 
 
 Enter RORY O'RYAN. 
 
 Rory. (claps Talbot on the back.) Fifty-six friends have 
 you, Talbot? Say seven fifty-seven, I mean, for I'll 
 lay ye a wager you've forgot me, and that's a shame for 
 you too, for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely, now, 
 you have not a stancher friend than poor little Rory O'Ryan. 
 And a good right he has to befriend you, for you stood by 
 him when many, that ought to have known better, were 
 hunting him down for a wild Irishman. Now that same 
 wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame 
 Englishman of them all. But do n't let 's be talking sinti- 
 mint ; for, for my share, I 'd not give a bog-berry a bushel 
 for stntimtnt when I could get anything better. 
 
 Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bog-berry be ? 
 
 Rory. Phoo ! do n't be playing the innocent, now. Where 
 have you lived all your life, (I ask pardon, my lard,) not to 
 know a bog-berry when you see it, or hear of it. ( Turns 
 to Talbot.) But what are ye standing idling here for? Sure 
 there 's Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing 
 
ETON MONTEM. 511 
 
 out yonder at a terrible fine rate. And have n't I been huz- 
 zaing for you there till I 'm hoarse ? So I am, and just 
 stepped away to suck an orange for my voice. (Sucks an 
 orange.) I am a thorough-going friend, at any rate. 
 
 Talb. Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, 
 and a thorough-going friend ; but have a care, or you '11 get 
 yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done 
 with this violent thorough-going work. 
 
 Rory. Never fear ! never fear, man ! a vf&Tmfrind and 
 a bitter enemy, that's my maxim. 
 
 Talb. Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter 
 enemy. 
 
 Rory. 0, never fear me ! I 'm as cool as a cucumber all 
 the time ; and while they tink I 'm linking of nothing in 
 life but making a noise, I make my own little snug remarks 
 in prose and verse, as now my voice is after coming back 
 to me, you shall hear, if you plase. 
 
 Talb. I do please. 
 
 Rory. I call it Rory's song. Now, mind I have a verse 
 for everybody, o' the leading lads, I mean ; and I shall 
 put 'em in or lave 'em out, according to their inclinations 
 and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind. So, you com- 
 prehend, it will be Rory's song with variations. 
 
 Talbot and Lord John. Let 's have it : let us have it with- 
 out further preface. 
 
 Rory sings. 
 " I 'm true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me." 
 
 Rory. There 's a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler : 
 you take it. 
 
 Talb. yes, yes, we take it ; go on. 
 
 Rory sings. 
 
 "I'm true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me. 
 Of all birds, beasts, or fishes that swim in the sea, 
 Webbed or finned, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory, 
 None but Talbot, Talbot 's the dog for Rory." 
 
512 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Talb. Talbot the dog is much obliged to you. 
 
 Lord J, But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot 
 too long, Mr. O'Ryan. 
 
 Rory. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for &frind. Slur 
 it in the singing, and don't be quarrelling, anyhow, fur 
 a foot more or less the more feet, the better it will stand, 
 you know. Only let me go on, and you '11 come to some- 
 thing that will plase you. 
 
 Rory sings. 
 " Then there 's he with the purse that 's as long as my arm." 
 
 Rory. That 's Bursal, mind now, in this verse I mean to 
 allude to. 
 
 Lord J. If the allusion 's good, we shall probably find out 
 your meaning. 
 
 Talb. On with you, Rory, and do n't read us notes on a 
 song. 
 
 Lord J. Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal. 
 
 Rory sings. 
 
 " Then there 's he with the purse that 's as long as my arm ; 
 His father's a tanner, but then where 's the harm ? 
 Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, 
 Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree ?" 
 
 Lord J. Encore ! encore ! Why, Rory, I did not think 
 you could make so good a song. 
 
 Rory. Sure, 't was none of I made it 't was Talbot here. 
 
 Talb. II 
 
 Rory. (aside.) Not a word : I '11 make you a present of 
 it ; sure, then, it 's your own. 
 
 Talb. I never wrote a word of it. 
 
 Rory. (to Lord J.} Phool phoo! he 's only denying it out 
 of false modesty. 
 
 Lord J. Well, no matter who wrote it sing it again. 
 
 Rory. Be easy. So I will, and as many more verses as 
 you will at the back of it. ( Winking at Talbot, aside.) You 
 
ETON M N T E M . 513 
 
 shall have the credit of all. (Aloud.) Put me in when I 'm 
 out, Talbot; and you (to Lord John) join join. 
 
 Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him. 
 
 "Then there's he with the purse that's as long as my arm, 
 His father's a tanner, but then where 's the harm? 
 Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, 
 Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree ? 
 There 's my lord with the back that never was bent " 
 
 [Lord John stops singing Talbot makes signs 
 to Rory to stop, but Rory does not see him, 
 and sings on. 
 
 " There 's my lord with the back that never was bent. 
 Let him live with his ancestors, I am content." 
 
 [Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows. 
 
 Rory. Join, join, both of ye why do n't you join? 
 (Sings.) 
 
 "Who'll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried, 
 A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride." 
 
 Rory. But join, or ye spoil all. 
 
 Talb. You have spoiled all, indeed. 
 
 Lord J. (making a formal low bmo.) Mr. Talbot, Lord 
 John thanks you. 
 
 Rory. Lord John ! blood and thunder ! I forgot you 
 were by quite and clean. 
 
 Lord J. (Puts him aside, and continues speaking to Talbot.} 
 Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part 
 of the caricatura. Lord John thanks you for these proofs 
 of friendship Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. 
 Talbot. 
 
 Rory. No reason in life, now. Do n't be thinking so much 
 for nothing in life ; or, if you must be thinking o' somebody, 
 it's me you ought to thank. 
 
 Lord. J. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who 
 
 Talb. (warmly.} Unmasking ! my lord 
 
 Rory. (holding them asunder.} Phoo! phoo! phoo! be 
 33 
 
514 ETON MONT EM. 
 
 easy, can't ye there's no unmasking at all in the case. 
 My Lord John, Talbot's writing the song was all a mistake. 
 
 Lord J. As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I pre- 
 sume 
 
 Rory. Just as much. 'Twas all a mistake: so, now, 
 do n't you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding. 
 It was I made every word of the song out o' the face* 
 that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors, 
 and the oyster, and all. He did not write a word of it ; 
 upon my conscience, I wrote it all though I '11 engage you 
 didn't think I could write such a good thing. (Lord John 
 turns away.) I'm telling you the truth, and not a word of 
 lie, yet you won't believe me. 
 
 Lord J. You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two 
 contradictory assertions within two minutes. Mr. Talbot, 
 I thank you. (going.) 
 
 [Rory tries to stop Lord John from going, but 
 cannot Exit Lord John. 
 
 Rory. Well, if he will go, let him go, then, and much 
 good may it do him. Nay, but do n't you go too. 
 
 Talb. 0, Rory, what have you done! (Talbot runs after 
 Lord J.) Hear me, my lord. [Exit Talbot. 
 
 Rory. Hear him ! hear him ! hear him I Well, I'm point 
 blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how 
 could I help it? As sure as ever I am meaning to do the 
 best thing on earth, it runs out the worst. 
 
 Enter a party of lads huzzaing. 
 
 Rory. (joins.) Huzza! huzza! Who, pray, are ye huz- 
 zaing for? 
 
 list Boy. Wheeler ! Wheeler for ever ! huzza ! 
 
 Rory. Talbot I Talbot for ever ! huzza ! Captain Tal- 
 bot for ever ! huzza ! 
 
 2d Boy. Captain he '11 never be at least not to-morrow ; 
 for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler. 
 
 * From beginning to end. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 515 
 
 1st Boy. And that turns the scale 
 
 Rory. 0, the scale may turn back again. 
 
 3d Boy. Impossible ! Lord John has just given his pro- 
 mise to Wheeler I heard him with my own ears 
 
 (Several speak at once.) And I heard him and I ! and 
 I! and I! Huzza! Wheeler for ever ! 
 
 Rory Oh, murder ! murder ! murder ! (aside.) This goes 
 to my heart it 's all my doing 0, my poor Talbot ! mur- 
 der! murder! murder! But I won't let them see me cast 
 down, and it's good to be huzzaing, at all events. Huzza 
 for Talbot ! Talbot for ever ! huzza ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter WHEELER and BURSAL. 
 
 Wheel. Who was that huzzaing for Talbot? 
 
 Rory. (behind the scenes.) Huzza for Talbot ! Talbot for 
 ever ! huzza ! 
 
 Burs. Pooh ! it 's only Kory O'Ryan, or the roaring lion, 
 as I call him ha ! ha ! ha ! Rory O'Ryan, alias roaring 
 lion that 's a good one put it about, Rory O'Ryan, the 
 roaring lion ha! ha! ha! but you do n't take it you 
 do n't laugh, Wheeler. 
 
 Wheel. Ha! ha! ha! 0, upon my honour, I do laugh 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! (Aside.) It is the hardest work to laugh at 
 his wit. (Aloud.) Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion! ha I 
 ha ! ha ! You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes, 
 he ! he 1 he ! ready to kill myself. 
 
 Burs, (sullenly.) You are easily killed, then, if that much 
 laughing will do the business. 
 
 Wheel, (coughing.) Just then something stuck in my 
 throat I beg your pardon. 
 
 Burs, (still sullen.) 0, you need not beg my pardon about 
 the matter I don't care whether you laugh or no not 
 I. Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you 
 are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose. 
 
 Wheel. No ; upon my word and honour, I did laugh. 
 
 Burs, (aside.) A fig for your word and honour! (Aloud.) 
 
516 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 I know I 'm of no consequence now ; but, you '11 remember, 
 that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, 
 he must have the honour to pay for your captain's accoutre- 
 ments ; for I shan't pay the piper, I promise you, since I 'm 
 of no consequence. 
 
 Wheel. Of no consequence ! But, my dear Bursal, what 
 could put that into your head that's the strangest, oddest 
 fancy. Of no consequence ! Bursal of no consequence ! 
 why everybody that knows anything everybody that has 
 seen Bursal-house, knows that you are of the greatest con- 
 sequence, my dear Bursal. 
 
 Burs, (taking out his watch, and opening it, looks at it.) 
 No, I 'm of no consequence. I wonder that rascal Finsbury 
 is not come yet with the dresses. (Still looking at his 
 watch.) 
 
 Wheel, (aside.) If Bursal takes it into his head not to 
 lend me the money to pay for my captain's dress, what will 
 become of me ? For I have not a shilling and Lord John 
 won't pay for me and Finsbury has orders not to leave 
 the house till he is paid by everybody. What will become 
 of me? (Bites his nails.) 
 
 Burs, (aside.) How I love to make him bite his nails ! 
 (aloud.) I know I'm of no consequence (strikes his 
 repeater.) 
 
 Wheel. What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal ! It 
 is the best I ever heard. 
 
 Burs. So it well may be, for it cost a mint of money. 
 
 Wheel. No matter to you what anything costs. Happy 
 dog as you are ! you roll in money and yet you talk of 
 being of no consequence. 
 
 Burs. But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord 
 John am I ? 
 
 Wheel. Are you ? why, are n't you twice as rich as he ? 
 
 Burs. Very true, but I 'm not purse-proud. 
 
 Wheel. You purse-proud 1 I should never have thought 
 of such a thing. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 517 
 
 Burs. Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word. 
 
 Wheel. But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has 
 a purse. 
 
 Burs, (aside.) Well, this Wheeler does put one into a 
 good-humour with one's self in spite of one's teeth. (Aloud.) 
 Talbot says blunt things, but I do n't think he 's what you 
 can call clever. Hey, Wheeler ? 
 
 Wheel. Clever ! 0, not he. 
 
 Burs. I think I could walk round him. 
 
 Wheel. To be sure you could. Why, do you know I 'vo 
 quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an 
 hour? 
 
 Burs. Indeed ! I wish I had been by. 
 
 Wheel. So do I, faith It was the best thing I wanted, 
 you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the 
 field clear for electioneering to-day. So I bowls up to him 
 with along face such a face as this "Mr. Talbot, do 
 you know I'm sorry to tell you, here 's Jack Smith has 
 just brought the news from Salt Hill. Your mother, in 
 getting into the carriage, slipped, and has broke her leg, and 
 there she 's lying at a farm-house, two miles off. ' Is this 
 not true, Jack ?' said I. ' I saw the farmer helping her in 
 with my own eyes/ cried Jack. Off goes Talbot like an 
 arrow. Quizzed him, Quizzed him ! said I. 
 
 Burs. Ha ! ha ! ha ! quizzed him indeed, with all his 
 cleverness ; that was famously done. 
 
 Wheel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! with all his cleverness he will be 
 all the evening hunting for the farm-house and the mother 
 that has broke her leg. So he is out of our way. 
 
 Burs. But what need have you to want him out of your 
 way, now Lord John has come over to your side you have 
 the thing so dead ? 
 
 Wheel. Not so dead neither for there's a great inde- 
 pendent party, you know, and if you do n't help me, Bursal, 
 to canvass them, I shall be no captain. It is you I depend 
 
ETON MONTEM. 
 
 upon, after all. Will you come and canvass them with me ? 
 Dear Bursal, pray. All depends upon you. 
 
 [Pulls him by the arm Bursal follows. 
 
 Burs. Well, if all depends upon me, I '11 see what I can 
 
 do for you. (Aside.) Then I am of some consequence 
 
 money makes a man of some consequence, I see with 
 
 some folk. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned. In front, 
 a party of country lads and lasses gayly dressed, as in sheep- 
 shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, &c., 
 are dancing and singing.* 
 
 Enter PATTY, dressed as Queen of the Festival. She has a 
 
 lamb in her arms. The dancers break off when she comes 
 
 in; and one exclaims 
 
 \st Peasant. 0, here comes Patty ! Here comes the queen 
 o" the day. What has kept you from us so long, Patty ? 
 
 2d Peas. Please your majesty, you should say. 
 
 Patty. This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me 
 so long. It strayed away from the rest : and I should have 
 lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good 
 young gentleman. Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty. 
 That 's the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the 
 ditch for me, into which he had fallen. Pretty creature ! 
 
 1st Peas. Pretty creature, or your majesty, whichever you 
 choose to be called come and dance with them, and I'll 
 carry your lamb. [Exeunt singing and dancing. 
 
 Enter FARMER HEARTY and TALBOT. 
 Farm. Why, young gentleman, I am glad I happened to 
 light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going far 
 ther astray, and set your heart at ease like. 
 
 * The young reader is requested to insert here any song suitable 
 to the occasion. The author tried to write one; but, as she could 
 cot write one that pleased herself, she omitted it. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 519 
 
 Talb. Thanks, good farmer ; you have set my heart at 
 ease, indeed; but the truth is, that did frighten me con- 
 foundedly. More fool I. 
 
 Farm. No fool at all, to my notion. I should, at your 
 age, ay, or my age, just the self-same way, have been fright- 
 ened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, 
 that way, of my own mother's having broke her leg, or so. 
 And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that 
 frighted you, than for you to be frighted. How young gen- 
 tlemen, now, can bring themselves for to like to tell such 
 lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can't 
 get over no ways. 
 
 Talb. 0, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and 
 I don't just now like the wit of them. This is fun, this is 
 quizzing; but you don't know what we young gentlemen 
 mean by quizzing. 
 
 Farm. Ay, but I do though, to' my cost, ever since last 
 year. Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat. Well, it 
 was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jack- 
 anapes 
 
 Talb. Take care what you say, farmer ; for I am a young 
 Eton jackanapes. 
 
 Farm. No, but you be not the young Eton jackanapes 
 that I'm thinking on I tell you, it was this time last year, 
 man ; he was a horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay 
 hunter, out o' hunting, like. 
 
 Talb. I tell you, it was this time last year, man, that I 
 was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a hunting. 
 
 Farm. Zooks ! would you argufy a man out of his wits ? 
 You won't go for to tell me, that you are that impertinent 
 little jackanapes? 
 
 Talb. No ! no ! I '11 not tell you, that I am an imperti- 
 nent little jackanapes. 
 
 Farm, (wiping Ms forehead.') Well, do n't then, for I canH 
 believe it ; and you put me out. Where was I ? 
 
 Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter ! 
 
520 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Farm. Ay, BO he was. Here, you, says he, meaning me 
 open this gate for me. Now, if he had but a spoke me 
 fair, I would not have gainsayed him ; but he falls to swear- 
 ing; so I bid him open the gate for himself "There's a 
 bull behind you, farmer," says he I turns. "Quizzed 
 him !" cries my jackanapes ; and off he gallops him, 
 through the very thick of my corn ; but he got a fall leap- 
 ing the ditch, out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the 
 minute. So I goes up to see whether he was killed ; but he 
 was not a whit the worse for his tumble. So I should ha' 
 fell into a passion with him then to be sure, about my corn, 
 but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I could n't say 
 anything to him, for I was a pitying the poor animal. As 
 fine a hunter as ever you saw ! I am sartain sure he could 
 never come to good after. 
 
 Talb. (aside.) I do think, from the description, that this 
 was Wheeler ; and I have paid for the horse which he 
 spoiled 1 (Aloud.) Should you know either the man or the 
 horse again, if you were to see them ? 
 
 Farm. Ay, that I should, to my dying day. 
 
 Talb. Will you come with me, then, and you '11 do mo 
 some guineas' worth of service ? 
 
 Farm. Ay, that I will, with a deal of pleasure ; for you 
 be a civil-spoken young gentleman, and, besides, I don't 
 think the worse on you for being /righted a little about your 
 mother ; being what I might ha' been at your age, myself; 
 for I had a mother myself once. So, lead on, master. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 
 
 The Garden of the Windmill Inn, at Salt Hill. 
 Miss BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY the chambermaid. 
 (Miss Bursal, very much distressed, is sitting on a garden- 
 stool, and leans her her head against the Landlady, as if 
 fainting Sally holds a glass of water and a smelling' 
 bottle.) 
 Miss B. Where am I ? Where am I ? 
 
ETON MONTEM. 521 
 
 Landlady. At the "Windmill at Salt Hill, young lady ; and 
 ill or well you can't be better. 
 
 Sally. Do you find yourself better since coming into the 
 air, miss ? 
 
 Miss B. Better ! Oh, I shall never be better. 
 
 [Leans Tier head on her hand, and rocks herself 
 backwards and forwards. 
 
 Landlady. My dear young lady, don't take on so. 
 (Aside.} Now would I give somewhat to know what it was 
 my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father 
 Baid to this one, and what 's the matter at the bottom of 
 affairs. Sally, did you hear anything at the doors ? 
 
 Sally, (aside.} No, indeed, ma'am : I never be's at the 
 doors. 
 
 Landlady, (aside.} Simpleton ! (Aloud.} But, my dear 
 Miss Bursal if I may be so bold if you'd only disem- 
 bosom your mind of what's on it 
 
 Miss B. Disembosom my mind ! Nonsense ! I 've nothing 
 on my mind. Pray, leave me, madam. 
 
 Landlady, (aside.} Madam, indeed ! Madam, forsooth 1 
 0, I'll make her pay for that. That madam shall go down 
 in the bill, as sure as my name 's Newington. (Aloud.} 
 Well, I wish you better, ma'am. I suppose I 'd best send 
 your own servant. 
 
 Miss B. (sullenly.') Yes, I suppose so. (To Sally.} You 
 need not wait, child, nor look so curious. 
 
 Sally. Cur'ous ! Indeed, miss, if I look a little cur'ous, 
 or so (looking at her dress}, 'tis only because I was frighted 
 to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, 
 when I came out ; and this apron 
 
 Miss B. Hush! Hush! child. Don't tell me about 
 clean aprons, or run on with your vulgar talk. Is there 
 ever a seat one can sit on in that /iarbour yonder ? 
 
 Sally. 0, dear 'art, yes, miss, 'tis the pleasantest harbour 
 * on 7iearth. Be pleased to lean on my Aarm, and you '11 goon 
 be there. 
 
522 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Miss B. (going.') Then tell my woman she need not come 
 to me, and let nobody interude on me do you 'ear? 
 (Aside.") 0, what will become of me ; and the Talbots will 
 soon know it ! And the ponies, and the curricle, and the 
 vis-a-vis what will become of them ? and how shall I 
 make my appearance at the Montem, or any ware else ? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 LORD JOHN WHEELER BURSAL. 
 
 Wheel. Well, but, my lord though my Lady Piercefield 
 though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won't leave 
 us all at sixes and sevens. What can we do without 
 you? 
 
 Lord /. You can do very well without me. 
 
 Burs, you can do very well without me. 
 
 Wheel, (to Burs.) Impossible! impossible! You know 
 Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and 
 we have to try them on. 
 
 Burs. And to pay for them. 
 
 Wheel. And to settle about the procession. And then, 
 my lord, the election is to come on this evening ; you won't 
 go till that's over, as your lordship has promised me your 
 lordship's vote and interest. 
 
 Lord J. My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler ; but I said 
 not a syllable about my interest. My friends, perhaps, have 
 not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot. I shall 
 leave them to their own inclinations. 
 
 Bursal. (whistling.) Wheugh ! wheugh ! wheugh ! 
 Wheeler, the principal's nothing without the interest. 
 
 Wheel. 0, the interest will go along with the principal, 
 of course ; for, I am persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends 
 to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord's 
 friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the 
 contrary. . 
 
ETON MONTEM. 523 
 
 Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them 
 to themselves. 
 
 Burs, (still whistling.} Well, I '11 do my best to make that 
 father of mine send me off to Oxford. I 'm sure I 'm fit to 
 go along with Wheeler. Why, you 'd best be my tutor, 
 Wheeler ! a devilish good thought. 
 
 Wheel. An excellent thought ! 
 
 Burs. And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford 
 with your Montem money and all ! Money 's the go, after 
 all. I wish it was come to my making you my last bow, 
 " ye distant spires, ye antic towers I" 
 
 Wheel, (aside to Lord J.) Ye antic towers ! fit for Oxford, 
 my lord ! 
 
 Lord J. Antique towers, I suppose, Mr. Bursal means. 
 
 Burs. Antique, to be sure I I said antique, did not I, 
 Wheeler? 
 
 Wheel. 0, yes. 
 
 Lord J. (aside.) What a mean animal is this ! 
 
 Enter RORY O'RYAN. 
 
 Rory. Why, now, what's become of Talbot, I want to 
 
 know ? There, he is not to be found anywhere in the wide 
 
 world ; and there 's a hullaboloo among his friendsffor him. 
 
 [ Wheeler and Bursal wiujc at one another. 
 
 Wheel. We know nothing of him. 
 
 Lord J. I have not the honour, sir, to be one of Mr. 
 Talbot's friends. It is his own fault, and I am sorry for 
 it. 
 
 Rory. Faith, so am I, especially as it is mine fault, I 
 mean and especially as the election is just going to como 
 on. 
 
 Enter a party ofboys, who cry, Finsbury 's come 1 Fins- 
 bury 's come with the dresses. 
 
 Wheel. Finsbury 's come! 0, let us see the dresses, and 
 let us try 'em on to-night. 
 
 Burs, (pushing the crowd.) On with ye on with ye, 
 
ETON MONTEM. 
 
 there! Let's try 'em on I Try 'em on! I'm to be 
 colonel. 
 
 1st boy. And I lieutenant. 
 
 2d boy. And I ensign. 
 
 3d boy. And I college salt-bearer. 
 
 Wi boy. And I oppident. 
 
 5th boy. 0, what a pity I 'm in mourning ! 
 
 Several speak at once. And we are servitors ; we are to 
 be the eight servitors. 
 
 Wheel. And I am to be your captain, I hope. Come on, 
 my colonel (to Bursal.) My lord, you are coming? 
 
 Rory. By-and-bye I 've a word in his ear, by your lave 
 and his. 
 
 Burs. Why, what the devil stops the way, there ? Push 
 on on with them. 
 
 6th boy. I 'm marshal. 
 
 Burs. On with ye on with ye who cares what you 
 are? 
 
 Wheeler, (to Bursal aside.} You '11 pay Finsbury for me, 
 you rich Jew ? (to Lord John.) Your lordship will remem- 
 ber your lordship's promise? 
 
 Lord J. I do not usually forget my promises, sir ; and 
 therefor^need not be reminded of them. 
 
 Wheel. I beg pardon I beg ten thousand pardons, my 
 lord. 
 
 Burs, (taking him by the arm.) Come on, man, and don't 
 stand begging pardon there, or I '11 leave you. 
 
 Wheel, (to Burs.) I beg pardon, Bursal I beg pardon, 
 ten thousand times. [Exeunt 
 
 Manent LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN. 
 
 Rory. Wheugh 1 Now, put the case, if I was going tc 
 be hanged, for the life of me I could n't be after begging so 
 many pardons for nothing at all. But many men, many 
 minds. (Hums.) True game to the last ! No Wheeler for 
 me I 0, murder ! I forgot I was nigh letting the cat out o' 
 the bag again. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 525 
 
 Lord J. You had something to say to me, sir. I wait till 
 your recollection returns. 
 
 Rory. Faith, and that ' very kind of you ; and if you 
 had always done so, you would never have been offended 
 with me, my lord. 
 
 Lord J. You are mistaken, Mr. O'Ryan, if you think that 
 you did or could offend me. 
 
 Rory. Mistaken I was, then, sure enough : but we 're all 
 liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one ano 
 ther that's the way to go through. 
 
 Lord J. You will go through the world your own way, 
 Mr. O'Ryan, and allow me to go through it my way. 
 
 Rory. Very fair fair enough then we shan't cross. 
 But now, to come to the point: I do n't like to be making 
 disagreeable retrospects, if I could in any way avoid it ; nor 
 to be going about the bush, especially at this time o' day, 
 when, as Mr. Finsbury 's come, we 've not so much time as 
 we had to lose. Is it true, then, my lord, the report that is 
 going about this hour past, that you have gone in a huff, 
 and given your promise there to that sneaking Wheeler, to 
 vote for him now ? 
 
 Lord J. In answer to your question, sir, I am to inform 
 you that I have promised Mr. Wheeler to vote for him. 
 
 Rory. In a huff? Ay, now, there it is ! Well, when a 
 man's mad, to be sure he's mad and that's all that can 
 be said about it. And I know, if I had been mad myself, 
 I might have done a foolish thing as well as another. But 
 now, my lord, that you are not mad 
 
 Lord J. I protest, sir, I cannot understand you. In one 
 word, sir, I 'm neither mad nor a fool. Your most obedi- 
 ent, (going, angrily.} 
 
 Rory. (holding him.} Take care, now, you are going mad 
 with me again. But, phoo ! I like ye the better for being 
 mad. I 'm very often mad myself, and I would not give a 
 potatoe for one that had never been mad in his life. 
 
 Lord J. (aside.) He'll not be quiet till he makes me knock 
 him down. 
 
526 ETON MO NT EM. 
 
 Rory. Agh ! agh ! agh ! I begin to guess whereabouts I am 
 at last. Mad in your country, I take it, means fit for Bed- 
 lam ; but with us in Ireland, now, 'tis no such thing. It 
 means nothing in life but the being in a passion. Well, one 
 comfort is, my lord, as you 're a bit of a scholar, we have 
 the Latin proverb in our favour, " Ira furor brevis est " 
 Anger's short madness. The shorter the better, I think. 
 So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of this kind you may 
 have felt against poor Talbot, I '11 assure you he 's as inno- 
 cent o' that unfortunate song as the babe unborn. 
 
 Lord J. It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies 
 to me. 
 
 Rory. He make apologies ! Not he, faith : he 'd send me 
 to Coventry, or, maybe, to a worse place, did he but know 
 I was condescending to make this bit of explanation 
 unknown to him. But, upon my conscience, I 've a regard 
 for ye both, and don't like to see you go together by the 
 ears. Now, look you, my lord by this book, and all the 
 books that ever were shut and opened, he never saw or heard 
 of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this 
 morning. 
 
 Lord J. But you told me this morning that it was he 
 wrote it. 
 
 Rory. For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out ; 
 but it was only a white lie to sarve a friend, and make him 
 cut a dash with a new song at election-time. But I 've done 
 for ever with white lies. 
 
 Lord J. (walking about, as if agitated.) I wish you had 
 never begun with them, Mr. O'Ryan. This may be a good 
 joke to you ; but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot 
 never wrote a word of the song ? 
 
 Rory. Not a word or syllable, good or bad. 
 
 Lord J. And I have given my promise to vote against 
 him. He'll lose his election. 
 
 Rory. Not if you '11 give me leave to speak to your frienda 
 in your name. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 527 
 
 Lord J. I have promised to leave them to themselves, and 
 Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time. 
 
 Hory. Bless my body ! I '11 not stay prating here, then. 
 
 [Exit Rory. 
 
 Lord J. (follows.} But what can have become of Talbot? 
 I haye been too hasty for once in my life. Well, I shall 
 suffer for it more than anybody else ; for I love Talbot, since 
 he did not make the song, of which I hate, to think. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A large hall in Eton College a staircase at the end Eton 
 lads dressed in their Montem dresses in the back scene 
 in front, WHEELER (dressed as Captain], BURSAL, and 
 
 FlNSBURT. 
 
 Fins. I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this 
 dress. 
 
 Burs. Infinite credit! Why, he'll have no objection to 
 that eh, Wheeler? But I thought Finsbury knew you 
 too well to give you credit for anything. 
 
 Fins. You are pleased to be pleasant, sir. Mr. Wheeler 
 knows, in that sense of the Avord, it is out of my power to 
 give him credit, and I 'm sure he would not ask it. 
 
 Wheel, (aside.} 0, Bursal, pay him, and I'll pay you 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Burs. Now, if you were n't to be captain after all, 
 Wheeler, what a pretty figure you 'd cut ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 eh? 
 
 Wheel. 0, I 'ra as sure of being captain as of being alive. 
 (Aside.) Do pay for me, now there's a good dear fel- 
 low ! before they (looking back) come up. 
 
 Burs, (aside.) I love to make him lick the dust ! ( Aloud.) 
 Holla! here's Finsbury waiting to be paid, lads. (To the 
 lads who are in the back scene.) Who has paid, and who has 
 not paid, I say ? 
 
 [ The lads come forward, and several exclaim at 
 once, " I 've paid ! I 've paid 1" 
 
528 ETON MONT EM. 
 
 Enter LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN. 
 
 Eory. 0, King of Fashion, how fine we are ! Why, now, 
 to look at ye all, one might fancy one's self at the playhouse 
 at once, or at a fancy ball in dear little Dublin. Come, 
 strike up a dance 1 
 
 Burs. Pshaw ! wherever you come, Rory O'Ryan, no one 
 else can be heard. Who has paid, and who has not paid, I 
 say? 
 
 Several boys exclaim, We 've all paid. 
 
 1st boy. I 've not paid, but here 's my money. 
 
 Several boys. We have not paid, but here 's our money. 
 
 6th boy. Order there 1 I am marshal. All that have paid, 
 march off to the staircase, and take your seats there, one by 
 one. March. 
 
 [As they march by, one by one, so as to display 
 their dresses, Mr. Finsbury bows, and says : 
 
 A thousand thanks, gentlemen Thank you, gentlemen. 
 Thanks, gentlemen. The finest sight I ever saw out of 
 Lon'on. 
 
 Rory, as each lad passes, catches his arm, Are you a 
 Talbotife, or a Wheelenfe? To each who answers A 
 Wheelerite, Rory replies, "Phoo dance off, then" Go to 
 the Devil and shake yourself.* Each who answers A Tal- 
 botite, Rory shakes by the hand violently, singing, 
 
 "Talbot, Talbot's the dog for Rory." 
 
 When they have almost passed, Lord John says But 
 where can Mr. Talbot be all this time. 
 
 Burs. Who knows ? who cares ? 
 
 Wheel. A pretty electioneerer ! (Aside toBursal.) Fins- 
 bury 's waiting to be paid. 
 
 Lord J. You do n't wait for me, Mr. Finsbury. You know 
 I have settled with you. 
 
 Fins. Yes, my lord, yes many thanks; and I have left 
 
 * This is the name of a country dance. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 529 
 
 your lordship's dress here, and everybody's dress, I believe, 
 as bespoke. 
 
 Burs. Here, Finsbury's, the money for Wheeler, who, 
 between you and I, is as poor as a rat. 
 
 Wheeler, (affecting to laugh.) Well, I hope I shall be as 
 rich as a Jew to-morrow. 
 
 \Bursal counts money in an ostentatious manner 
 into Finsbury's hand. 
 
 Fins. A thousand thanks for all favours. 
 
 Rory. You '11 be kind enough to lave Mr. Talbot's dress 
 with me, Mr. Finsbury, for I'm a friend. 
 
 Fins. Indubitably, sir ; but the misfortune is he ! he ! 
 he! Mr. Talbot, sir, has bespoke no dress. Your ser- 
 vant, gentlemen. [Exit Finsbury. 
 
 Burs. So your friend Mr. Talbot could not afford to 
 bespeak a dress. (Bursal and Wheeler laugh insolently.) 
 How comes that, I wonder ? 
 
 Lord J. If I 'm not mistaken, here comes Talbot to answer 
 for himself. 
 
 Rory. But who, in the name of St. Patrick, has he along 
 with him ? 
 
 Enter TALBOT and LANDLORD. 
 
 Talb. Come in along with us, Farmer Hearty Come in. 
 [ While the Farmer comes in, the boys, who were 
 
 sitting on the stairs, rise and exclaim 
 Whom have we here ? what now ? come down, lads, here's 
 more fun. 
 
 Rory. What's here, Talbot? 
 
 Talb. An honest farmer, and a good-natured landlord, 
 who would come here along with me to speak 
 
 Farm, (interrupting.) To speak the truth (strikes hts 
 stick on the ground.) 
 
 Landlord, (unbuttoning his waistcoat.) But I am so hot 
 BO short-winded (panting and puffing), that for the soul and 
 body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say. 
 34 
 
530 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Rory. Faith, now, the more short-winded a story the bet- 
 ter, to my fancy. 
 
 Burs. Wheeler, what 's the matter, man ? you look as if 
 your under-jaw was broke. 
 
 Farm. The matter is, young gentleman, that there waa 
 once upon a time a fine bay hunter. 
 
 Wheel, (squeezing up to Talbot aside.) Don't expose me, 
 do n't let him tell. (To the Farmer.) I '11 pay for the corn I 
 spoiled. (To the Landlord.) I'll pay for the horse. 
 
 Farm. I does not want to be paid for my corn ; the short 
 of it is, young gentlemen, this 'un here in the fine thing- 
 em-bobs (pointing to Wheeler) is a shabby fellow he went 
 and spoiled Master Newington's best hunter. 
 
 Land, '(panting.) Ruinationed him, ruinationed him. 
 
 Rory. But was that all the shabbiness ? Now I might, 
 or any of us might, have had such an accident as that ; I 
 suppose he paid the gentleman for the horse or will do so 
 in good time. 
 
 Land, (holding his sides.) that I had but a little breath 
 in this body o' mine to speak all speak on, Farmer. 
 
 Farm, (striking his stick on the floor.) Oons, sir, when a 
 man 's put out, he can't go on with his story. 
 
 Omnes. Be quiet, Rory hush. 
 
 [Rory puts his finger on his lips. 
 
 Farm. Why, sir, I was a-going to tell you the shabbiness. 
 Why, sir, he did not pay Landlord here for the horse, but 
 he goes and says to the Landlord here " Mr. Talbot had 
 your horse on the self-same day ; 't was he did the damage, 
 'tis from he you must get your money." So Mr. Talbot 
 here, who is another-guess sort of a gentleman (though he 
 has not so fine a coat), would not see a man at a loss that 
 could not afford it ; and not knowing which of 'em it was 
 that spoiled the horse, goes, when he finds the other would 
 not pay a farthing, and pays it all. 
 
 Rory. (rubbing his hands.) There's a Talbot for ye. And 
 now, gentlemen, (to Wheeler and Bursal), you guess the 
 
ETON MONTE M. 531 
 
 rason, as I do, I suppose, why he bespoke no dress he had 
 not money enough to be fine and honest too You are very 
 fine, Mr. Wheeler, to do you justice. 
 
 Lord J. Pray, Mr. O'Ryan, let the Farmer go on he has 
 more to say. How did you find out, pray, my good friend, 
 that it was not Talbot who spoiled the horse ? Speak loud 
 enough to be heard by everybody. 
 
 Farm. Ay, that I will I say (very loudly) I say I saw 
 him there (pointing to Wheeler] take the jump which strained 
 the horse and I ; m ready to swear to it Yet, he let ano- 
 ther pay there 's the shabbiness. 
 
 [A general groan from all the lads " Oh shabby 
 Wheeler, shabby ! I'll not vote for shabby 
 Wheeler!" 
 
 Lord J. (aside.) Alas ! I must vote for him. 
 
 Rory sings. 
 
 "True game to the last, no Wheeler for me; 
 Talbot! Talbot 's the dog for me." 
 
 [Several voices Join the chorus. 
 
 Burs. Wheeler, if you are not chosen captain you must 
 see and pay me for the dress. 
 Wheel. I am as poor as a rat. 
 
 Rory. yes ! yes ! hear ye I hear ye, all manner of 
 men the election is now going to begin forthwith in the 
 big field, and Rory O'Ryan holds the poU for Talbot Tal- 
 bot for ever, huzza ! 
 
 [Exit Rory, followed by the boys, who exclaim, 
 " Talbot for ever, huzza." The Landlord and 
 Farmer join them. 
 
 Lord J. Talbot, I 'm glad you are what I always thought 
 you I'm glad you did not write that odious song I 
 would not lose such a friend for all the songs in the world 
 Forgive me for my hastiness this morning I've pun- 
 ished myself I 've promised to vote for Wheeler. 
 
532 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 Talb. 0, no matter whom you vote for, my lord, if you 
 are still my friend, and if you know me to be yours. 
 
 [They shake hands. 
 Lord J. I must not say, " Huzza for Talbot!" [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 WINDSOR TERRACE. 
 
 LADY PIERCEFIELD MRS. TALBOT LOUISA, and a little girl 
 of six years old, LADY VIOLETTA, daughter to LADY PIERCB- 
 
 FtELD. 
 
 Violetta. (looking at a paper, which Louisa holds.) I like 
 it very much. 
 
 Lady P. What is it that you like very much, Violetta ? 
 
 Violet. You are not to know yet, mamma ; it is I may 
 tell her that it is a little drawing that Louisa is doing for 
 me. Louisa, I wish you would let me show it to mamma. 
 
 Louisa. And welcome, my dear ; it is only a sketch of 
 " The Little Merchants," a story which Violetta was read- 
 ing, and she asked me to try to draw the pictures of the 
 little merchants for her. 
 
 [While Lady P. looks at the drawing, Violetta 
 says to Louisa, 
 
 But are you in earnest, Louisa, about what you were say- 
 ing to me just now quite in earnest? 
 
 Louisa. Yes, in earnest quite in earnest, my dear. 
 
 Violet. And may I ask mamma nowf 
 
 Louisa. If you please, my dear. 
 
 Violet, (runs to her mother.) Stoop down to me, mamma, 
 I 've something to whisper to you. 
 
 [Lady Piercefield stoops down. Violetta tJirows 
 her arms round her mother's neck. 
 
 Violet, (aside to her mother.) Mamma, do you know you 
 know you want a governess for me. 
 
 Lady P. Yes, if I could find a good one. 
 
ETON MONTEM. 533 
 
 Violet, (aloud.) Stoop again, mamma, I've more to whis- 
 per. (Aside to Tier mother.') She says she will be my govern- 
 ess, if you please. 
 
 Lady P. She ! who is she f 
 
 Violet. Louisa. 
 
 Lady P. (patting Violetta's cheek.) You are a little fool 
 Miss Talbot is only playing with you. 
 
 Violet. No, indeed, mamma, she is in earnest; are not 
 you, Louisa ? 0, say yes. 
 
 Louisa. Yes. 
 
 Violet, (clasps her hands.) Yes, mamma; do you hear, 
 yes. 
 
 Louisa. If Lady Piercefield will trust you to my care 
 I am persuaded, that I should be much happier as your 
 governess, my little Violetta, than as an humble dependant 
 of Miss Bursal's. (Aside to Tier mother.') You see that, now 
 I am put to the trial, I keep to my resolution, dear mother. 
 
 Mrs. T. Your ladyship would not be surprised at this offer 
 of my Louisa, if you had heard, as we have done within 
 these few hours, of the loss of the East India ship, in which 
 almost our whole property was embarked. 
 
 Louisa. The Bombay Castle is wrecked. 
 
 Lady P. The Bombay Castle ! I have the pleasure to tell 
 you that you are misinformed ; it was the Airly Castle that 
 was wrecked. 
 
 Louisa and Mrs. T. Indeed ! 
 
 Lady P. Yes, you may depend upon it, it was the Airly 
 Castle that was lost. You know I am just come from Ports- 
 mouth, where I went to meet my brother, Governor Morton, 
 who came home with the last India fleet, and from whom 
 I had the intelligence. 
 
 [Here Violetta interrupts, to asTc her mother for 
 Tier nosegay Lady P. gives it to her, and 
 then goes on speaking. 
 
 Lady P. They were in such haste, foolish people 1 to carry 
 their news to London, that they mistook one castle for ano- 
 
534 ETON MONTEM. 
 
 ther. But, do you know that Mr. Bursal loses fifty thou- 
 sand pounds, it is said, by the Airly Castle. When I told 
 him she was lost, I thought he would have dropped down ; 
 however, I found he comforted himself afterward with a 
 bottle of Burgundy ; but poor Miss Bursal' has been in hys- 
 terics ever since. 
 
 Mrs. T. Poor girl ! My Louisa, you did not fall into hys- 
 terics, when I told you of the loss of our whole fortune. 
 
 [ Violetla, during this dialogue, has been seated on 
 the ground making up a nosegay. 
 
 Violet, (aside.) Fall into hysterics ! What are hyste- 
 rics, I wonder. 
 
 Louisa. Miss Bursal is much to be pitied, for the loss 
 of wealth will be the lose of happiness to her. 
 
 Lady P. It is to be hoped that this loss may at least check 
 the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, 
 as my son tells me 
 
 [A cry of " Huzza 1 huzza \" behind the scenes. 
 
 Enter LORD JOHN. 
 
 Lord J. (hastily.) How d' ye do, mother ? Mrs. Talbot, 
 I giyeyoujoy. 
 
 Lady P. Take breath take breath. 
 Louisa. It is my brother 
 Mrs. T. Here he is. Hark 1 Hark ! 
 
 (A cry behind the scenes of " Talbot and truth for 
 
 ever I Huzza \" 
 Louisa. They are chairing him. 
 
 Lord J. Yes, they are chairing him, and he has been 
 chosen for his honourable conduct, not for his electioneer- 
 ing skill; for, to do him justice, Coriolanus himself was not 
 a worse electioneerer. 
 
 Enter EORT O'RrAN and another Eton lad carrying TALBOT 
 
 in a chair, followed by a crowd of Eton lads. 
 Rory. By your lave, my lord. By your lave, ladies. 
 Omnes. Huzza ! Talbot and truth for ever 1 Huzza ' 
 
ETON MONTEM. 535 
 
 Talb. Set mo down ! There 's my mother i tnere 's my 
 sister 1 
 
 Rory. Easy, easy. Set him down ! No such ting ! give 
 him t'other huzza ! there 's nothing like a good loud huzza 
 in this world. Yes, there is ; for, as my Lord John said 
 just now, out of some book, or his own head, 
 
 " One self-approving hour whole years outweighs, 
 Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas." 
 
 (Curtain falls.) 
 
 THI BSD. 
 
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