THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
GIFT OF
Estate of
Ernst and Eleanor
van IXfben Sels
A
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
' 7 thought I saw ' poor Franklin began. P. 61.
THE
PARENT'S ASSISTANT
or. Stories for Children
BY
MARIA EDGEWORTH
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE
ILLUSTRATED
BY
CHRIS HAMMOND
LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1903
First printed unth Illustrations ly ChH* Ha mmond l8g? .
Illustrated Pocket Classics 1903.
EDUC.-
PSYCH.
UBRARf
EDUC.-
PSYCH.
LIBRARY
INTRODUCTION
ONCE when the present writer was a very little girl she
suffered for a short time from some inflammation of the
eyes, which prevented her from reading, or amusing herself
in any way. Her father, who had just then returned from
the East, in order to help her to pass the weary hours
began telling her the story of the ' Forty Thieves,' and when
he had finished, and had boiled down the wicked thieves in
oil, and when she asked him to tell it all over again, he
said that he would try and find something else to amuse
her, and looking about the room he took up a volume of
the Parent's Assistant which was lying on the table, and
began to read aloud the story of the ' Little Merchants.'
The story lasted two mornings, and an odd, confused im-
pression still remains in the listener's mind to this day of
Naples, Vesuvius, pink and white sugar plums of a
darkened room, of a lonely country house in Belgium, of a
sloping garden full of flowers outside the shutters, of the
back of a big sofa covered with yellow velvet, and of her
father's voice reading on and on. When she visited Naples
in after days she found herself looking about unconsciously
for her early playfellows.
Not only Francisco and Piedro, but all those various
members of the Edgeworth family who play their parts in
vii
134
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
fancy names and dresses in Miss Edgeworth's stories,
became her daily familiar companions from that day forth.
Many of the stories in the Parents Assistant were
written in a time when wars and rumours of wars were in
the air ; these quiet scenes of village life were devised to
the sound of clarions. Rebels were marching and counter-
marching ; volunteers were assembling; husbandmen, throw-
ing away their spades, were arming and turning into
soldiers; the French were landing in Ireland. 'I cannot
be a Captain of Dragoons,' writes Miss Edgeworth, 'and
it would not make any of us one degree safer if I were sit-
ting with my hands before me.' So she quietly goes on
with her stories. One or two of them were written at
Clifton, and very early in her career an illustrated edition
had been suggested by the publishers. A young Irish
neighbour, with a taste for the fine arts, was asked to make
the drawings to these stories, and it was this lady, Miss
Beaufort, the daughter of the Rector of Colon, who after-
wards became the fourth Mrs. Edgeworth. Not long after
his third wife's death in 1797, Mr. Edgeworth wrote a letter
to Dr. Darwin at Lichfield, in which he gives him various
items of family news. He writes of portraits (Dr. Darwin,
Mr. Thomas Day, and Mr. Edgeworth, had all sat for their
portraits) ; he writes of Upas trees, of frozen frogs, of farm-
ing and rack-rents ; of pipes for hot-houses to be heated by
stable dung, of speaking machines, and finally in a post-
script he announces the fact of his being engaged to be
married for the fourth time, ' to a young lady of small
fortune and large accomplishments, much youth, some
beauty, more sense, uncommon talents, more uncommon
temper, liked by my family, loved by me.'
These were stormy times for Ireland : a few days after
the letter was written, a conspiracy was discovered in
viii
INTRODUCTION
Dublin, and the city was under arms. Mr. Edgeworth set
out immediately to join the Beauforts, who were there.
The true-hearted daughter now admires her father for
urging on the marriage. * Instead of delaying, as some
would have advised, my father urged for an immediate day.
He brought his bride home through a part of the country
in actual insurrection.'
There is a grim story ot the new- married pair on their
way to Edgeworthstown passing the suspended corpse of a
man hanging between the shafts of a cart. Miss Edge-
worth in her Memoirs of her father gives a striking account
of the family assembled to receive the new wife. It is a
grandson of this last Mrs. Edgeworth who is the present
owner of Edgeworthstown.
The Parenfs Assistant had just been written ; but one or
two of the stories in the present collection were not added
till much later, such as ' The Bracelets,' which were written
in Switzerland to make up a proper allowance of copy for a
new edition. It is hard to make a choice among these
charming and familiar histories. They open like fairy
tales, recounting in simple diction the histories of widows
living in flowery cottages, with assiduous devoted little sons,
who work in the garden and earn money to make up the
rent. There are also village children busily employed, and
good little orphans whose parents generally die in the open-
ing pages. Fairies were not much in Miss Edgeworth's
line, but philanthropic manufacturers, liberal noblemen,
and benevolent ladies in travelling carriages, do as well and
appear in the nick of time to distribute rewards or to point
a moral. Rosamond of the Purple Jar reappears in the
Birthday Present, which gives one an odd picture of the
customs of those days. We read of the little lace girl who
{eaves her pillow upon a stone before the door, and of the
ix
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
footman laced with silver, who having entangled the
bobbins and kicked the pillow into the lane, jumps up
behind his mistress's coach and is out of sight in a
minute. Wise Laura, who had not, like Rosamond, spent
her half-guinea upon filigree paper, consoles the little weep-
ing lace-maker, and presses her golden coin into her hand.
Lazy Lawrence is one of the prettiest stories in the
collection. Who could read the story of Dutiful Jim and
his love for old Lightfoot unmoved ? Lightfoot deserves
to take his humble place among the immortal winged
steeds of mythology along with Pegasus, or with Black Bess,
or Balaam's Ass, or any other celebrated steeds.
Most children like the history of the Orphans ; that
quiet history in which the sister of twelve years old acts a
mother's part by the little children. I believe the story is
founded on some real and modest heroine of those bygone
days. Then, again, who has not sympathised with ' Waste
not, Want not,' and with thoughtful Ben and his careful
assiduity ? It would be curious to calculate how much
good time has been sacrificed to saving worthless pieces of
string in imitation of this thrifty but fascinating hero. But
after all nothing is to compare to Simple Susan : how pretty
the scene is where Susan, working in her arbour, hears the
sound of her friend Philip's pipe and tabor ; the children
come across the green with their garlands, leading up Susan's
lamb tied up with ribbons, the wicked agent skulks away ;
innocence and beauty triumph over wrong. . .
Friendship plays a no less important part in Miss Edge-
worth's stories than it did in her own actual experience.
Many of the scenes of Miss Edgeworth's stories are laid in
manufacturing districts, and I have already quoted from the
correspondence with Mr. Strutt, on whose sympathy and
x
INTRODUCTION
help she so greatly relied. Young Edward Strutt, after-
wards Lord Belper, used to write to the young men at
Edgeworthstown when he was a child of only nine years
old. ' I shall not be satisfied with any letter from you that
does not mention every member of your uncle's family and
your own,' says one of the young Edgeworths, writing back
in answer to the boy. Mr. Edgeworth sends his sons in
succession to visit his friend Mr. Strutt, and quotes from
Pliny, saying : * The claim I now make to your favour
is your having already done me favours. I introduce my
fourth son to your notice simply upon the foundation of
your having been very kind to his brothers.'
In 1823 Miss Edgeworth, who has been writing to Mr.
Strutt for years, addresses him as * my dear sir my dear
friend, I think I may venture to say ! ' She consults him
upon details in her stories, and asks his advice on some
matter connected with spinning-jennies. There also are
many family events, charmingly chronicled in the orderly
flowing characters of the lady, or the bolder writing of her
correspondent ; one letter concerns the election to Parlia-
ment of Mr. Edward Strutt in 1830.
The Strutts are all clever,
Here's Edward for ever,
she writes, and defends her doggerel by the * natural Irish
spirits where the interests of a friend are concerned.' As
time goes on Lord Belper's own letters appear, keeping up
the family tradition of kindness and hospitality. The
author's conscientious painstaking strikes one, as one realises
the care she bestowed upon her work. La Triste Realite, of
which Mme. de Stael complained, has certainly its charm for
the infant mind, and also for some maturer readers.
Archbishop Whately in one of his reviews upon Miss
xi
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
Edgeworth points out the change which has gradually
come over story-telling. ' Instead of the splendid scenes of
an imaginary world, striking representations of that which
is daily taking place around us are set forth,' he says.
'We now turn to Flemish painting' 1 so he calls the
descriptions ; and he adds that a novel which makes
good its pretensions of giving a perfectly correct pic-
ture of common life, becomes a far more instructive work
than one of superior merit belonging to the imaginative
class ; for, as he tells us, ' It guides the judgment and
supplies a kind of artificial experience of life.' It is also
Whately who complains not exactly as one would expect
an archbishop to complain that Miss Edgeworth's stories
are too improving, too didactic. ' She would, we think, in-
struct more successfully, and we are sure please more fre-
quently, if she kept the design of teaching more out of
sight,' he writes. If Whately were alive to review the
novels of our own day, he might after all prefer ' the splen-
did scenes of an imaginary world ' to the favourite experi-
ments in garbage of our present Laura Matildas. It is
true the books sell by thousands. They certainly prove
that the successful discovery of the age is not to point out
what is right but what is wrong. Books used to be coarse
and jocular ; our books are earnest and indecent on prin-
ciple. One hears of the revolting daughters who are so
much to the front, the same word in a different sense may
perhaps apply to a favourite school of authors now in
vogue.
There is, however, a compensating balance in every adjust-
ment of the scales of life : along with the minor virtues which
are so much out of fashion, such as modesty, decency, good
breeding, etc., follows the expulsion of a great many minor
vices, such as affectation, disingenuousness, exclusiveness,
*"
xii
INTRODUCTION
and worldly wisdom. The latter qualities still exist of
course, but in a rather shame-stricken, apologetic sort of
way. Besides the gibes of literature, they have to contend
with all sorts of opposing influences, with omnibuses,
depreciated investments, penny papers, county councils, all
of which certainly place altruism and public spirit in the
place of the more personal egotisms of our grandfathers.
X111
CONTENTS
PREFACE . r
THE ORPHANS . . 5
LAZY LAWRENCE . .27
THE FALSE KEY . 55
SIMPLE SUSAN . . . . . 79
THE WHITE PIGEON . . . .141
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT . . . *53
ETON MONTEM . .169
FORGIVE AND FORGET . . . . 215
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT; OR, Two STRINGS TO YOUR Bow 231
OLD Poz . . . 257
THE MIMIC .... .273
THE BARRING OUT ; OR, PARTY SPIRIT . . - 37
THE BRACELETS ... . 347
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS . . 373
TARLTON .... 43 1
THE BASKET-WOMAN . . . . . 451
xv
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
' I thought I saw ' poor Franklin began . Frontispiece
Inquired what it was she most wanted . 10
' Well, and what have you clone with the treasure you had the
luck to rind ?'.... 20
' See what you've done for me look ! look, look, I say ! ' . 38
' What's the matter ? ' said his mistress. ' God bless the boy ! '
said his mother ... . . 48
' You know this key? I shall trust it in your care ' . .72
' It won't do,' said Barbara, turning her back . 85
Tried all her skill to fathom his thoughts . . .100
Let it eat out of her hand for the last time . , .116
' Stay ! oh stay ! don't chop his head off' . .144
The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted
upon the sign . . . . . .151
She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins,
while the footman stood laughing at her distress . .156
' I shan't spoil it ; and I will have it in my own hands ' . 161
' Then shake hands, my honest landlord ' . . .176
Enter Miss Bursal, in a riding dress . . . 181
'I say I saw him there take the jump which strained the horse' 209
xvii
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
PAGE
* Talbot and truth for ever ! Huzza ' . . .212
' Stay ! Stand still, sir ! or you will break your china jar ' . 217
When Maurice saw his raspberry - plants scattered upon the
ground, and his favourite tulip broken, he was in much
astonishment ...... 228
Playing at cat's cradle ..... 236
He dragged poor Hal out of the red mud . . . 253
Lucy. What's this, papa? fast. Pshaw ! pshaw! pshaw! it
is not melted, child it is the same as no sugar . . 260
' Five times have I commanded silence, and I won't command
anything five times in vain thafs poz ! ' . . 264
'And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor,
sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table ' . . 270
The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to
wait upon Mrs. Montague . . . .276
' She dashed and splashed without minding exactness, or the
recipe, or anything ' . . . .284
'And like a man and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt,' said
the good Quaker, shaking Frederick's hand affectionately 304
' What is become of my Livy ? ' * Your sister Livy, do you
mean ? ' . . . . . 3 1 3
Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful
grasp, sternly demanded ' What he meant by this ? ' . 335
He sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice . . 345
' How ? ' cried Cecilia, catching hold of her , . , 352
' Oh, stay one minute ! ' said Cecilia . . . 363
4 1 saw him the other day miss selling a melon for his father by
turning the bruised side to the customer ' . . 377
Piedro was hissed and hooted out of the market-place . 400
The Jew, who was a man old in all the arts of villainy, con-
trived to cheat both his associates . . .413
xviii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Returned in safety over the lava, yet warm under his feet . 419
' Is it poison ? ' exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror . 441
' May God bless you ! ' . . . . 448
' But, oh, brother, look at this ! this is not the same as the
other halfpence '..... 456
His master came in with a face of indignation, and demanded
' The guinea the guinea, sir ! ' . . . 464
XIX
PREFACE
ADDRESSED TO PARENTS
OUR great lexicographer, in his celebrated eulogium on Dr.
Watts, thus speaks in commendation of those productions
which he so successfully penned for the pleasure and instruction
of the juvenile portion of the community.
' For children,' says Dr. Johnson, ' he condescended to lay
aside the philosopher, the scholar, and the wit, to write little
poems of devotion, and systems of instruction adapted to their
wants and capacities, from the dawn of reason to its gradation
of advance in the morning of life. Every man acquainted with
the common principles of human action will look with venera-
tion 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, no very easy task to write for children.
Those only who have been interested in the education of a
family, wKb 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.
Indeed, in all sciences the grand difficulty has been to
ascertain facts a difficulty which, in the science of education,
B I &
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
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, successful 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 his theory, will act upon the mind
of a parent, in opposition to the abstract love of justice, and the
general desire to increase the wisdom and happiness of mankind.
Notwithstanding these difficulties, an attempt to keep such a
register has actually been made. The design has from time to
time been pursued. Though much has not been collected, every
circumstance and conversation that have been preserved are
faithfully and accurately related, and these notes have been of
great advantage to the writer of the following stories.
The question, whether society could exist without the dis-
tinction of ranks, is a question involving a variety of complicated
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 con-
fined 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 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 dis-
gusted, or will remain stationary. Children that live with
people who converse with elegance will not be contented with
a style inferior to what they hear from everybody near them.
All poetical allusions, however, have been avoided in this
book ; such situations only are described as children can easily
imagine, and which may consequently interest their feelings.
2
PREFACE
Such examples of virtue are painted as are not above their
conception of excellence, or 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 propor-
tion the reward to the exertion, and to demonstrate that people
feel cheerful and happy whilst they are employed. The reward
of our industrious boy, though it be money, is only money con-
sidered as the means of gratifying a benevolent wish. In a
commercial nation it is especially necessary 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 the folly of that weakness of mind, and that easiness
to be led, which too often pass for good nature ; and in the tale
of the ' False Key ' are pointed out some of the evils to which
a well-educated boy, on first going to service, is exposed from
the profligacy of his fellow-servants.
In the ' Birthday Present,' 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 or
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 subject 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 been attempted, in these stories, to provide antidotes
against ill-humour, the epidemic rage for dissipation, and the
fatal propensity to admire and imitate whatever the fashion of
the moment may distinguish. Were young people, either in
3
THE PARENT'S ASSISTANT
public schools or in private families, absolutely free from bad
examples, it would not be advisable to introduce despicable and
vicious characters in books intended 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 ignorance.
To prevent the precepts of morality from tiring the ear and
the mind, it was necessary to make the stories in which 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 realised.
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 evening
she was sitting at the foot of her mother's bed spinning, and
her little brothers and sisters were gathered round the fire
eating their potatoes and milk for supper. ' Bless them, the
poor young creatures ! ' said the widow, who, as she lay on her
bed, which she knew must be her deathbed, was thinking of
what would become of her children after she was gone. Mary
stopped her wheel, for she was afraid that the noise of it had
wakened 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 don'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 you will be again, I hope, 1
said Mary, ' when the fine weather comes again.'
' The fine weather will never come again to me,' said her
mother. ' Tis a folly, Mary, to hope for that ; but what I hope
is, that you'll find some friend some help orphans as you'll
soon all of you be. And one thing comforts 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,
5
THE ORPHANS
and I have brought you up to be the same, Mary ; and I am
sure the little ones will take after you ; for you'll be good to
them as good to them as you can. 5
Here the children, who had finished eating their suppers,
came round the bed, to listen to what their mother was saying.
She was tired of speaking, for she was very weak ; but she
took their little hands as they laid them on the bed, and
joining them all together, she said, c 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 after-
wards, but talked in a confused way about some debts, and one
in particular, which she owed to a schoolmistress 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 gentlemen's families,
who paid him a sixpence or a shilling, according 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
should every year grow able to do more and more, and that he
should never forget his 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 considered
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 neighbouring village.
Mar> 7 was in hopes that the rent would not be called for
6
THE ORPHANS
immediately, but in this she was disappointed. Mr. Harvey,
the gentleman on whose estate she lived, was in England, and
in his absence all was managed by a Mr. Hopkins, an agent,
who was a hard man. 1 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
her 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 another year
in her cabin ; but this he refused. It was now September 25th,
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
brother and sisters in for charity's sake ; for the neighbours
were all poor enough themselves. So she bethought herself
that she might find shelter 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, 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.
1 A hard-hearted man.
THE ORPHANS
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 welcome 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 the schoolmistress, to whom above a guinea was due. Mary
went to her, and took her goat along with her, and offered it
in part of payment of the debt, 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, industrious 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.
Being now 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 Peggie and Annie 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, Annie 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.
Annie 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, at the time the orphans were putting up this
garland, that two young ladies, who were returning home after
their evening walk, stopped at the gate of the churchyard to
look at the red light which the setting sun cast upon the window
of the church. As the ladies were standing at the gate, they
heard a voice near them crying, ' O mother ! mother ! are you
8
THE ORPHANS
gone for ever ? ' They could not see any one ; so they walked
softly round to the other side of the church, and there they saw
Mary kneeling beside a grave, on which her brother and
sisters were hanging 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 village
to inquire about them. It was at the house of the school-
mistress 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 dis-
charge a debt due for her schooling ; and, in short, the school-
mistress, who had known Mary for several 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 basketful, 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 bogberries 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 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
9
Inquired what it was she most wanted.
THE ORPHANS
deal more than she could by spinning. 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.
Edmund, who was ready to oblige, and proud that his candles
were noticed, showed the Englishman how they were made,
and gave him a bundle of rushes. 1
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
anywhere, 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
1 ' The proper species of rush,' says White, in his Natural History of
Selborne, ' seems to be the Juncus effusus, or common soft rush, which is
to be found in moist pastures, by the sides of streams, and under hedges.
These rushes are in best condition in the height of summer, but may be
gathered so as to serve the purpose well quite on to autumn. The largest
and longest are the 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. 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 afterwards 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 fourpence, 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
shillings. '
II
THE ORPHANS
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 j or, ' They bid me not waitj etc. ; but he
told exactly the truth ; and though Gilbert scolded him for
being so impatient as not to wait, yet his 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. With what Mary got by her
spinning and plain work, and Edmund by leading of cart-
horses, going on errands, etc., 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 him, and
that his master told him he might choose one in the neighbour-
hood. Several were anxious to get into such a good 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 his distress, and she made for him, after
12
THE ORPHANS
many trials, a pair of cloth shoes, with soles of platted hemp. 1
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 ; and consequently 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 piece of pretty 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 that this 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.
W T hen the shoes were completed, Isabella and Caroline dis-
posed of them for her amongst 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 basted the vamps and linings
together ready for her. Edmund was allowed to come home
1 The author has seen a pair of shoes, such as here described, made in
a few hours.
13
THE ORPHANS
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 sisters, and he took his
share in the manufactory. It was his business to hammer the
soles flat ; and as soon as he came home every morning he
performed his task with so much cheerfulness, and sang 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 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
way 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 whilst 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 baste in the linings ; and all who could get employ-
ment were pleased, for the idle ones were shoved out of the
way. It became a custom with the children of tr\e village to
resort to the old castle at their play hours ; and it was sur-
prising 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. Most haste worst speed. My
hands must be washed before I can do anything.'
Whilst George was washing his hands, two other little
children, who had just finished their morning's work, came tc
him to beg that he would blow some soap bubbles for them,
and they were all three eagerly blowing bubbles, and watching
14
THE ORPHANS
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 com-
panions were at work, and they ran precipitately into the
room, exclaiming, ' Did you hear that noise ? '
1 1 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 cowardice ; but
Mary, who was very prudent, persuaded her brother 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
contentment ever since her mother's death, which was now
nearly four years ; but she determined to look out for some
other 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 the 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 brother,
and to the ladies who had been so kind to her. She found
that there was one newly built house in this village un-
occupied ; it belonged to Mr. Harvey, her landlord, who was
still in England ; it was slated, and neatly fitted up inside ;
but the rent of it was six guineas a year, and this was far
above what Mary could afford to pay. Three guineas a year
THE ORPHANS
she thought was the highest rent for which she could venture
to engage. Besides, she heard that several 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, amongst 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
village 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 is, yonder,
lying under the great comer 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 remembers, when she
came to us to work early this morning, she saw the goat
rubbing itself and butting with its horns against that old
tottering chimney.'
' 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, who 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
16
THE ORPHANS
an odd-looking piece of money, which seemed neither like a
halfpenny, nor a shilling, nor a guinea.
' Here are more, a great many more of them,' cried Peggy ;
and upon searching amongst the rubbish, they discovered 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 ' O Mary ! Mary ! this is come
to us just in right time now you can pay for the slated house.
Never was anything so lucky ! '
But Mary, though nothing could have pleased her better
than to have been 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 her brother,
to take the coins to Mr. Hopkins. On 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 rank of
life may assist those in a lower condition.
Isabella, who had some knowledge of chemistry, discovered,
by touching the coins with nitric acid, 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's 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 coins found by the orphans, she per-
ceived that many of them were of the reign of Henry the
Seventh, which, from their scarcity, were highly appreciated
by numismatic collectors.
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 visible to the naked eye, though it was easily to
be seen through a magnifying glass. They also begged that
THE ORPHANS
their father, who was well acquainted with Mr. Harvey, the
gentleman to whom Rossmore Castle belonged, would 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 estimated 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 large red and
blue handkerchiefs, with their crooked corners 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 a cloak, which she had sold
for whisky. This old woman was well known amongst the
country people by the name of Goody Grope : l because she
had for many years been in the habit of groping in old castles
and in moats, 2 and at the bottom of a round tower 3 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 under ground,
By one within twenty miles around.
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 true, she, from
that time forwards, 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?
1 Goody is not a word used in Ireland. Collyogh is the Irish appella-
tion of an old woman ; but as Collyogh might sound strangely to English
ears, we have translated it by the word Goody.
2 What are in Ireland called moats, are, in England, called Danish
mounds, or barrows.
3 Near Kells, in Ireland, there is a round tower, which was in immi-
nent danger of being pulled down by an old woman's rooting at its
foundation, in hopes of finding treasure.
18
THE ORPHANS
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 drinking. 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 potato and a sup of some-
thing, for the love o' mercy ; for not a bit have I had all day,
except half a glass of whisky and a halfpenny-worth of tobacco !'
Mary immediately set before her some milk, and picked a
good potato 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'll 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 im-
probability 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
19
' Well, and -what have you done -with t lie treasure you had the luck to find 1 ? '
THE ORPHANS
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 ; for she saw that she must either get into a quarrel
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
that 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
falling to work the next morning, unless she had something
given to 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 halfpence, 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. Hopkins,
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 afterwards to receive a letter
from his employer, Mr. Harvey, demanding from him the coins
which had been discovered at Rossmore Castle. Hopkins
had sold the gold coins, and some of the others ; and 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
should 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 considered them as mere rubbish.
Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed that he could not consider
as rubbish the gold coins which were amongst them when 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 ;
21
THE ORPHANS
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 on 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. Does not he remember Edmund'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 don't you recollect,
Mary, your picking out the gold ones, and telling Mr. Hopkins
that they were gold ; and he said you knew nothing of the
matter ; and I was going to tell him that Miss Isabella 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 that she had poured 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'll go to him no more,'
said Edmund sturdily. ' He is a bad man I'll never go to
him again. Mary, don'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
22
THE ORPHANS
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 reaching their ears,
because they lived very retiredly. But one day, when Mary
went to sell some stockings of Peggy's knitting at the neigh-
bouring 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 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 console herself
by reflecting that she had two friends left who would not give
up her character, and who continued steadily 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, con-
stantly 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 countenance 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 com-
fortable house to live in was, a little while ago, the uppermost
thing in Mary's thoughts, now it was not so.
23
THE ORPHANS
One night, as Mary was going to bed, she heard some one
knocking hard at the door. ' Mary, are you up ? let us in/
cried a voice, which she knew to be the voice of Betsy Green,
the postmaster's daughter, who lived in the village near them.'
She let Betsy in, and asked what she could want at such a
time of night.
' Give me sixpence, and I'll tell you,' said Betsy ; ' but
waken Anne and Peggy. Here's a letter just come by 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 hand-
writing.'
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 follows :
' DEAR MARY, NANCY, 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 are (I mean, master and mistress, and the young
ladies bless them ! and Mr. Gilbert and I) coming down to
the vicarage to keep Christmas ; and a happy Christmas 'tis
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 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 pre-
tensions 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 Rossmore Castle. Isabella and Caroline knew
them again instantly ; and as the cross which Isabella had
24
THE ORPHANS
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
them from whom he got them, because he had bought them, he
said, under a promise of secrecy. Being further pressed, he
acknowledged that it was made a condition in his bargain that
he should not sell them to any one in Ireland, but that he had
been tempted by the high price the present noble possessor
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. Hopkins
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 completely proved.
A full account of all that happened was sent to England to
Mr. Harvey, their landlord, and a few posts afterwards there
came a letter from him, containing a dismissal of the dishonest
agent, and a reward for the honest and industrious orphans.
Mr. Harvey desired that Mary and her sisters might have the
slated house, rent-free, from this time forward, under the care
of 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 holidays. They were not
envied for their prosperity ; because everybody 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 luck to me ! bad luck to me !
25
THE ORPHANS
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 childer, 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 potato to put into
my mouth ! I, that have been looking under ground all my
days for treasure, not to have a halfpenny at the last, to buy
me tobacco ! '
' That is the very reason that you have not a halfpenny, 3
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 '
4 Phoo ! phoo ! ' interrupted Goody Grope ; ' don't be
prating ; don't I know as well as you do that they found a
pot of gold, by good luck ? and is not that the cause why they
are going to live in a 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 " as
a reward for their honesty" '
26
LAZY LAWRENCE
IN the pleasant valley of Ash ton there lived an elderly woman
of the name of Preston. She had a small neat cottage, and
there was not a weed to be seen in her garden. It was upon
her garden that she chiefly depended for support ; it consisted
of strawberry beds, and one small border for flowers. The
pinks and roses she tied up in nice nosegays, 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 Clifton, in the summer time,
to eat strawberries and cream at the gardens in 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, everything
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 the market behind 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 industrious boy.
27
LAZY LAWRENCE
* 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 strawberries,
and I'm to go for 'em to-morrow morning, and I'll be back
afore breakfast.'
' God bless the boy ! how he talks ! Four mile there, and
four mile back again, afore breakfast.' ' Ay, upon Lightfoot,
you know, mother, very easily ; mayn't I ? ' ' Ay, child ! '
'Why do you sigh, mother?' 'Finish thy supper, child.'
' I've done ! ' 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 Lightfoot's bridle
afore I go to bed.'
To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame
having once more stirred it, began again with ' Jem, dear,
does he go lame at all now ? ' ' What, Lightfoot ! Oh la.
no, not he ! never was so 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 wag.' ' God bless him that's right. We must
see, Jem, and keep him fat.' ' For what, mother ! ' ' For
Monday fortnight at the fair. He's to be sold ! ' ' Lightfoot !'
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 f 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 not I promise
to pay it for certain Monday fortnight, and am not I two
guineas short ; and where am I to get two guineas ? So what
signifies talking, child ? ' said the widow, leaning her head
upon her arm. ' Lightfoot must go.'
Jem was silent for a few minutes ' Two guineas, that's a
28
LAZY LAWRENCE
great, great deal. If I worked, and worked, and worked
ever so hard, I could no ways earn two guineas afore Monday
fortnight could I, mother ? ' ' Lord help thee, no ; not an'
work thyself to death. 5 ' 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.' c 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 behind 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 crying
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 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 Clifton
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 remembered 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 amongst 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 wakened full of this scheme,
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 Light-
foot, 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, whom, to his great joy, he spied
sitting at her corner of the street with her board before her.
29
LAZY LAWRENCE
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 ? J ' 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 easily discouraged ; he
went to the rocks, and walked slowly along, looking at all
the stones as he passed. Presently he came to a place where
a number of men were at work loosening some large rocks,
and one amongst the workmen 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,
amongst 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, 5 said the man, and went on working
whilst 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'll 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 had 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'll make it worth your while.'
Jem waited ; and, as he was very attentively observing how
the workmen went on with their work, he heard somebody
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, in the village of Ashton, as he knew, went by the
name of Lazy Lawrence a name which he most justly
deserved, for he never did anything from morning to night.
He neither worked nor played, but sauntered or lounged about
restless and yawning. His father was an ale-house keeper,
and being generally drunk, could take no care of his son ; so
that Lazy Lawrence grew every day worse and worse. How-
ever, some of the neighbours said that he was a good-natured
3
LAZY LAWRENCE
poor fellow enough, and would never do any one harm but
himself; whilst others, who were wiser, often shook their
heads, and told him that idleness was the root of all evil.
' What, Lawrence ! ' cried Jem to him, when he saw him
lying upon the grass ; * what, are you asleep ? ' ' Not quite.'
' Are you awake ? ' ' Not quite.' ' What are you doing there ? '
'Nothing.' 'What are you thinking of?' 'Nothing.'
'What makes you lie there?' 'I don'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.'
They then 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 enough to sell them.
Now, however, he set about the task ; and having picked out
those which he judged to be the best, he put them in 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. 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 ferry-boat, and the walk turns to the wells,
and numbers of people perpetually pass to drink the waters.
He chose his place well, and waited nearly all the evening,
offering his fossils with great assiduity to every passenger ; but
not one person bought any.
' Hallo ! ' 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
the master of the boat took notice of him, and, when he was
LAZY LAWRENCE
going away, stopped to ask him what he had got in his little
basket ; and when he saw that they were fossils, he immediately
told Jem to follow him, for that he was going to carry some
shells he had brought from* abroad to a lady in the neighbour-
hood 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 happened 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, whilst 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 ? 1 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 some-
thing 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 employ-
ment he had, and how much a day he earned by gathering
fossils.
' This is the first day I ever tried,' said Jem ; * I never sold
any yet, and if you don't buy : em now, ma'am, I'm afraid
nobody else will ; for I've asked everybody else.'
* Come, then,' said the lady, laughing, ' if that is the case, I
think I had better buy them all. 5 So, emptying all the fossils
out of his basket, she put half a crown into it.
Jem's eyes sparkled with joy. ' Oh, 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. Thai, instead of encouraging you
to be industrious, would teach you to be idle.'
32
LAZY LAWRENCE
Jem did not quite understand what she meant by this, but
answered, ' I'm sure I don't wish to be idle ; what I want is to
earn something every day, if I knew how ; I'm sure I don't wish
to be idle. If you knew all, you'd know I did not.' ' How
do you mean, if f knew all ? ' ' Why, I mean, if you knew
about Lightfoot.' 'Who's Lightfoot?' 'Why, mammy'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'll 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 willing earnestly 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 gar-
dener 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 Jem 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 he 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 waterside 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'll take. ' \Vife, give the lad two shillings, and take
this half-crown.' So the 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
D 33
LAZY LAWRENCE
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.' Don'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
every evening the lady, when she came out to walk in her
gardens, looked at his work. At last she said to her gardener,
' 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 'ere rose-bush, 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-day I say, measure Jem's fairly, 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 o'clock and go at six ? why, about this much,
ma'am,' said the gardener, marking ofif 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
finished his task by four o'clock ; so that he had all the rest
of the evening to himself. He was as fond of play as any
little boy could be ; and when he was at it he played with all
the eagerness and gaiety imaginable ; so as soon as he had
finished his task, fed Lightfoot, and put by the sixpence he
had earned that day, he ran to the playground in the village,
where he found a party of boys playing, and amongst 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
34
LAZY LAWRENCE
and most active amongst 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 don't you play, Lawrence ? ' said he. ' I'm
tired,' said Lawrence. ' Tired of what ? ' 'I don't know well
what tires me ; grandmother says I'm ill, and I must take
something I don't know what ails me.' 'Oh, pugh ! take a
good race one, two, three, and away and you'll find your-
self 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 don'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
ahorse.' 'Ten times more,' said 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
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 any-
thing 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 don't seem happy, and you have eightpence'
' That does not signify, though. I'm sure you only say that
because you envy me. You don'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 six-
pence ; 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 sevenpence, have you ?
Show it me and then I'll believe you.' ' Follow me, then,'
cried Jem, 'and I'll soon make you believe me; come.' 'Is
35
LAZY LAWRENCE
k 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 r ' ' Honestly ! to be
sure I did ; I earned it all.' ' Lord bless me, earned it ! well,
I've a great mind to work ; but then it's such hot weather,
besides, grandmother says I'm not strong enough yet for hard
work ; and besides, I know how to coax daddy out of money
when 1 want it, so I need not work. But four and sevenpence ;
let's see, what will you do with it all ? ' ' That's a secret,' said
Jem, looking great. ' I can guess ; I know what I'd do with
it if it was mine. First, I'd buy pocketfuls of gingerbread ;
then I'd buy ever so many apples and nuts. Don't you love
nuts ? I'd buy nuts enough to last me from this time to
Christmas, and I'd make littie Newton crack 'em for me, for
that's the worst of nuts, there's the trouble of cracking 'em. ;
4 Well, you never deserve to have a nut.' ' But you'll give me
some of yours,' said Lawrence, in a fawning tone ; for he
thought it easier to coax than to work * you'll 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 any-
body. Come now, let's go back and play their game's up, I
daresay.'
Lawrence went 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, whilst 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 father, 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 Lawrence,
36
LAZY LAWRENCE
and gave 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 fear, amazement, and remorse beheld at least
a dozen bottles burst, and the fine Worcestershire cider stream-
ing over the floor.
' Now, did not I 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 not it 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 don't you move, I say ? No, no,' catching
hold of him, ' I believe you can't move ; but I'll make you.'
And he shook him till Lawrence 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'll never be
good for anything ; you are such a lazy rascal get out of my
sight ! ' So saying, he pushed him out of the house door, and
Lawrence sneaked off, seeing that this was no time to make
his petition for halfpence.
The next day he saw the nuts again, and wishing for them
more than ever, he 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 Lawrence
began to whisper the word ' halfpenny ' in his ear, his father
swore with a loud oath, * I will not give you a halfpenny, 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 exerted 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
whilst he was waiting he heard some people near him talking
and laughing very loud.
37
See what you ve done for me look '.look, look, I say .' '
LAZY LAWRENCE
The fruit-woman's stall was at the gate of an inn yard ; and
peeping through the gate in this yard, Lawrence saw a postilion
and a stable-boy, about his own size, playing at pitch farthing.
He stood by watching them for a few minutes. ' I began but
with one halfpenny,' cried the stable-boy, with an oath, and
now I've got twopence ! ' added he, jingling the halfpence in his
waistcoat pocket. Lawrence was moved at the sound, and
said to himself, ' If / begin with one halfpenny I may end, like
him, with having twopence ; and it is easier to play at pitch
farthing than to work.'
So he stepped forward, 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, surprised 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 it again. This time Lawrence lost ; he threw again and
won ; and so he went on, sometimes losing, but most frequently
winning, till half the morning was lost. At last, however,
finding himself the master of three halfpence, he said he would
play no more.
The stable-boy, grumbling, swore he would have his
revenge another time, and Lawrence went and bought his nuts.
' It is a good thing,' said he to himself, ' to play at pitch
farthing ; the next time I want a halfpenny I'll not ask my
father for it, nor go to work neither.' Satisfied with this
resolution, he sat down to crack his nuts at his leisure, upon
the horse-block in the inn yard. Here, whilst 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 Lawrence, though lazy, had not yet
learned to be a wicked boy. But, by degrees, he was accus-
tomed to the swearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and
interest in their disputes and battles. As this was an amuse-
ment which he could enjoy without any sort of exertion, 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
39
LAZY LAWRENCE
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 (a very bad boy) with
whom he had first begun to game.
The consequences of this intimacy we shall presently see.
But it is now time to inquire what little Jem had been doing
all this while.
One day, after Jem 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 stayed from play, and was carrying in a heavy flower
pot, when his mistress crossed the hall. 'What a terrible
litter ! ' said she, * you are making here why don't you wipe
your shoes upon the mat ? ' Jem turned 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 within himself that
spirit which spurs men on to great enterprises, and makes
them 'trample on impossibilities.' In the first place, he
recollected that he had seen Lazy Lawrence, whilst he lounged
upon the gate, twist a bit of heath into different shapes ; and
he thought that, if he could find some way of plaiting 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 Fanner 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
40
LAZY LAWRENCE
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 accomplished 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 attempts. The sixth, however,
repaid him for the labours of the other five. He conquered
his grand difficulty of fastening the heath substantially together,
and at length completely finished a mat, which far surpassed
his most sanguine expectations. He was extremely happy
sang, danced round it whistled looked at it again and again,
and could hardly leave off looking at it 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 fully as much surprised as he expected,
when she saw it, and when she heard who made it. After
having duly admired it, she asked how much he expected 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 in my play hours, I was very happy in 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 in my garden, you can
employ yourself much better ; 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 that 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
LAZY LAWRENCE
less difficulty, so that, instead of making two, he could soon
make four, in a day. In a fortnight he made eighteen.
It was Saturday night wh,en he finished, and he carried, at
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 whilst 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 surprised ? ' ' That all my mats are gone,' said
Jem ; * but you are very welcome.' ' Are we ? ' said the lady,
' well, take up your hat and go home then, for you see that it
is getting late, and you know Lightfoot will wonder what's
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,' said the lady ; * five and
sevenpence I think you told me you had earned already how
much does that make ? I must add, I believe, one other
sixpence to make out your two guineas.'
' Two guineas ! ' exclaimed Jem, now quite conquering his
bashfulness, for at the moment he forgot where he was, and
saw nobody that was by. ' Two guineas ! ; cried he, clapping
his hands together, ' O Lightfoot ! O mother ! ' 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 eyes round upon the company ;
' will you thank 'em, for you knew I don'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.'
42
LAZY LAWRENCE
'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 strawberries.'
'That she will,' said Jem ; ' I'll search the garden myself.'
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, you're not to be
sold on Monday, poor fellow ! ' said he, patting him, and then
could not refrain from counting out his money. Whilst he was
intent upon this, Jem was startled by 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. 3
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 Lawrence, ' Shall
you like to stand by and see its eyes pecked out ? ' 'I don'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 have something else to do,' said Jem,
laughing, ' so I shall not go.' ' But,' continued Lawrence,
' you know Monday is a great Bristol fair, and one must be
merry then, of all the 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'll 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
43
LAZY LAWRENCE
money ? ' ' I'll tell you about that another time,' whispered
Jem ; * and don't you go to see that cock's eyes pecked out ;
it won't make you merry, J'm sure.' c If I had anything
else to divert me,' said Lawrence, hesitating and yawning.
' Come,' cried the stable - boy, seizing his stretching 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 stable ; ' 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 seven-
pence ? 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 was so ashamed,' said Lawrence,
hanging down his head. ' Ashamed ! but you must not talk
of shame now you are 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 consider-
able pause he added, ' I answer for it he'd never miss half a
crown out of all that silver.' ' But to steal.' said Lawrence,
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 don't mean to
steal ; only to borrow it ; and if we win, which we certainly
shall, at the cock-fight, pay it back again, and he'll never know
anything about 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 don't : and I tell ye we don't mean to
steal it ; we'll pay it by 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 last.
In the dead of the night, Lawrence heard somebody tap at
his window. He knew well who it was, for this was the signal
agreed upon between him and his wicked companion. He
trembled at the thoughts of what he was about to do, and lay
44
LAZY LAWRENCE
quite still, with his head under the bedclothes, till he heard the
second tap. Then he got up, dressed himself, and opened his
window. It was almost even with the ground. His com-
panion 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, ' where are you ? Speak
to me.' * I am here ; give me your hand. 5 Lawrence
stretched out his hand. ' Is that your hand ?' said the wicked
boy, as Lawrence laid hold of him; 'how cold it feels.
'Let us go back,' said Lawrence; 'it is time yet.' 'It is
no time to go back,' replied 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 feeling 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 had 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 Lawrence's
trembling hands, and pulled him away from the door.
' Good God ! ' 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
ever I am to be hanged, it shan't be for half a crown.'
Lawrence's blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt as if
all his hair stood on end. Not another word passed. His
accomplice carried off the money, and Lawrence crept, with
all the horrors of guilt upon him, 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
look cheerful as usual, he felt still more miserable. It was
45
LAZY LAWRENCE
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 amongst
them, went flocking by his door to church.
' Well, Lawrence,' 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,
1 you look white enough now, if that will please you, for you're
turned as pale as death. ' Pale ! ' replied Lawrence, 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 talking 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 their
booty.
In the meantime, 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 mother ; and
whilst she was arranging the kitchen and their little parlour,
he ran to search the strawberry beds.
'Why, my Jem, how merry you are to-day!' 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 don'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 call for him
to-night. He said he'd take him along with his own, and
he'll be here just now and then I know how it will be with
you, Jem ! ' ' So do I ! ' cried Jem, swallowing his secret with
great difficulty, and then tumbling head over heels four times
running.
46
LAZY LAWRENCE
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.
We shall pass over, however important as they were deemed
at the time, the praises of the strawberries, and of ' my grand-
mother's china plate. 3
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 greatcoat.
' 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'll 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 loth enough to part. He
won't bring him out to the last minute ; so do sit ye down,
neighbour.'
The farmer had scarcely sat down when Jem, with a pale,
wild countenance, came back. ' What's the matter ? ' said his
mistress. ' God bless the boy ! ' said his mother, looking at
him quite .frightened, whilst he tried to speak but could not.
She went up to him, and then leaning his head against her,
he cried, ' 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's 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, whilst
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 becoming the dupe of
her own compassion.
47
Wkafs tJie matter ? ' said his mistress. ' God bless ttie boy ! ' said his mother.
LAZY LAWRENCE
' 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, don't you remember ?' said Jem, look-
ing up in the midst of his tears ' why, don't you remember
you, your own self, bid me not tell her about it till you were
by ? 3 * And did you not tell her ? ' ' Nay, ask mammy,' said
Jem, a little offended ; and when afterwards the lady went on
questioning him in a severe manner, as if she did not believe
him, he at last made no answer. ' O Jem ! Jem ! why don'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 determined
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 longer.
Jem silently went to bring out Lightfoot. The lady now
took her seat, where she could see all that passed at the open
parlour - window. The old woman stood at the door, and
several idle people of the village, who had gathered 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 Lightfoot'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 upon the back. He looked up.
'And don'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'll tell me just now,' said she, half opening her
hand, ' ' that you forget 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.
F 49
LAZY LAWRENCE
' 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 know nothing of your money I don'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 s to, I suppose, 5 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 entreaties to know how she came by the silver
penny.
' Why, madam,' 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 came with the milk myself, though it's not what
I'm used to; for my Betty you know my Betty?' said she,
turning round to the old woman, ' my Betty serves you, and
she's a tight and stirring lassy, ma'am, I can assure
' Yes, I don'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 round, and I came a short cut
across yon 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 awhile, and there comes out
of the hedge I don'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 matter
taller, but ill-looking like ; so I did not think to stir to make
way for them, and they were like 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 fanner. 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. The lad 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 my 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,
5
LAZY LAWRENCE
when I looked I knew it by the mark, so I thought I would
show it to hej again pointing to Jem, 'and let him give it
back to those it belongs to. 3 ' 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'll run
after them.'
1 No, no,' said the lady, calling to her servant ; and she
desired him to take his horse and ride after them. 'Ay,'
added Farmer Truck, ' do you take the road, and I'll take the
field way, and I'll be bound we'll have 'em presently.'
Whilst 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 carriage 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 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 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 ! '
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 recollected,
and scarcely dared lift his eyes to look at the boy on horse-
back. 'Good God!' said he to himself, 'it must be yet
surely it can't be Lawrence ! ' The footman rode on 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 forwards, 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 lift-
5 T
LAZY LAWRENCE
ing down the boy he had carried before him. ' I will I tell
you I will see the thief ! ' cried the drunken man, pushing up
the boy's hat. It was his o>vn son. ' Lawrence ! ' 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 con-
fession of all the circumstances of his guilt.
' Such a young creature so wicked ! ' the bystanders ex-
claimed ; ' what could put such wickedness in your head ? ' ' Bad
company,' said Lawrence. ' And how came you what brought
you into bad company ? ' 'I don't know, except it was idleness. 3
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
astonishment and terror. Their parents grasped their little
hands closer, and cried, ' Thank God ! 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 gaol. He 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'll be lodged in Bristol gaol.'
' Oh ! ' said Jem, springing forwards when Lawrence'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 disgrace to his family to be sent to
gaol.'
His father stood by wringing his hands in an agony of
despair. ' It's all my fault,' cried he ; ' brought him up in
idleness} ' But he'll never be idle any more,' said Jem ; ' won't
you speak for him, ma'am ? ' ; Don't ask the lady to speak
for him,' said the farmer ; ' it's better he should go to Bride-
well now, than to the gallows by and by.'
Nothing more was said ; for everybody felt the truth of the
fanner's speech.
52
LAZY LAWRENCE
Lawrence was eventually sent to Bridewell for a month,
and the stable-boy was sent for trial, convicted, and 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 confinement was ended,
he resolved to set immediately to work ; and, to the astonish-
ment 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 l Lazy Lawrence!
THE FALSE KEY
MR. SPENCER, a very benevolent and sensible man, undertook
the education of several poor children. Among the best 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 that he would turn out like his father. But Mr.
Spencer always assured him that he might make himself what-
ever 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 strongest prejudice against
him on his father's account.
This hope was very delightful to Franklin, and he showed
the strongest desire to learn and 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 habits
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 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. Churchill, in Queen's Square.
You know Queen's Square ? ' Franklin bowed. * You must
expect,' continued Mr. Spencer, ' to meet with several disagree-
able things, and a great deal of rough work, at your first
setting out ; but be faithful and obedient to your mistress, and
55
THE FALSE KEY
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.' l 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. Spencer's goodness rushed upon him at once, and
he could not say another word. ' Bring me a candle to seal
this letter, 3 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 whilst 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 ever you get into any difficulty,
don't be afraid to come to me. I have sometimes 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 speak.
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 business,
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 upstairs, and in a few minutes returned,
and ordered Franklin to rub his shoes well and follow 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 afterwards, 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 have 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,
56
THE FALSE KEY
I hope you will keep this boy under your own eye. 3 And she
received him with a cold 'Very well, ma'am,' which plainly
showed that 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
got so near her mistress without her introduction. She
smothered her displeasure, however, till night ; when, as she
attended her mistress's toilette, she could not refrain from ex-
pressing her sentiments. She began cautiously : ' Ma'am, is
not this the boy Mr. Spencer was talking of one day that
has been brought up by the Villaintropic Society, I think they
call it? 5 'Philanthropic Society; yes,' said her mistress;
' and my brother gives him a high character : I hope he will
do very well.' ' I'm sure I hope so too,' observed Mrs.
Pomfret ; ' 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 refuges of the town, and surely
they are like enough, ma'am, to take after their own fathers
and mothers.' ' But they are not suffered to be with their
parents,' rejoined the lady ; ' 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,
edication ! to be sure, ma'am, I know. I don't say but what
edication is a great thing. But then, ma'am, edication 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 Villain-
tropic folks get into my house ; for nobody can tell the natur
of them aforehand. I declare it frights me.' ' Pomfret, I
thought you had better sense : how would this poor boy earn
his bread ? he would be forced to starve or steal, if everybody
had such prejudices.'
Pomfret, 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 don't like the boy at the end of the 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,
57
THE FALSE KEY
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
should have no objections to try the boy ; and upon that cook
bought him new shirts ; but they are to the good, 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
the 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 minister,
proud to display the extent of her secret influence. In the
morning Felix, the cook's nephew, arrived ; and, the moment
he came into the kitchen, every eye, even the scullion's, was
fixed upon him with approbation, and afterwards 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 gentlemanly looking like sort of 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
58
THE FALSE KEY
had taught him to be his duty. He hoped to secure the
approbation 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
goodwill 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 ex-
pectations 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 Corkscrew, the butler, by working
indeed very hard for him, and doing every day at least half
his business. But one unfortunate night the butler was gone
out ; the bell rang : he went upstairs ; and his mistress asking
where Corkscrew was, he answered that he was gone out.
' Where to ? ' said his mistress. ' I don'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, at receiving a sudden
box on the ear, and the appellation of a mischievous, im-
pertinent, mean-spirited brat.
' Mischievous, impertinent, mean ! ' repeated Franklin to
himself ; but, looking in the butler's face, which was 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
apologise for his 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.' ' You are a stupid blockhead !
could you not 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'll be bound, to make excuses for yourself. Why are not
mistress's clogs cleaned ? Go along and blacken 'em, this
minute, and send Felix to me.'
59
THE FALSE KEY
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 of a
message at an unlucky time ; and, as the door was half-open,
he could not avoid seeing Felix drinking a bumper of red
liquor, which he could not help suspecting to be wine ; and,
as the decanter, which usually went upstairs 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 ; whilst Franklin was neglected, though he
took the utmost pains to please the cook in all honourable
service, and, when she was hot, angry, or hurried, he was
always 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 had passed, the ungrateful cook would forget her
benefactor, and, when it came to his supper time, would throw
him, with a carelessness that touched him sensibly, anything
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 hhn : ' 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
favour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her ;
for since the day 1 saw the basket, she has done nothing but
huff me.'
The history of the basket was this. Mrs. Pomfret, the
60
THE FALSE KEY
housekeeper, had several times, directly and indirectly, given
the world below to understand that she and her mistress
thought 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, sus-
piciously at him. Other people looked 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 indignation burst forth, and
she boldly declared she was now certain there had been 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 3
The cook, as if somebody had smote her a deadly blow,
grew pale ; but, suddenly recovering the use of her speech,
turned upon Franklin, and, with a voice of thunder, gave him
the lie direct ; and forthwith, taking Mrs. Pomfret by the ruffle,
led the way to the dairy, declaring she could defy the world
'that so she could, and would.' 'There, ma'am,' said she
kicking an empty basket which lay on the floor 'there's
malice for you. Ask him why he don't show you the beef in
the basket.' ' I thought I saw ' poor Franklin began.
' You thought you saw ! 3 cried the cook, coming close up to
him with kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon ; ' and
pray, sir, what business has such a one as you to think you
see ? And pray, ma'am, will you be pleased to speak
perhaps, ma'am, he'll 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 forbid
him my places.'
Mrs. Pomfret, whose eyes were blinded by her prejudices
against the folks of the Villai?itropic Society ', and also by her
secret jealousy of a boy whom she deemed to be a growing
favourite of her mistress's, took part with the cook, and ended,
61
THE FALSE KEY
as she began, with a firm persuasion that Franklin 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'll 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. 5
These words, and the bitter sense of injustice, drew tears at
length fast down the proud cheek of Franklin, which might
possibly 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 him-
self 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 ccme
to public disgrace if Franklin had not got all the breakfast
things ready for him, the bread and butter spread, and the
toast toasted ; and had not, moreover, regularly, when the
clock struck eight, and Mrs. Pomfret's foot was heard overhead,
run to call the sleeping Felix, and helped him constantly
through the hurry of getting dressed one instant before the
housekeeper came downstairs. 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 although they may escape once, twice,
perhaps ninety-nine times, what does that signify? for the
hundredth time they come to shame, and lose all their character.
Grown bold by frequent success, Felix became more careless
in his operations ; and it happened 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
bookseller's in stay, I must write down the direction.
Pomfret,' said she, opening the housekeeper's room door.
* have you a bit of paper ? ' Pomfret came with the writing-
paper, and looked very angry to see that Felix was going out
62
THE FALSE KEY
without her knowledge ; so, while Mrs. Churchill was writing
the direction, she stood talking to him about it ; whilst he, in
the greatest terror imaginable, looked up in her face as she
spoke ; but was all the time intent on 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 extremely fond of Felix, who, by way of pleasing his
mistress, had paid most assiduous court to her dog ; yet now
his caresses were rather troublesome. Manchon leaped up,
and was not to be rebuffed. ' Poor fellow poor fellow down !
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. ' Manchon,
come here and you will be so good as to bring me down !
down ! Manchon, be quiet ! ' But Manchon knew better
he had now got his head into Felix's pocket, and would not
be quiet till he had drawn from thence, rustling out of its brown
paper, half a cold turkey, which had been missing since morn-
ing. ' My cold turkey, as I'm alive ! ' exclaimed the house-
keeper, darting upon it with horror and amazement. * What
is all this ? ' said Mrs. Churchill, in a composed voice. ' I
don'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 disconcerted Felix ; for, though with an angry
person he might have some chance of escape, he knew that he
could not invent 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 but what?'
' But] stammered Felix ; and, after in vain attempting 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, per-
63
THE FALSE KEY
ceiving by his mistress's eye that she was on the point of
desiring him to leave the house immediately ; and not being
very willing to leave a place 4n 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 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, 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 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 oppor-
tunity 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 she
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 she 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
supper, and after the housekeeper was gone to bed, sallied forth
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to a neighbouring alehouse to drink with his friends. The ale-
house was kept by that cousin of Felix's who was so fond of
' delicate cold turkey,' and who had such choice cherry-brandy.
Corkscrew kept the key of the house door, so that he could
return home whenever 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 in-
dulgence that his wages were by no means sufficient to support
him in this 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, emaciated 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 until 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 habit.
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 further credit.
One night, when Corkscrew 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 rate, 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 by his con-
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versation, 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 housebreakers. 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, 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
understand 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, endeavoured to evade his
questions by saying that he was not in his senses when he
talked in that manner. Nothing, however, 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 to do
when he saw that Felix was absolutely determined either to
betray their scheme or to become a sharer in the booty.
The next night came, and he was now to make a final
decision ; either to determine on breaking off entirely with his
new acquaintances, or taking Felix with him to join in the
plot.
His debt, his love of drinking, the impossibility of indulging
it without a fresh supply of money, all came into his mind at
66
THE FALSE KEY
once and conquered his remaining scruples. It is said by
those whose fatal experience gives them a right to be believed,
that a drunkard will sacrifice anything, everything, sooner than
the pleasure of habitual intoxication.
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
believe that this would be a sufficient bribe. The cravats were
bought and shown to Felix. He thought them the only things
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 cor-
rupted 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 in-
supportably 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 stayed till he became so far
intoxicated 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, leaving
67
THE FALSE KEY
his candle half hanging out of the candlestick beside him.
Franklin slept in the next room to him, and presently awaking,
thought he perceived a strong smell of something burning. He
jumped up, and seeing a light under the butler'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 now was to command.
Franklin ran upstairs to awaken Mrs. Pomfret, whose terror of
fire was so great that she came from her room almost out of
her senses, whilst he, with the greatest presence of mind,
recollected where he had seen two large tubs of water, which
the maids had prepared the night before for their washing, and
seizing the wet linen which had been left to soak, he threw them
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. Pom-
fret, recovering from her fright, postponed all inquiries till the
morning, and rejoiced that her mistress had not been awakened,
whilst Corkscrew flattered himself that he should be able to
conceal the true cause of the accident.
1 Don'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 ! '
1 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 me
what names you will. 5 * But if I were to give you something
that you would like,' said Corkscrew ' something that I know
you would like ? ' repeated Felix. ' Nothing 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 ; for the first thing Mrs. Pomfret did in
the morning was to come into the room to examine and deplore
the burnt curtains, whilst Corkscrew stood by, endeavouring to
exculpate himself by all the excuses he could invent.
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THE FALSE KEY
Mrs. Pomfret, 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
Turning short round to Franklin, she desired that he would
show her where he found the candle when he came into the
room. He took up the candlestick ; but the moment the
housekeeper cast her eye upon it, she snatched it from his
hands. ' How did this candlestick come here ? This was not
the candlestick you found here last night,' cried she. ' Yes,
indeed it was,' answered Franklin. ' That is impossible,'
retorted 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, ' was gone to bed I'm sure of
it. Nay, don't you recollect my taking this japanned candle-
stick out of your hand, and making you to 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 afterwards gone
down from his room by a back staircase, unbolted that door,
and, upon his return from the alehouse, had taken the japanned
candlestick by mistake upstairs, and had left the brass one in
its stead upon the hall table.
* Oh, ma'am,' said Felix, ' indeed you forget ; for Mr.
Corkscrew came into my room to desire me to call him betimes
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 superannuated yet, I hope. How
do you dare to 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 ybur 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 pardon,
ma'am,' answered Felix, in a soft tone ; and, sneaking off, left
his friend Corkscrew to fight his own battle, secretly resolving
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THE FALSE KEY
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 him-
self ; and, conscious of guilt, he turned pale, and appeared 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, 5 answered her mistress in a drowsy 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.' ' Oh dear, ma'am, it struck before I came upstairs,
and you know we are twenty minutes slow Lord bless us ! '
exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, as she let fall the bar of the window,
which roused her mistress. ' I'm sure I beg your pardon a
thousand times it's only the bar because I had this great
key in my hand.' ' Put down the key, then, or you'll 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 dis-
turbing you,' cried Mrs. Pomfret, 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'll 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
proceeded to give a 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 nowadays account for
what has passed. I'm quite clear in my own judgment that
Mr. Corkscrew must have been out last night after I wen^to
bed ; for, besides the japanned candlestick, which of itself I'm
sure is strong enough to hang a man, there's another circum-
stance, 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 in the
outside porch in the court last night, and this morning it was on
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THE FALSE KEY
the kitchen table. Now, ma'am, that lantern could not come
without hands ; and I could not forget about that, you know ;
for Franklin says he's sure he left the lantern out.' ' And do
you believe him ? ' inquired her mistress. ' 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,' said the lady, ' 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 any-
thing till he'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 him that we were 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'll be bound I'll make it up to him now.'
' Take care that you don't go from one extreme into another,
Pomfret ; don'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-parlour,
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. c 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 con-
ducted 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
7 1
' You know this key t I sJtall trust it in your cat
THE FALSE KEY
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 from her hands.
When Mrs. Churchill's orders were made known, they caused
many secret marvellings and murmurings. Corkscrew and
Felix were disconcerted, and dared not openly avow their dis-
content ; 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.
Thus stood affairs the night before Mrs. Churchill's birth-
day. 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 play-bill. Every-
body present soon began to speak at once, and with great en-
thusiasm 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. Pomfret asked her.' * But then you have no money,
have you ? ' ' No,' said Franklin, sighing. ' But stay,' said
Corkscrew, 'what I'm thinking of is, that if mistress will let
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THE FALSE KEY
you go, I'll treat you myself, rather than that you should be
disappointed.'
Delight, surprise, and gratitude appeared in Franklin's face
at these words. Corkscrew rejoiced to see that now, at least,
he had found a most powerful temptation. ' Well, then, I'll
go just now and ask her. In the meantime, lend me the key
of the house door for a minute or two.' ' The key ! ' answered
Franklin, starting ; ' I'm 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 cannotj replied Franklin, resisting
the push which the butler gave his shoulder. ' You can't ? '
cried Corkscrew, changing his tone ; ' then, sir, I can't take
you to the play.' ' Very well, sir,' said Franklin, sorrowfully,
but with steadiness. 'Very well, sir,' said Felix, mimicking
him, ' you need not look so important, nor fancy yourself such
a great man, because you're master of a key.'
' Say no more to him,' interrupted Corkscrew ; ' let him
alone to take his own way. Felix, you would have no objec-
tion, 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'll give it you back again safe and sound.' ' I
don't doubt that,' answered Franklin. c 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 Corkscrew 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 am sorry you did not
think me an honest fellow before, Mr. Corkscrew,' said
Franklin giving his hand rather proudly, and he walked
away.
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THE FALSE KEY
' We shall make no hand of 'this prig,' said Corkscrew. ' But
we'll have the key from him in spite of all his obstinacy,' said
Felix ; ' and let him make his story good as he can afterwards.
He shall repent of these airs. To-night I'll watch him, and
find out where he hides the key ; and when he's asleep we'll
get it without thanking him.'
This plan Felix put into execution. They discovered the
place where Franklin kept the key at night, stole it whilst he
slept, took off the impression in wax, and carefully replaced it
in Franklin's trunk, exactly 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 house-
breakers ; and with this false key 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 finding
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 to it, to his mistress.
* I was not mistaken when I thought I might trust you with
this key,' said Mrs. Churchill, after she had heard his story.
1 My brother will be here to-day, and I shall consult him. In
the meantime, say nothing of what has passed.'
Evening came, and after tea Mr. Spencer sent for Franklin
upstairs. ' 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 don't think anything much, I mean, of that,
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THE FALSE KEY
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 bedchamber 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 isn'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. Ah !
upon my word I am afraid they are not at the play. No, sir,
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'll only take my
advice ' ' Pray, good Mrs. Pomfret,' Mr. Spencer observed,
'don't be alarmed.' 'Nay, sir, but I won't pretend to sleep
in the house, if Franklin isn't to have a blunderbuss, and I a
baggonet? ' You shall have both, indeed, Mrs. Pomfret ; but
don'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. Spencer
went to a shop within a few doors of the alehouse which 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 appearance ; 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'll go about it to-night.' This was sufficient information.
Mr. Spencer, lest the landlord should give them information of
what was going forwards, took him along with him to Bow
Street.
A constable and proper assistance was sent to Mrs.
76
THE FALSE KEY
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 the
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, thank God. I was afraid to go to
the window this morning ; but it was my luck to see them all
go by to gaol. They looked so shocking ! I am sure I never
shall 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 ! 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 to lay it out in an annuity for Franklin's life.' ' La,
ma'am ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, with unfeigned joy, ' I'm
sure you are very good ; and I'm very glad of it.' * And, 3
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'll
go with him with all my heart, and choose such plays as won't
do no prejudice to his morality. And, ma'am,' continued
Mrs. Pomfret, 'the night after the fire I left him my great
Bible and my watch, in my will ; for I never was more mis-
taken 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 Villaintropic folks for his sake.'
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SIMPLE SUSAN
CHAPTER I
Waked, as her custom was, before the day,
To do the observance due to sprightly May.
DRYDEN.
IN a retired hamlet on the borders of Wales, between Oswestry
and Shrewsbury, it is still the custom to celebrate the ist of
May.
The children of the village, who look forward 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 paths in his fields were at
length unfrequented, his stiles were blocked up with stones, or
stuffed with brambles and briers, so that not a gosling could
creep under, or a giant get over them. Indeed, so careful
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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, on 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 (henceforward to keep company with any of the
poor children who had hitherto been her playfellows. They
were not sorry for this prohibition, 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, amongst 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 sieve
amongst 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 grate-
fully attached.
Mrs. Price was an intelligent, active, domestic woman ; but
her health was not 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
to show her 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. Barbara was
now walking in sullen state in her father's garden. She
heard the busy voices in the lane, and she concealed her-
self 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, stop-
ping short in the middle of a new tune that he was playing on
his pipe. ' I wish Susan would eome ! 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'll 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. 5
' 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 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'll drive us away ; for he says this
bit of ground belongs to his 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 playground,
so he does. I wish he and his daughter Bab, or Miss Barbara,
G 81
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 iH-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 con-
ceited 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 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 bashful, 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 ? " But I wish Susan would come/' cried
Philip, interrupting himself.
Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose rightly guessed,
busy at home. 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 or of Susan ; and when his wife asked him how he did,
he made no answer, but stood with his back to the fire, look-
ing 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 ? '
'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'
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SIMPLE SUSAN
' 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 j she had this day fatigued herself with baking ;
and now, alarmed by her husband's moody behaviour, she sat
down pale and trembling. He 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 melancholy.
He could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the supper
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 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 reflect-
ing, with no 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 Barbara, ' you have no business 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 tolcf 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 mischievous hen.
' Oh, my guinea-hen ! my pretty guinea-hen ! ' cried Susan,
as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner
to corner.
'Here we have got it ! ' said Betty, holding it fast by the
legs.
'Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your
pretty guinea-hen,' said Barbara, in an insulting tone.
* Damages ! what damages ? ' said Susan ; ' tell me what I
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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, turn-
ing 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 supper ; 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'll have them.' ' I have
but sixpence, and you say that won't do,' said Susan, with a
sigh, as 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
summon her to the hawthorn bush.
' They are all at the hawthorn, and I am come for you.
We can do nothing without you, dear Susan,' cried Rose, run-
ning to meet her, at the moment she saw her. ' You are
chosen Queen of the May come, make haste. But what is
the matter ? why do you look so sad ? '
' Ah ! ' said Susan, ' don't wait for me ; I can't come to you,
but,' added she, pointing to the tuft of double cowslips in the
garden, ' gather those for poor little Mary ; I promised them
to her, and tell her the violets are under a 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 don't turn away your face ; I won't keep you a
moment ; only tell me what's the matter,' said her friend,
following 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, learnt that her friend's guinea-hen
was detained prisoner by the attorney's daughter, she exclaimed,
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
84
' It -wont do,' said Barbara, turning her back.
SIMPLE SUSAN
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'll tell you
what it is. 3 As he lowered his voice, Susan, who was 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 militiaman ; but when I thought how loth 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 this 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 a flaw in my lease ; and the lease, he tells
me, is not worth a farthing, 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'll 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 support her mother's head. When she came
a little to herself she sat up, begged that her husband would
go on, and that nothing might be concealed from her. Her
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SIMPLE SUSAN
husband had no wish indeed to conceal anything from a wife he
loved so well ; but, firm as he was, and steady to his maxim,
that the truth was the thing the fittest to be spoken at all
times, his voice faltered, and it was with great difficulty 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 flattered himself that he was pretty secure ; and
he thought that he might assume a 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 fanner 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'll 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 some-
thing 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 passions
were habitually attentive to the letter of the law, he refrained
from any hasty expression, which might, he was 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 daresay.'
' No,' said the farmer, ' not a guinea of it ; but John
Simpson, who was my substitute, has not left our village yet.
I'll get the money back from him, and go myself, if so be it
must be so, into the militia so I will.'
8?
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 his 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,
' God forbid ! 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
question ? ' ' None.' ' Then why so stiff about it, Price ? All
I want of you 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 must 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 dauntless
spirit of this village Hampden.
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 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. Attorney,
are your nine guineas ; count them ; now I have done with
you.'
' Not yet,' said the attorney, jingling the money triumphantly
in his hand. ' We'll give you a taste of the law, my good sir,
or I'm mistaken. You forgot the flaw in your lease, which I
have safe in this desk.'
' Ah, my lease,' said the farmer, who had almost forgot to
88
SIMPLE SUSAN
ask for it till he was thus put in mind of it by the attorney'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. 5
' Pardon me, J 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, * is nine points of the
law. Good-night to you. I cannot 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 with melancholy feelings, but not intimidated.
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
mother'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 rushlight, 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
sank 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 spreading over
every object ; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice
window, looking through the small leaded, crossbarred 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 distance in the village. As it
approached nearer, she knew that it was Philip playing upon
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SIMPLE SUSAN
his pipe and tabor. She distinguished the merry voices of her
companions ' carolling 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 quick, but gently,
the latch of the door, and ran out to meet them.
' Here she is ! here's Susan ! ' they exclaimed joyfully.
' Here's the Queen of the May. 3 ' And here's her crown ! '
cried Rose, pressing forward ; but Susan put her finger 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's 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've 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, 5 said she, ' for the double cowslips ;
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 ? ' said
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 the 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 ;
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SIMPLE SUSAN
but that the drum frightened her, because she 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 awoke, and knew it was
a dream, and I then fell asleep, and have slept soundly ever
since.'
How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of mis-
fortune. 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 I must leave you in three
days ' ; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think
it all a dream.
' But he'll want, he'll 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 affec-
tionate, 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'll 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 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'll 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
9 1
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 ? Some-
thing 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 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 don't like it, I will change it, and now you
will be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen. It is in her
name I ask for it.'
' No matter in whose name you ask for it,' replied Barbara,
' 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, whilst Rose opened her
negotiation, measured the depth of her purse with a keen eye ;
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.'
The shillings sounded provoking upon the table, as she
threw them down one after another, and Barbara coolly re-
plied, ' 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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. Barbara'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.' They would not wait for one word of thanks,
but ran away, leaving only Rose 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 reverie into
which she had fallen, as she contemplated the purse. ' Cer-
tainly 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
this day, wish that she had but money enough in the world to
pay John 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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'll answer for it, the guinea-hen won ; t
make her happy, and you'll 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
of her needle, and that she would most willingly accept of her
services, but that unluckily she had finished all her 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 am afraid I shall not succeed ; but if I do
succeed, I'll 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 her-
self 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,
she thanked him, but sighed, and said it would be of no use
to her. Accordingly she went to work with much prudent care,
and when her bread the next morning came out of the oven,
it was excellent ; 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. In-
quiries were made from the housekeeper, and they heard, with
some surprise, that this excellent bread was made by a young
girl only twelve years old.
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SIMPLE SUSAN
The housekeeper, who had known Susan from a child, was
pleased to have an opportunity in speaking in her favour.
' 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 handsome is that
handsome does ; she thinks no more of her being handsome
than I do myself ; yet she has as proper 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 schoolmistress, all
with tenderness and good nature ; but I beg your pardon,
ma'am, I cannot stop myself 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 ; we can see her
before we go out to walk.'
The benevolent housekeeper despatched her boy Philip for
Susan, who never happened to be in such an untidy state as to
be unable to obey a summons without a long preparation.
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 character and manners.
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 j 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 ; and
whilst they wished to diffuse happiness, they were not per-
emptory in requiring that people should be happy precisely
their own way. With these dispositions, and with a well-
informed brother, who, though he never wished to direct,
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 amongst 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 gentle-
man 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'll 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 mean-
ness of fawning familiarity.
Susan was gathering some marigolds and some parsley for
her mother's broth.
{ So, Susan,' said Bab, who came close up 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,'
replies 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. ' What room did you go into ? ' con-
tinued Bab. ' Did you see Miss Somers, or Sir Arthur ? '
1 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 ? ' '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 than a downright
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SIMPLE SUSAN
simpleton. But, however, simple or not, I'll get what I want
out of her. She'll be able to speak, maybe, when she has
settled the grand matter of the broth. I'll 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'll 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 guinea-hen ; * I have
but just put the parsley into the broth ; but it soon will 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 that she would call at Mr.
Price's cottage at six o'clock in the evening. What do you
think she could mean ? ' '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
what they say.' ' Not always,' said Susan, with an arch
smile, which convinced 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,' 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
H 97
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 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 expostulation she
said to him, * Take a poon, pig.' l The saying became pro-
verbial in the village. Susan's little companions repeated it,
and applied it upon many occasions, whenever any one claimed
more than his share of anything good. Barbara, who was
then not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who had played
with all the poor children in the neighbourhood, was often
reproved in her unjust methods of division by Susan's proverb.
Susan, as she grew up, forgot the childish saying ; but the
remembrance of it rankled in Barbara's mind, and it was to
this that she suspected Susan had alluded, when she recom-
mended a spoon to her, whilst 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 every-
thing ? '
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.
1 This is a true anecdote.
SIMPLE SUSAN
Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real
cunning he was not sufficiently on 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 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 disposition, but who always
humoured him from artifice, tried all her skill to fathom his
thoughts, and when she found that /'/ would not do, she went
to tell her maid so, and to complain 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 rather apprehensive that he
should not suit Sir Arthur. He had sound reasons for his doubts.
Sir Arthur Somers was an excellent lawyer, and a perfectly
honest man. This seemed to our attorney a contradiction 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 was also a man of wit and eloquence, yet of plain
dealing and humanity. The attorney could not persuade
himself to believe that his benevolence was anything but
enlightened cunning, and his plain dealing he one minute
dreaded as the masterpiece of art, and the next despised 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, and had talked about
sundry matters of business. He constantly perceived, how-
ever, that he could not impose upon Sir Arthur ; but the idea
that he could know all the mazes of the law, and yet prefer
the straight road, was incomprehensible.
Mr. Case having paid Sir Arthur some compliments on his
great legal abilities, and his high reputation at the bar, he
coolly replied, ' I have left the bar.' The attorney looked in
unfeigned astonishment that a man who was actually making
,3000 per annum at the bar should leave it.
' I am come,' said Sir Arthur, ' to enjoy that kind of
99
Tried all her skill to fathom his thoughts.
SIMPLE SUSAN
domestic life in the country which I prefer to all others, and
amongst 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, and to make a
ride round it. A map of it was lying upon the table, and
Farmer 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'll look
into the rent-roll again ; perhaps I am mistaken.'
' You are mistaken, my good sir, and you are not mistaken/
said Mr. Case, with a shrewd smile. ' In one sense, the land
will not be out of lease these ten years, and in another it is out
of lease at this present time. To come to the point at once,
the lease is, ab 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 -vhole credit
upon the thing I'd stake my existence.' 'That's something,*
said Sir Arthur, as if he was pondering upon the matter.
The attorney went on with all the eagerness of a keen 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, Susanna his wife, and to the survivor or survivors
of them, 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
SIMPLE SUSAN
up those printed leases there's always a good chance of some
flaw. I find it perpetually ; 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 button,
' 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?'
* Na 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 pro-
fessional enthusiasm that, intent upon his vision of a lawsuit,
he totally forgot to observe the impression his words made
upon Sir Arthur.
' There's only one thing we have forgotten all this time, 1
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
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 possible.
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 could not persuade himself to take his departure without
making one push at Sir Arthur about the agency.
' I will not trouble you, Sir Arthur, with this lease of
Price's,' said Case ; ' 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 Fourteenth could not have
looked more astounded than our attorney, when they received
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SIMPLE SUSAN
from their monarch a similar answer. It was this unexpected
reply of Sir Arthur's which had deranged the temper of Mr.
Case, and caused his wig to stand so crooked upon his fore-
head, and which had rendered him impenetrably silent to his
inquisitive daughter Barbara.
After having walked up and down his room, conversing
with himself, for some time, the attorney concluded that the
agency must be given to somebody when Sir Arthur should
have to attend his duty in Parliament ; 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 wonder-
fully 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
disposition. He had heard the housekeeper at the Abbey
inquiring, as he passed through the servants, whether there
was any lamb to be gotten. She said that Sir Arthur was
remarkably fond of lamb, and that she wished she could get a
quarter 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
anywhere in the neighbourhood.
' I know of one,' cried Barbara. ' Susan Price has a pet
lamb that's as fat as fat could be.' The attorney easily 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 packing
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 ? ' inquired the attorney.
'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 Case. ' Sir, dear sir ! '
cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hope beamed
in her ingenuous countenance. 'And if you could help it,
Susan ? ' said he. Susan clasped her hands in silence, more
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SIMPLE SUSAN
expressive than words. ' You can help it, Susan.' She started
up in an ecstasy. ' What would you give now to have your
father at home for a whole week longer ? ' * Anything ! but 1
have nothing.' ' Yes, but you have, a lamb,' said the hard-
hearted attorney. * My poor little lamb ! ' said Susan ; ' but
what can that do?' '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 don't you eat mutton ? Is your
lamb better than anybody else's, think you ?' 'I don't know,'
said Susan, * but I love it better. 1 ' More fool you,' said he.
' It feeds out of 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,' he cynically observed ; ' if you love your lamb
better than both your father and your mother, 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
nightfall for the butcher, remember.' ' I shall not forget it,'
said Susan, steadily.
As soon, however, as her persecutor turned his back and
quitted the house, Susan sat down and hid her face in her
hands. She was soon aroused 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 ? ' ' Susan ! you
don't say so ? ' ' He is, indeed, a whole week ; but how
burning hot your hand is still.' ' Are you sure he will stay ? '
inquired her mother. ' How do you know ? Who told you
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 ! '
Susan closed the curtains, and was silent. She could not
say Amen. She was called out of the room at this moment,
for a messenger was come from the Abbey for the bread-bills.
It was she who always made out the bills, for though she had
not 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.
She then 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.
Barbara 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
which she had been writing bills over and over again, when
her father came in with a bill in his hand. ' How's this,
Susan ? ' said he. * How can ye be so careless, 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 upon the table. ' What are all
these, child? 5 'Some of them are wrong, and I've written
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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, Price 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 ! ' said she to herself : ' but I know
he will be a little sorry too for my poor lamb.'
As Susan had now settled all her business, she thought she
could have time to go down to the meadow by the river-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 dis-
appointed 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.
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 kingcups in the yellow mead,
And prink their heads with daisies.
COWPER.
THE dame-school, which was about a mile from the hamlet,
was not a showy edifice : but it was reverenced as much by
the young race of village scholars as if it had been'' the most
stately mansion in the land ; it was a low-roofed, long, thatched
tenement, sheltered by a few reverend oaks, under which many
generations of hopeful children had gambolled in their turn.
The close-shaven green, which sloped down from the hatch-
door of the schoolroom, 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
governed was well obeyed, because she was just and well
beloved, and 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. She had scarcely opened the wicket which
separated the green before the schoolroom door from the lane,
when she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the
little troup issuing from the hatchway and spreading over the
green.
* Oh, there's 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 ninepins, or marbles,
107
SIMPLE SUSAN
or tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard
and the crowd was silenced. The music seemed to be near
the spot where the children were standing, and they looked
round to see whence it could come. Susan pointed to the
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 coining 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 is 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 whilst he was tuning his 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 audience, he played
now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit their several humours.
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.'
1 Can you so, indeed ? ' cried Susan's little brother William,
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 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 applause. ' And very fond of
the little boy who sits upon my knee.' ' O right ! right ! quite
right ! ' 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.
1 08
SIMPLE SUSAN
' Hush,' said John, who was a year older than his brother,
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
herself, I'm sure,' said John, 'for nobody ever hears her
praising herself.' ' Did not I hear her tell you,' said the
harper, ' when you first came round me, that she was in a
great hurry to go home, 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," was 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.' The
harper tuned his instrument, 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 a good one play me 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 manner of the request, played, as he was
desired, * Bumper Squire Jones ' ; and several other tunes were
afterwards bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical voice.
The little children shrank back in timid silence, and eyed
the 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 ? ' The
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 attorney'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'll take these half-
pence,' said he, 'and here's a shilling for you.'
' God bless you, sir,' said the lad ; but as he took the
shilling, which the young gentleman had slily put into the blind
man's hand, he saw that it was not worth one farthing. I
am afraid it is not good, sir,' said the lad, whose business it
was to examine the money for his master. ' I am afraid, then,
you'll get no other,' said young Case, with an insulting laugh.
' It never will 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, 3 was heard. The little
assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer
suppress their indignation.
' Who says it's unjust ? ' cried the tyrant sternly, looking
down upon his judges.
Susan's little brothers had held her gown fast, to prevent
her from moving at the beginning of this contest, and she was
now so much interested to see the end of it, that she stood
still, without making any resistance.
'Is any one here amongst yourselves a judge of silver?'
said the old man. ' Yes, here's the butcher's boy,' said the
attorney's son ; ' show it to him.' He was a sickly-looking
boy, and of a remarkably peaceful disposition. Young Case
fancied that he would be afraid to give judgment against him.
However, after some moments' hesitation, and after turning
the shilling round several times, he pronounced, 'that, as far
as his judgment went, but he did not pretend to be a down-
right certain sure of it, the shilling was not over and above
good.' Then turning to Susan, to screen himself from manifest
no
SIMPLE SUSAN
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'll 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'll lead him, I can lead him, 3
said he ; and John ran on before them, to gather kingcups in
the meadow.
There was a small rivulet which they had to cross, and as
a plank which served for a bridge over it was rather narrow,
Susan was afraid to trust the old blind man to his little
conductor ; she therefore went on the tottering plank first her-
self, and then led the old harper carefully over. They were
now come to a gate, which opened upon the highroad to the
village. ' There is the highroad 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 highroad, whilst 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
in
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 kitchen.
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 loth to refuse us the 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.'
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, disposed to think
yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united.
They took Susan along with them through the village. Many
neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they 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 ribbons 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 conduct, 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 compliment
had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then
with alertness, which a London linendraper might have admired,
produced piece after piece of his best goods to his young
customer unrolled, unfolded, held the bright stuffs and
calendered 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
112
SIMPLE SUSAN
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
had bid her pay for her own gown ; but Susan, as she looked
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 might 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 sister were
not of this roughly charitable class.
' She does not like any of these things, 3 whispered Miss
Somers to her sister. Her sister observed that Susan looked
as if her thoughts were far distant from gowns.
* If you don't fancy any of these things, 3 said the civil shop-
keeper to Susan, ' we shall have a new assortment of calicoes
for the spring season soon from town. 3 'Oh, 3 interrupted
Susan, with a smile and a blush, ' these are all pretty, and
too good for me, but ' But what, Susan ? 3 said Miss
Somers. ' Tell us what is passing in your little mind. 3 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 persuaded that you
will make a good use of it. 3
' I think, madam, 3 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. 3
'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. 3 Susan curtsied, with an expressive look of gratitude,
and with a modest frankness in her countenance which 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.'
I 113
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 whilst the man was
rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions 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,
which in our little village, amongst the younger tribe, is a
thing 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 don't speak from partiality ;
for I am no relation 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, as soon as you
receive your new things from town, let us know. 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 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 shillings ; 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
114
SIMPLE SUSAN
make up the whole sum necessary to pay for a substitute. ' If
that could but be done, 3 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 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 innocent
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 William ;
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's mine mine to all intents and purposes.'
' Yours ! ' cried the children, with terror ; ' and will you kill
it ? ' ' That's the butcher's business.'
The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. 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
eyes 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 clover. ' I have no time to
waste,' said he ; ' butcher, you'll 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
"5
Let it eat out of her hand for the last time.
SIMPLE SUSAN
out of her hand for the last time. Poor Daisy licked her well-
known hand.
' Now, let us go,' said Susan. * I'll 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 yellow 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 amongst the number. Susan's
steadiness about the bad shilling 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 ;
' it's a sin to kill a pet lamb, I'm thinking any way, it's what
I'm not used to, and don't fancy doing, and I'll go and say as
much to Attorney Case ; but 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'll 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, don'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 or better for
your purpose.' 'Better if it's better, I'm ready to hear
reason.' The butcher had 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 meantime Susan's brothers 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
good friend, was with her, and she had before her the pleasure
of telling her father of his week's reprieve. Her mother was
better, and even said she was determined to sit up to supper
in her wicker armchair.
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, ' Susan ! if
here is not our old man ! '
1 Yes,' said the old harper, ' I have found my way to you.
The neighbours were kind enough to show me whereabouts
you lived ; for, though I didn'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.
1 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 in 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 the Attorney Case, while 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 counte-
nance ; 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
perhaps,' 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 before a week's at an end, we
may make up the nine guineas for the substitute, as they call
him. Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with
118
SIMPLE SUSAN
us for ever ! ' As she spoke, she threw 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 could per-
fectly believe that what he heard was true ; but the revived
smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, 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 made wel-
come to his share of the cheerful though frugal 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 him. He was surprised at
the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came
to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright golden guinea.
* How did you come by all this money, Susan ? ' 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 spoken, as I think, at all times ;
therefore, here's your good health, Susan ; why, by -and -by
she'll be worth her weight in gold in silver at least. But tell
us, child, how came you by all this riches ? and how comes it
that I don't go to-morrow ? All this happy news makes me so
gay in myself, I'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly.
But speak on, child first bringing us a bottle of the good
mead you made last year 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 her lamb, her voice faltered, and every-
body present was touched. The old harper sighed once, and
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SIMPLE SUSAN
cleared his throat several times. He then asked for his harp,
and, after tuning it for a considerable time, he recollected for
he had often fits of absence that he had sent for it to play
the tune he had promised to the boys.
This harper came from a great distance, from the mountains
of Wales, to contend with several other competitors for a prize,
which had been advertised by a musical society about a year
before this time. There was to be a splendid ball given upon
the occasion at Shrewsbury, which was about five miles from
our village. The prize was ten guineas 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 paid visits to the town of Shrewsbury, 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 tfteir carriage. How rejoiced, how
triumphant was she when this very evening, 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 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 daresay, when they
see that I'm 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 daresay 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 who 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, ' don'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
mantua-maker 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
J20
SIMPLE SUSAN
most charming present for Miss Somers, as papa says it's good
never to go empty-handed to a great house, I'll make Miss
Somers, who is fond, as her maid told you, of such things I'll
make Miss 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 at 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 surprised and disap-
pointed, when she was shown into the room where the Miss
Somerses 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 began to fhink 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 in 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, aim-
ing to be thought a woman and a fine lady, whilst she was, in
reality, a child and a vulgar attorney's daughter, rendered her-
self so thoroughly ridiculous, that the good-natured, yet discern
ing 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
pretty drawings and good prints for Miss Barbara's amuse-
ment ; but Miss Barbara's thoughts were so intent upon the
harpers' ball, that she could not be entertained with such trifles
How unhappy are those who spend their time in expectation :
They can never enjoy the present moment. Whilst 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 for-
gotten it ; but it came just whilst Miss Somers was dressing :
and the housekeeper came into 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 a very
open temper, would explain her cause of dissatisfaction. In
this she was not mistaken. The housekeeper 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 think 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
afterwards, 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 never have
parted with the hen with her good-will ; but if my eyes don'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's 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 sift the affair.'
' The shortest way, I think,' said Henrietta, ' would be to
ask Miss Case herself about it, which I will do this evening. 5
' If you please, ma'am,' said the housekeeper, coldly ; for she
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SIMPLE SUSAN
knew that Miss Barbara was not famous in the village for
speaking truth.
Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell
mint sauce, 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 butchers 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'll appeal
to Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur, pray may I ask, when you carve a
forequarter 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 mortified 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 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 walking
up and down the large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair opportunity
of imitating her keen father's method of conversing. 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 sending so far for me, though she has a
coach of her own.' Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers
as she spoke ; 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 Miss Somers to her
companions ; ' I have a pretty guinea-hen to show you.'
Barbara, secretly drawing propitious omens from the guinea-
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SIMPLE SUSAN
hen, followed with a confidential step. The pheasantry was
well filled with pheasants, peacocks, etc. ; and Susan's pretty
little guinea-hen appeared well, even in this high company It
was much admired. Barbara 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. He 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 have 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, without
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 her
guest, was anxious to despatch Philip for his piece of sycamore.
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 possession. I wish
Susan had kept it at home, as she should have done ! '
' Perhaps she will be more careful now that she has
received so strong a lesson,' said Miss Somers. ' Shall we
try her ? ' continued she. c Philip will, I daresay, 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 of!
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 determined 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 tabor,
and they marched in innocent triumph towards the white
washed cottage.
' 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 ! ' repeated all
her companions. Susan's lamb ! Susan's lamb ! ' and there
was a universal shout of joy.
' Well, for my part, 3 said the good butcher, as soon as he
could be heard, 'for my part, I would not be so cruel as
Attorney Case for the whole world. These poor brute beasts
don't know aforehand what's going to happen to them ; and
as for dying, it's what we must all do some time or another ;
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's 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. Daisy, however, 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,
and 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 tabor now once more began to play, and the
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 did not see it ; but as they came up to the garden
gate she saw that Rose beckoned 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 ! Come on ! ' cried Mary, as Susan started with
joyful surprise ; ' you have more to see.'
At this instant the musjc paused, Susan heard the bleating
of a lamb, and scarcely daring to believe her senses, she
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 ! ' 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 sympathised in her joy, even more than
they had sympathised 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 little
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 went on. Barbara 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,
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SIMPLE SUSAN
looking round upon her companions with a most affectionate
smile : ' I hope, whilst I live, I shall never forget your good-
ness 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 don't want the
money keep it, keep it you want it for your father.' ' Well,'
said Susan, ' I am not too proud to be obJiged. I will keep
your money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I
may be able to earn 'Oh,' interrupted Philip, 'don'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 stayed, first, to
inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on Daisy's
head. Then he stayed a little longer to let her into the histoiy
of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that brought the
hen home from the Abbey.
Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long-lost
favourite, whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his
narration. 'Now, my pretty guinea-hen,' said Susan '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 whilst 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 whilst 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 declared he must see Daisy fed himself ; and Philip
found that he was wanted- to hold the jugful of milk, out of
which Farmer Price filled the pan for Daisy. Happy Daisy !
who lapped at his ease whilst Susan caressed him, and
thanked her fond father and her pleased mother.
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SIMPLE SUSAN
* But, Philip,' said Mrs. Price, I'll hold the jug you'll be
late with your message to your mother ; we'll 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. On this, he immediately turned back
to try whether he had shut the gate fast, lest the guinea-hen
might stray, out and fall again into the hands of the enemy.
Miss Barbara, in the course of this day, felt considerable
mortification, but no contrition. She was vexed that her
meanness was discovered, but she felt no desire to cure her-
self of any of her faults. The ball was still uppermost in her
vain, selfish soul. ' Well,' said she to her confidante, Betty,
' you hear how things have turned out ; but if Miss Somers
won't think of asking me to go out with her, Fve 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 of 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 a reasonable 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 some-
times 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 the
Abbey to-day, and told papa they'd all come. They are going
out on a party, somewhere into the country, and breakfast
here on their way. Pray, Betty, don't forget that Mrs
Strathspey can't breakfast without honey. I heard her say so
myself.' ' Then, indeed,' said Betty, ' I'm afraid Mrs
Strathspey 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
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SIMPLE SUSAN
I know of,' said Betty. ' But is there none to be begged or
borrowed ? ' said Bab, laughing. ' Do you forget Susan's bee-
hive ? Step over to her in the morning with my compliments,
and see what you can do. Tell her it's for Mrs. Strathspey.'
In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compliments
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 she said she must have
some more for Mrs. Strathspey. ' I'll go myself and speak to
her. Come with me, Betty,' said the young lady, who found it
at present convenient to forget her having declared, the day
that she sucked up the broth, that she never would honour Susan
with another 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 any-
thing 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'll 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 me
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 don't take
it ! ' She stretched across Susan for the honeycomb, which was
lying by some rosemary leaves that Susan had freshly gathered
for her mother's tea. Bab grasped, but at her first effort she
only reached the rosemary. She made a second dart at the
honeycomb, and, in her struggle to obtain it, she overset the
beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid Betty
screamed and ran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a
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SIMPLE SUSAN
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 stand quietly you won't be
stung, perhaps.' But instead of standing quietly, Bab buffeted
and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly. Her
arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner. She was
helped home by poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who,
now the mischief was done, thought only of exculpating herself
to her master.
' Indeed, Miss Barbara,' said she, ' this was quite wrong ot
you to go and get yourself into such a scrape. I shall be turned
away for it, you'll see/
' I don'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 don't mind the pain either so much as
being such a fright. Pray, how am I to be 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 Betty, the
comforter. ' You need not think of balls ; for those lumps 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 say to me
when he sees you, miss.'
Whilst this amiable mistress and maid were in their
adversity reviling one another, Susan, when she saw that she
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, owing to a few words which 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 un-
done. 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 anything in our house can be of
service to her ? ' On hearing his daughter he cried out,
' Barbara, Barbara Bab ! come downstairs, child, and speak to
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SIMPLE SUSAN
Susan Price.' But as no Barbara answered, her father stalked
upstairs directly, opened the door, and stood amazed at the
spectacle of her swelled visage.
Betty instantly began to tell the story of Barbara's mishap
her own way. Bab contradicted her as fast as she spoke.
The attorney turned the maid away on the spot ; and partly
with real anger, and partly with feigned affectation of anger, he
demanded from his daughter how she dared to treat Susan
Price so ill, * when,' as he said, ' she was so neighbourly and
obliging as to give you some of her honey ? Couldn't you be
content, without seizing upon the honeycomb by force ? This
is scandalous behaviour, and what, I assure you, I can't
countenance.'
Susan now interceded for Barbara ; and the attorney, soft-
ening his voice, said that ' Susan was a great deal too good to
her ; as you are, indeed,' added he, ' to everybody. I forgive
her for your sake.' Susan curtsied, 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
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 his 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 ball-
room 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.
Amongst 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 and six gentlemen were now appointed
to be judges of the performance. They were seated in a semi-
circle, opposite to the harpers. The Miss Somerses, who were
fond of music, were amongst 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
SIMPLE SUSAN
instrument ; and such a simple pathetic strain was heard as
touched every heart. All were fixed in delighted attention ;
and when the 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 de-
clared 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' ready pencil was instantly produced ; and the old harper
dictated the words of his ballad, which he called Susan's
Lamentation for her 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 whole 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 disappeared. 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-merited
prize, than he retired to 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, a letter,
which he ordered him to put directly into the Shrewsbury post-
office. The boy ran with the letter to the post-office. He was
but just in time, for the postman's horn was sounding.
The next morning, when Farmer Price, his wife, and Susan,
were sitting together, reflecting that his week's leave of absence
was nearly at an end, and that the money was not yet made up
for John Simpson, the substitute, a knock was heard at the
door, and the person who usually delivered the letters in the
village put a letter into Susan's hand, saying, ' A penny, if you
please here's a letter for your father.'
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SIMPLE SUSAN
* For me ! ' said Farmer Price ; ' here's the penny then ; bui
who can it be from, I wonder ? Who can think of writing to me,
in this world ? J 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, opening 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 to 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 :
' MY 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 by a little ballad
I enclose for her. Your hospitality to me has afforded to me
an opportunity of learning some of your family history. You
do not, I hope, forget that I was present when you were
counting 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 your substitute, John Simpson ;
therefore do me the favour to use the five guinea banknote
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.
' I should just add, to set you hearts 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 ever 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 lies in our way, to
do any kindness to such a worthy family as yours. So, fare
ye well. Your obliged Friend, LLEWELLYN. 7
133
SIMPLE SUSAN
Susan now, by her father's desire, opened the ballad. He
picked up the five-guinea banknote, whilst 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
knock 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 disap-
pointed 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 yours stops
me.'
' Why, sir,' said Price, ' the land's mine, to be sure, for that
matter ; but I hope you don't look upon me to be that sort of
person that would-be stiff about a trifle or so.'
'The fact is,' said Sir Arthur, 'I had heard you were a
litigious, pig-headed fellow ; but you do not seem to deserve
this character.'
' Hope not, sir,' said the farmer ; ' but about the matter of
the land, I don't want to take any 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 less ; 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 ^flaiu in your lease.
I would not speak to you about it whilst we were bargaining
about your land, lest I should overawe you ; but, tell me, what
is this _/&//'
' In truth, and the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken at
all times,' said the fanner, ' I didn't know myself what a flaiu,
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
134
SIMPLE SUSAN
that if a man finds out his mistake, he might set it right ; but
Attorney Case says this 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 memorandum on a slip of paper, which was given me
by your relation, the gentleman who lived here before, and let
me my farm. You'll see, by that bit of paper, what was meant ;
but the attorney says the paper's not worth a button in a court
of justice, and I don't understand these things. All I under-
stand is the common honesty of the matter. I've no more to
say.'
' This attorney, whom you speak of so often,' said Sir
Arthur, ' you seem to have some quarrel with. Now, would
you tell me frankly what is the matter between ? '
' The matter between us, then,' said Price, ' is a little bit of
ground, not worth much, that is there open to the lane at the
end of Mr. Case's garden, and he wanted to 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 loth to see it shut into his
garden, which, moreover, is large enough 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 loth to
see 'em turned out of it by those who have 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,' interposed
the politic attorney, with an assumed air of generosity, ' don't
let us talk any more about it. Let it belong to whom it will,
I give it up to you.'
' So great a lawyer, Mr. Case, as you are,' replied Sir
135
SIMPLE SUSAN
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 1
can convince you effectually by a map of the adjoining land,
which I have fortunately safe amongst my papers. This piece
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 daresay you are quite correct ; you
must know best, 5 said the attorney, trembling for the agency.
' Then,' said Sir Arthur, ' Mr. Price, you will observe that
I now promise this little green to the children for a play-
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. 3
' Ye ye yes, 3 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 the flaw in a lease.'
1 Now,' said Sir Arthur, * you have pronounced judgment
undesignedly in your own case. You intended to send me this
poor man's lease ; but your son, by some mistake, 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
136
SIMPLE SUSAN
observe that it is neither signed nor sealed by the grantor.'
' But 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 memoranda 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 was thus compelled to submit to the hard
necessity of the case, for he knew that he could not legally resist.
Indeed 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, cannot you ? ' said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they
walked home towards the 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, 3 said Price, ' I can't say I did that j for she
mostly taught it 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 character speak
strongly in favour of her parents.'
4 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, perhaps you
may become attached to me, when you come to know me, and
we shall have frequent opportunities of judging of one another.
I want no agent to squeeze my tenants, or do my dirty work.
I only want a steady, intelligent, 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'll never have cause to repent your goodness.'
* And what are my sisters about here ? ' said Sir Arthur,
137
SIMPLE SUSAN
entering the cottage, and going behind his sisters, who were
busily engaged in measuring an extremely pretty coloured
calico.
1 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 becoming 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.'
4 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 lassies of the
village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday.'
1 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 anything that is reasonable ; and, I think, you look
as if you would not ask anything unreasonable.'
' Sir,' said Susan, after consulting her mother's eyes,
' there is, to be sure, a favour I should like to ask ; it is for
Rose.'
4 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 very good
girl, indeed,' said Mrs. Price. 'And works very neatly,
indeed,' continued Susan, eagerly, to Miss Somers ; ' and she
and her mother heard you were looking out for some one to
wait upon you.'
' Say no more,' said Miss Somers ; ' your wish is granted.
Tell Rose to come to the Abbey to-morrow morning, or, rather,
come with her yourself; for our housekeeper, I know, wants to
talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Susan, that you
133
SIMPLE SUSAN
should be the maker of the cake for the dance ; and she has
good things ready looked out for it already, I know. It must
be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the house-
keeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake 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 !
* How do I wish, now,' said Farmer Price, ' and it's almost
a sin for one Avho has 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. It would do his
old warm heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able
next year, when he comes his 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. I long, so I do, to see him in this
house again, drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of
Susan's 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 my lamb,
Daisy.'
1 True, love,' said her mother, ' and he will play that tune
and sing that pretty ballad. Where is it ? for I have not
finished it.'
' Rose ran away with it, mother, but I'll 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 c Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb.'
'The words are something, but the tune the tune I
must have the tune,' cried Philip. * I'll ask my mother to ask
Sir Arthur to try and find 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 same 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
paiish in a month, soon spread over the village. Many came
out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful
139
SIMPLE SUSAN
tidings confirmed by Susan herself. The crowd on the play-
green increased every minute.
4 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. 3
You see, at last Attorney Case, with all his cunning, has not
proved a match for * Simple Susan.'
140
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,
wished to 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. Amongst these was Mr. Gox, 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 don'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 further to sarve. Would not I go to Cork to-morrow
for the least word from your honour ? ' ' I am much obliged
to you, Mr. Cox, but I have no business at Cork at present,'
answered Mr. Somerville drily. * 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.
141
THE WHITE PIGEON
Cox, but your nose belies you much, if you do 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 a 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 whisky, 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 thoughts
of building an inn at that time.' ' Oh, I beg your honour's
pardon, but if you'd be just pleased to recollect, it was coming
through the gap in the bog meadows, forenent Thady
O'Connor, you made me the promise I'll leave it to him, so I
will.' ' But I will not leave it to him, I assure you,' cried Mr.
Somerville ; * I never made any 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 wish 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'll 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
142
THE WHITE PIGEON
finished ; 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. Somerville ; and
many of the neighbours, who knew the malicious character of
this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like one of his tricks. A
boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped forward and
said, ' I don't like Mr. Cox, I'm sure ; for once he beat me
when he was drunk ; but, for all that, no one should be
accused wrongfully. He could not be the person that 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. 5
Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of
this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the stair-
case, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether
he would like to go in and see the new house. ' Yes, sir,' said
the boy, ' I should like to go up those stairs, and to see what I
should come to.' ' 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
fluttering noise over his head ; and looking up he saw a white
pigeon, who, frightened at his appearance, began to fly round
and round the room, till it found its way out of the door, and
flew into the staircase.
The carpenter was speaking 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 a 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 se'nnight ; but he's down for it now ;
we have him safe, and I'll chop his head off, as he deserves,
this minute.'
' Stay ! oh stay ! 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
' Stay ! oh stay ! don't chop his head off.''
THE WHITE PIGEON
you, or I should have told you before. Don'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 either, my good boy,
for breaking a window. I am persuaded by your open,
honest countenance, 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'll come up here, I'll show you all I
know, and how I came to know it.'
Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed
to a pane of glass that was broken in a small window 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. Somer-
ville, ' 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 forfeit. This I would not do ; and
when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as 1
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 1
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 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 had I not broke
this little window,' said the boy eagerly ; ' and I am able to
earn sixpence a day, and I'll 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 forgive
him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, for your
L 145
THE WHITE PIGEON
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 halfpenny goes into his own
pocket : it goes every farthing to his poor father and mother.
Happy for them to have such a son ! '
' More happy for him to have such a father and mother,'
exclaimed the boy. ' 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, falling
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. Somerville, ' or
I should have heard of them.'
' They are but just come into the town, please your honour,'
said the carpenter. ' They lived formerly upon Counsellor
O'Donnel's estate ; but they were ruined, please your honour,
by taking a joint lease with a man who fell afterwards into bad
company, ran out all he had, so could not pay the landlord ;
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 goodwill 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 only that he could earn sixpence 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 foot 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 meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O'Neill,
146
THE WHITE PIGEON
went to return the white pigeon to its owner. ' You have saved
its life,' said the woman to whom it belonged, ' and I'll 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 the 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 schoolmaster
who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as to lend
him. Amongst 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 amongst 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 Brian reading his book very attentively.
* Thank you for having me taught 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 to 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 ? If other pigeons have done so before him, I
think he is as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as
any pigeon in the world. I shall begin to teach him to-morrow
morning ; and then, father, you know people often pay a great
deal for sending messengers : and no boy can run, no horse
can gallop, so fast as a bird can fly ; therefore the bird must
be the best messenger, and I should be paid the best price.
Hey, father ? '
* To be sure, to be sure, my boy,' said his father, laughing.;
' 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
147
THE WHITE PIGEON
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 in 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 of Ballynagrish, where he was
going. ' The pigeon will be home long before me, father ;
and he will come in at the kitchen window 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 aroused by Brian's fondness of his swift
messenger ; and soon the fame of the white pigeon was spread
amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs of Somer-
ville.
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. Somervi lie's hinting
that he was fond of drinking and of quarrelling, and who threat-
ened vengeance for having been refused the new inn.
Whilst 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 miles off,' said another ; and
a third wished that he could make him hear at that distance.
This turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending mess-
ages 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 afterwards by threats, to
prevail upon him to give up the pigeon. Brian was resolute
in his refusal, more especially 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 afterwards the pigeon was gone. Brian
searched for it in vain inquired from all the neighbours if
148
THE WHITE PIGEON
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 possession, as they
thought it would serve them for a useful messenger.
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 endeavoured to
teach the pigeon, 'which they had stolen, to carry messages for
them in a part of the country at some distance from Somer-
ville ; and when they fancied that it had forgotten its former
habits and its old master, they thought that they might venture
to employ him nearer home. The pigeon, however, 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 its road be-
tween Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though
he had been purposely fed at this house for a week before this
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 father, fortunately, was within
hearing, and poor Brian ran with the greatest joy to open the
window and to let him in.
' Oh, father, here's my white pigeon come back of his 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 its wings 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
deciphered :
' Thare are eight of uz sworn : I send yo at botom thare
names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have
harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate 'ouse. Mr.
Summervill is to lye out to nite kip the pigeon untill to-
morrow. For ever yours, MURTAGH Cox, JUN.'
Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both
father and son exclaimed, ' Let us go and show it to Mr.
Somerville.' Before they set out, they had, however, the
149
THE WHITE PIGEON
prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen
by any one but themselves.
Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discover)',
took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men
who had sworn to rob his house. When they were all safely
lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O'Neill and his
father ; and after thanking them for the service they had done
him, he counted out ten bright guineas upon a 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 I
thought it was right. I don't want to be paid for doing it. 3
' That's my own boy,' said his father. ' We thank you, sir ;
but we'll not take the money ; / don't like to take the price oj
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, 5 said Mr. Somer-
ville, ' 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 pigeon a few
days ? ' * Oh, 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 afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O'Neill's
house, and bid him and his son follow him. They followed
till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn.
The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over
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 carpet, 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.
150
The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a. ivhite pigeon painted upon the sign.
THE WHITE PIGEON
4 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 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 birth-
day ; do you know what day it is ?' ' No, I don't remember.'
* Dear mother ! don't you remember it's the 22nd of December ;
and her birthday is the day after to-morrow ? Don't you re-
collect 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 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.'
' But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together ! Is
it everybody's drinking her health that makes her so happy ?
or the new playthings, or the nice mince-pies ? I can easily
believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince-pie, or
whilst 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 ! ' ' But why the
nice new playthings ? Do you like them only because they
are new?' 'Not only /do not like playthings only because
'53
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
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 j 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 judge very much, because I
am sure I was in the right. And, mother,' added Rosamond,
stopping her as she was going out of the room, ' will you not
now, but when you've time will you tell me why you never
keep my birthday why you never make any difference be-
tween that day and any other day ? ' ' And will you, Rosa-
mond not now, but when you have time to think about it
tell me why I should make any difference between your birth-
day and any other day ? '
Rosamond thought, but she could not find out any reason ;
besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not 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 out, she asked her
to take her with her, that she might buy some. 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
something 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 ? and she'll see that she was not mis-
taken. I hope she'll be 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 '
154
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
' Stay,' interrupted her sister, for Rosamond, anticipating
the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast that
she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the fili-
gree-paper was to be bought. They turned back. Now it
happened that the shop was the corner house 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 window where she saw
her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was pass-
ing in the lane.
Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking
house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her
bobbins 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 after-
wards ; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head
passed, and by 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. Whilst she was gone, a footman in a 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 spy 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
entangled 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 re-
placed, 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. J * 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'll teach you to complain of me. J 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 ! ' exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain
her indignation at this injustice ; ' poor little girl ! '
155
1.1 k
She tiuistcd and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman
stood laughing at Jier distress.
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
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 generosity rushed again
upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immedi-
ately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation
upon the 'poor little girl!* she went to spend her half-
guinea upon her filigree basket. In the meantime, she that was
called the * little miser* beckoned to the poor girl, and,
opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, ' Is it quite
spoiled ? ' ' Quite ! quite spoiled ! 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, dropping 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 circumstance 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 had been
watching her operations. ' I am afraid you will never make
a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as large as itself.'
' It is not a box, father,' said Rosamond, a little peevishly ;
' it's 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. He took hold of the handle rather roughly ;
when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, ' Oh, sir ! father !
157
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
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 handle] 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 conceive 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.'
' Oh, father ! I thought 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 is sillier now than you were two
years ago, well, perhaps that is true ; but how comes it,
Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of
such a silly person ? ' * /, father ? ' said Rosamond, hesitating ;
' I don't think I am very fond of her.' ' I did not say "very
fond.' 'Well, but I don'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 think her silly, and you are not fond of her at
all ; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to
her.'
'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 some-
body 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.' c Why, is it not generous to make
158
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
presents ? ' said Rosamond. ' That is the 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 because everybody gives her something,
and because she expects something, and because your god-
mother says she likes that people should be generous, seems
to me, my dear Rosamond, 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, 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 afterwards
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
happy. On her birthday she expected, however, to be
perfectly 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, 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 not it lace
around the cuffs ? mamma said it should.' 'Yes, but mistress
was disappointed about the lace ; it is not come home.' ' Not
come home, indeed ! and didn'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'll tell you something that will please you.'
' What, then ? ' said the child, pouting and sobbing. ' Why
159
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
but you must not tell that I told you.' ' No, but if 1
am asked ?' 'Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth,
to be sure. So I'll 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 ! '
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
mistress would be angry with her, if Bell's eyes were red at
dinner time, consented to show her the basket.
' How pretty ! 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 ! what
signifies that ? I shan't spoil it ; and I will have it in my own
hands. If you don't hold it down for me directly, I'll 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 ensued, in
which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the
medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to
her senses.
Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should
conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts.
the handle and lid were replaced ; 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 iu as the matter?
\Ve hope that both children and parents will here pause for
a moment to reflect. The habits of tyranny, meanness, 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
1 60
' I shan't spoil it ; and I will have it in my own hands.
M
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
parcel in her hand. ' What's your business ? ' said the maid.
' I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for
the young lady. 3 'Oh, you have, have you, at last?' said
Bell ; ' and pray why didn't you bring it sooner ? ' The girl
was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying,
* Come, come, none of your excuses ; you are a little idle, good-
for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss BelKupon 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 to expect to be
paid ; for that her mistress could not see anybody, because 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 ! 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 passed, and people were
so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed 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 ? Don't you wish your mamma
could afford to give 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 values things not for being really pretty
or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure. ' No-
body 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
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THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
not want any of it ; you need not be so violent : I assure you
that I don't want any of it. J ' 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 don't to
plague me, I know,' cried Bell, swelling with disappointed
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 declaration 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 yet
been heard on 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 explained 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! the lace, child! are you mad?' said her mother,
catching hold of both her hands. ' Your beautiful lace, my
dear love do you know how much it cost ? ' 'I don't care
how much it cost it is not beautiful, and I'll 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. * Oh, fie ! don't point j
said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger ; ' 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.
No defence or explanation, however, 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.'
163
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom, to
her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing-
room. ' Now I am sure,' thought she, ' Bell will be surprised,
and my godmother will see she was right about my generosity.'
The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony,
and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory. ' Well, this is
a charming present, indeed ! ' said the godmother, 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 basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained
in her hand. All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclama-
tions of sorrow were heard in various tones ; and ' Who can
have done this ? ' was all that Rosamond could say. Bell
stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the
midst of the inquiries that were made about the disaster.
At length the servants were summoned, and amongst 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 mentioned 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
Rosamond'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.' 'I say I did not ! ' cried Bell furiously.
1 Mamma, mamma ! Nancy ! my cousin Rosamond won't
believe me ! That's very hard. It's very rude, and I won't
bear it I won't.' 'Don't be angry, love. Don't,' said the
164
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
maid. ' Nobody suspects you, darling,' said her mother; 'but
she has too much sensibility. Don't cry, love ; nobody
suspected 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 spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking
proper notice of it. I assure you I am very angry about it,
Rosamond.'
Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly
made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts ' / was
-very foolish ' she began and stopped.
' Ma'am,' cried the maid, suddenly, ' I'll 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 mistress's dressing-room, to my certain knowledge,
since morning. 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.' 'Oh, 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 mistress
repeating her commands, she was forced to obey. The girl
came in with a look of simplicity ; but when she saw a room
full of company she was a little abashed. Rosamond and
Laura looked at her and 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 not- know 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.
'65
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
1 Vastly well ! ' said Bell's mother ; * I am waiting to see
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 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 be-
came of it afterwards ? ' ' 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.'
Everybody else, however, did believe ; and their eyes were
fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.
' What do you all look at me so for ? Why do you all look
so ? And am I to be put to shame on my birthday ? ' cried
she, bursting into a roar of passion ; ' and all for this nasty
thing ! ' added she, pushing away the remains of the basket,
and looking angrily at Rosamond. ' Bell ! Bell ! oh, fie ! fie !
Now I am ashamed of you ; that's quite rude to your cousin, 5
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 accord-
ingly 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 cata-
strophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections ; nor
1 66
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
were they entirely dissipated by the condolence of the rest of
the company, nor even by the praises of her godmother, who,
for the purpose of condoling with 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 ? ' said she, appealing, in a sarcastic tone, to
where she thought Laura was. ' Where is Laura ? I don't
see her.' Laura came forward. ' You are too prudent to
throw away your money like your sister. Your half-guinea, I'll
answer for it, is snug in your pocket is it not?' 'No,
madam,' answered she, in a low voice.
But low as the voice of Laura 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.'
' The half-guinea, Laura ! ' said her godmother. ' What is
all this ? ' ' I'll 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 whilst 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 the age or situa-
tion of the person be what it may, they command 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 ? 5
' Yes, Rosamond,' said her father, and 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 any-
thing that we like ourselves ; and therefore,' added he, smiling,
' it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you
like best of all others.'
167
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
'The thing I like the best of all others, father,' said Rosa-
mond, half pleased, half vexed. 'What is that, I wonder?
You don't mean praise, do you, sir ? ' ' Nay, you must decide
that yourself, Rosamond.' ' Why, sir,' said she, ingenuously,
'perhaps it was ONCE the thing I liked best ; but the pleasure
I have <ust felt makes me like something else much better.'
1 68
ETON MONTEM
xtracted from the ' Courier ' of May 1799.]
' YESTERDAY this triennial ceremony took place, with which the public
are too well acquainted to require a particular description. A collec-
tion, 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 Courtyard, 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 Cumberland, Earl
Morton, and General Gwynne, all on horseback, 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 Serjeant,
the Musicians of the Staffordshire Band, and Mr. Ford, Captain of
the Seminar)', the Serjeant - Major, Serjeants, Colonels, Corporals,
Musicians, Ensign, Lieutenant, Steward, Salt-Bearers, Polemen, and
Runners.
' The cavalcade was 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 him-
self to arrange the procession round the Royal carriages ; and even
when the horses were taken off, with the assistance of the Duke of
169
ETON MONTEM
Kent, fastened the traces round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any
inconvenience.
* An exceeding heavy shower of rain coming on, the Prince took
leave, and went to the " Windmill Inn " till it subsided. The King
and his attendants weathered it out in their greatcoats.
' After the young gentlemen walked round the carriage, Ensign
Vince and the Salt-Bearers proceeded to the summit of the hill ; but
the wind being boisterous, he could not exhibit his dexterity in display-
ing his flag, and the space being too small before the carriages, from
the concourse 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 " Windmill Inn,"
and in the evening walked on Windsor Terrace.
' Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Duke of Cumber-
land, after taking leave of their Majesties, set off for town, and
honoured the Opera House with their presence in the evening.
' The profit arising from the Salt collected, according to account,
amounted to ^800.
* The Stadtholder, the Duke of Gordon, Lord and Lady Melbourne,
Viscount Brome, and a numerous train of fashionable nobility were
present.
' The following is an account of their dresses, made as usual, very
handsomely, by Mrs. Snow, milliner, of Windsor :
* Mr. Ford, Captain, with eight Gentlemen to attend him as servitors.
' Mr. Sarjeant, Marechal.
' Mr. Bradith, 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, Oppidin, 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 feathers.
* 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. Thackery, lilac and siiver ; Roman cap.
' Mr. Drury, mazarin blue ; fancy cap.
I 7 o
ETON MONTEM
' Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw.
4 Mr. Routh, pink and silver ; Spanish hat.
' Mr. Curtis, purple ; fancy cap.-
' Mr. Lloyd, blue ; ditto.
' 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, marching round the great square of Eton,
were dismissed. The Captain then paid his respects to the Royal
Family, at the Queen's Lodge, Windsor, previously 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 College, as well
as the custom of Salt ; but it was discontinued by Dr. Cook, 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 barley, 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 custom of Salt.'
MEN
Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal.
Lord John, \
Talbot,
Wheeler, I Young Gentlemen of Eton, from 17 to 19 years of
Bursal, ' a g e -
Rory O'RyanJ
Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill.
Farmer Hearty.
A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.
171
ETON MONTEM
WOMEN
The Marchioness of Piercefield, 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 Tabor, and Dance of Peasants.
ACT THE FIRST
SCENE I
The Bar of ike ' Windmill Inn' at Salt Hill
MR. and MRS. NEWINGTON, the Landlord and Landlady
Landlady. 'Tis an impossibility, Mr. Newington ; and that's
enough. Say no more about it ; 'tis an unpossibility in the
natur of things. (She ranges jellies, etc., in the Bar.) And
pray, do you take your great old-fashioned tankard, Mr. New-
ington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.
Landlord (takes Ms 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 ! 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 chambermaids
already, for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady ! Mrs. Land-
lady ! But 'tis 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 ?
Landlady. Mrs. Neivington, Mr. Newington.
Landlord (drinks). Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks
your health ; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more
in my own house (shrugs).
172
ETON MONTEM
Landlady. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor im-
pediments 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, don't fancy the being called
Mrs. Landlady.
Landlady. To be sure I don't. Why, when folks hear the
old-fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady ! Mrs. Landlady ! who do
they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, feather-
bed of a woman coming waddling along with her thumbs
sticking on each side of her apron, o' this fashion ? 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 coming 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 ?
Don'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 them, it would
not be one too many for all the company we've a right to
expect, and those the highest quality of the land ? Nay, what
do I talk of to-morrow ? isn't my Lady Piercefield and suite
expected ? and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal's 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 'tis a thing I never do when I can help it.
Landlord (aside). She not like to speak ! (Aloud.} My
173
ETON MONTEM
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 my
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. Newington.
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 matter of
wheedling, I'd stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is making up
to me, do you see, against e'er a boy, or hobbledehoy, in all
Eton, London, or Christendom, let the other be who he will.
Enter WHEELER.
Wheeler. 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 (looking
round at the jellies, etc.} 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 old tankard still ; not empty, I
hope.
Landlord. Not empty, I hope. Here's to you, Mr.
Wheeler.
Wheel. Mr. \Vheeler ! 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 didn'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 amongst 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
1 Salt, the cant name given by the Eton lads to the money collected at
Montem.
174
ETON MONTEM
say, came to a plump thousand ! No bad thing for a young
fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge 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 ! Oh, time enough for that. I've a little
account with you in horses, I know ; but that's between you
and me, you know mum.
Landlord. Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler. Between you
and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed ; and I can't
afford to be mum. So you'll take no offence if I speak ; and
as you'll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem's over,
you'll be pleased to settle 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, and
I can squeeze that much out of it. I came home 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 whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.
{He swallows down a jelly or two Landlord is going.)
Enter TALBOT.
Talbot. Hallo, Landlord ! where are you making off so fast ?
Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.
Wheel, (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.
175
'__ TJien shake /tanets, my Iwnest landlord'
ETON MONTEM
Wheel (aside.} What a fool !
(Landlord, as Talbot is going catches hold of his
coat.}
Landlord. Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won't do !
Talb. Won't it ? W 7 ell, 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.
Wheel. But Bursal's my witness
Talb. Oh, 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. Don'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
'Tis 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'll saddle him myself. (Exit Landlord.}
177
ETON MONTEM
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. Talbot. 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. Landlady
made her entree ; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would
at least have given her the retort courteous.
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, you have 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. 1
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. Don'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
' '78
ETON MONTEM
made you feel ten years younger ; yet even while he was here,
you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those
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 natter and win over many to his interest. My brother does
not so much care about it ; he is not avaricious.
Mrs. Talb. I love your generous spirit and his ! but, alas !
my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without
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 happened.
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 ^150 a year for us all.
Louisa. That is enough, is it not, 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 himself,
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. Oh, 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.}
179
ETON MONTEM
Landlady. Waiter ! Miss Bursal's curricle, and Mr.
Bursal's vis-d-vis. Run ! see that the Dolphin's empty. I
say run ! run !
Mrs. Talb. I will rest for a few moments 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'm sorry Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal
are come just coming upstairs.
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 ! Are you within there ? Unbolt this door.
Mr. Bursal's voice behind the scenes. Let me have a basin
of good soup directly.
Waiter. I'll go round and have the door unbolted im-
mediately, ladies. {Exit Waiter.}
Enter MISS BURSAL, in a riding dress, and with a long whip.
Miss Bursal. Those creatures, the ponies, have a'most
pulled my 'and off. Who 'owe we 'ere ? Ha ! Mrs. Talbot !
Louisa, 'ow are ye ? I'm so vastly glad to see you ; but I'm
so shocked to 'ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle. Mrs.
Talbot, you look but poorly ; but this Montem will put every-
body in spirits. I 'ear everybody's to be 'ere; and my brother
tells me, 'twill be the finest ever seen at //Eton. Louisa, my
dear, I'm sorry I've not a seat for you in my curricle for to-
morrow ; but I've promised Lady Betty ; so, you know, 'tis
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.
Miss Burs. Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot ? I 'ad
a thousand things to say to you, Louisa ; but am so tired and
so annoyed
(Seats herself . Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, and Chambermaid.)
i So
Enter Miss Bursal, in a riding dress.
ETON MONTEM
Enter MR. BURSAL, with a basin of soup in his hand.
Mr. Burs. Well, thank my stars the Airly 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. 5 Tis 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, the Prince of Whales, and Duke o' York, and
all the first people ; and we shall cut a dash ! Dash ! dash !
will be the word to-morrow ! {playing ivith her whip}.
Air. Burs, (aside}. Dash ! dash ! ay, just like her brother.
He'll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he's her age.
Well, well, he can afford it ; and I do love to see my children
make a figure for their money. As Jack Bursal says, what's
money for, if it e'nt to make a figure? (Aloud.} There's your
brother Jack, now. The extravagant dog ! he'll have such a
dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem.
Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has
more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John's
the son of a marchioness.
Miss Burs. Oh, that makes no difference nowadays. I
wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem. The
only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an intro-
duction to their friend Lady Piercefield. What she 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.
Miss 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 !
182
ETON MONTEM
(Aloud.'} Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do
send my ooman to me to make me presentable.
(Exit Miss Bursal at one door.)
Mr. B. (at the opposite door). ' Business of importance ! '
Hum ! I'm glad I'm prepared with a good basin of soup.
There's no doing business well upon an empty stomach.
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. FINSBURY, 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.
Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best-dressed
Montem that ever was seen at Eton ; and you Lon'on gentle-
men have the most fashionablest notions ; and this is the most
elegantest fancy cap
Finsbury. Why, as you observe, ma''m, that is the most
elegant fancy cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hog-
morton's fancy cap, ma'm ; and here, ma'm, 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'm, the marshal's white and
purple and orange fancy-dress, trimmed with silver, will bear
the bell ; though, indeed, I shouldn't say that, for the colonel's
and lieutenant's, and ensign's, are beautiful in the extreme.
And, to be sure, nothing could 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'm, you see.
(The Farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time
during this speech, with contempt. )
183
ETON MONTEM
Farmer (reads the newspaper). French fleet at sea Hum !
Landlady. O gemini : Mr. Drake's Spanish hat is the
sweetest, tastiest thing ! Mr. Finsbury, I protest
Finsb. Why, mdm, I knew a lady of your taste couldn't but
approve of it. My own invention entirely, ma'm. But it's
nothing to the captain's cap, ma'm. Indeed, ma'm, Mr.
Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in
dress. To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion ; but the
mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice : and when
you see it, ma'm, 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'm.
Farmer (fo 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 !
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.
Finsb. (packing up bandboxes'). Well, ma'm, 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, nowadays ?
Finsb. (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. 'Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.
Finsb. 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
184
ETON MONTEM
quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they
expect to be known and treated as quality ? 'Tis no fault of
mine. Why didn'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 till night ? What have you
else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who's who, I
say ?
Farm. Clapper ! clapper ! clapper ! like my mill in a high
wind, landlord. Clapper ! clapper ! clapper ! 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 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, mother 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 foi
nothing in life !
Finsb. For nothing in life, as you say, ma'm ; that is, nothing
in high life, I'm sure, ma'm ; nay, I dare a'most venture to
swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few
young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy-
dress for this grand Montem ?
Landlady. There, Mr. Newington ; there's your Talbot for
you ! and there's your grandees ! Oh, trust me, 1 know your
scrubs at first sight.
Landlord. Scrubs, I don't, nor can't, nor won't call them that
pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don'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.
Finsb. Dear me ! 'Twas not I said scrub. Did I say
scrub ?
Farm. No matter if you did.
Finsb. No matter, certainly ; and yet it is a matter ; for I'm
confident I wouldn't for the world leave it in any one's power
185
ETON MONTEM
to say that I said that I called any young gentleman of Eton
a scrub ! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot !
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.
Finsb. But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I
ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk
of Mr. Talbot's being captain to-morrow, I didn'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
as 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, forsooth !
Landlord. Mrs. Talbot's coming stand back.
Landlady. Lord ! why does Bob show them through this
way?
Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA ; Waiter
showing ttie 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 it is vain to say more. But isn'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 have a good snug
farmhouse, 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.
186
ETON MONTEM
Mrs. Talb. I am very much obliged-
Farm. Oh, 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 !
hostler ! driver ! what's your name ? drive the chaise up here
to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, and we'll
have you in and 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.
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE I
Afield near Eton College; several boys crossing backwards
and forwards in the background. In front, TALBOT,
WHEELER, LORD JOHN and BURSAL.
Talbot. 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 John (coolly}. Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.
Talb. Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes Wheeler
inclusive no doubt.
Lord J. That's as hereafter, may be.
Wheeler. Hereafter! Oh, fie, my lud ! You know your
own Wheeler has, from th^e 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 ; stick
fast. Fifty-six friends, Wheeler /^elusive, hey, my lord ! hey,
my lud!
187
ETON MONTEM
Lord J. Talbot prelusive, I find, contrary to my expect-
ations.
Talb. Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that
Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust : but then there's
enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for ;
hey, Wheeler ?
Bursal (aside to Wheeler'}. A pretty 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.
Wheeler (aside to Bursal). And as he has no money to
buy votes he ! he ! 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. Oh, I 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.' 1
Wheel, (taking Bursal by the arm). Bursal, a word with
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
BursaFs not purse-proud, and you can. Give you joy.
Burs. A choice electioneerer ! h.a ! ha ! ha !
Wheel, (faintly). He ! he ! he ! a choice electioneerer, as
you say.
(Exeunt Wheeler and Burial ; manent LordJ. and Talbot.)
1 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.
188
ETON MONTEM
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'll not find a better.
Lord J. (giving his hand). You are a strange fellow, Talbot ;
I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said
last night.
Talb. What ? for I don't keep a register of my sayings.
Oh, it was something about gaming Wheeler was flattering
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?
Lord J. But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed
at. Listen to me, and don't fumble in your pockets while I'm
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 caricature I drew of
you I really am sorry I did it ; but 'tis 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 paper.) I have heard of this caricature
before ; but I did not expect, Talbot, 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
electioneerer.
Talb. Oh, hang it ! I forgot my election, and your fifty-six
friends.
189
ETON MONTEM
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 you 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
stauncher friend than poor little Rory O'Ryan. And a good
right he has to befriend you'; for you stood by him when many
who 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
don't let's be talking smtimznt ; for, for my share I'd not give
a bogberry a bushel for szhtimznt, when I could get anything
better.
Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be ?
Rory. Phoo ! don't be playing the innocent, now. Where
have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my l#rd) not to know
a bogberry when you see 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 out yonder
at a terrible fine rate. And haven't I been huzzaing 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
thoroughgoing friend, at any rate.
Talb. Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and
a thoroughgoing friend ; but have a care, or you'll get your-
self and me into some scrape, before you have done with this
violent thoroughgoing work.
Rory. Never fear ! never fear, man ! a warm frind and a
bitter enemy, that's my maxim.
Talb. Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter
enemy.
Rory. Oh, never fear me ! I'm as cool as a cucumber all
the time ; and whilst they tink I'm tinking of nothing in life
but making a noise, I make my own snug little 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,
190
ETON MONTEM
wise-a-ivee to you, my little frind. So you comprehend it will
be Rory's song, with variations.
Talbot and Lord John. Let's have it ; let's have it without
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. Oh 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,
Webb'd or finn'd, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory,
None but Talbot, O Talbot's the dog for Rory.
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 a frind. Slur it
in the singing, and don't be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot
more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you
know. Only let me go on, and you'll come to something 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, whom I mean to allude to
in this verse.
Lord J. If the allusion's good, we shall probably find out
your meaning.
Talb. On with you, Rory, and don'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?
ETON MONTEM
Lord J. Encore ! encore ! Why, Rory, I did not think
you could make so good a song.
Rory. Sure 'twas none of I made it 'twas Talbot here.
Talb. I!
Rory (aside). Not a word : I'll make you a present of it :
sure, then, it's your own.
Talb. I never wrote a word of it.
Rory (to Lord J.) Phoo, phoo ! he's only denying it out
of false modesty.
LordJ. Well, no matter who wrote it, sing it again.
Rory. Be easy ; so I will, and as many more verses as you
will to the back of it. (Winking at Talbot aside.) You 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 don'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 bow). 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 conti?iues speaking to Talbot).
Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot : this is the second part of
the caricature. Lord John thanks you for these proofs of
friendship Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.
192
ETON MONTEM
Rory. No reason in life now. Don't be thanking so much
for nothing in life ; or if you must be thanking of somebody,
it's me you ought to thank.
LordJ. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who
Talb. (warmly}. Unmasking, my lord
Rory (holdt7ig them asunder}. Phoo ! phoo ! phoo ! be
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 don't
you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding. It was
I made every word of the song out d 1 the face 1 that about
the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster,
and all. He did not waste a word of it ; upon my conscience,
I wrote it all though I'll engage you didn't think I could
write such a good thing. (Lord John turns away.} I'm tell-
ing you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and 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 don't you go too.
Talb. O Rory, what have you done? (Talbot runs after
Lord J.} Hear me, my lord. (Exit Talbot.}
Rory. Hear him ! hear him ! hear him ! 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 turns out the worst.
Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.
Rory (joins}. Huzza ! huzza ! Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?
ist Boy. Wheeler ! Wheeler for ever ! huzza !
Rory. Talbot ! Talbot for ever ! huzza ! Captain Talbot for
ever ! huzza !
ind Boy. Captain he'll never be, at least not to-morrow ;
for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.
1 From beginning to end.
O I 93
ETON MONTEM
ist Boy. And that turns the scale.
Rory. Oh, the scale may turn back again.
yd Boy. Impossible ! Lord John has just given his promise
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. O, my poor Talbot ! murder !
murder ! murder ! But I wpn't let them see me cast down,
and it is 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 is only Rory O'Ryan, or the roaring lion, as
I call him. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Rory O'Ryan, alias O'Ryan, the
roaring lion ; that's a good one ; put it about Rory O'Ryan,
the roaring lion, ha ! ha ! ha ! but you don't take it you
don't laugh, Wheeler.
Wheeler. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh, upon my honour I do laugh ;
ha ! ha ! ha ! (// is the hardest work to laugh at his wit
aside.} (Aloud.} Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion ha ! ha !
ha ! You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes he !
he ! 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}. Oh, 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.}
I know I'm of no consequence now ; but you'll remember that,
if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must
have the honour to pay for your captain's accoutrements ; for
I shan't pay the piper, I promise you, since I'm of no con-
sequence.
194
ETON MONTEM
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 if).
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, aren't you twice as rich as he !
Burs. Very true, but I'm not purse-proud.
Wheel. You purse-proud ! I should never have thought of
such a thing.
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 don't think he's what you can call
clever hey, Wheeler ?
Wheel. Clever ! Oh, not he.
Burs. I think I could walk round him.
Wheel. To be sure you could. Why, do you know, I've
quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour ?
195
. ETON MONTEM
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 a
long face such a face as this. ' Mr. Talbot, do you know Pm
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 not it true, Jack ? ' said I. 'I saw the
farmer helping her in with my own eyes,' cries Jack. Off goes
Talbot like an arrow. ' Quizzed him, quizzed him ! ' said I.
Burs. Ha ! ha ! ha ! quizzed him indeed, with all his clever-
ness ; that was famously done.
Wheel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! With all his cleverness he will be all
the evening hunting for the farmhouse 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 at a dead beat.
Wheel. Not so dead either ; for there's a great independent
party, you know ; and if you don't help me, Bursal, to canvass
them, I shall be no captain. It is you I depend upon after all.
Will you come and canvass them with me ? Dear Bursal, pray
all depends upon you.
(Pulls him by the arm Bur sal follows.}
Burs. Well, if all depends upon me, I'll see what I can do
for you. (Aside.} Then I am of some consequence! Money
makes a man of some consequence, I see ; at least with some
folks.
SCENE II
fn the back scene a Jlock of sheep are seen pe?ined. In from ', a
party of country lads and lasses , gaily dressed, as in sheep-
shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc.,
are dancing and singing.
* * * * *
Enter PATTY, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb
in he? arms. The dancers break off when she comes in,
and direct their attention towards her.
196
ETON MONTEM
ist Peasant. Oh, here comes Patty ! Here comes the Queen
o' the day. What has kept you from us so long, Patty ?
"2nd Peasant. ' Please your 'Majesty J you should say.
Patty. This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so
iOng. 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 !
i st Peasant. 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.
Fanner. Why, young gentleman, I'm glad I happened to
light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther
astray, and set your heart at ease like.
Talb. Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease,
indeed. But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly
more fool I.
Farm. No fool at all, to my notion. I should, at your age,
ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened
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 gentlemen, now, can bring
themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of
amazement, like, that I can't noways get over.
Talb. Oh, 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
jackanapes
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 a-thinking on. I tell you it was this time last year,
197
ETON MONTEM
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'll not tell you that I am an impertinent
little jackanapes !
Farm, (wiping his forehead). Well, don't then, for I can't
believe it ; and you put me out. Where was 1 ?
Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.
Farm. Ay, so he was. ' Here, youj says he, meaning me
'open this gate for me.' Now, if he had but a-spoke me
fair, I would not have gainsaid him ; but he falls to swearing,
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, leaping 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 couldn't say anything to him ; for I was
a-pitying the poor animal. As fine a hunter as ever you saw !
I am s#rtain 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 !
(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'll do me 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 frighted 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. .)
198
ETON MONTEM
ACT THE THIRD
SCENE I
The Garden of the ' Windmill Inn ' at Salt Hill
Miss BURSAL, MRS. NEWI'NGTON, SALLY the Chambermaid
(Miss Bursal, in a fainting state, is sitting on a garden stool,
and leaning her head against the Landlady. Sally is hold-
ing" a glass of water and a smelling bottle.}
Miss Bursal. Where am I ? Where am I ?
Landlady. At the ' Windmill, 3 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 her head on hand, and rocks herself backwards
and forwards.}
Landlady. My dear young lady, don't take on so. (Aside.}
Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady
Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said 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 he's at the doors.
Landlady (aside}. Simpleton ! (Alottd.} But, my dear
Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold if you'd only disembosom
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 ! Oh,
I'll make her pay for that ! That madam shall go down in the
bill as sure as my name's Newington. (In a higher tone.}
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. Curious ! Indeed, miss, if I look a little curious, or
so (looking at her dress}, 'tis only because I was frighted to see
199
ETON MONTEM
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, nor run on with your vulgar talk. Is there ever a
seat one can set on in that harbour yonder ?
Sally. O dear 'art, yes, miss ; 'tis the pleasantest harbour
on dearth. Be pleased to lean on my ^arm, and you'll soon
be there.
Miss B. {going). Then tell my woman she need not come
to me, and let nobody intern de on me do you 'ear? (Aside.'}
Oh, 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 ?
SCENE II
LORD JOHN WHEELER BURSAL
Wheeler. Well, but, my lord Well, but, Bursal 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 J. You can do very well without me.
Bursal. 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 lord-
ship'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.
Burs, (whistling). Wheugh ! wheugh ! wheugh ! Wheeler,
the principal's nothing without the interest.
Wheel. Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of
course; for I'm persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to
200
ETON MONTEM
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.
Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them
to themselves.
Burs, (still whistling}. Well, I'll 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 ! '
Wheel, (aside to Lord J.}. Ye antic towers ! fit for Oxford,
my lord !
Lord}. Antique towers, I suppose Mr. Bursal means.
Burs. Antique, to be sure ! I said antique, did not I,
Wheeler ?
Wheel. Oh 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 hullabaloo amongst his friends for him.
( Wheeler and Bursal wink 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 come on.
Enter a party of boys, who cry, Finsbury's come ! Fins-
bury's come with the dresses !
Wheel. Finsbury's come ? Oh, let us see the dresses, and
let us try 'em on to-night.
Burs, (pushing the crowd}. On with ye on with ye.
there ! Let's try 'em on ! Try 'em on I'm to be colonel.
\st Boy. And' I lieutenant.
2nd Boy. And I ensign.
yd Boy. And I college salt-bearer.
20T
ETON MONTEM
Atth Boy. And I oppidan.
$th Boy. Oh, 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. Corne on,
my Colonel (to Bursal). My lord, you are coming ?
Rory. By-and-by 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.
6tk Boy. I'm marshal.
Burs. On with you on with you who cares what you are?
Wheel, (to Bursal, aside}. You'll pay Finsbury for me,
you rich Jew? (To Lord John.} Your lordship will remember
your lordship's promise ?
Lord J. I do not usually forget my promises, sir ; and
therefore need not to 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'll 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 ! Now put the case. If I was going to be
hanged, for the life of me I couldn'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. Oh,
murder ! I forgot, I was nigh letting the cat out o' the bag
again.
Lord J. You had something to say to me, sir ? I wait till
your recollection returns.
Rory. 'Faith, and that's 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 was I, then, sure enough ; but we are all
liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one another ;
that's the way to go through.
202
ETON MONTEM
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 don't like to be making dis-
agreeable retrospects, if I could 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 to lose as we
had. Is there any truth, then, my lord, in 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 obedient
(going, angrily).
Rory (holding him}. Take care, now ; you are going mad
with me again. But phoo ! I like you the better for being
mad. I'm very often mad myself, and I would not give a
potato 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.
Rory. Agh ! agh ! agh ! I begin to guess whereabouts I
am at last. Mad, in your country, I take it, means fit for
Bedlam ; 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 is
short madness). The shorter the better, I think. So, my
lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt
against poor Talbot, I'll assure you he's as innocent 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
203
ETON MONTEM
condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to
him. But, upon my conscience, I've a regard for you 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 were ever
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 who
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'll give me leave to speak to your friends
in your name.
Lord J. I have promised to leave them to themselves ; and
Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time.
Rory. Bless my body ! I'll not stay prating here then.
(Exit Rory.}
Lord J. (follows). But what can have become of Talbot ?
I have 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 Scene hi
front, WHEELER (dressed as Captain}, BURSAL, and
FlNSBURY.
Fins. I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this
dress.
Burs. Infinite credit J Why, he'll have no objection to
204
ETON MONTEM
that hey, 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 word, it is out of my power to give
him credit, and I'm sure he would not ask it.
Wheel, (aside}. O, Bursal, pay him, and I'll pay you to-
morrow.
Burs. Now, if you weren't to be captain after all, Wheeler,
what a pretty figure you'd cut. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Hey ?
Wheel. Oh, 1 am as sure of being captain as of being alive.
(Aside.) Do pay for me, now, there's a good, dear fellow,
before they (looking back} come up.
Burs, (aside}. I love to make him lick the dust. (Aloud.}
Hollo ! 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 !
Enter LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN.
Rory. Oh, 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.
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.
\st 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, I am marshal. All that have paia
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 ever I saw out of
Lon'on.
Rory, as each lad passes, catches his arm, Are you a
Talbotz'/^, or a Wheeler//^ ? To each who answers ' A
Wheelerite,' Rory replies, ' Phoo ! dance off, then. Go to
205
ETON MONTEM
the devil and shake yourself.' 1 Each ivho answers 'A
Talbotite,' Rory shakes by the hand violently, singing,
Talbot, oh, Talbot's the dog for Rory.
When they have almost all passed, Lord John says, But
where can Mr. Talbot be all this time ?
Burs. Who knows ? Who cares ?
Wheel. A pretty electioneerer ! (Aside to Bursal.} Fins-
bury j s waiting to be paid.
Lord J. You don't wait for me, Mr. Finsbury. You know,
I have settled with you.
Fins. Yes, my lord yes. Many thanks ; and I have left
your lordship's dress here, and everybody's dress, I believe, as
bespoke.
Burs. Here, Finsbury, is the money for Wheeler, who,
between you and me, 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 will 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 servant,
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.
( Whilst 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 ?
1 This is the name of a country dance.
206
ETON MONTEM
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 his
stick on the ground}.
Landlord (unbuttoning his waistcoat}. But I am so hot
so short-winded, that (panting and puffing} that for the soul
and body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say.
Rory. 'Faith, now, the more short -winded a story, the
better, to my fancy.
Burs. Wheeler, what's the matter, man ? you look as if
your under jaw was broke.
Farm. The matter is, young gentlemen, that there was
once upon a time a fine bay hunter.
Wheel, (squeezing up to Talbot, aside}. Don't expose me,
don't let him tell. (To the Farmer.} I'll pay for the corn 1
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}. Oh, 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 the landlord, here, for the horse ; but
he goes and says to the landlord, here ' Mr. Talbot had your
horse on the self-same day ; 'twas he did the damage ; 'tis from
he you must get your money.' So Mr. Talbot, here, who is
another 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 all.
Rory (rubbing his hands}. There's Talbot for ye. And
207
ETON MONTEM
now, gentlemen (to Wheeler and Bursal}, you guess the 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 (jointing to Wheeler} take the jump which strained the
horse ; and I'm ready to swear to it. Yet he let another 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, oh, 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. Oh yes ! oh yes ! hear ye ! hear ye, all manner of
men the election is now going to begin forthwith in the big
field, and Rory O'Ryan holds the poll for Talbot. Talbot 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 am 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 punished myself I've
promised to vote for Wheeler.
Talb. Oh, 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}. I must not say, ' Husza for Talbot /' (Exeunt.}
208
I say I saw him there take ike jump which strained the horse.
ETON MONTEM
SCENE IV
WINDSOR TERRACE
LADY PIERCEFIELD, MRS. TALBOT, LOUISA, and a little girl oj
six years old, LADY VIOLETTA, daughter to LADY PIERCEFIELD
Violetta (looking at a paper which Louisa holds}. I like it
very much.
Lady P. What is it 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, 1 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 reading, and she
asked me to try to draw the pictures of the little merchaats
for her. ( Whilst Lady P. looks at the drawing, Violetta
says to Louisa)
But are you in earnest, Louisa, about what you were saying
to me just now, quite in earnest ?
Louisa. Yes, in earnest, quite in earnest, my dear.
Violet. And may I ask mamma now ?
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 throws
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.
Violet, (aloud). Stoop again, mamma, I've more to whisper.
(Aside to her mother.') She says she will be my governess, if
you please.
Lady P. She /who is she ?
Violet. Louisa.
Lady P. (patting Violeittfs cheefz). You are a little fool.
Miss Talbot is only playing with you.
Violet. No, indeed, mamma ; she is in earnest ; are not you,
Louisa ? Oh, say yes !
Louisa. Yes.
ETON MONTEM
Violet, (claps 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 good little Violetta, than as an humble dependent of Miss
Bursal's. (Aside to her 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 ask her mother for her
nosegay Lady P. gives it to her, then goes
on speaking.}
Lady P. They were in such haste, foolish people ! to
carry their news to London, that they mistook one castle
for another. But do you know that Mr. Bursal loses fifty
thousand 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 afterwards with a
bottle of Burgundy ; but poor Miss Bursal has been in hysterics
ever since.
Mrs. T. Poor girl ! My Louisa, you did not fall into
hysterics, when I told you of the loss of our whole fortune.
( Violetta, during this dialogue, has been seated on the
ground making up a nosegay.}
Violet, (aside}. Fall into hysterics ! What are hysterics, I
wonder.
Louisa. Miss Bursal is much to be pitied ; for the loss of
wealth will be the loss of happiness to her.
Lady P. It is to be hoped that the loss may at least check
211
Talbot and truth for ever ! Huzza.'
ETON MONTEM
the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, as my
son tells me
(A cry of 'Huzza. I huzza. \ ' behind the scenes.}
Enter LORD JOHN.
Lord J. {hastily). How d'ye do, mother ? Miss Talbot, 1
give you joy.
Lady P. Take breath take breath.
Louisa. It is my brother.
Mrs. T. Here he is ! Hark ! hark !
(A cry behind the scenes of ' Talbot and truth for ever !
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 electioneering
skill ; for, to do him justice, Coriolanus himself was not a
worse electioneerer.
Enter RORY O'RYAN 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 ! Huzza !
Talb. Set me down ! There's my mother ! There's my
sister !
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 out of his own head
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas..
CURTAIN FALLS
213
FORGIVE AND FORGET
IN the neighbourhood of a seaport town in the west of Eng-
land there lived a gardener, who had one son, called Maurice,
to whom he was very partial. One day his father sent him to
the neighbouring town to purchase some garden 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 to him. At length, when all the other people
who were 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 Maurice wanted,
and packed them up in 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 ? '
1 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 time to pack it yet. It shall be done to-day ; and we will
get the seeds ready 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
215
FORGIVE AND FORGET
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 impatient 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 impatient
man lifted it, the weight of the peas which were withinside of
it burst the paper, and all the seeds fell out upon the floor,
whilst Maurice in vain held his hands 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.
Whilst the boy 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 am glad to have a day longer
to stay ashore, and I've business enough on my hands. 3 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 step forward,
he must pull the string, so that it would throw down the jar,
round the bottom of which the packthread was entangled.
He immediately caught hold of the 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 shoe buckle, 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
216
1 Stay .' Stand still, sir ! or you will break yonr china jar'
FORGIVE AND FORGET
boy. Be so kind,' continued he, turning to the shopman, as
to reach down that china jar for me. 5
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 him 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'll 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 permitting.'
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 nurseryman, who lived near him.
Arthur was the name of the nurseryman's son.
The first thing Maurice did, after showing his tulip-roots to
his father, was to run to Arthurs garden in search of him.
Their gardens were separated only by a low wall of 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 meet his friend. ' I know
where you are,' continued Maurice, 'and I'm coming to you as
fast as the raspberry-bushes will let me. I have good news
for you something you'll be delighted to see, Arthur ! Ha !
but here is something that 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 grown so finely his only bell-glass, broken
to pieces !
' 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 ? Oh, 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 hanging to the roots, fell upon your
bell-glass, and broke it, as you see.'
218
FORGIVE AND FORGET
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 ' Oh, 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 us 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.'
' Oh, 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 ;
the seeds having been thrown down, and of the fine tulip-roots
which had been given to him ; and Maurice concluded by
offering one of the precious roots to Arthur, 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 happier
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 anything that I did
that was well done ; and he never gave me a share of any-
thing 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 quarrelling with him ;
and I am always happy with you, Maurice. You know we
never quarrel.'
It would be well for all the world if they could be convinced,
like Arthur, that to live in friendship is better than to quarrel.
It would be well for all the world if they followed Maurice's
maxim of * Forgive and Forget,' when they receive, or when
they imagine that they receive, an injury.
219
FORGIVE AND FORGET
Arthur's father, Mr. Oakly, the nurseryman, 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
iudgment of them. He thought that it showed spirit, to re-
member 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, and he had
many more enemies than friends. He was not very rich, but
he was proud ; and his favourite proverb was, ' Better live in
spite than in pity.'
\Yhen 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 peddler. Grant's
friendly manners in some degree conquered this prepossession ;
but still he secretly suspected that this civility, as he said,
'was all show, and that he was not, nor could not, being a
Scotchman, be such a hearty fH end 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 Brobdingnag raspberries.
' How came you, pray, neighbour Grant, if a man may ask,
by these wonderful fine raspberries ? ' said Mr. Oakly, one
evening, to the gardener. ' That's a secret,' replied Grant, with
an arch smile.
' Oh, 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 Englishman 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
Brobdingnag raspberries.
' You are pleased to be pleasant upon them that have not
220
FORGIVE AND FORGET
the luck to be as book-famed as yourself, Mr. Grant ; but I
take it, being only a plain-spoken Englishman, as I observed
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 surly
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, neighbour
Oakly, you are likely to make a great deal of money of your
nursery this year. Here's to the health of you and yours,
not forgetting the seedling larches, which I see are coming on
finely.'
* Thank ye, neighbour, kindly ; the larches are coming on
tolerably well, that's certain ; and here's 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 have asked for some of the Brobdingnag raspberry-
plants. The next day the thought of the raspberry -plants
recurred to his memory, but, being a bashful man, he did not
like to go himself on purpose to make his request, 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 raspberries.
The answer which Oakly's wife brought to him was that
Mr. Grant had not a raspberry-plant in the world to give 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 blockhead, 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 ever so
small, from a Scotchman ; related to his wife, for the hundredth
time, the way in which he had been taken in by the Scotch
221
FORGIVE AND FORGET
peddler ten years ago, and concluded by forswearing all further
intercourse with Mr. Grant, and all belonging 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.
' Oh, why, dear father ? ' ' Ask me no questions, but do as
I bid you.'
Arthur burst out a-crying, and only said, 'Yes, father, I'll
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'll find out another playfellow for ye, child, if that be
all.'" * That's not all, father,' said Arthur, trying to stop
himself from sobbing ; ' but the thing is, I shall never have
such another playfellow, I shall never have such another
friend as Maurice Grant.'
1 Like father like son you may think yourself well off to
have done with him.' ' Done with him ! Oh, father, and
shall I never go again to 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, don'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
sorrowfully.
Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavoured to
discover 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 Brob-
dingnag 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
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FORGIVE AND FORGET
this was not the right time of year for planting them. This
message had been unluckily misunderstood. 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
receive her answer, and to ride on to market.
Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his neighbour
Grant, could not long remain without finding out 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 gradually 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, assuring 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 or no damage, but I don't like to
be imposed upon by a Scotchman.'
The attorney saw and took advantage of Oakly's prejudice
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
223
FORGIVE AND FORGET
Mr. Oakly walked with resolute steps towards the plum-tree,
saying to himself, ' If it cost me a hundred pounds I will not
let this cunning Scotchman get the better of me.'
Arthur interrupted his father's reverie 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 1 bring
it to you?' 'Yes, let me read it, child, since I must.' It
contained these words :
{ DEAR MR. OAKLY I don't know why you have quarrelled
with us ; I am very sorry for it. But though you are angry
with me, I am not angiy with you. I hope you will not
refuse some of my Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, which you
asked for a great while ago, when we were all good friends.
It was not the right time of the year to plant them, 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 seaweed ashes
about their roots ; and I have got some seaweed ashes for you.
You will find the ashes in the flower-pot upon the wall. I
have never spoken to Arthur, nor he to me, since you bid us
not. So, wishing your Brobdingnag 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 about 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 in reading writing, and it cost
him much trouble to spell it and put it together. However,
he seemed affected by it, and said, ' I believe this 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'll not have 'em 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 :
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FORGIVE AND FORGET
(Monthly Magazine^ Dec. '98, p. 421.)
* There is a sort of strawberry cultivated at Jersey which
is almost covered with seaweed in the winter, in like manner
as many plants in England are with litter from the stable.
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 vegetables 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 surrounded with a
salt, and consequently a moist atmosphere, yet the ashes
(seaweed ashes) made use of as manure may also have their
portion of influence.' 1
' And here,' continued Arthur, * is something written with a
pencil, on a slip of paper, and it is Maurice's writing. 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 seaweed, I thought that perhaps seaweed
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 seaweed that
had been cast on shore ; and I dried it, and burned it, and
then I manured the raspberries with it, and the year afterwards
the raspberries grew to the size that you have seen. Now, the
reason I tell you this is, first, that 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 Brobdingnag raspberries was a secret. Perhaps this
was the thing that has 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
1 It is necessary to observe that this experiment has never been actually
tried upon raspberry-plants.
Q 225
FORGIVE AND FORGET
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, papa, my tulip is blowing.' ' Upon
my word,' said his father, 'this will be a beautiful tulip!'
' It was given to me by Maurice.' ' And did you give him
nothing for it ? ' was the father's inquiry. ' Nothing in the
world ; and he gave it to me just at the time when he had
good cause to be angry with me, just when I had broken his
bell-glass.'
1 1 have a great mind to let you play together again,' said
Arthur's father. ' Oh, 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.'
Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, who came to
ask Mr. Oakly some question about the lawsuit concerning the
plum-tree. Oakly showed him Maurice's letter; 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 practice, met with anything better.
Why, this is the most cunning letter I ever read.' ' Where's
the cunning ? ' said Oakly, and he put on his spectacles. ' My
good sir, don't you see that all this stuff about Brobdingnag
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 don't know what you mean. I mean nothing but
what's honest. I don't mean to ask for any good round sum ;
for the plum-tree has done me no great harm by coming into
my garden ; but only I don't choose it should come there with-
out 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
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FORGIVE AND FORGET
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 ! ' exclaimed Oakly, ' I never took a bribe, and I
never will ' ; and, with sudden indignation, he pulltd 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 ! he knew not in
what a dangerous situation he had placed it. One of his own
Brobdingnag raspberry -plants, swung by the angry arm of
Oakly, struck off the head of his precious tulip ! 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 enjoying than he could have been
made, without it, by the possession 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 pro-
duce the finest flower of its kind. A tulip was the flower which
was thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently
numbers of people afterwards 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
227
Jl'Tien Maurice saw his raspberry-plants scattered upon t lie ground, and his
favourite tulip broken, Jie iuas in much astonishment.
FORGIVE AND FORGET
his son and the fine tulip to the place of meeting. It was on
a spacious bowling-green. All the flowers of various sorts
were ranged upon a terrace at the upper end of the bowling-
green ; and, amongst all this gay variety, the tulip which
Maurice had given to Arthur appeared conspicuously beautiful.
To the owner of this tulip the prize was adjudged ; and, as the
handsome garden-tools were delivered 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 acci-
dent) 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, papa; 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'll take them, I'll
answer for it.'
Mr. Oakly was mistaken : the father would not accept of
the tools. Mr. Oakly stood surprised ' Certainly,' said he to
himself, ' 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 handsomely 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 the shabby answer about those foolish, what d'ye
call 'em, cursed raspberries.'
' 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
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FORGIVE AND FORGET
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 holding 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 for-
give ' ' Oh, forgive and forget,' said Grant and his son
at the same moment. And from this time forward the two
families 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 Scotchmen,
that he and Grant became partners in business. Mr. Grant's
book-earning' 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 Maurice's
favourite maxim, ' Forgive and Forget.'
230
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT;
OR,
TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW
MR. GRESHAM, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable
industry and economy, accumulated a considerable fortune,
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 extravagance ; for such
a life would have been equally incompatible with his habits and
his principles. He was fond of children ; 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 child-
hood, 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 imbibed a notion that
extravagance was the sign of a generous disposition, and
economy of an avaricious one.
Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care
and foresight. His father had but a very small fortune, and
231
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
was anxious that his son should early learn that economy
ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power oi
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.
Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks
and exclamations.
' Oh ! what an excellent motto !'' exclaimed Ben, when he
read the following words, which were written in large characters
over the chimneypiece in his uncle's spacious kitchen
'WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 3
* " Waste not, want not ! " ' repeated his cousin Hal, in
rather a contemptuous tone ; ' I think it looks stingy to servants ;
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 whilst his nephews were
looking at the other rooms in the house. Some time after-
wards, 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
idleness. * No, sir, nothing ! ' replied Ben, in a voice of
lamentation. { Come,' said Mr. Gresham, ' if you have nothing
to do, lads, will you unpack those two parcels for me ? '
The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied
up with good whipcord. 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 you get yours undone, man ? what's in
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WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
your parcel ? I wonder what is in mine ! I wish I could get
this string off I must cut it.'
1 Oh no,' said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his
parcel, and who drew out the length of string with exultation,
'don'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 whipcord,,' said Ben. ' Well, whipcord ! what signifies
a bit of whipcord ! you can get a bit of whipcord twice as
long as that for twopence ; 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, 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 string
for your pains,' said Mr. Gresham. 'Thank you, sir,' said
Ben ; * what an excellent whipcord 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.
' Oh, how I wish I had but a string,' said Hal. ' What
shall I do for a string ? I'll 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 meddled with other people's things than when he
233
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
managed his own. He had scarcely played half an hour
before he split it, by driving 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 afterwards 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, and her sons, who were
friends of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the
next day with them.
Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad
to go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, some-
thing to think of, or at least something to say. Besides this,
he had been educated to think it was a fine thing 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 gentlemen knocked at his
uncle's door the next day ; but just as he 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 downstairs 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 out, 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'll carry you ; don't move then,
234
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
said her father, and he took her up in his arms. ' My shoe !
I've lost one of my shoes,' said she.
Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in
a loop of whipcord, which was entangled round one of the
banisters. 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 running
up and down stairs, whipping the banisters with it, as he
thought he could convert it to no better use ; and, with his
usual carelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he
happened to throw it when the dinner bell rang. Poor little
Patty's ankle was terribly strained, and Hal reproached him-
self for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer,
perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes' sons had not hurried 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 whilst 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 yourself,'
said his uncle, smiling at seeing him produce his whipcord, 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 contemptuously, 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 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,'
235
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
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 on the first of September, and after
Playing at cat's cradle.
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 amongst us, of a very handsome
bow and arrow. Do you know, I've been practising already,
and I'll show you, to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the
236
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
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 con-
vinced him that he knew how to use it very well.
'Ben,' said his uncle, 'you seem to be a good marksman,
though you have not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow
and arrow, and, perhaps, if you practise, you may make your-
self 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. ;
' Oh, sir, interrupted Hal, ' but if you mean that Ben should
put in for the prize, he must have a uniform.' ' Why must
he ? ' said Mr. Gresham. { Why, sir, because everybody has
I mean everybody that's anybody ; and Lady Diana was talking
about the uniform all dinner time, and it's 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'll 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 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
Sweepstakes.'
' 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 under-
stand 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'll 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 purpose only for one day ;
and I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do ;
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for when I told her of 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'll 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.' ' 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.' ' May be 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 archery 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 Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform, if it is
necessary.'
' 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'll 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'll 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.
The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three
sons, who were all to be at this archery meeting ; and they una-
nimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, that
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they had never thought of buying uniforms for this grand
occasion, and that, amongst 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
amongst 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 reasonable.'
Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was
fashionable than of what was reasonable, without at all con-
sidering the good sense of what his uncle said to him, replied,
with childish petulance, ' Indeed, sir, I don't know what other
people think ; but 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 shunned
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 ad-
mired in one company and blamed in another ; so that we
must still come round to the same point, Judge for yourself?
Hal's thoughts were, however, at present too full of the
uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality.
As soon as their visit was over, and all the time they walked
down the hill from Prince's Buildings towards Bristol, he con-
tinued to repeat nearly the same arguments which he had
formerly used respecting necessity, the uniform, 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
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pastrycook's shop. * Oh, uncle,' said he, as his uncle was
going to turn the corner to pursue the road to Bristol, ' look at
those jellies ! ' pointing to a confectioner's shop. ' I must buy
some of those good things, for I have got some halfpence in
my pocket.' 'Your having halfpence 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 without
restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as
they pleased.
' Come, then, Ben, if you've any halfpence in your pocket.'
' I'm not hungry,' said Ben. ' I suppose that means that you've
no halfpence,' 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 pennyworth of half-
pence actually in his pocket.
At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastrycook's shop,
a poor, industrious man, with a wooden leg, who usually 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 produced his twopence.
' I wish I had more halfpence 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 cousin ;
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. ' Oh, it is a pity to waste that
good bun ; we may be glad of it yet,' said Ben ; * give it me
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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 -don'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 something,'
said Hal ; ' and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere here-
abouts, had we not better take a coach, instead of walking all
the way to Bristol ? '
'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 eat-
ing 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
wakening from a dream, which made both his uncle and his
cousin burst out a-laughing.
' Why,' said Hal, who was now piqued, ' I'm sure you did
say, uncle, you would go to Mr. Hall's to choose the cloth for
the uniform. 3 ' 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
cathedral 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 embarrassed attention. He looked
at the large stained figures on the Gothic window, and he
observed their coloured shadows on the floor and walls.
Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all
subjects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling him
several things about the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic
arches, etc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome.
R 241
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' 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.
* I can show you when we go home, Ben/ said his uncle, * an
entertaining paper upon such shadows.' l ' Hark ! ' cried Ben,
' did you hear that noise ? ' They all listened ; and they heard
a bird singing in the cathedral. ' 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, whilst the
organ is playing.' ' And,' continued the lad who showed the
cathedral, 'he has lived here these many, many winters. 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 poor robin eat out of your
hand.'
The lad crumbled the bun, and called to the robin, who flut-
tered 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 usj 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 company. 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 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 passing under the rocks at Clifton, unluckily when the
workmen were blasting. ' I don'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 as
willing as willing can be.'
1 Vide Priestley's History of Vision, chapter on coloured shadows.
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'Where does your mother live?' said Mr. Gresham.
' Hard by, sir, just close to the church here : it was her 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 something 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?
Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his
talkative cousin for all 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 imagination.
' Now for our uniforms ! ' cried he, as he jumped eagerly
out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper's
door.
' Uncle,' said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out
of the carriage, ' I don't think a uniform is at all necessary 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
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it,' said Mr. Gresham ; ' perhaps the sight of the beautiful
green and white cloth, and the epaulette (have you ever con-
sidered the epaulettes ?) may tempt you to change your mind.'
* Oh no,' said Ben, laughing ; ' I shall not change my
mind.'
The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulettes
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.' * 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 greatcoat, which you will want, I have a
notion, this winter upon the Downs.'
'Oh, sir,' said Hal, with an alarmed look; 'but it is not
winter yet j it is not cold weather yet. We shan't want great-
coats yet?
1 Don'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 just as you please. Hal, what say you?'
' Why, sir,' said Hal, ' a greatcoat is a good thing, to be sure ;
and then, after the greatcoat, 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 greatcoat.' ' Certainly,' said his uncle. ' Ah ! '
said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulette, ' uncle, if you
would not be displeased, if I choose the uniform ' 'I
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shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,'
said Mr. Gresham.
' Well, then, thank you, sir, 3 said Hal ; ' 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 after next, you know ; and, as to the greatcoat,
perhaps between this time and the 'very cold weather, which,
perhaps, won't be till Christmas, papa will buy a greatcoat for
me ; and I'll ask mamma to give me some pocket-money to
give away, and she will, perhaps.' To all this conclusive,
conditional reasoning, which depended upon the word 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' son's tailor, to be
made up. The measure of Hal'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
greatcoat, 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 next, my boy? 3 said
his uncle. ' Arrows, uncle, if you please ; three arrows.'
' My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows. 3 ' No, uncle v
you only said a bow. 3 '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 ? 3 'In clothes, if you will be so good, uncle,
for that poor boy who has the great black patch on his eye. 3
' I always believed, 3 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 my
praising you about the matter. Your best reward is in your
own mind, child ; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken.
Now, jump into the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall
be late, I'm afraid, 3 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.
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' 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 don't understand, Cousin Hal,' said little
Patty, ' why you call this bow a famous bow. You say famous
very often ; and I don'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 ? ' ' Oh, why, famous means now,
don't you know what famous means ? It means it is a word
that people say it 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 don't
understand it, that's not my fault. Everybody but little
children, I suppose, understands it ; but there's no explaining
those sort of words, if you don't take them at once. 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 practise.'
Ben accompanied him with the bow and the 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 ist of September at length arrived.
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* What sort of a day is it ? ' was the first question that was
asked by Hal and Ben the moment that they wakened. The
sun shone bright, but there was a sharp and high wind. ' Ha ! '
said Ben, ' I shall be glad of my good greatcoat to-day ; for
I've a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially
when we are standing still, as we must, whilst all the people
are shooting. 3 ' Oh, never mind ! I don'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
complacency.
' 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
me in my uniform ? ' And his uncle's cool ' Very well, I thank
you, Hal,' disappointed 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
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 epaulettes 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, perhaps, you
will be so good, if I am not troublesome, to lift me over the
very bad place where 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 at cat's cradle with me. Oh, 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 very 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.' ' Oh,
papa, I'll take out that long tooth in a minute,' said Patty,
laughing ; ' I did not think that you would observe it so soon.'
' I would not have you trust to my blindness,' said her
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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'll 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 benumbed. Look, 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 saying scarcely 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 more than half
a minute.'
' Show him up, show him up,' said Mr. Gresham.
' But, I suppose,' said Hal, with a sigh, * that Stephen mis-
took, when he said the young gentlemen j he only wants to see
Ben, I daresay ; I'm sure he has no reason to want to see me.'
' Here he comes O 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 may ! '
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 benefactor was
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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 parish,
to Redland chapel out 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 has worked for them,' con-
tinued 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 has but one hand to work with, and that her left hand,
you'll not despise 'em, we hopes.' He held the balls to Ben
and Hal. ' They are both alike, gentlemen,' said he. * If
you'll be pleased to take 'em, they're 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 Master 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 to 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
said ; 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.
Gresham. ' Don't keep these Master 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.
249
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
Hal ran downstairs 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 proceeded 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 part of the show.'
' If you'll 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. 7
' 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 company.
The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent's Parade were
crowded with well-dressed ladies, who were looking out in ex-
pectation of the archery procession. Parties of gentlemen and
ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were seen moving
backwards and forwards, 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
face of curiosity upon the busy scene that appeared upon the
public walk.
The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the
flags under the semicircular piazza, just before Mrs. Yearsley's
library. A little band of children, who had been mustered by
Lady Diana Sweepstakes' spirited exertions, closed the pro-
cession. 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 regiment.
' 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 ' Oh, there's my bow coming, I declare ! ' cried
he ; ' look, I see the bow and the ribands. Look now, between
250
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hotwell Walk ; it is
coming ! ' ' But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time, J
said his impatient friend. ' It is that good-natured poor fellow
from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it me ; I'm sure I
don'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
amongst 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 back 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 epaulettes, or
upon the facings of his uniform ; whilst 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 leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse, because
the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who ac-
companied her followed her example.
' We can leave the children 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. 1
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 speak-
ing 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 his hurry. * Oh, my
new ball ! ' cried he, as he ran after it. As he stopped to pick
it up, he let go his hat, 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
251
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
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 uniform habit
was a sufferer by the accident. * Careless brat ! ' said she, ' why
can't he keep his hat upon his head ? ' In the meantime, the
wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after it amidst
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 back ; his other foot slipped, and he fell
prostrate, in his 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 backj
and to ' keep at a distance] was now coming up the hill ; and
the moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to his assist-
ance. 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 willing to give up his
uniform : it was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there
was washed out ; and he kept continually repeating, ' 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, whilst the
woman held the wet coat to the fire, ' Oh, 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 ; oh, give me the coat ; I don't mind how it is, if I can
but get it on. 5
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 matter to
252
He dragged poor Hal out of the red mud.
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
get the coat on again. However, Hal, who did not see the red
splashes, which, in spite of all, these operations, were too visible
upon his shoulders, and upon the skirts of his white coat behind,
was pretty well satisfied to observe that there was not one spot
upon the facings. ' Nobody,' said he, ' will take notice of my
coat behind, I daresay. I think it looks as smart almost as
ever ! ' and under this persuasion our young 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 ? '
1 Oh yes, sir ; the butler said they had been gone to the
Downs the 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 forwards. He was at first so much afraid of being
late, that he did not take notice of the mirth his motley ap-
pearance 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. ' Oh, let
me in ! pray let me into the circle ! I'm one of the archers
I am, indeed ; don'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 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 amongst 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. Don't stand there, in the middle of the circle,
or you'll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I've a notion.'
Hal looked round in search of better friends. ' Oh, where's
254
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
my uncle ? where's Ben ? ' said he. He was in such confu-
sion, that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely dis-
tinguish 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 greatcoat ; here it is for you.'
Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the
rough greatcoat which he had formerly despised. He pulled
the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat ; and
he was now sufficiently recovered from his vexation 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 the
hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune,
and he was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle's
opinion that the waste of the whipcord 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 benumbed ; I can scarcely feel,' said he,
rubbing them, and blowing upon the ends of his fingers.
1 Come, come,' cried young Sweepstakes, ' I'm within one
inch of the mark ; who'll 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's bows being better
or worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal ? '
This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict
in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions
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 whilst you rub your
fingers, man shoot away.'
Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his
friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintance who
2 55
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
call themselves friends can change when their interest 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,' said Master Sweepstakes, ' that is not fair ; that's
against the regulation. 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 noi 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
examined the string of his bow ; and, as he pulled it to try its
strength, it cracked. Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands,
with loud exultations and insulting laughter. But his laughter
ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket
an excellent piece of whipcord.
' The everlasting whipcord, 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.
* Oh, papa ! ' cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark,
' it's the nearest ; is it not the nearest ? '
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
whipcord, exclaimed, ' How lucky this whipcord has been to
you, Ben ! '
' 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.'
256
OLD POZ
LUCY, daughter to the Justice.
MRS. BUSTLE, landlady of the ' Saracen's Head. 1
JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.
OLD MAN.
WILLIAM, a Servant.
SCENE I
The House of Justice Headstrong A hall Lucy watering some
myrtles A set vant 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. To whom are you speaking, William ? Who's that ?
Will. Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my
master.
Lucy. Oh, then, don't send him away don't send him
away.
Will. But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am. He
won't ever see anybody 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 walks.
(Aloud.} Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon ;
pray sit down.
(He hesitates; she pushes a chair towards him.}
s 257
OLD POZ
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 sighs, and she turns round.}
Lucy (aside}. I wonder what can make him sigh so !
(Aloud.} My father won't make you wait long.
Old M. Oh, 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
downstairs ; 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 Headst?'ong's Study
{He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot tipon
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.
Lucy. Whilst 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's poz !
258
OLD 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 ! 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, Fm 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.
Don't you know, child, I never see anybody till I've drunk my
chocolate ; and I never will, if it were 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. Oh, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was
impatient. (She comes back playfully.} It was only I, papa ;
don't be angry.
Just. Well, well, well {finishing his cup of chocolate, and
pushing his dish away} ; and at any rate there was not sugar
enough. Send William, send William, child ; and I'll finish
my own business, and then
(Exit Lucy, dancing, ' And then ! and then ! ' )
JUSTICE, alone.
Just. Oh, this foot of mine ! (twinges) Oh, this foot !
Ay, if Dr. 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 ; I can't do it ; I
can't, and I won't for all the Dr. Spareribs 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.
259
Lucy. Whafs this, papa ? Just. Pshaw I pshaw ! pshaw ! it is not melted, child
it is the same as no sugar.
OLD POZ
Just. Ah, that's well immediately ?
Will. 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 look 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. Oh, 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. Oh, 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 eyes upon.
Just. Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs.
Bustle ? I have some nice usquebaugh.
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 say, for the
fashion's sake, to be sure. A luncheon won't go down with
nobody nowadays (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 mentioning 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
tor your worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes,
you know. I've been up and about these seven hours.
Just, (stretching). Seven hours !
Land. Ay, indeed eight, I might say, for I am an early
261
OLD POZ
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, hey ?
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 curtsies.}
Just. No ceremony no ceremony ; good Mrs. Bustle, your
servant.
Enter WILLIAM, to take away the chocolate. The Landlady is
putting on her shawl.
Just. You may let that man know, William, that I have dis-
patched my own business, and am at leisure for his now (taking
a pinch of snuff}. Hum ! pray, William {Justice leans back
gravely}^ what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray ?
Will. Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir
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 a 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 !
Enter the OLD MAN.
{Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe The Justice leans back
and looks consequential The Landlady sets her arms
akimbo 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
thought, 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 you
262
OLD POZ
warning ; so you may go further and far 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 ! 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.
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 wasn'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 you
Jtist. Let him finish his story, I say.
Lucy. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs.
Bustle
Land, (turning suddenly roimd to Lucy). Miss, a good
morrow to you, ma'am. I humbly beg your apologies for not
seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.
(Jtistice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)
Old Man. But, please your worship, it pleased God to take
away the use of my left arm ; and since that I have never 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
presently.
Old M. For these two years past (for why should I be
ashamed to tell the truth ?) I have lived upon charity, and I
scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I 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, for-
sooth ! none such ever slept at the * Saracen's Head ' afore, or
263
OLD POZ
ever shall afterwards, 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,
' Five times have I commanded silence, and I ivorit command anything Jive times
in vain that's poz ! '
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 ;
but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it
was gone.
264
OLD POZ
Land. Gone ! gone, indeed, in my house ! and this is the
way I'm to be treated ! Is it so ? I couldn't but speak, your
worship, to such an inhuman like, out o' the way, scandalous
charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting
in your worship's chair, beside you, to silence me (turning to
the Old Man). And this is your gratitude, forsooth ! Didn't
you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for
you, wheedling hypocrite ? And the thanks I receive 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 7 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 anything
five times in vain that's poz /
Land, (in a pet, aside). Old Poz ! (Aloud.'] Then, your
worship, I don't see any business I have to be waiting here ;
the folks want me at home (returning and whispering). Shall
I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it's ready ?
Jiist. (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
good-natured. Don't contradict him, though, because he told
me not.
Jtist. Oh, darling, you shall contradict me as often as you
please only not before I've drunk my chocolate, child hey ?
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
in the land. Now speak on ; and you hear she tells you that
you need not be afraid of me. Speak on.
265
OLD POZ
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, hey, at the ' Saracen's Head ' ? You had it safe last
night, hey ? 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 ! 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 were gone in the morning ?
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 ! took the money and left the
box ? I'll never believe that ! I'll never believe that any one
could be such a fool. Tut, tut ! the thing's impossible ! It's
well you are not upon oath.
Old M. If I were, please your worship, I should say the
same ; for it is the truth.
Just. Don't tell me, don't tell me ; I say the thing is
impossible.
Old M. Please your worship, here's the box.
Just, (goes on without looking at if). 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 fathers 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 hundred.
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'll
tell you more ; if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to
me, I would not believe it that's poz !
266
OLD POZ
Lucy (still playing with the box). But how comes the box
here, I wonder?
Just. Pshaw ! pshaw ! pshaw ! darling. Go to your dolls,
darling, and don't be positive go to your dolls, and don't talk
of what you don't understand. What can you understand, I
want to know, of the law ?
Lucy. No, papa, I didn'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. Hey, hey, what ? Why, what I say is this, that I
don'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'll
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.
Just. What, contradict me again, after I gave you time to
recollect yourself ! I've done with you ; I have done. Con-
tradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon
me ; I defy you to impose upon me !
Old M. Impose !
Just. I know the law ! I know the law ! and I'll make
you know it, too. One hour I'll give you to recollect yourself,
and if you don't give up this idle story, I'll I'll commit 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'll never do it that's poz !
(Lucy speaks to the Old Man as he is going off.}
Lucy. Don't be frightened ! don'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 the young lady.}
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 ?
267
OLD POZ
Old M. No, miss, no ! open it was open ; for I could
not find the lid in the dark- my candle went out. If I tell
the truth oh ! (Exit.}
SCENE IV
Justice's Study the Justice is writing
Old M. Well ! I shall have but few days' more misery
in this world !
Just, (looks up}. Why ! why why then, why will you be
so 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 constable,
and give him this warrant.
Enter LUCY, running, out of breath.
Lucy. I've found it ! I've found it ! 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 ! 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 whilst
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.
Jusf. Hey ! what, Mrs. Landlady the old magpie ? hey ?
L^ind. Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who'd have
268
OLD POZ
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, hey ? Tell us
all ; I will hear all that's poz.
Lucy. Oh ! then first I must tell you how I came to suspect
Mr. Magpie. Do you remember, papa, that day last summer
when 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.
Liicy. Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentle-
man 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 ! ha !
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, hey ?
Lucy. Certainly not, I suppose ; but I'm so very glad, old
man, that you have obtained your money.
Just. Well then, child, here take my purse, and add that
to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal -hey ?
Land. Ay, and I fear I was, 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 that 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 1 Bless you for it !
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 would like to hear it, I hopes
Just, (eagerly}. And, friend, do you hear ? You'll dine here
to-day, you'll dine here. We have some excellent ale. I will
have you drink my health that's poz ! hey ? You'll drink
my health, won't you hey ?
269
'A nd J/r. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir
and dinner is upon the table.'
OLD POZ
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.
Land. . And please your worship, it's the right time, I 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 is 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 don't know whether it tells well for
me ; but I'll never be positive any more thafs poz !
271
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 amuse-
ment, 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 characters and the manners, they were now
anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which
would strike the minds of their children should appear in a just
point of view.
' Let children see and judge for themselves,' is often incon-
siderately 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 conversation, they can
form only a false estimate of the objects of human happiness,
a false notion of the nature of society, and false opinions 01
characters.
For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were
particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as
they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation
before their children became part of their education.
When they came to Clifton, they wished to have a house
entirely to themselves ; but, as they came late in the season,
almost all the lodging-houses were full, and for a few weeks
they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the
apartments were already occupied.
T 273
THE MIMIC
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 and his sister Bertha were their
silent neighbours. The blooming complexion of the lady had
indeed attracted the attention of the children, 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 delicate white of her
garments had struck them with admiration ; and they observed
that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of
the carriage, as he handed her in. From this circumstance,
and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman,
they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that
they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke,
and could be seen only 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 appeared 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 charming dear, and
a charming little dear ; 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 vociferations of ' Mrs. Theresa Tattle's
servant ! ' ' Mrs. Theresa Tattle at home ? ' ' Mrs. Theresa
Tattle not at home ! '
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 con-
sulted 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
274
THE MIMIC
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 intro-
duce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours ; having,
with her ordinaiy 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 in courting
the acquaintance. She courted it first by nods and becks and
smiles at Marianne whenever 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. Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was some-
times left more than half open, to afford a view of a green
parrot. Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door.
One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to
say c 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 apologise for the liberty she
had taken in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss Mari-
anne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll, and for the still
greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece of plum-
cake 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 Marianne's
striking though highly flattering resemblance to a young
gentleman (an officer) with whom she had danced, now nearly
twelve years ago, 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
someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to
the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were cousins to the Main-
warings of Bedfordshire, who married into the family of the
Griffiths, 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
275
The next day Mrs. Tlieresa Tattle did herself tJie honour to -wait upon Mrs. Montague.
THE MIMIC
productive ot most agreeable consequences, by 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 something
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
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
afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection,
entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip
and shoulder.
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
evening ; 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 death-bed ; because, to
her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a rela-
tion of her own, after she had lost one whole globe' 1 of her
lungs.'
The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical
precision could not have much weight. Neither was this
1 Lobe.
277
THE MIMIC
universal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a
tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want some
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, from personal know-
ledge, she could aver to be concentrated in the gentleman she
had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a young
nobleman, who had no further occasion for him, having, un-
fortunately for himself and his family, been killed in an
untimely duel.
All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these
stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children,
and her success soon became apparent. On Sophy, indeed,
she could not make any impression, though she had expended
on her some of her finest strokes of flattery. Sophy, though
very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very
desirous of winning 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 applause upon the praise of every idle
visitor ; when the habits not being formed, and the attention
being suddenly turned to dress and manners, girls are apt to
affect and imitate, indiscriminately, everything that they con-
ceive 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 copied from the conver-
sation 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
278
THE MIMIC
observed that it had much power upon Sophy ; nor were her
remarks 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 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 ! if I were, Miss Marianne for me ! '
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, ' Oh, but little ladies should never
think about their beauty, you know. Nobody loves anybody
for being handsome, 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 concomitant
circumstance tell them a different tale. Children are excellent
physiognomists they quickly learn the universal 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 apologise to parents, by saying, ' Oh, 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
279
THE MIMIC
quite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters and manners,
that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched
every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch
some singularity in their gesture 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 acquaint-
ance, 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 foresaw that 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 got out of hearing
when a note was brought, directed to ' Frederick Montague,
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, Miss Marianne, with him, as Mrs.
Theresa 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 of them
the other day. Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six,
or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to
be of the party.'
At the first reading of this note, 'the entertaining' Mr.
Frederick and the ' charming ' Miss Marianne laughed
280
THE MIMIC
heartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that she
should think it possible they could like such gross flattery ;
but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that it certainly
was very 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,' said
Frederick, ' and tell us what answer can we send ? '
' Can ! we can send what answer we please. 5
' Yes, I know that, 5 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, because we could not refuse, if we
would, I say. 5
' You have made such confusion, 5 replied Sophy, ' between
"couldn't 55 and "wouldn't 55 and "shouldn't, 55 that I can't
understand you : surely they are all different things. 5
' Different ! no, 5 cried Frederick ' could, would, should,
might, and ought are all the same thing in the Latin grammar ;
all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know. 5
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 she believed that they meant perfectly different
things in real life.'
'That's just as people please,' said her sophistical brother.
' You know words mean nothing in themselves. If I choose
to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just
as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cad-
wallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head ;
cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to
you.'
'Then why have 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 don't dispute with me. 5
' I was not disputing, I was reasoning.'
* Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no business
281
THE MIMIC
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 ! ' 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 dabbing 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 cheeks almost to her temples ' rising !
rising ! rising ! look at the thermometer ! blood heat ! blood !
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,
don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her
paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us
dirty any more of her brushes. See ! the sides of her tumbler
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 ; she shall
chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman.'
' 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 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. Besides, she understood the " Rule of Three," which
was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a
woman ; and she can reason, too, mamma says.'
' Very well, let her reason away, said the provoking wit.
'All I have to say is, that she'll never be able to make a
pudding.'
' Why not, pray, brother ? ' inquired Sophy, looking up
again, very gravely.
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THE MIMIC
'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 are 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 who 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'll never learn how 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
colour that I want ; and why should I not be able to learn to
mix flour and butter, and sugar and egg, together, to produce
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 as
she did? 3
* Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls
right, by the recipe, like a cook.
' Indeed ! indeed ! but she would, 3 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 the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops
so carefully : better than the cook. When mamma took me
down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls,
and her ounces, and her handfuls : she dashed and splashed
without minding exactness, or the recipe, or anything. I'm
sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness
only were wanting. 3
' Well, granting that she could make the best pudding in
283
'She dashfd and splashed -without minding exactness, or the recipe, or anything.
THE MIMIC
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 drawings,
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, 3 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 pudding.'
'Yes, yes,' cried Marianne, warmly; 'and she would jump
up, and put by all her things in a minute if it were necessary,
and run downstairs and up again like lightning, or do any-
thing that was ever so disagreeable to her, even about the
suet, with all her nicety, brother, I assure you, as 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'm sure, in a minute,
if it were 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 waiting 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
downstairs together, while Sophy gave her own message to the
servant, and quietly stayed at her usual occupations.
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
THE MIMIC
Miss Sophy along with them. Marianne coloured a little ; for
though she had precipitately followed 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 fell quite pleased with herself ; and it was not
till after Mrs. Theresa had exhausted all her compliments and
half her macaroons, that she could restore her spirits to their
usual height.
' Come, Mr. Frederick,' said she after tea, ' you promised
to make me laugh ; and nobody can make me laugh so well
as yourself.'
' Oh, brother,' said Marianne, ' show Mrs. Theresa Dr.
Carbuncle eating his dinner ; and I'll 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 don't see
anything here I can eat, ma'am.
Mar. Here's eels, sir ; let me help you to some eel stewed
eel ; you used to be fond of stewed eel.
F?-ed. 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'll be so .good as
to cut it.
Fred. Cut it, ma'am ! I can't cut it, I say ; it's 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 mutton, indeed ! not
a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly ! quite a cinder. I'll have none
of it. Here, take it away ; take it downstairs to the cook. It's
a very hard case, Mrs. Carbuncle, 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 extra-
ordinary, 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 not have glass
covers, that one may see one's dinner before one, before it grows
286
THE MIMIC
cold with asking questions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up
covers ? But nobody has any sense ; and I see no water plates
anywhere, lately.
Mar. Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken
before it gets cold, my dear.
Fred, (aside}. c 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
she cries before dinner's done, and then all the company are
quite silent, and don't know what to do.
' Oh, such a little creature ; to have so much sense, too ! '
exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. ' Mr. Frederick, you'll
make me die with laughing ! Pray go on, Dr. Carbuncle. 5
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 ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.
' Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner,' said
Marianne ; * 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 awake 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 Ridgeway 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
287
THE MIMIC
turn it which way she will, 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
married 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, 'now sing an Italian
song 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'll sing for her.
Fred. Certainly, ma'am, I allow that 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 accompani-
ment.
Mar. Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.
(Frederick sings, after much preluding.}
Violante in the pantry,
Gnawing of a mutton-bone ;
How she gnawed it,
How she claw'd it,
When she found herself alone !
' Charming ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Tattle ; ' so like Miss Croker,
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
288
THE MIMIC
pleasant parties, and she's a girl that's very much taken notice
of, and I don'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 are all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny.
Mar. Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor
Puff.
' Oh, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you of
all things ! You are quite yourself to-night. Here's a news-
paper, 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 distin-
guishing 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 general,
and their friends in particular, that they have now ready for
sale, as usual, at the Hippocrates' Head, a fresh assortment of
new-invented, much-admired primrose soap. To prevent im-
positions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take
notice, that the only genuine primrose soap is stamped on the
outside, " Valiant and Wise." '
' Oh, you most incomparable mimic ! 'tis 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 sit looking
at you these hundred years.'
Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show
how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished his cambric
handkerchief, bowed to Lady Diana Periwinkle, and admired
her work, saying, * Done by no hands, as you may guess, but
those of Fairly Fair.' Whilst Lady Diana, he observed, sim-
pered 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 particular
desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.
U 289
THE MIMIC
' 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 were 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 that
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 come 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 ! Pray
go on. I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick.'
' Now, brother,' said Marianne.
' No, Marianne, I can do no more. I'm quite tired, and I
will do no more,' said Frederick, stretching himself at full
length upon a sofa.
Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery
yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with him-
self, 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. Oh, 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 everybody else
laugh.'
' Cry ! bless me,' said Mrs. Theresa, ' mighty odd ! very
extraordinary ! but one can't be surprised at meeting with
extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors
by profession, you know ; for they are brought up from the egg
to make their fortune, or at least their bread, by their oddities.
But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite ex-
hausted ; no wonder what will you have ? a glass of cowslip-
wine ? '
4 Oh no, thank you, ma'am,' said Frederick.
290
THE MIMIC
' Oh yes ; indeed you must not leave me without taking
something ; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon.
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 presently,' said Marianne.
* Oh ! Miss Sophy has her books and drawings. You know
she's 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 further off than they think ; but they did not consult
me ; and I fancy they'll 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, ' Christopher ! 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 ladyship.'
'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 ? Pray,
what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?'
' The bell rang, ma'am,' answered a squeaking voice.
' The bell rang ! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or
drunk.'
* Ma'am,' said the taller 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. Theresa.
' Mr. Eden, madam.'
291
THE MIMIC
1 Ho, ho ! ' said Mrs. Tattle, in a more complacent tone,
' the boy takes me for Miss Bertha Eden, I perceive ' ; and,
flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney-sweeper for a
young and handsome lady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and informed
him ' that they had mistaken the room ; and 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' 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'll step down below and inquire. I heard them talking
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 ; so 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'll step down now,
ma'am, and see about the chimney-sweepers.'
' Yes, step down, do ; and, Christopher, bring up the cow-
slip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne.'
Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs.
Tattle was going to give her ; for she was somewhat surprised
at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her foot-
man. She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in
her father and mother, and she did not like them.
' Well,' said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was 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 sweeping 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 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 attend to his screech ; the boy within almost stifling
292
THE MIMIC
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 at once he understands the matter '
4 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 and
pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma'am. 3
'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 couldn'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
wouldn'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. But I finds him 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 way that did not become such as
he, to no lady's butler, ma'am ; whereupon I turns to the slim
fellow (and he's smarterer, and more mannerly, ma'am, with a
tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve
me my question either ; 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 ! ' exclaimed Marianne.
' Oh, miss, 3 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,' said Mrs. T. ' Chimney-sweepers get wedged in
chimneys every day ; it's part of their trade, and it's a happy
293
THE MIMIC
thing when they come off with a few bruises. 1 To be sure,
added she, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked
displeased at this speech, ' to be sure, if one may believe this
story, there was some real danger.'
' Real danger ! 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 Miss Ropers 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 obtain an introduction into that house ; and
a charming charitable expedient hit upon ! My Lady Battersby
will enjoy this, of all things.'
CHAPTER III
' Now,' continued Mrs. Theresa, turning to Frederick, as soon
as the servant had left the room, 'now, Mr. Frederick 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 an evening to-morrow. I'm convinced Mr. and Mrs.
Mofltague will find themselves obliged to stay out another day,
and I so long to show you off to her ladyship ; and your Doctor
Carbuncle, and your Counsellor Puff, and your Miss Croker,
and all your charming characters. You must let me introduce
you to her ladyship to-morrow evening. Promise me.'
1 This atrocious practice is now happily superseded by the use of
sweeping machines.
2Q4
THE MIMIC
1 Oh, ma'am,' said Frederick, ' I cannot promise you an>
such thing, indeed. I am much obliged to you ; but indeed "I
cannot come.'
' Why not, my dear sir ? why not ? You don'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 necessary
power of decidedly saying No.
'Ask them!' repeated Mrs. Theresa. 'My dear sir, at
your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such
things ? J
'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 almost about everything.'
' 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." '
' Well, then,' said Mrs. Theresa, ' you know it rests with
yourselves, if you may do as you please.'
' To be sure I may, madam,' 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'm sure, is too
well-bred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a
thing ! '
The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought
by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse 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 principles. From the
fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected ; and from
the dread of being thought to be children 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 don't mean to be rude ; but I
295
THE MIMIC
hope you'll 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
don't know how. You had very nearly made a most shocking
blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. No\r you
know it's impossible that Mr. and Mrs. Montague could have in
nature the slightest objection to introducing you to my Lady
Battersby at my own house ; for, don't you know, that, besides
her ladyship's many unquestionable qualities, which one need
not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed, to the Trotters of
Lancashire your mother's great favourites ? And there is not
a person at the Wells, I'll venture to say, could be of more
advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when
she comes to go to balls, which it's to be supposed she will,
some time or other ; and as you are so good a brother, that's 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'll quite adore you ! '
' But I don't want her to adore me, ma'am,' said Frederick,
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'll keep your secret, I'll answer for her ; and,' added
she, ' you needn't be afraid of her criticism ; for, between you
and me, she's no great critic : so you'll 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 looked surprised ; for he thought that the favour
of his company was what she meant ; but she explained herself
farther.
'As to 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 walk-
ing with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-
brimmed hat ! One knows him a mile off! But then his voice
296
THE MIMIC
and way, and altogether, if one could get them to the life,
they'd be better than anything on the stage ; better even than
anything I've 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 invention and cleverness I have no invention myself
but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so 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 have no invention.'
' Oh, as to the invention,' said Frederick, ' I know an
admirable way of doing the thing, if that is all ; but then
remember, I don'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 me to be there.'
' Oh, tell it me, you charming, clever creature ! '
4 But, remember, I do not say I will do it.'
1 Well, well, let us hear it ; and you shall do as you please
afterwards. Merciful goodness ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, * do
my ears deceive me ? I declare I looked round, and thought I
heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room ! '
' So did I, Frederick, I declare,' cried Marianne, laughing,
' 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'll 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'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute.'
' Oh, no ; do not ring,' said Frederick, stopping her hand,
* I don'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
afterwards.'
' Christopher, shut the door. Christopher,' said she to the
servant who came up when she rang, ' pray are the sweeps gone
297
THE MIMIC
yet ? ' ' No, ma'am.' ' But have they been up to old Eden
yet ? ' ' Oh no, ma'am ; nor be not to go till the bell rings ;
for Miss Bertha, ma'am, was asleep a-lying down, and her
brother wouldn't have her wakened on no account whatsomever.
He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though ;
but wouldn't have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no
account. But Miss Bertha's bell will ring when she wakens for
the sweeps, ma'am. 'Twas she wanted to see the boy as her
brother saved, and I suppose sent for 'em to give him 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, 5
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'll 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 do
as you please afterwards.' ' Well, I'll only change clothes with
him, just to show you for one minute.'
' But,' said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa whilst 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 do it so easily, to see that gentleman ; I mean
on purpose to mimic and laugh at him afterwards. I don'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 wakened.' ' 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 don't think she will trouble him long in this world, any-
how.' * What do you mean ? ' said Marianne. ' That she'll
die, child.' ' Die ! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks !
How sorry her poor, poor brother will be ! But she will not
die, I'm sure, for she walks about, and runs upstairs so lightly !
Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope.' ' If I'm mistaken,
298
THE MIMIC
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 follow my advice, and consult the doctor
for her health.' ' He would frighten her to death, perhaps,'
said Marianne. ' 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 chimney-
sweeper ? ' ' But I don't think it's right,' persisted Marianne,
' and I shall tell him so.' ' Nay, Miss Marianne, I don't com-
mend you now. Young ladies should not be so forward to give
opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked ; and I
presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what's right as
well as Miss Marianne. Hush ! here he is. Oh, the capital
figure ! ' cried Mrs. Theresa. ' Bravo, bravo ! ' cried she, as
Frederick entered in the chimney-sweeper's dress ; and as he
spoke, saying, ' I'm afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your
ladyship's carpet,' she broke out into immoderate raptures,
calling him * her charming chimney-sweeper ! ' and repeat-
ing that she knew beforehand the character would do for
him.
Mrs. Theresa instantly rang the bell, in spite of all ex-
postulation ordered Christopher to send up the other chimney-
sweeper triumphed in observing that Christopher did not
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, that it was scarcely possible
that he should have perceived the difference.
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,' said Mrs. Theresa, ' and
here's a shilling for you, to drink, my honest fellow. I did not
know you were so much bruised when 1 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.
Theresa 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 Frederick's return. ' I hear them,' cried
Marianne, ' I hear them coming downstairs.' They listened
299
THE MIMIC
again, and all was silent. At length they suddenly heard a
great noise of many steps in the hall. ' Merciful ! ' 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 having gathered together.
As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence,
and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming
from his face. His head was held by Christopher ; and the
chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. * Merciful !
what will become of me ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. ' Bleed-
ing ! he'll 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 ! Can nobody think of anything
that will stop blood in a minute ? Gracious me ! he'll bleed to
death, I believe.'
' He'll bleed to death ! Oh, my brother ! ' cried Marianne,
catching hold of the words ; and terrified, she ran upstairs, cry-
ing, ' Sophy, oh, Sophy ! come down this minute, or he'll be
dead ! My brother's bleeding to death ! Sophy ! Sophy !
come down, or he'll 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 as 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 comes Miss
Sophy, too.' ' Sophy ! ' cried Frederick. ' Oh, Sophy, don't
you come don't look at me; you'll despise me.' 'My
brother! where? where?' said Sophy, looking, as she
thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.
' It's Frederick,' said Marianne; 'that's my brother.'
300
THE MIMIC
' Miss Sophy, don't be alarmed,' Mrs. Theresa began ; ' but
gracious goodness ! I wish Miss Bertha
At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the
stairs ; she passed swiftly on, whilst every one gave way before
her. ' Oh, Miss Bertha ! ' cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold
of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. ' Oh,
Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin ! take care of the
chimney-sweeper, for heaven's sake.' But she pressed forward.
' It's my brother, will he die ? ' cried Marianne, throwing
her arms round 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 Bertha, it's nothing but a frolic. You see Mr.
Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in
the world but a frolic, ma'am. You see he's stopped bleeding.
I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his
eye, but I see it's only his nose. All's well that ends well.
Mr. Frederick, we'll 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'll 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
drop in upon us.'
'Do not be afraid of thy father and mother. They are
surely thy best friends,' said a voice. It was the voice of an
elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick. ' Oh,
sir, oh, Mr. Eden,' said Frederick, turning to him. ' Don't
betray me ! for goodness' sake ! ' whispered Mrs. Tattle, * say
nothing about me.' ' I'm 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. Bless me ! is not
that Mrs. Montague's carriage ? '
* 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 Sophia, I wouldn't hinder him from
speaking the truth ; but it's not proper, I presume, ma'am, to
301
THE MIMIC
speak truth at all times, and in all places, and before every-
body, 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 explanation.'
* Her.e,' said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, which
was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle's. Here
is 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, 3 said she, pulling his arm. But Frederick
broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden. Oh, sir, will you
forgive me ? ' cried he. ' Forgive thee ! and what have I to
forgive ? ' ' Forgive, brother, without asking what,' said
Bertha, smiling.
' He shall know all ! ' cried Frederick ; ' all that concerns
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 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, fool as I was, for the pleasure of making Mr.
Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you.
This boy said he 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 another 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 don't know how, that I was not a
chimney-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 withdraw-
ing 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. ' Oh, that other hand ! ' said Frederick, ' that
was hurt, I remember. How ill I have behaved extremely
ill ! But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I
302
THE MIMIC
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 affectionately;
* 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 got rid of half his black counte-
nance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and
Mrs. Montague. ' What will you do now ? ' whispered Mrs.
Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the
room. ' A chimney-sweeper covered with blood ! ' 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'll tell you ' Nay,' interrupted
Bertha, '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 apprehen-
sive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a
few words. ' Your son,' concluded he, ' will quickly put off his
dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind ; that is fair
and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said
so ; nor was he in haste to conceal 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 look of extreme
consternation.
' Here is a catastrophe indeed ! Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick,
your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit
of clothes ! the barefaced villain ! gone ! no sign 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
303
'' A nd like a man and like a good man, I am sure thoit -wilt, saiu the good Quaker
shaking" Frederick's hand affectionately
THE MIMIC
Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take
it too quietly. The wretch ! 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, 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 evening, fortunate
circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge
and act for himself more wisely in future. Noi will he be
tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being
called " The best mimic in the world." '
THE BARRING OUT;
OR,
PARTY SPIRIT
* THE mother of mischief, 5 says an old proverb, * is no bigger
than a midge's wing.'
At Doctor 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 the dictionary. He used to torment everybody
with 'Do pray help me ! I can't make out this one word.'
The person who usually helped him in his distress was a very
clever, good-natured boy, of the name of De Grey, who had
been many years under Dr. Middleton's care, and who, 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 he came to a 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,
307
THE BARRING OUT
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 deserting from
the enemy, received him with open arms, and translated his
whole lesson, without expressing much contempt 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 be 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 block-
head. 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 suffered 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.
' 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 industry united
could do.'
' Well ! ' cried Archer, with affected gaiety, as soon as the
doctor had left the room ' well, I'm 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
308
THE BARRING OUT
themselves for it, for being such simpletons as to bet against
the favourite,' he raised a murmur highly flattering to Archer
amongst some of the most credulous boys ; whilst others loudly
proclaimed their belief in Dr. Middleton'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 having
worked like horses, don't set about to fight like dogs. Come,'
said he, tapping De Grey's shoulder, 'let us see your new
playhouse, do it's a holiday, and let us make the most of it.
Let us have the " School for Scandal," do ; and I'll play Charles
for you, and you, De Grey, shall be my little Premium. Come,
do open this new playhouse 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 pain and
ingenuity erected a theatre.
' The new theatre is going to be opened ! Follow the
manager ! Follow the manager ! 3 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 were great, and the applause and thanks which were be-
stowed 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 acclamations
had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with a
knowing air, and looking round contemptuously
' And is this your famous playhouse ? ' cried he. ' I wish
you had, any of you, seen the playhouse / have been used to ? '
These words made a great and visible change in the feelings
and opinions of the public. ' Who would be a servant of the
public ? or who would toil for popular applause ? ' A few words
39
THE BARRING OUT
spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm,
and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes
of the spectators. All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and
the expectation of something better justified to the capricious
multitude their disdain 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. 5
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 playhouse. They gathered round Archer to hear the
description of his playhouse, 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 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 playhouse. 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 partisan, Fisher, cried, ' No,
Fisher ! 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 ! ' cried Fisher, and tore down the curtain. 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
THE BARRING OUT
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. Everybody
looked round to see where the voice came from. It 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 shutters 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
on De Grey. ' Well, my good woman,' said he, ' 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, 5 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 thaty#.'
In that watch-chain, she should have said, for her quick eye
had espied Archer's watch-chain. He was the only person in
the company who had a watch, and she therefore judged him
to be the richest.
' Had you ever your fortune told, sir, in your life ? ' ' 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 ! '
'There's good news for my friends,' 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 1 '
Then, as soon as they had acquired sufficient confidence in
her good will, they pressed up to the window. * There,' cried
Townsend, as he chanced to stumble over the carpenter's mitre
3"
THE BARRING OUT
box, which stood in the way, ' there's a good omen for me.
I've stumbled on the mitre box ; I shall certainly be a bishop.'
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 credulous,
had kept his post immovable in the front row all the time, his
mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed upon 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 exer-
tions, 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. ' 1
shall not hear you,' said De Grey, ' I am going.' Everybody
else drew back, and left him to whisper his question 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 information. ' It had a leaf torn out
in the beginning, and / hate Dr. Middleton ' ' Written in
it,' interrupted the gipsy. ' Right the very book ! ' cried
Fisher with joy. ' But how could you know it was Dr. Middle-
ton's name ? I thought I had scratched it, so that nobody
could make it out.' ' Nobody could make it out but mej replied
the gipsy. * But never think to deceive me,' said she, shaking
her head at him in a manner that made him tremble. ' I don'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
312
zV become ofrny Livy ? ' ' K<7r sister ZzVy,
THE BARRING OUT
deeply engaged in this conference, that he had not perceived
their departure. He found all the world at supper, but no
entreaties could prevail upon him to disclose his secret. Towns-
end 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 imagina-
tion of many of his little partisans. He had privately slipped
two good 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 im-
prudently 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 network a glimpse of the
shining treasure ' in this purse is Aladdin'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 high approbation
of their old friend, De Grey ; but the numbers were in favour
of the new friend. And as no metaphysical distinctions relative
to the idea of a majority had ever entered their thoughts, the
most numerous party considered themselves as now beyond
dispute in the right. They drew off on one side in triumph,
and their leader, who knew the consequence of a name in party
matters, immediately distinguished his partisans by the gallant
name of Archers, stigmatising the friends of De Grey by the
odious epithet of Greybeards.
Amongst the Archers was a class not very remarkable for
their mental qualifications ; but who, by their bodily activity,
and by the peculiar advantages annexed to their way of life,
3M
THE BARRING OUT
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. Amongst these, Fisher was
distinguished by his knowledge of all the streets and shops in
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 confectioner's was sure to apply to him.
Some of the youngest of his employers had, it is true, at times
complained that he made mistakes of halfpence and pence in
their accounts ; but as these affairs could never be brought to
a public trial, Fisher's character and consequence were un-
diminished, till the fatal day when his Aunt Barbara forbade
his visits to the confectioners ; 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.
Though his visits to the confectioner's were thus at an end,
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 car-
penter, De Grey's friend, was discarded by Archer, for having
said ' lack-a-daisy / ' when he saw that the old theatre was
pulled down. A new carpenter and paper - hanger, recom-
mended 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. 5
To which the carpenter readily assented, and added that
' gentlemen of spirit 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 playhouse ; and so intent upon it was
every head, that no lessons 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
315
THE BARRING OUT
' O ye Athenians ! ' he exclaimed, ' how hard do I work to
obtain your praise ! '
Impatient to return to the theatre, the moment the hours
destined for instruction, or, as they are termed by schoolboys,
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 boys were
called over, and when each had answered to his name, Dr.
Middleton said
' 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 suspect me of caprice. I
depend, gentlemen, upon your obedience.'
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.' l So,' whispered Fisher
in the manager's ear, ' this is some trick of the Greybeards'.
Did you not observe how he looked at De Grey ?'
Fired by this thought, which had never entered his mind
before, Archer started from his reverie, and striking his hand
upon the table, swore that he ' would not be outwitted by any
Greybeard in Europe no, nor by all of them put together.
The Archers were 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. Middleton himself,
with " Little Premium " at his right hand.'
Everybody admired Archer's spirit, but was 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.'
' Oh, you are mistaken ! ' said De Grey, who was the only
one who dared to oppose reason to the angry orator. * It can-
THE BARRING OUT
not be a stroke aimed at " you and your party,' : for he does
not know that you have a party.'
' I'll make him know it, and I'll make you know it, too,' said
Archer. ' Before I came here you reigned alone ; now 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 were to have no
theatre, no playhouse, 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 ! ' said De Grey. ' We shall not
suspect him of caprice ! ' * Why not ? ' ' Because we who know
him have never known him capricious.' * Perhaps not. J
know nothing about him,' said Archer. ' No,' said De Grey ;
' for that very reason / speak who do know him. Don'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 don't know me, De Grey. I'll 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
triumphant.'
' 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 amongst us.'
' No ; before I came, I say, nobody dared oppose you ; but
/ 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 you not my rival? Did you not 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. ' Laugh on ! ' cried
the other, furiously. ' Come, Archers, follow me. We shall
laugh by-and-by, I promise you.' At the door Archer was
stopped by Mr. Chip. ' Oh, Mr. Chip, I am ordered to dis-
charge you.' 'Yes, sir; and here's a little bill ' 'Bill,
Mr. Chip ! why, you have not been at work for two hours ! :
317
THE BARRING OUT
' Not much over, sir ; but if you'll please to look into it, you'll
see 'tis for a few things you ordered. The stuff is all laid out and
delivered. The paper and the festoon-bordering for the draw-
ing-room scene is cut out, and left yonder within.' ' Yonder
within ! I wish you had not been in such a confounded hurry
six-and-tvventy shillings ! ' cried he ; ' but I can't stay to talk
about it now. I'll 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 dcwn
some of the woodwork 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 haystack, 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 ! ' 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" '
4 Archers, Archers, to the Archers' tree ! Follow your
leader,' cried he, sounding his well-known whistle as a signal.
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 amongst us ? If there is, let
him walk off at once, 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. c 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.
THE BARRING OUT
Archer gave the history of a ' Barring Out ' in which he
had been concerned at his school, in which the boys stood out
against the master, and gained their point at last, which was a
week's more holidays at Easter. 1 ' But if tve should not
succeed,' said they, ' Dr. Middleton 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'll tremble. Tyrants
always tremble when ' ' Oh,' 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 till
he repeals his tyrannical law ; till he lets us into our 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 ex-
claimed 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
1 This custom of ' BARRING OUT' was very general (especially in the
northern parts of England) during the lyth and i8th centuries, and it has
been fully described by .Brand and other antiquarian writers.
Dr. Johnson mentions that Addison, while under the tuition of Mr.
Shaw, master of the Lichfield Grammar School, led, and successfully con-
ducted, ' a plan for barring out his master. A disorderly privilege,' says
the doctor, ' which, in his time, prevailed in the principal seminaries of
education.'
In the Gentleman's Magazine of 1828, Dr. P. A. Nuttall, under the
signature of II. A. N. , has given a spirited sketch of a ' BARRING OUT ' at
the Ormskirk Grammar School, which has since been republished at length
(though without acknowledgment) by Sir Henry Ellis, in Bonn's recent
edition of Brand's Popular Antiquities. This operation took place early
in the present century, and is interesting from its being, perhaps, the last
attempt on record, and also from the circumstance of the writer himself
having been one of the juvenile leaders in the daring adventure, ' quorum
pars magna fuit.' ED.
319
THE BARKING OUT
1 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
the 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 manager, to whom they all pledged implicit
obedience. 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 " ! Whom do you mean ? Make haste, and don'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 don't take
me,' said Fisher ; ' you don't take me. By right and wrong,
I mean lucky and unlucky. 3 ' Whatever / 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
320
THE BARRING OUT
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 wisdom 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 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 appoint-
ment, whilst 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 ap-
pointed spot. To keep, as he had been charged by Archer,
within the letter of the law, he stood behind the forbidden
building, and waited 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, 3 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 that Archer
had 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 woe, if not begun precisely 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
Y 321
THE BARRING OUT
even he had some foresight where his favourite passion was
concerned. ' Pray, in our Barring Out shall we be starved ? '
' No,' said the gipsy, l not if you trust to me for food, and if
you give me money enough. Silver won't do for so many ;
gold is what must cross my hand.' ' I have no gold, 3 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 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 inter-
diction had shut him out of the confectioner'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
schoolroom.
As Fisher did not produce any money when he made this
proposal, it was at first absolutely rejected ; but a bribe at
length conquered his 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
entrusted to him to buy candles for the theatre. ' Oh,' 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 Barbara may be got to
give me that much at Christmas ; then, if the worst comes to
the worst, one 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 entrusted to him. Thus 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 with the
result, after receiving the gipsy's reiterated promise to tap three
times at the window on Thursday morning.
The day appointed for the Barring Out at length arrived ;
3"
THE BARRING OUT
and Archer, assembling the confederates, informed them that
all was prepared for carrying their design into execution ; that
he now depended for success upon their punctuality and
courage. He had, within the last two hours, got all their 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 provisions, 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 constant supply in future. ' Bless me,'
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, ex-
tremely frightened ; ' you know you don't want candles for the
playhouse now. 3 ' Not for the playhouse, but for the Barring
Out. We shall be in the dark, man. You must run this
minute, run.' ' For candles ? ' said Fisher, confused ; ' how
many ? what sort ? ' ' Stupidity ! ' exclaimed Archer, ' you
are a pretty fellow at a dead lift ! Lend me a pencil and a
bit of paper, do ; I'll write down what I want myself ! Well,
what are you fumbling for ? ' ' For money ! ' said Fisher,
colouring. Money, man ! Didn't I give you half-a-crown the
other day ? ' Yes,' replied Fisher, stammering ; ' but I wasn't
sure that that might be enough.' ' Enough ! yes, to be sure it
will. I don't know what you are at.' ' Nothing, nothing,'
said Fisher ; ' here, write upon this, then,' said Fisher, putting a
piece of paper into Archer's hand, upon which Archer wrote
his orders. * Away, away ! ' cried he.
Away went Fisher. He returned ; but not until a con-
siderable time afterwards. 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 re-
petition day an hour later to-night. So I got leave. Was not
that clever ? '
A dunce always thinks it clever to cheat even by sober
323
THE BARRING OUT
lies. How Mr. Fisher procured the candles and the tinder-
box without money and without credit we shall discover
further on.
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, Towns-
end 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 a
room ; then to fix them to the common fastening 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 success of the whole depended
upon their order and punctuality.
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 schoolroom 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 is impossible to describe the impatience
with which he was watched, especially by Fisher and the nine
who depended upon the gipsy oracle.
When he had got all his books together under his arm, he
let one of them fall ; and whilst 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 ! J in which
he was joined by all the party most manfully by all but the
poor Greybeard, who, the picture of astonishment, 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
amongst the wicked ones ? ' 'I don't know, indeed,' said the
little boy, very gravely; 'you shut me up amongst you.
324
THE BARRING OUT
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.
I should like to show him our fortifications. But 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, whilst 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 himself. Hallo, Greybeard ! I've knocked Greybeard
down here in the scuffle. Get up again, my lad, and see a
little 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,
exultingly, 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 provisions vanishing with surprising 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 as Archer bowed
to thank the company, a sudden shower from above astonished
325
THE BARRING OUT
the whole assembly. They looked up, and beheld the rose of
a watering-engine, whose long neck 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
extinguished ; the trap-door shut down ; and they were left in
utter darkness.
'The Devil !> said Archer. 'Don'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-morrow ? We can't unbar
the shutters.' ' It's a wonder nobody ever thought of the 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 whitewashed, 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 exclama-
tions and reproaches against those who were thus so soon dis-
couraged by a trifle ; and groping for the tinder-box, he asked
if anything could be easier than to strike a light again. 1 The
light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-
box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and 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 a discontented, 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.
' Oh, my hair is all wet ! ' cried one, dolefully. ' Wring it
then/ said Archer. ' My hand's cut with your broken glass,'
1 Lucifer matches were then unknown. ED.
3*6
THE BARRING OUT
cried another. { Glass ! ' cried a third ; mercy ! is there broken
glass ? and it's all about, I suppose, amongst the supper ; and
I had but one bit of bread all the time.' ' Bread ! ' cried Archer
' eat if you want it. Here's a piece here, and no glass near it.'
' It's all wet, and I don't like dry bread by itself ; that's no feast. 7
' Heigh-day ! What, nothing but moaning and grumbling !
If these are the joys of a Barring Out] cried Townsend, * I'd
rather be snug in my bed. I expected that we should have sat
up till twelve o'clock, talking, and laughing, and singing.' ' So
you may still ; what hinders you ? ' said Archer. ' Sing, and
we'll join you, and I should be glad those fellows overhead
heard us singing. Begin, Townsend
Come, now, all ye social Powers,
Spread your influence o'er us
Or else-
Rule, 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
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 company, 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, there
is no further pleasure in endurance ; and if, in their misfortune,
there is any mixture of the ridiculous, the motives for heroism
are immediately destroyed. Dr. Middleton had probably
considered this in the choice he made of his first attack.
Archer, who had spent the night as a man who had the
cares of government upon his shoulders, rose early in the
morning, whilst everybody else was fast asleep. In the night
he had resolved 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
327
THE BARRING OUT
twenty feet, so that it was in vain to think of reaching to the
trap-door.
As soon as the 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-shutters, 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 ! ' 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, 1 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. ' This next chap is quick enough ; but,
then, he is so fond of having everything his own way. And
this curl-pated monkey, \vho is grinning in his sleep, is all
tongue and no brains. Here are brains, though nobody would
think it, in this 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 football this half-hour before
J should get him awake. This lank-jawed harlequin beside him
is a handy fellow, 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 is a Greybeard.' .
Thus speculated the chief of a party upon his sleeping
friends. And how did it happen that he should be so ambitious
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 them 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 you will be only in my way. The sound of my
3*8 '
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hammering must waken them ; so I may as well do the thing
handsomely, and flatter 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 diversion
for you up ! up !
'Diversion ! ' cried Townsend ; ' I'm your man ! I'm up
up to anything?
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 chevaux-de-frise was
formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend. At the
farthest end of the room they likewise formed a penthouse 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 penthouse as soon as
it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity 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 don't understand this ! '
Archer had expected a constant supply of provisions 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
329
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obliged to breakfast upon the scattered fragments of the
last night's feast. That feast had been spread 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, slily listening for the gipsy's
signal. * There it is ! ' cried he, with more joy sparkling in his
eyes than had ever enlightened them before. * Come this way.
Archer ; but don't tell anybody. Hark ! do ye hear those three
taps at the window ? This is the old woman with twelve buns
for me. I'll 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 heard enough to
get your buns without that. But stay ; there is something of
more consequence tha'n 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 provisions. Archer laid down a
guinea of his own money 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 in triumph, and everybody anticipated
the pleasure with which 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
33
THE BARRING OUT
suspicion, and to make it appear that they had all been broken
to admit air.
What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been
employed to no purpose !
It may have surprised the intelligent 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 entrusted with the contribution which, she foresaw,
must be raised amongst 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 provisions
before they were sure of a fresh supply. And now those who
had been the most confident were the most impatient 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 s.ome of the
joys of power, and the delight of managing unreasonable
numbers.
* Have not I done everything I could to please you ? Have
not I spent my money to buy you food ? Have not I divided
the last morsel with you ? I have not tasted one mouthful to-
day ! Did not I set to work for 'you at sunrise ? Did not I
lie awake all night for you ? Have not I had all the labour
and 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 one a morsel ; but I
scorn to eat even what is justly my own, when I see so many
THE BARRING OUT
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'll want it more, and Townsend, who
can't bear the slightest thing that crosses his own whims, and
who thinks there's nothing in this world to be minded but his
own diversion, 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
emotion, whilst, for the moment, the discontented multitude
was silenced.
1 Here, 3 said he, striking his hand upon the little boy's
shoulder, 'here's the only one amongst you 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 arm 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, Archer or
Greybeard ; 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 daresay that he has very good reasons, as
De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into that house. Besides,
it's his own. 3
Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this
little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun
out of his hands. He flung it at a 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 hand-
somely 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 immovable in this
posture for some time.
332
THE BARRING OUT
4 Lord ! ' 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 up upon the table,
at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss. ' He has
forsaken us ! He deserts his party ! He wants to be a
Greybeard ! After he has got us all into this scrape, he will
leave us ! '
' I am not going to leave you,' cried Archer. No one
shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I'll 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 ! Grey-
beard ! this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I'll
stand by him against any one who dares to lay a finger upon
him ; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his.
Touch him who dares ! '
The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked,
and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection,
silenced the crowd. But the storm was only hushed.
No sound of merriment was now to be heard no battledore
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 more discontented.
Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the
head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and
the 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 for his sake ? '
The idea of giving up was more intolerable to Archer than
all the rest. He saw that the majority, his own convincing
argument, was against him. He was therefore obliged to
condescend to the arts of persuasion. He flattered some with
hopes of food from the town boys. Some he reminded of
333 ,
THE BARRING OUT
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 themselves 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 got hold of his feet, which
they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were
fastening the cord round them.
With all 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 par-
ticular, stood laughing and looking on. 'I beg your pardon,
Archer, but really you look so droll. All alive and kicking !
Don't be angry. I'm so weak, I cannot help laughing to-day. 5
The packthread cracked. ' His hands are free ! He's
loose ! ' cried the least of the boys, and ran away, whilst
Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful
grasp, sternly demanded ' What he meant by this ? '
* Ask my party,' said Fisher, terrified ; ' they set me on ;
ask my party.'
1 Your party ! ' cried Archer, with a look of ineffable con-
tempt ; ' 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 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 Fisher-
men 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 !
Friend or foe, it's all the same to you. I know how to value
your friendship now. You are a mighty good fellow when the
sun shines ; but let a storm come, and how you slink away ! '
At this instant, Archer felt the difference between a good
334
Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisker with a powerful grasp, sternly
demanded ' What he meant by this ? '
THE BARRING OUT
companion and a good friend, a difference which some people
do not discover till late in life.
* Have I no friend ? no real friend amongst you all ? And
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 manager,
who can do nothing for one ? '
' And have / done nothing ? '
' Don'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 not let us all off, I daresay.'
So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he
again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of ' No, no, no !
Don'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 ! ' cried he. A
voice at this instant was heard at the door. It was De Grey's
voice. ' I have got a large basket of provisions for your
breakfast.' A general shout of joy was sent forth by the
voracious public. ' Breakfast ! Provisions ! A large basket !
De Grey for ever ! Huzza ! '
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'll never break his word.' He pulled away the bar ; the
door opened ; and having bargained for the liberty of Melsom,
the little boy who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey
entered with his basket of provisions, when he 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 breakfast. A
hundred questions were asked him at once. ' Eat first,' said
he, ' and we will talk afterwards.' This business was quickly
despatched by those who had not tasted food for a long while.
Their curiosity increased as their hunger diminished. ' Who
sent us breakfast ? Does Dr. Middleton know ? ' were questions
reiterated from every mouth.
336
THE BARRING OUT
' He does know/ answered De Grey ; ' and the first thing 1
have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. I am to
stay here till you give up. This was the only condition 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-vanquished party spirit revived with the strength
he had got from his breakfast, broke into exclamations in
praise of De Grey's magnanimity, as he now imagined that
De Grey had become one of themselves.
' And you will join us, will you ? That's a noble fellow ! '
'No,' answered De Grey, calmly; 'but I hope to persuade, or
rather to convince you, that you ought to join me.' 'You
would have found it no hard task to have persuaded or con-
vinced us, whichever you pleased,' said Townsend, ' if you had
appealed to Archers fasting ; but Archers feasting are quite
other animals. Even Caesar himself, after breakfast, 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 general, 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 my 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.
' What nonsense,' and the orator paused for a synonymous
expression, but none was at hand. 'What nonsense and
nonsense is here ! Why, don't you remember that dinner-
time, and 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 don't understand it. I'd rather be flogged
at once, as I have 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 ! '
Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to
deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the argu-
z 337
THE BARRING OUT
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 * Don't address yourself to me,' interrupted Archer,
struggling with his pride ; ' you have no further occasion to try
to win me. I have no power, no party, you see ! And now I
find that I have no friends, I don't care what becomes of my-
self. I suppose I'm to be given up as a ringleader. 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 on
Archer's countenance. ' Silence ! ' cried Archer, in an im-
perious 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. ' There ! ' cried he, looking at De Grey with
triumph ; ' that's a method of holding secret correspondence,
whilst a prisoner, which I learned from "Richard Cceur de Lion."
I know how to make use of everything. Hallo ! 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 our 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, for Heaven's sake!' said the voice from without; 'the
gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught.
He mounted guard ail yesterday at the ventilator ; and though
I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could
not get near you. I don'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. 3
* There's my own cousin ! ' exclaimed Archer, ' there's a
338
THE BARRING OUT
noble fellow ! there's my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the
bag, then.' Several times the bag descended and ascended ;
and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were
heard. ' I have no more ! ' at length the boy with the tailor's
bag cried. * Off with you, then ; we've enough, and 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 acknowledged master
of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in ad-
versity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends,
pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-
natured and more thoughtful air. 'Friend,' said he, 'you
look like a great philosopher, and Archer 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 were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out
of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.' * Laugh,
and welcome. I'm not a tyrant. I don't want to restrain
anybody's wit ; but I cannot say I admire puns.' ' Nor I,
either,' said the time-serving Fisher, sidling up to the manager,
and picking the ice off a piece of plum-cake, * nor I either ; I
hate puns. I can never understand Townsend's puns. Be-
sides, 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 consequence. 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 provisions 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. The doctor
will surely give up to us ; for, you see, he knows nothing of
all this, and he'll 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 case, he'd be hanged
for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a Barring
Out, you know.'
339
THE BARRING OUT
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 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 near 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 amongst 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 sentiment to the
chief of the Greybeards? In the middle of his own party
too I ' l Party ! ' 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 ! ' exclaimed Archer.
'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'll
give up to do what is honourable] said Archer. ' W T hy not to
do what is reasonable?* said De Grey. ' Reasonable ! Oh,
the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is
honourable} ' But how will he find out what is honourable,
unless he can reason ? ' replied De Grey. ' Oh,' said Archer,
'his own feelings always tell him what is honourable.' 'Have
not your feelitigsj asked De Grey, ' changed within these few
hours ? ' * Yes, with circumstances,' replied Archer ; ' but, right
or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do so and so,
I'm satisfied.' ' But you cannot think anything honourable,
or the contrary',' observed De Grey, ' 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, acknow-
340
THE BARRING OUT
ledge,' 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,' said Archer. '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,'
replied Archer ; ' but I should never have thought of heading
a Barring Out, if he had not shown partiality ; and if you 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 slily 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 suspected ? ' ' I do assure you, upon my
honour, I never, indirectly, spoke to Dr. Middleton about the
playhouse.' ' Then,' said Archer, * I'm as glad as if I had found
a thousand pounds ! Now you are my friend indeed.' ' And
Dr. Middleton why should you suspect him without 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,' replied De Grey ; '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 I ! 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, whilst 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 up, and the first feeling of the fresh air
was delightful. The green playground opened before them,
and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the counte-
nances of these voluntary prisoners.
341
THE BARRING OUT
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, waiting for their doom.
' Ah ! ' 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 you have
done wrong ? ' 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 punish-
ments your vengeance ought to fall on me alone ! '
' Sir,' said Dr. Middleton, calmly, I perceive that what-
ever 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 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 to the
windows. ' Yes, I see that you have broken my windows ;
that is a small evil.' ' Oh, 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 con-
duct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to
govern and conduct yourselves. 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 the 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 superior to yours. Your parents at least think so, or they
342
THE BARRING OUT
would not have entrusted me with the care of your education.
As long as they do entrust you to my care, and as long as I
have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment,
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 cheer-
fully submit to it.' * Name it yourself,' said Dr. Middleton,
' and show me that you now understand the nature of punish-
ment.'
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, however, 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 playground, 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 opportunity of recovering
my confidence by your punctuality.'
' Oh, 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 ;
4 for it is my first wish to make you all happy. You do not
know the pain that it has cost me to deprive you of food 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
343
THE BARRING OUT
to the doctor, proud to show that they were not reduced to
obedience merely by necessity.
1 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 reason to 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?
1 The old woman,' continued the doctor, ' whom you
employed to buy food has escaped the fever, but she has not
escaped a gaol, whither she was sent yesterday, for having
defrauded you of your money.
* Mr. Fisher,' said Dr. Middleton, l 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 not 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 private use, and gave it to the gipsy
to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for
the tinder-box and 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 exercises.
* 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. \Yhen
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 distinctly, declared De Grey's
344
He sneaked out, -whimpering in a doleful voice.
THE BARRING OUT
innocence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest
faces with benevolent approbation. ' Archer,' said he, taking
him by the hand, ' I am heartily glad to see that you have got
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
never 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 ? '
346
THE BRACELETS
IN a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars,
a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and
steady temper peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, 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-conduct. 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
emulation 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 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 prize were Cecilia and
Leonora. Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora ;
but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.
Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition,
more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her
wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate
character ; not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when
.^7
THE BRACELETS
once excited. Leonora was proud ; Cecilia 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 her companions loved, but many were led by, Cecilia,
for she was often successful. Many loved Leonora, but none
were ever 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
placed in a circle in the middle of the hall. Seats for the
young competitors were raised one above another, in a semi-
circle, some yards distant from the table, and the judges' chairs,
under canopies of lilacs and laburnums, forming another semi-
circle, closed the amphitheatre.
Every one put their writings, their drawings, their works of
various 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 ; and the heart
which 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. Villars
came forward, smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia
was behind her companions, on the highest row. All the others
gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant. Mrs.
Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm ; the clasp was heard
through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation
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, command
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 little companions crowded round her, and they all left
the hall in an instant. She was full of spirits and vanity. She
348
THE BRACELETS
ran on. Running down the flight of steps which led to the
garden, in her violent haste Cecilia threw down the little
Louisa, who had a china mandarin in her hand, which her
mother had sent her that very morning, and which was all
broken to pieces by her fall.
1 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 the
mandarin. The head, which she placed in the socket, fell from
the shoulders, and rolled, bounding along the gravel walk.
Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst into
laughter. 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 reproachfully
at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with
shame and half with vexation. ' I could not help it, Leonora,'
said she. ' But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia.' ' I
didn'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
wouldn't, because Louisa is your favourite. I can buy her
another mandarin when the old peddler comes to the door, if
that's all. I can do no more, can I ? ' said she, again turning
round to her companions. ' 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
Leonora 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
play.
How many games did these juvenile playmates begin and
leave off, before Cecilia could be satisfied with any ! Her
thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon
349
THE BRACELETS
something else. No wonder, then, 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, dissatisfied 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
embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they,
yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers
better ; for she was discomposed.
Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met
Leonora, but passed on. ' Cecilia ! ' cried Leonora. ' Well,
what do you want with me ? ' ' Are we friends ? J ' You know
best,' said Cecilia. ' 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 ? O Cecilia ! I had a better
opinion of you.' ' Your opinion is of no consequence to me
now, for you don't love me.' * No ; not when you are unjust,
Cecilia.' ' Unjust ! I am not unjust ; and if I were, you are not
my governess.' ' No, but am not I your friend ? ' 'I don'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 another ; was that unjust ? '
* But you know, Cecilia ' * I know? ironically. ' I know,
Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you love me; that's
the injustice ! ' ' If I did,' replied Leonora, gravely, ' it would
be no injustice, if she deserved it better.' c 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
companions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass.
Leonora declined dancing ; but they prevailed upon her to sing
for them. Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter
than usual. Who sang so sweetly as Leonora ? or who danced
35
THE BRACELETS
so nimbly as Louisa ? Away she was flying, all spirits and
gaiety, when Leonora's eyes, full of tears, caught hers. Louisa
silently let go her companion's hand, and quitting the dance,
ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her.
'Nothing, 3 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 the freshest 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 ; because 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 aK
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 not I call you
child ? ' ' Because because I don'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 which you learnt of my
friend Leonora, as you call her ; but she is not my friend now.'
' Not your friend now ! exclaimed Louisa ; * then I am sure
you must have done something very naughty. 5 ' How ? ' cried
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 don't like you at all ! ' ' You don't, don't you ? ' cried
Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung
the strawberries over the hedge.
' Will nobody help me ? ' exclaimed Louisa, snatching her
hat again, and running away with all her force.
351
' Hoiu ? ' cried Cecilia, catching hold of her.
THE BRACELETS
' 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, who were
still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora,
sitting in the middle, was singing to them.
* Stop ! stop ! and hear me ! ' 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 don'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 ! Cecilia, who won the prize ! 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 ! ' said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed. * Oh,
Cecilia ! who would have thought that you had a bad heart ? J
Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.
' Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart ! ' cried Louisa,
running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck.
' She's very sorry ; are not you, Cecilia ? But don'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!' said
Cecilia, kissing her. ' Well, then, if you do, come along with
, and dry your eyes, for they are so red ! ' ' Go, my dear,
d I'll come presently.' 'Then I will keep a place for you,
2 A 353
v^v.
Ill'
THE BRACELETS
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 ! So don'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 ! '
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 gaiety of her
heart, she had called her throne.
At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity
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 /.?' 'Cecilia.' 'Why, what keeps you here,
my dear ? Where are your companions ? This is, perhaps,
one of the happiest days of your life.' ' Oh 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 don'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,
madam, 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,' said Mrs. Villars. ' You well 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 yourself,
Cecilia ? You are better able to judge than I am. I can
determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to
learn ; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and
354
THE BRACELETS
avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that I like you as
a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a com-
panion, 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 don't, madam ! for then you would not love me
either. 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 don't doubt but that you would be very
good-natured to me ; but I'm afraid that I should not like you
unless you were good-tempered too.' ' But, madam, 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 perfectly 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 which 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 success ;
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 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
aused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties.
Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits ; and when
fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with
355
THE BRACELETS
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 there, 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 ! why, what put that into your head ? ' ' Leonora said
that I had, madam, and I felt ashamed when 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, madam ; 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 any good but for their own ends.'
'Then the best definition,' said Mrs. Villars, 'which you
can give me of a bad heart is, that it is some constant pro-
pensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing
wrong.' ' Yes, madam ; but that is not all either. 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.'
' Well, then, to begin with what you do 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 even-
ing, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa's
strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for
afterwards ; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had
a bad heart but I am sure I was only in a passion.'
' 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.
356
THE BRACELETS
If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathise
with you. They do not perceive the motive which actuates
you ; and then they say that you have a bad heart. I daresay,
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 sorry 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 began with doing from sudden
impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice ; and
then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a
bad heart.' ' Oh, madam ! I hope I am sure I never shall. 5
' No, indeed, Cecilia ; I do, indeed, believe that you never 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 upstairs to bed. She could not go to sleep ; but
she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day,
and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time con-
sidering 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.
r 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,
357
THE BRACELETS
the first of the ensuing month (the ist of June), to the most
amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her com-
panions 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 plaiting
them ? was now the question. Caroline begged that she
might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia,
however, was equally sure that she could do it much better ;
and a dispute would have inevitably ensued, if Cecilia, re-
collecting 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 plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline,
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 ; ' don't you perceive that
if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the
clasps a little further 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 greatest
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 com-
353
THE BRACELETS
petitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora
and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates. Their
quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different
pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation.
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 violence 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 father's precepts
inculcated, his example enforced ; and even Cecilia'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 ;
359
THE BRACELETS
yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered tc
believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.
Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by hei
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. Compliance 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. 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 feeling
particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past
conduct or general character. It exceeds the merits 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 most
flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most
agreeable feeling to our 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 voluntarily, 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 was to signify her choice by
putting a red or a white shell into 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.
Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of
360
THE BRACELETS
honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to
their final determination.
They were both sitting together in Louisa's room. Louisa
was recovering from the measles. Every one during her illness
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 assiduous 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 contrary, often made too
much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was
too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for
Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of
enjoying them.
As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting
herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler
who often used to come to the house. Downstairs, they 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 hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box,
and taking it off his shoulders.
* What would you be pleased to want, miss ? ' said the
peddler ; * 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 peddler took out of his greatcoat pocket
a neat mahogany 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
361
THE BRACELETS
figure, miss, which I am going to carry to an elderly lady, who
lives nigh hand, and who is miglity 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 a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying
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 didn't promise it she
never saw it ; and if so be that you'd like to take it, I'd make
no more words about it.' ' And how much does it cost ? '
'Why, miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half-a-guinea.'
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 peddler, 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 remainder 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-begging,' added he.
Then, putting the Flora deliberately into the case, and turning
the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket ; when,
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 peddler's harangue.
' Louisa would so like this Flora,' said she, arguing with her-
self. ' 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.
362
Oh, stay one minute ! said Cecilia.
THE BRACELETS
Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even
so good as hers was. The gilding 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.'
Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to
decide : ' Oh, but stop,' said she to herself, * consider Leonora
gave me this box, and it is a keepsake. However, we have
now quarrelled, and I daresay 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. Then 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 moment, so critical for Cecilia, a party of her com-
panions opened the door. She knew that they came as
purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora's becoming the prize of
some higher bidder. ' Here,' said she, hastily putting the box
into the peddler'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.
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 ill obtained.
In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display
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 upstairs to
her room.
In the meantime, Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a
bodkin ; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, the
peddler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the very
box which Cecilia had sold to him. Leonora did not in the
364
THE BRACELETS
least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion ; 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 peddler 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 softly down by her bedside.
Louisa opened her eyes.
' I hope I didn't disturb you,' said Leonora. ' Oh no ; I
didn't hear you come in ; but what have you got there ? ' 'It
is 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. ' Goodness ! ' exclaimed Louisa,
' this must be Cecilia's box. Look, don'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 peddler.' ' That may be,' said
Louisa ; ' but I remember scratching 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 ruffle, as she did not seem to listen.
Leonora, indeed, did not hear, for she was lost in thought.
She was comparing circumstances Avhich 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 peddler ap-
peared unwilling to part with the box, and was going to put it
again in his pocket with the halfpence. ' And why should he
keep it in his pocket, and not show it with his other things ?' Com-
bining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt
of the truth, for though she had an 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.
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' If you love me, Louisa,' said Leonora, ' say nothing about
the box.' ' Nay, but why hot ? I daresay she had lost it.'
4 No, my dear, I'm afraid she has not.' Louisa looked sur-
prised. ' But I have reasons for desiring you not to say any-
thing 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 mantelpiece, opposite to Louisa's bed.
c 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 my
sake. 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,' replied Louisa, ' 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, as
your keepsake, I'll keep it as long as I live.'
Louisa stopped short and coloured ; the word keepsake re-
called 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 doubtfully, ' 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 neither
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 kissing her ; ' but I'll
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 Leonora gave me ?
366
THE BRACELETS
and I have concealed it too, and have been making a parade of
my generosity. Oh ! what would Leonora, 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 that 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 circum-
stance had once happened to him, and that he had not only
escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory, by an intrepid con-
fession of his fault. Her father's word to her brother, on the
occasion, she also perfectly recollected.
' Come to me, George, 3 he said, holding out his hand, ' 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 her-
self, 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 yesterday, 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
opposite 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 that which I suspect, she would not, she
could not, look as she does.' But Leonora little knew the
cause of her gaiety. Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or
better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon
a sacrifice or a confession.
36?
THE BRACELETS
* Must not this evening be given to the most amiable I
Whose, then, will it be ? ' All eyes glanced first at Cecilia,
and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled ; Leonora blushed. ' 1
see that it is not yet decided,' said Mrs. Villars ; and immedi-
ately they ran upstairs, amidst confused whisperings.
Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest.
' How can she be so happy ! ' said Leonora to herself. ' O
Cecilia, there was a time when you could not have neglected
me so ! when we were always together the best of friends and
companions ; our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same !
Surely she did once love me,' said Leonora ; ' 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 bracelet 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 this 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 all were making such a noise about. Have you
forgot that the bracelet ' Oh yes ! is this the evening ? '
inquired Leonora. 'Well, here's my white shell for you,' said
Louisa. * I've 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 particularly
anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves
368
THE BRACELETS
it.' ' Yes, if I could I would choose both of you,' said Louisa,
'but you know I can only choose which I like the best.' ' If
you mean, my dear Louisa,' said Leonora, ' that you like me
the best, I am very much obliged to you, for, indeed, I 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 hearing it in
public, or in having it made known to all my companions,
especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great
deal of pain.' 'But why should it give her pain? 'asked
Louisa ; ' I don'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'm
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
am 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,' said Leonora ;
' and as for the prize, you know whom I wish to have it.'
'Leonora! Leonora!' called her impatient companions;
' don't you hear us ? What are you about ? ' ' 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.' ' Remember, then, that you
have promised me,' said Leonora, and she left the room.
During all this time, Cecilia had been in the garden with
her companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the
first prize the prize of superior talents and superior application
2 B 360,
THE BRACELETS
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, Cecilia had been dragging
branches of lilacs and laburnums, roses and sweet brier, 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 joined 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 imme-
diately, as we have seen, they ran to call her.
Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent
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
all 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 forgotten. What what shall I do ? '
said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.
Such was Cecilia's situation when Leonora, accompanied by
her companions, opened the hall door. They most of them
ran forwards to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, she
held out her hand to Cecilia. ' We are not rivals, but friends,
I hope, 5 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/
37
THE BRACELETS
There was a dead silence. ' No, they are not,' exclaimed
Cecilia, pressing forward, and putting a shell into a vase. ' I
have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora.' Then, snatch-
ing the bracelet, ' It is yours, Leonora,' said she ; ' take it, and
give me back your friendship.' The whole assembly gave one
universal clap and a general 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 ? '
'O Leonora, stop! don't praise me; I don't deserve this,'
said she, turning to her loudly-applauding companions. ' You
will soon despise me. O 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 to you. You have forgotten Louisa.'
' Louisa ! ' exclaimed Cecilia ; ' 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. Leonora
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 Leonora
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 counte-
nance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me
what it was.
' " Why, madam," said she, " Leonora has made me promise
to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I don't love Cecilia half so
371
THE BRACELETS
well as I do Leonora. Besides, I would not have Cecilia
think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora/' Whilst
Louisa was speaking,' continued Mrs. Villars, ' 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 me, and she said that she bought it of the
peddler this morning. If anybody else had told me so, I
could not have believed them, because I remember the box so
well ; but I can't help believing Leonora." " But did not you
ask Cecilia about it ? " said I. " No, madam," replied Louisa ;
"for Leonora forbade me." 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, indeed,
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 don'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 com-
panions.' l Then, surely, not your best friend,' said Leonora,
kissing her.
Everybody present was moved. They looked up to Leonora
with respectful and affectionate admiration.
1 Oh, Leonora, how I love you ! and how I wish to be like
you ! ' exclaimed Cecilia ' to be as good, as generous ! '
' Rather wish, Cecilia,' interrupted Mrs. Villars, ' to be as
just ; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent.
Remember, that many of our sex are capable of 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. 3
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THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
CHAPTER I
Chi di gallina nasce, 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 their numerous
employments are exactly described in the following ' Extract
from a Traveller's Journal.' *
'The children are busied in various ways. A great
number 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, particularly in the spring season, is
drunk in great abundance. Others again endeavour to turn a
few pence by buying a small matter of fruit, of pressed honey,
1 Varieties of Literature, vol. i. p. 299.
373
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
cakes, and comfits, and then, like little peddlers, 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 curious to see how an urchin, whose whole
stock and property consist 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
tradesmen act 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 amongst 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 last detected and disgraced.
Numerous instances of the truth of this common observation
were remarked by many Neapolitan children, especially by
those who were acquainted with the characters and history of
Piedro and Francisco, two boys originally equal in birth,
fortune, and capacity, but different in their education, and
consequently in their habits and conduct. Francisco 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 his 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 parents, was
scrupulously honest, and therefore all his companions trusted
him 'As honest as Francisco,' became a sort of proverb
amongst 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. 3 With the idea of making his son sharp he
made him cunning. He taught him, that to make a good
374
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
bargain 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 j the seller has need
but of one.' l And he took frequent opportunities of explain-
ing the meaning of this maxim to his son. He was a fisher-
man ; 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 gardener.
' 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 whilst 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 fort-
night but I have caught him amongst my grapes. I track his
footsteps all over my vineyard.' * He is but a child yet, and
knows no better,' replied the fisherman. ' But if you don't
teach him better now he is a child, how will he know when he
is a man ? ' said the gardener. ' A mighty noise about a bunch
of grapes, truly ! ' 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, neighbour, if you don't look after him in time.'
' He'll do well enough in the world, you will find,' answered
the fisherman, carelessly. ' Whenever he casts my nets, they
never come up empty. " It is better to be lucky than wise." ' 2
1 Chi compra ha bisogna di cent' occhi ; chi vende n' ha assai di uno.
2 E meglio esser fortunate che savio.
375
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 conversation with the gardener ;
how old are you, my boy ? twelve years old, is not it ? ;
' As old as Francisco, and older by six months,' said Piedro.
' And smarter and more knowing by six years,' said his father.
' Here, take these fish to Naples, and let us see how you'll sell
them for me. Venture a small fish, as the proverb says, to
catch a great one. 1 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. 3
* 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 the 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 a melon, if he had not, as you say, father, been
told of it ? J
' Off with you to market. You are a droll chap,' said his
father, ' and will sell my fish cleverly, I'll be bound. As to
the rest, let every man take care of his own grapes. You
understand me, Piedro ? '
' Perfectly, 5 said the boy, who perceived that his father was
indifferent as to his honesty, provided he sold fish at the
highest price possible. He proceeded 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 positively 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 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.
1 Butta una sardella per pigliar un luccio.
376
7; '
/ saw him the other day miss selling a melon for his father by turning the
bruised side to the customer. '
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
' 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 commodity. Piedro
received nearly half as much again for his fish as he ought to
have done.
On his road homewards from Naples to the 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, etc. 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 Piedro, as he overtook
Francisco and the ass. The panniers were indeed not 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, 3 said Francisco. 'The poor fellow, however, shall have
a little of this water,' added he, leading the ass to a pool by
the roadside.
' I was not thinking of the ass, boy ; 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,' said
Piedro, ' without slaving myself after your fashion. Look here,'
producing the money he had received for the fish ; ' all this
was had for asking. It is no bad thing, you'll allow, to know
how to ask for money properly. 5
' I should be ashamed to beg, or borrow either,' said Fran-
cisco.
' Neither did I get what you see by begging, or borrowing
either,' said Piedro, ' but by using my wits ; not as you did
378
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
yesterday, when, like a novice, you showed the bruised side of
your melon, and so spoiled your market by your wisdom.'
' Wisdom I think it still, 5 said Francisco.
' And your father ? ' asked Piedro.
' And my father,' said Francisco.
' Mine is of a different way of thinking, 3 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, Francisco, and
that I'm in a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as I have
begun.'
' Stay, 3 said Francisco ; ' you forgot that the booby you
took in to-day will not be so easily taken in to-morrow. He
will buy no more fish from you, because he 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'll have lost a customer, and I gained one. 3
' With all my heart, 3 said Piedro. ' One customer does not
make a market ; if he buys no more from me, what care I ?
there are people enough to buy fish in Naples.'
1 And do you mean to serve them all in the same manner ? '
asked Francisco.
' If they will be only so good as to give me leave,' said
Piedro, laughing, and repeating his father's proverb, ' " Venture
a small fish to catch a large one." ' l He had learned to think
that to cheat in making bargains was witty and clever.
'And you have never considered, then, 3 said Francisco,
' 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 the summer, if I
lose a customer a day, 3 said Piedro.
'And next summer, 3 observed Francisco, 'what will you
do?'
' Next summer is not come yet ; there is time enough to
1 See antea.
379
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 but that of a fisherman ? In
Naples, 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 were cheated, and would like it
as little as the men.'
' I don't doubt them. Then in time I could, you know,
change my trade sell chips and sticks in the wood-market
hand about the lemonade to the fine folks, or twenty other
things. There are trades enough, boy.'
' Yes, for the honest dealer,' said Francisco, ' but for no
other ; for in all of them you'll find, as my father says, that a good
character is the best fortune to set up with. Change your trade
ever so often, you'll 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 this 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, ac 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 amongst 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 whatever he wanted.
His industry was constant, his gains small but certain, and he
eveiy day had more and more reason to trust to his father's
maxim That honesty is the best policy.
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
The foreign servant lad, to whom Francisco had so honestly,
or, as Piedro said, so sillily, shown the bruised side of the
melon, was an Englishman. He left his native country, of
which he was extremely fond, to attend upon his master, to
whom he was still more attached. His master was in a de-
clining state of health, and this young lad waited on him a little
more to his mind than his other servants. We must, in con-
sideration of his zeal, fidelity, and inexperience, 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 Piedro out to them all
as an arrant knave. They heard his cry of ' Fresh fish ! fresh
fish ! fine fresh fish ! ' with incredulous smiles, and let him pass,
but not without some expressions of contempt, though uttered
in English, he tolerably well understood ; for the tone of con-
tempt is sufficiently expressive in all languages. He lost more
by not selling his fish to these people than he had 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 Piedro, 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 'em your-
self, 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,' repeated Piedro ; ' they
are fresh to-day. I am sure he need not have been afraid.'
' Ay,' said Francisco ; * but as my father said to you once
the scalded dog fears cold water.' *
Here their conversation was interrupted by the same English
lad, who smiled as he came up to Francisco, and taking up a
fine pine-apple, he said, in a mixture of bad Italian and English
' I need not look at the other side of this ; you will tell me
1 II cane scottato dell' acqua calda ha paura poi della fredda.
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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.'
'Is he not well?' inquired Francisco. 'We must, then,
pick out the best for him,' at the same time 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 English-
man, by your way of dealing. I'll come to your village. Only
write me down the name ; for your Italian names slip through
my head. I'll come to the 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 !), with my master's leave, which he never refuses me to
anything that's proper, I'll 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, indeed I do,' concluded the Englishman, looking full
at Piedro, who took up his unsold basket of fish, looking some-
what silly, and gloomily walked off.
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 English-
man of distinction, was invited to take up his residence, 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, whilst 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
382
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
full of business this season. It is fair you 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
make a fine figure amongst the little Neapolitan merchants ;
and all I wish is that 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 should not be worthy to be
called your son.'
Piedro the cunning did not make quite so successful a
summer's work as did Francisco the honest. No extraordinary
events happened, no singular instance of bad or good luck
occurred ; but he felt, as persons usually do, the natural con-
sequences of his own actions. He pursued his scheme of im-
posing, 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 outwit one person, but impossible to outwit all
the world,' said a man 1 who knew the world at least as well
as either Piedro or his father.
Piedro's father, amongst others, had reason to complain.
He saw his own customers fall off from him, and was told,
whenever 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 the market in a very bad humour, in conse-
quence of these reproaches, and of his not having found
customers for his goods, he espied his smart son Piedro at a
little merchant's fruit-board, devouring a fine gourd with pro-
digious greediness. 'Where, glutton, do you find money to
pay for these dainties ? ' exclaimed his father, coming close up
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.
1 The Due de Rochefoucault. ' On peut etre plus fin qu'un autre,
niais pas plus fin que tous les autres. '
383
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
' The money, father,' said Piedro, ' 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'll 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. 5
Saying 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.'
Indeed, it was scarcely reasonable to expect that a boy who
had been educated to think that he might cheat every customer
he could in the way of trade, should be afterwards scrupulously
honest in his conduct towards the father whose proverbs en-
couraged 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 : ' 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 credit, or even trade
with him for ready money. ' If you would cheat your own
father, to be sure you will cheat us,' was continually said to him
by these prudent little people.
Piedro was taunted and treated with contempt at home and
abroad. His father, when he found that his son's smartness
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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. 3
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 great
rogue 1 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 thousand by it.
Something like this was the sentiment of our cunning hero
when he experienced the evils of a bad reputation, and when
he saw the numerous advantages which Francisco's good
character procured. Such had been Piedro's wretched educa-
tion, 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 morning, as he sat alone disconsolate by the sea-
shore, dressed in tattered garments, weak and hungry, with an
empty basket 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
arms 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 com-
passion, 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.
1 Chartres.
2C 385
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
' Eat them ; you'll find ^them very good, I hope/ said
Francisco, with a benevolent 'smile.
4 They are excellent most excellent, and I am much
obliged to you, Francisco,' said Piedro. I was very hungry,
and that's what I 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 acknowledges
it, will scarcely be in fault again." Yes, take as many figs as
you will,' continued he ; and held his basket closer to Piedro,
who, as he saw, cast a hungry eye upon one of the ripe figs.
1 But,' said Piedro, after he had taken several, f 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 indigna-
tion.
* Well, don'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 than anybody,' replied Piedro, in an
insinuating tone, ' /, that am so much obliged to you ! '
' A bunch of grapes and a few figs are no mighty obligation, 5
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 children 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 amongst 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 fruits into two equal divisions.
' To be sure I would rather you would be than seem a friend to
me ; but I thought that was too much to ask at first, though I
386
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 Francisco, drawing back alarmed ;
' I had no thoughts of that.'
' But won't you ? can't you ? ' said Piedro, in a supplicating
tone ; * carit 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, and that is
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 present ;
but I will do what, perhaps, you will like as well,' 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.
1 I'll go on before you, and speak to those I am acquainted
with, and tell them you 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 Francisco,' cried
Piedro, seizing his plentiful gift of fruit. ' Say what you please
for me.'
' But don't make me say anything that is not true,' said
Francisco, pausing.
' No, to be sure not,' said Piedro ; ' I do mean to give no
room for scandal. If 1 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
vou now, or I shall be too late for the market. 3
387
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
CHAPTER II
Chi ua piano va sano, e ancht iontano,
Fair and softly goes far in a day.
PlEDRO had now an opportunity of establishing 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 con-
sequence of Francisco's benevolent representations. He told
them that he thought Piedro had suffered enough to cure
him of his tricks, and that it would be cruelty in them, because
he might once have been in fault, to banish him by their
reproaches from amongst them, and thus to prevent him from
the means of gaining his livelihood 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 the money that he got
for them he the next day purchased from a fruit-dealer a fresh
supply ; and thus he went on for some time, conducting him-
self with scrupulous honesty, so that he acquired some credit
among his companions. 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 Piedro ; but in proportion to his credit,
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 himself. c What signifies my good character,
if I make so little by it ? '
Light gains, and frequent, make a heavy purse, 1 was one
1 Poco e spesso erapie il 1" orsetto.
388
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 community 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 of what appeared to these little
merchants a stock of almonds and sugar-plums, and he painted
in capital gold coloured letters upon his board, ' 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 sugar-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 that the sugar -plums were, as the
advertisement set forth, the largest, sweetest, most admirable
ever sold in Naples ; though all the time they were, in no
respect, better than any other sugar-plums.
It was generally reported that Piedro gave full measure
fuller than 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 popularity, continued longer even
than he had expected ; and, as he thought his sugar-plums had
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'm in haste to taste them, two measures of the
389
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
sweetest, largest, most admirable sugar-plums in Naples one
measure for myself, and one for my little Rosetta.'
' You'll 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's 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 Piedro.
' Then why are they in your advertisement here ? ' said
Carlo.
' I have not had time to scratch them out of 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 Piedro'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 could 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 character, 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, 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 yesterday, and she'll 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 very few sugar-plums for our
money.' ' I give you full measure, as I give to everybody.'
390
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
* 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 every way ; and yet
by my eye and I have no bad one, being used to measuring
carpenter's work for my father by my eye, I should think
this would have held more sugar-plums.' 'The eye often
deceives us,' 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, Signor 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 lifting 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 love sugar-plums. A discovery ! a discovery !
that concerns all who have ever bought the sweetest, largest,
and most admirable sugar-plums ever sold in Naples.'
The crowd gathered from all parts of the square as he
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 promises 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 bottom 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
bargain," says the proverb.'
' So we have been finely duped, indeed,' cried some of the
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
bystanders, looking at one another with a mortified air. Full
of courtesy, full of craft ! l '* So this is the meaning of his
burnt almonds gratis,' cried others ; all joined in an uproar of
indignation, except one, who, as he stood behind the rest,
expressed in his countenance silent surprise and sorrow.
Ms this Piedro a relation of yours? 5 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 reason 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 have gone to him, and to have told him
that I was willing to do for him what he has long begged of
me to do to enter into partnership with him.'
' Francisco ! Francisco ! your measure, lend us your measure ! '
exclaimed a number of little merchants crowding round him.
' You have a measure for sugar-plums ; and we have all agreed
to refer to that, and to see how much we have been cheated
before we go to break Piedro's bench and declare him bank-
rupt, 2 the punishment for all knaves.'
They pressed on to Francisco's board, obtained his measure,
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 the unjust measures upon high poles ; and, forming
themselves into a formidable phalanx, they proceeded towards
Piedro's well-known yellow-lettered board, exclaiming, as they
went along, * Common cause ! common cause ! The little
Neapolitan merchants will have noknaves amongst them ! Break
his bench ! break his bench ! He is a bankrupt in honesty.'
1 Chi te fa piu carezza che non vuole,
O ingannato t' ha, o ingannar te vuole.
2 This word comes from two Italian words, banco ratio broken bencL.
Bankers and merchants used formerly to count their money and write their
bills of exchange upon benches in the streets ; and when a merchant 01
banker lost his credit, and was unable to pay his debts, his bench was
broken.
392
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 also upon his
treacherous painted board. It was, after being much disfigured
by various inscriptions expressive of the universal contempt
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 would 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 terror 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 possibly 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 considerably out of his way, he
set out immediately to restore the rule, which was a very hand-
some 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 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 carpenter's
work for him. ' One should not praise one's self, they say,'
continued Carlo ; ' but I long so much to gain your good opinion,
that I must tell you the whole history of the rule you have
restored. It was given to me for having measured the work
and made up the bill of a whole pleasure-boat myself. You
393
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
may guess I should have been sorry enough to have lost 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'll 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, 3 said Francisco ; ' since you are so good-natured,
perhaps you'd 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.'
' Trigonometry ! ' repeated Francisco, not a little alarmed
at the 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 co-sines,
and arcs and centres, and complements and tangents.'
' Oh, mercy ! mercy ! ' interrupted Francisco, whilst Carlo
laughed, with a benevolent sense of superiority.
'Why,' said Carlo, 'you'll find all these things are nothing
when you are used to them. But I cannot explain my rule to
you here broiling in the sun. Besides, it will not be the work
of a day, I promise you ; but come and see us at your leisure
hours, and we'll study it together. I have a great notion we
shall become friends ; and, to begin, step in with me now,'
said Carlo, ' and eat a little macaroni with us. I know it is
ready by this time. Besides, you'll see my father, and he'll
show you plenty of rules and compasses, as you like such
things ; and then I'll 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 Francisco
became very good friends, spent all their leisure hours together,
either in Carlo's workshop or in Francisco's vineyard, and
they mutually improved each other. Francisco, before he saw
394
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 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
compasses, 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, that no knowledge comes
amiss ; for a man's head is of as much use to him as his hands ;
and even more so.
' 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. No
one gets into mischief that has pleasant things to think of and
to do when alone ; and I know, for my part, that trigonometry
is '
Here the carpenter, just as he was going to pronounce a
fresh panegyric upon his favourite trigonometry, was interrupted
by the sudden entrance of his little daughter Rosetta, all in
tears : a very unusual spectacle, for, taking the year round,
she 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 brother 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 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 the tears ? ' said hei
brother, looking at a heap of shells which she held before her
in her frock.
395
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
'Yes, partly,' said Rosetta. ' It was partly my own fault,
but not all. You know 1 went out to the carpenters' yard,
near the arsenal, where all the children 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.
As soon as I had filled my basket, and made up my faggot
(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 faggot) I say, when it was all ready,
and my basket full, 1 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 whilst I was away. I only just ran to
tell a boy, who had picked up all 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 shells.'
' Your heart was set mightily on these shells, Rosetta.'
' Yes ; for I thought you and Francisco, brother, 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 whilst 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 evening 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. 5
' But how happened it that you did not sell your wood ? '
* Oh, I forgot ; did not 1 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'll go this minute into the wood-market, and see if I can
find your faggot. Won't that be better than crying ? ' said
her brother. ' Should you know any one of your pieces oi
wood again if you were to see them ? '
396
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
1 Yes, one of them, 1 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 this piece of wood from which the carpenter 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.'
Carlo and his friend 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 faggots
to show them to her, and exclaimed, ' that they were incapable
of taking what did not belong to them ; that of all persons they
should never have thought of taking anything 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 faggot, and of the
bit of wood, notched at one end, of which Rosetta drew the
shape with a piece of chalk which her brother had 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 ! this 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 ! 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 had desired him to stop.
The case was easily explained, and the baker told them
397
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
that he did not buy any wood in the little market that morn-
ing ; that this faggot he had purchased between the hours ol
twelve and one from a lad 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 was here. I bid him call again in an hour, and I fancy he
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 ? ' l He is the boy, though,' replied the
baker, and Piedro, who now entered the shop, started at the
sight of Carlo and Francisco, whom he had never seen since
the day of disgrace in the fruit-market.
1 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 Rosetta.
Piedro being very certain that nobody saw him when he
emptied Rosetta's basket, and imagining that he was sus-
pected 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
culprit 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 attention,
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. On 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 present trial.
398
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
Arthur could not, especially as he spoke wretched Italian,
make the eager little merchants understand the nature and
advantages of an English trial by jury. They preferred their
own summary mode of proceeding. Francisco, in whose in-
tegrity all had perfect confidence, was chosen with unanimous
shouts for the judge ; but he declined the office, 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 ingenuity, which in a better cause
would have deserved admiration, spoke volubly and craftily in
his own defence. But all that he could say could not alter
facts. The judge compared the notched bit of wood found at
the baker's with a 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 in-
dignation of all the spectators. The prisoner was sentenced
never more to sell wood in the market ; and the moment
sentence was pronounced, Piedro was hissed and hooted out
of the market-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 cheating
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
this beverage. He then took to the waters from the sulphurous
springs, and served them about to foreigners ; but one day, as
he was trying to jostle a competitor from the 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 was 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 much more than he did his good name macaroni.
The shillings were soon gone.
We shall now for the present leave Piedro to his follies and
his fate ; or, to speak more properly, to his follies and their
inevitable consequences.
Francisco was all this time acquiring knowledge from his
399
Piedro was hissed and Jwotcd out oftlie market-place.
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
new friends, without neglecting his own or his father's business.
He contrived, during the course of 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 compasses into his hand, and taught him all he
knew himself. Francisco had great perseverance, 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 astonish-
ment : ' Why, Francisco, what an astonishing genius you
have for drawing! Absolutely you draw plans better than
my 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 done well but by patience.
Don'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, 3 said Francisco ' how much I owe to it !
Same great people, when they lose any of their fine things,
cause the crier to promise a reward" of so much money to any-
one who shall find and restore their trinket. How richly have
you and your father rewarded me for returning this rule ! '
Francisco's modesty and gratitude, as they were perfectly
sincere, attached his friends to him most powerfully ; but there
was one person who regretted our hero's frequent absences
from his vineyard at Resina. 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 apprehensions of his getting into bad
company. When his son had once said to him, * I spend my
time at such a place, and in such and such a manner,' he was
as well convinced of its being so as if he had watched and seen
2 D 401
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
him every moment of the day. But it was Arthur who com
plained of Francisco's absence.
' I see, because I am an Englishman,' said he, ' you don'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 con-
tinually leave me to dodge up and down here in Resina, with-
out a soul that I like to speak to, for you are the only Italian
I ever liked. 5
'You shall like another, 1 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 drawings with enthusiastic eagerness ;
and Arthur, though no great judge of drawing, was in astonish-
ment, 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 Naples could
see them, provided they might be liked half as well as I like
them. J
Arthur carried off the drawings, and one day, when his
master was better than usual, and when he was at leisure,
eating a dessert of Francisco's grapes, he entered respectfully,
with his little portfolio under his arm, and begged permission
to show his master a few drawings done by the gardener's son,
whose grapes he was eating.
Though not quite so partial a judge as the enthusiastic
Carlo, this gentleman 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 Arthur gave
him for strict honesty, and constant kindness to his parents,
interested Mr. Lee, the name of this English gentleman, much
in his favour. Mr. Lee was at thi? time in treaty with an
Italian painter, whom he wished to engage to copy for him
402
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
exactly some of the cornices, mouldings, tablets, and antique
ornaments which are to be seen amongst the ruins of the
ancient city of Herculaneum. 1
1 We must give those of our young English readers who may not be
acquainted with the ancient city of Herculaneum 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 craters, as they are called, but more
especially from the summit of the mountain, which is distinguished by the
name of the crater. A rumbling, and afterwards a roaring noise is heard
within, and prodigious quantities 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 eruption,
destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses and vine-
yards which are in the neighbourhood.
About 1700 years ago, during the reign of the Roman Emperor Titus,
there happened a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius ; and a large city
called Herculaneum, 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 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 underground 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. 2 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 hand. The walls of the houses
2 Philosophical Transactions, vol. ix. p. 440.
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THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
CHAPTER III
Tutte le gran faciende si f anno di poca cosa.
What great events from trivial causes spring.
SlGNOR CAMILLO, the artist employed by Mr. Lee to copy
some of the antique ornaments in Herculaneum, was a liberal-
minded man, perfectly free from that mean jealousy which
would repress the efforts of rising genius.
' Here is a lad scarcely fifteen, a poor gardener's son, who,
with merely the instructions he could obtain from a common
carpenter, has learned to draw these plans and elevations, which
you see are tolerably neat. What an advantage your instruc-
tion would be to him,' said Mr. Lee, as he introduced Francisco
to Signer Camillo. ' I am interested in 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 what-
ever you may think reasonable for his instruction.'
Signor Camillo made no difficulties ; he was pleased with
his pupil's appearance, 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 him-
self he never touched them, because he had not permission.
Signor Camillo, the first day he came into his room with his
pupil, said to him, ' Here are many valuable books and draw-
ings, young man. I trust, from the character I have heard of
you, that they will be perfectly safe here.'
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 encrusted. 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 very curious to see this subterraneous city, and are
desirous to carry with them into their own country some proofs of then
having examined this wonderful place.
404
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 ! don't you know in which book to look
for it, Francisco?' cried his master, with some 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 it 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
curiosity 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 the time is come, excellent 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 every-
thing, and the pleasure he unaffectedly expressed in seeing these
excellent prints, sufficiently convinced his judicious 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 circumstance, slight as it may
appear.
One day Signer Camillo came behind Francisco, as he was
drawing with much intentness, and tapping him upon the
shoulder, he said to him : ' Put up your pencils and follow me.
I can 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 entrance
of Herculaneum. ' I have obtained leave for you to accompany
me,' said his master, ' and you know, I suppose, that this is
405
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
not a permission granted to every one ? 3 Paintings of great
value, besides ornaments of gold and silver, antique bracelets,
rings, etc., are from time to time found amongst these ruins,
and therefore it is necessary that no person should be admitted
whose honesty cannot be depended upon. Thus, even
Francisco's talents could not have advanced him in the world,
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, day after day, he 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 tfiese 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. Lee 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, 3 continued he, emptying a
bag, which contained about as much more, in small Italian
coins, the profits of trade-money he had fairly earned during
the two years he sold fruit amongst the little Neapolitan
merchants ; * 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 the cow 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'll step to Naples
406
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
and invite may I, mother ? my good friends, dear Carlo ana
your favourite little Rosetta, and my old drawing master, and
my friend Arthur, and we'll sup with you at your dairy.'
The happy mother thanked her son, and the father assured
him that neither melon nor pine-apple should be spared, to
make a supper worthy of his friends.
The brindled cow was bought, and Arthur and Carlo and
Rosetta most joyfully accepted the 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 heats of the day, was most re-
freshingly 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
beautiful ! most delightful ! most charming ! ' Whilst 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 company,
who were all pleased with each other, and with the gardener's
good fruit, which he produced in great abundance, 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 way most willingly,' cried Francisco, 'that I may have
the pleasure of giving to your father, with my own hands, this
tine bunch of grapes, that I have reserved for him out of my
own share.' 'Add this fine pine-apple for my share, then,'
said his father, ' and a pleasant walk to you, my young friends.'
They proceeded gaily along, and when they reached Naples,
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 opportunity of showing his
friends that he did not forget their former 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 children,
407
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
who were assembled under a piazza, listening in various atti-
tudes 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 counte-
nance, 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 changes of their fortune.
This man was one of those who are called Improvisatori
persons who, in Italian towns, go about reciting verses or
telling stories, which they are supposed to invent as they go
on speaking. Some of these people speak with great fluency,
and collect crowds round them in the public streets. Wlier
an Improvisatore sees the attention of his audience fixed, and
when he comes to some very interesting part of his narrative,
he dexterously drops his hat upon the ground, and pauses till
his auditors have paid tribute to his eloquence. When he
thinks the hat sufficiently full, he takes it up again, and pro-
ceeds with his story. The hat was dropped just as Francisco
and his two friends came under the piazza. The orator had
finished one story, and was going to commence another. He
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 * Cornaro, or the
Grateful Turk.'
Francisco was deeply interested in this narrative, and when
the hat was dropped, he eagerly threw in his contribution.
At the end of the 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 whilst I was taken up with my
story. Pray, gentlemen, find my hat amongst 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.
It has my name written withinside of it, Dominicho, Impro-
visatore. Pray, gentlemen, examine your hats.'
Everybody present examined their hats, and showed them
to Dominicho, but his was not amongst them. No one had
left the company ; the piazza was cleared, and searched in
408
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
vain. ' The hat has vanished by magic.' said Dominicho.
' Yes, and by the same magic a statue moves,' cried Carlo,
pointing 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
Piedro. 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 the poor
man's hat, or whether he was, as he said, merely in jest, we
leave it to those who know his general character to decide.
Carlo shook his head. ' Still at your old tricks, Piedro,'
said he. ' Remember the old proverb : No fox so cunning
but he comes to the furrier's at last.' l
' I defy the furrier and you too, 3 replied Piedro, taking up
his own ragged hat. ' I have no need to steal hats ; 1 can
afford to buy better than you'll have upon your head. Fran-
cisco, 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, follow-
ing 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 continue to practise
them often, when the poverty which first tempted them to
dishonesty ceases. ' Impossible ! You stare when I tell you
I am 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 either. Neither do I sell
sugar-plums to children ; nor do I slave myself in a vineyard,
1 Tutte le volpi si trovano in pellicera.
409
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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, whilst 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 ? '
' That 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. 5 1
' Yes, no longer pipe, no longer dance, J 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 additional respect from Francisco.
' I would rather,' said Francisco, when he returned to Carlo
and Rosetta, who waited for him under the portico, when 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.' 2
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
1 Assai ben balla a chi fortuna suona.
2 Odi, vedi, taci, se vuoi viver in pace.
410
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
declared that they would not, for all the riches of 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 assertions. 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, Francisco's father, was one of those who
endeavoured to think the best j 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. 1
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 -market 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 supplied 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 trace of carriages that are gone,
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 fireworks. The
carriage was overturned near him ; a lady was taken out of it,
and was hurried by her attendants into a shop, where she
stayed till her carriage was set to rights. She was too much
alarmed for the first ten minutes after her accident to think of
anything ; but after some time, she perceived that she had lost
a valuable diamond cross, which she had worn that night at
the opera. She was uncertain where she had dropped it ;
1 La vita il fine, e di loda la sera.
Compute the morn and evening of their day. POPE.
4TI
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
the shop, the carriage, the street were searched for it in
vain.
Piedro saw it fall as the lady was lifted out of the carnage,
seized upon it, and carried it oft". 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 troublesome
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 the 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 the father ; ' it
is safe with me. Concern yourself no more about it. 3
Piedro was not inclined thus to relinquish his booty, and
he now thought proper to vary in 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-
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 whilst her servants
were raising the carriage, and that he would give notice of his
having found the cross.
412
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
Piedro's father saw that his smart son, though scarcely
sixteen years of age, was a match for him in villainy. He
promised him that he should have half of whatever the Jew
The Jew, it'ho ivas a -man old in all the arts of villainy, contrived to cheat both
his associates.
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
413
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
old in all the arts of villainy, contrived to cheat both his
associates, and obtained the diamond cross for less than hall
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 manceuvres.
It is said that ' Ill-gotten wealth is quickly spent ' ; l 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 familiarised 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.
CHAPTER IV
WE turn with pleasure from Piedro the Cunning to Francisco
the Honest. Francisco continued the happy and useful 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 ot
this benevolent artist. The English gentleman seemed to take
a pride in our hero's success and 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 particularly pleased whenever this generosity
was directed towards Francisco.
1 Vien presto consumato 1' ingiustamente acquistato.
414
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
As for Carlo and the little Rosetta, they were the com
panions 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 carpenter, delighted with the gratitude
of his pupil, frequently repeated * That he was proud to have
given the first instructions to such a genius j 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 underground, where he has leave to go, yet,
notwithstanding 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.' 1
These good friends seemed to make Francisco happier than
Piedro could be made by his stolen diamonds.
One morning, Francisco was sent to finish a sketch of the
front of an ancient temple, amongst the ruins of Herculaneum.
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 menaces, 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 ; whilst she grasped with one hand the handle
of the windlass, and, with the other tanned muscular arm
extended, governed the populace, bidding them remember
that she was padrona, or mistress of the well. They retired,
in hopes of finding a more gentle padrona at some other well
in the neighbourhood ; and the fury, when they were out of
sight, divided the long black hair which hung over her face,
and, turning to one 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 con-
templating her with the eye of a painter { I, that am padrona
1 I fatti sono maschii, le parole feminine.
415
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
of the well, must in times of scarcity do strict justice, and
preserve 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. 3
* Nor in any of the wells of the neighbourhood,' added one
of the workmen, who was standing by ; and he mentioned
several in which the water had lately suddenly decreased ;
and a miller 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 his
father mention in his childhood, as having been observed
previous to the last eruption of Mount Vesuvius. 1 He had
also heard from his father, in his childhood, that it is better 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 mountain 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 amidst 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 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. 2
The villagers listened with large eyes and open ears to
1 Phil. Trans, vol. ix.
2 These facts are mentioned in Sir William Hamilton's account of an
eruption of Mount Vesuvius. See Phil. Trans. 1795, first part.
4.16
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
these relations ; yet such was their habitual attachment to the
spot they lived upon, or such the security in their own good
fortune, that few of them would believe that there could be
any necessity for removing. 'We'll 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 to the house of a relation,
at some miles' distance from Vesuvius, and carried with them
all their effects.
In the meantime, Francisco went to the villa where his
English friends resided. The 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
Resina, familiarised 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 de Flora and his lady, who were
at this time in the house, ridiculed the fears of Arthur, and
could not be prevailed upon to remove 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, and they had everything
arranged for the festival. The prudent Englishman had not
the gallantry to appear to be convinced by these arguments,
and he left the 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 of this dreadful
eruption of Mount Vesuvius, published by Sir W. Hamilton in
the Philosophical Transactions. 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 de Flora, with some others, which were at
a little distance from the town, escaped ; but they were
absolutely surrounded by the lava. The count and countess
were obliged to fly from their house with the utmost pre-
2 E 417
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
cipitation 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, the 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 frequently found their houses had been
pillaged by robbers, who, in these moments of general con-
fusion, enrich themselves 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 carpenter 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 is all over with Resina ! '
' 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 don'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 ; when,
reaching the hall where the rockets and gunpowder were left,
he plunged them into 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 !
He could scarcely believe his eyes, when he saw the rockets
and the gunpowder all safe.
The count, who had given up the hopes of saving his
418
Returned in safety cn>er the lava, yet iua->-t under his feet.
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
palace, was in admiration when he heard of this instance of
intrepidity, 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 being pillaged by robbers. It
is from this moment your interest as well as mine to prevent
their depredations ; for (trust to my liberality) a portion of all
that is saved of mine shall be yours.'
' Bravo ! bravissimo ! ' exclaimed one who started from a
recessed window in the hall where all this passed. ' Bravo !
bravissimo !'' Francisco thought he knew the voice and the
countenance of this man, who exclaimed with so much en-
thusiasm. 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 misfortunes 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 their sufferings all are men
Condemn'd alike to groan ;
The feeling for another's woes,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
1 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 better dress, which I should not have thought would have
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 mis-
fortune of late. A few happy impromptu verses I made on
the Count de Flora's fall from his horse attracted attention.
420
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 amongst the populace 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. Amongst
the crowd were several to whom the name of Francisco was
well known, and by whom he was well beloved. These were
his young companions, who remembered him as a fruit-seller
amongst 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 in 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 were 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,' 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 the Count de Flora, 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 '
421
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
' 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 de Flora 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 hither
now with some of the count's domestics to protect the valuable
goods against those villainous plunderers, who robbed their
fellow-creatures of what even the flames of Vesuvius would
spare.'
' Come, we have had enough of this stuff,' cried the man
whose arm Piedro held. ' Come away,' and he hurried
forwards.
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 himself from the bad
company with whom his ill-gotten wealth connected him. He
did not consider that bad company leads to the gallows. 1
The universal confusion which followed the eruption of
Mount Vesuvius was to these villains a time of rejoicing. No
sooner did Piedro's companion hear of the rich furniture, plate,
etc., which the imprudent orator had described as belonging to
the Count de Flora's villa, than he longed to make himself
master of the whole.
' It is a pity,' said Piedro, * that the count has sent Francisco
with his servants down to guard it.' ' And who is this Fran-
cisco of whom you seem to stand in so much 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," 2 won't hold good with
him.'
1 And if he cannot be won by 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
1 La mala compagnia e quella che mena uomini a la forca.
2 Pescar col hamo d' argento.
422
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
share of the booty, of course he will consult at once his safety
and his interest. 7
' No/ said Piedro ; < that is not his nature. I know him
from a child, and we'd 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 determined upon this, and you must obey
your leader : recollect 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 hesi-
tating 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
amongst the count's servants ; and the two men who were
engaged to sit up at the villa that night along with Francisco
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 foot, whilst
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 don'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 ? J 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
423
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
could not utter. He again recollected what had been said
about poniards, and the longer his mind fixed upon the words,
and the look that accompanied them, the more he was shocked.
He could not doubt 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
thinking, 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 robbers' vengeance prevailed over every other
feeling, and he went at the appointed hour to the place of
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.
' Oh 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
pawnbroker's, 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.
424
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
He was pale and trembling, and felt a cold dew spread ovei
him. He had a leaden image of Saint 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 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, was
bargaining with a poor, thin-looking man about some gun-
powder.
' I don't deny that it has been wet,' said the man, ' but
since it was in the bucket of water, it has been carefully dried.
I tell you the simple truth, that so soon after the grand erup-
tion of Mount Vesuvius, the people of Naples will not relish
fireworks. My poor little rockets, and even my Catherine-
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 de Flora's birthday, which was 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 his 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 poor 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 frightened the horses, and was the cause of over-
turning a lady's coach. Don't you remember the circumstance?'
' I have a confused recollection of some such thing,' said
Piedro, in great embarrassment ; and he looked suspiciously
at this man, in doubt whether he was cunning, and wanted to
sound him, or whether he was so simple as he appeared.
425
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
You did not, perhaps, hear, then,' continued the man
' that there was a great search made, after the overturn, for a
fine diamond cross belonging to the lady in the carriage ?
That lady, though I did not know it till lately, was the Countess
de Flora.'
' 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 practised in dissimu-
lation than Piedro, 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 excited, and his sus-
picions of Piedro were increased every moment by all the dark
changes of his countenance. Piedro, overpowered with the
sense of guilt, surprised at the unexpected mention of the
diamond cross, and of the Count de Flora's villa, stood like
one convicted, and seemed fixed to the spot, without power of
motion.
1 1 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 artificial 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 his 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 Saint
Januarius deserted him, and that he was undone. He precipi-
tately followed the 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, astonished. ' Not here ; this
way,' said he, drawing him towards the dark passage ; ' what
I have to say must not be overheard. You are going to the
Count de Flora'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 that
diamond cross ; but I can do the count a great service, upon
426
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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 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 Arthur. Arthur no
sooner heard the business, and understood that Francisco was
in danger, than he armed himself without saying one word,
saddled his English horse, and was ready to depart before any
one else had finished his exclamations and conjectures.
* But we are not to set out yet, 3 said the servant ; * 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 consider-
able 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 fire-
work-maker, and which he had sold as excellent immediately
afterwards to his favourite customers 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 sudden
appearance of so many armed men, the robbers stood dismayed.
Arthur eagerly shook Francisco's hand, congratulating him
upon his safety, and did not perceive, till he had given him
several rough friendly shakes, that his arm was wounded, and
that he was pale with the loss of blood.
427
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
* It is not much only a slight wound, 5 said Francisco ;
1 one that I should have escaped if I had been upon my guard ;
but the sight of a face that 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, whilst I stood in stupid
astonishment.'
* Oh ! take me to prison ! take me to prison I am weary
of life I am a wretch not fit to live !' cried Piedro, holding
his hands to be tied by the sbirri.
The next morning Piedro was conveyed to prison ; 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 is come to, now he
is a man ! ' He was ordered to remain twelve months in
solitary confinement. His captain and his accomplices were
sent to the galleys, and the Jew was banished from Naples.
And now, having got these villains out of the 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 ? ' ' Yes, son, and a charming
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 whose houses and
lives were saved by your intrepidity in carrying the materials
for the fireworks and the gunpowder 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, amongst
the grants he has made 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 furniture, plate, etc.. in
the Count de Flora's villa, was, according to the count's promise,
428
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS
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. Lee, the English gentleman, he offered one of
his own drawings a fruit-piece. ' I like 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 same 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/
429
TARLTON
Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix
The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
THOMSON.
YOUNG HARDY was educated by Mr. Trueman, a very excellent
master, at one of our rural Sunday schools. He was honest,
obedient, active, and good-natured, hence he was esteemed by
his master ; and being 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
attempted 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 disgrace,
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 offend 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 shuttle-
cock in the school, and this was a trial of skill between them.
When they had got it up to three hundred and twenty, the
game became very interesting. The arms of the combatants
431
TARLTON
grew so tired that they could scarcely wield the battledores.
The shuttlecock began to waver in 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 c 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 ! What a pity that he did not stand with his back
to the sun ! 3
1 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 beside the
field. ' Heyday ! ' 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 somebody
would get it. One could get over the gate at the bottom 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 Tarlton, ' why, now, what
harm could it do ? ' 'I don't know,' said Loveit, drumming
upon his battledore ; ' but ' You don'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 ' he 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 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 sub-
432
TARLTON
sided, ' 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't refuse you anything.' ' Indeed, though,' cried Loveit,
piqued, ' there you're mistaken, for I could refuse if I chose it.'
Hardy smiled ; and Loveit, half afraid of his contempt, and
half afraid of Tarlton's ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had
recourse to his battledore, which he balanced most curiously
upon his forefinger. ' Look at him ! now do look at him ! '
cried Tarlton ; ' did you ever in your life see anybody look so
silly ! Hardy has him quite under his thumb ; he's so mortally
afraid of Parson Prig, that he dare not, for the soul of him,
turn either of his eyes from the tip of his nose ; look how he
squints ! ' 'I don't squint,' said Loveit, looking up, ' and
nobody has me under his thumb ! and what Hardy said was
only for fear I should get in 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-bye, Little Panado ! ' 'Whom 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 one does not like to be
called Little Panado ; besides,' added he, after going a few
steps farther, ' they'll all think it so ill-natured. I had better go
back, and just tell them that I'm very 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 of good nature he was obliged to yield to the
entreaties of his companions, and, to show his spirit, leapt over
the gate, amidst the acclamations of the little mob : he was
quickly out of sight.
2 F 433
TARLTON
' Here,' cried he, returning in about five minutes, quite out
of breath, ' I've got the shuttlecock ; and I'll tell you what I've
seen,' cried he, panting for breath. * What ? ' cried everybody,
eagerly. ' Why, just at the turn 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 opposite side of the way, a boy, about as big as Tarlton,
sitting in a great tree, shaking the branches ; 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 minute, from
behind a gooseberry bush, up popped the uncle ; the grand-
father 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'll have some of his fine large rosy
apples before I sleep to-night.'
At this speech a general 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 amongst us. If there
is any one of you afraid to be flogged, let him march off this
instant ! '
Loveit coloured, bit his lips, wished to go, but had not the
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'll stand by you.' Each
boy gave his hand and his promise, repeating, ' Stand by me,
and I'll 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
434
TARLTON
it : stand by me, and I'll stand by you.' ' Indeed, Tarlton,'
expostulated he, without looking him in the face, * I do wish
you'd give up this scheme ; I daresay all the apples are gone
by this time ; I wish you would. Do, pray, give up this
scheme.' * What scbeme, man ? you haven't heard it yet ; you
may as well know you: 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 don't know you, I declare I don't know you to-day,'
said Tarlton ; ' you used to be the best-natured, most agreeable
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 ! ' repeated Loveit, with terror ; ' no, surely, you
won't all hate me ! ' and he mechanically stretched out his hand,
which Tarlton shook violently, saying, ' Ay, now, that's right.''
' Ay, now, thafs wrong ! ' whispered Loveit's conscience ; but
his conscience was of no use to him, for it was always over-
powered 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 certain that weakness of mind is despised both by the good
and the bad.
The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed all the airs
of 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 con-
sultation ; 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 staircase,
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
435
TARLTON
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
briers. Everything 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 heard a door in the cottage open, and earnestly
begged his companions to desist and return home. This,
however, he could by no means persuade them to do, until
they had filled their pockets with apples ; then, to his great
joy, they returned, 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 now was extremely afraid of awakening.
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,' said he to himself, 'how quietly he sleeps! I wish
I had been sleeping too.' The reproaches of Loveit's
conscience, 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 ex-
pedition. We must observe that the necessity 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 quickness
and penetration, had not yet discovered their proceedings ;
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 him-
self; then, recollecting his engagement, he blushed, stammered,
bungled ; and upon Hardy's asking what he meant, would
43 6
TARLTON
answer with a silly, guilty countenance 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 speak on the subject, and he always returned a
peremptory refusal, accompanied with some such taunting ex-
pression as this ' I wish we had nothing to do with such a
sneaking fellow ; he'll betray us all, I see, before we have
done with him. 3 ' Well,' said Loveit to himself, 'so I am
abused after all, and called a sneaking fellow for my pains ;
that's 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 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 satisfaction to hear
everybody declare they were very sorry they had forgotten to
offer some of theirs to 'poor Loveit.''
In the meantime, 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 apples, which he
had watched ripening, he, though not 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 always
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, 3 said he to himself, ' they
will certainly be flogged, and that I should be sorry for ; yet
they must not be let to go on stealing ; that would be worse
437
TARLTON
still, for it would surely bring them to the gallows in the end.
Let me see oh, ay, that will do ; I will borrow farmer Kent's
dog Barker, he'll keep them off, I'll answer for it.'
Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour,
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
returned at the usual hour. Grown bolder now by frequent
success, they came on talking and laughing. But the moment
they had set their foot in the garden, the dog started up ; and,
shaking his chain as he sprang forward, barked with unre-
mitting 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 instant, barking with
increased fury.
' He'll break his chain and tear us to pieces,' cried Tarlton ;
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 me ! I
can't get through the hedge,' cried Loveit, in a lamentable
tone, whilst the dog growled hideously, and sprang forward to
the extremity of his chain. ' I can't get out ! Oh, for God's
sake, stay for me one minute, dear Tarlton ! ' He called in
vain ; he was left to struggle through his difficulties by him-
self ; 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 Loveit could not help reproaching the
party with their conduct. ' 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
438
TARLTON
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 ! ' 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 forgive
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 cannot bear malice, Loveit.'
Loveit smiled, and allowed that he certainly could not bear
malice. ' Well, then, come ; you know at the bottom we all
love you, and would do anything 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'll 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
beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, Tarlton,
in his brutal manner, came up, and seizing him by the arm,
cried, * Come along with me, Loveit, I've something 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'll come presently.' ' Nay, but do, pray ; there's a
good fellow, come now, because 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'll give you mine if you desire
439
TARLTON
it.' Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed 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 farther, however,' said Tarlton, looking round sus-
piciously. ' Well now, well ? ' ' You know the dog that
frightened us so last night?' 'Yes.' 'It will never frighten
us again.' ' Won't it ? how so ? ' ' Look here,' said Tarlton,
drawing something from his pocket wrapped in a blue hand-
kerchief. ' 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. 3
' And is it for the dog ? ' ' Yes, I vowed I'd be revenged on
him, and after this he'll never bark again.' ' Never bark
again! What do you mean? Is it poison?' exclaimed
Loveit, starting back with horror. ' Only poison for a dogj
said Tarlton, confused ; ' you could not look more shocked if
it was poison for a Christian.'
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 with
you.' ' Nay, but stay, 5 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's any harm ? ' ' Iff said Loveit.
' Why, you know, I might not know ; for Tom told me it's a
thing that's often done. Ask Tom.' 'I'll ask nobody ! Surely
we know better what's right and wrong than Tom does.' ' But
only just ask him, to hear what he'll say.' ' I don't want to
hear what he'll say,' cried Loveit, vehemently ; ' the dog will
die in agonies in 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
440
- (! L
' Js it poison ? ' exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror.
TARLTON
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 prayers,
as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped Tarlton, Well f '
asked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing 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.
1 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 undress-
ing, Hardy suddenly recollected that he had left his new kite out
upon the grass. ' Oh, 3 said he, * it will be quite spoiled before
morning ! ' ' 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 effron-
tery. And as he was receiving Hardy's commission, Loveit saw
the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of his pocket.
This excited fresh suspicions 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 don't you come to bed ? '
Loveit returned no answer, but continued standing at the
window. Nor did he watch long in vain. Presently he saw
Tom gliding slowly along a bypath, and get over the gate into
the lane.
'He's 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 ! ' con-
tinued Loveit. ' What's cruel what's wicked ? speak out at
once ! ' returned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in
moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves entitled to
assume towards weak ones. Loveit instantly, though in an in-
coherent manner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the
words passed his -lips, when Hardy sprang up and began dress-
ing himself without saying one syllable. ' For God's sake,
442
TARLTON
what are you going to do?' said Loveit in great anxiety.
* They'll never forgive me ! don't betray me ! they'll never for-
give ! 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 ; whilst, in the meantime,
Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor
dog was decided, ran with all possible 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, whilst he panted
for utterance. ' What, Master 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'll let you off.' Sir, upon my word,
I haven't ! I didn't ! I don't know what you mean,' said Tom,
trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two.
' Indeed, I don't know what you mean.' 'You do,' said Hardy,
with great indignation, and a violent struggle immediately
commenced.
The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrage-
ously. Tom was terrified lest the old man should come out to
see what was the matter ; his strength forsook him, and fling-
ing 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 poisoned
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 his candle in his hand.
' Come up, whoever you are,' said Mr. William Power, in a
443
TARLTON
stern voice ; ' I thought I should find you out at last. Come
up, whoever you are!' Pfardy obeyed without reply.
' Hardy ! ' exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with astonish-
ment ; '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 wouldn't believe his own eyes ;
but for my part I saw through you long since ; I never liked
saints, for my share. Will you please do me the favour, sir,
if it is not too much trouble, to empty your pockets ? ' Hardy
obeyed in silence. ' Heyday ! meat ! raw meat ! what next ? '
'That's all,' said Hardy, emptying his pockets inside out.
' This is #//,' 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, 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's your only way now to get off yourself.
If you hope for my pardon, I can tell you it's not to be had
without asking for. 5
' 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 ! 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,' continued Hardy, ' ever since I have been
at school, I never 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 I caught 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.'
444
TARLTON
Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow
passage to a small closet, set apart for desperate offenders, and
usually known by the name of the Black Hole. ' There, sir,
take up your lodging there for to-night,' said he, pushing him
in ; ' to-morrow I'll know more, or I'll know why,' added he,
double-locking the door, with a tremendous 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. William Power to himself, stalking
off with steps which made the whole gallery resound, and
which made many a guilty heart 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 well.
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 anything to Hardy about it ? when you had promised,
too ! Oh ! what shall we all do ? what a scrape you have
brought us into ! Loveit, it's all your fault ! ' 'All my fault /'
repeated poor Loveit, with a sigh ; ' well, that is hard.'
* Goodness ! there's the bell,' exclaimed a number of voices
at once. ' Now for it ! ' They all stood in a half-circle for
morning prayers. They listened 'Here he is coming! 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 he told?' ' What has he told?' 'Who has
he told of ? ' 'I hope he has not told of me,' cried they. I'll
answer for it he has told of all of us, 3 said Tarlton. 'And I'll
445
TARLTON
answer for it he has told of none of us,' answered Loveit, with
a sigh. You don'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
fell 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 morning ? J ' 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 ! ' exclaimed he, with a voice of un-
feigned surprise, whilst Mr. William Power stood with his
hand suspended. ' Ay, Hardy, sir,' repeated he. ' I told him
you'd not believe 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, address-
ing 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 of my orders. Why do I talk
of disobeying my commands, you are a thief ! ' 'I, sir ? '
exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repress his feelings. 'You,
sir, you and some others,' said Mr. Trueman, looking round
the room with a penetrating glance 'you and some others.'
' Ay, sir, interrupted Mr. William Power, ' get that out of him
if you can ask him.' ' I will ask him nothing; I shall neither
44 6
TARLTON
put his truth nor his honour to the trial ; truth and honour are
not to be expected amongst thieves. 3 ' I am not a thief ! I
have 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 !
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 intended 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, sir.' 'No, he cannot impose upon me ; I have a proof
he is little prepared for,' said Mr. Trueman, producing the blue
handkerchief in which the meat had been wrapped.
Tarlton turned pale ; Hardy's countenance never changed.
' Don't you know this handkerchief, sir ? ' 'I do, sir.' * Is it
not yours ? ' ' No, sir.' ' Don'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 begin
with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this hand-
kerchief is owned.' ' I'm sure it's not mine,' and ' I'm sure it's
none of mine/' burst from every mouth, whilst they looked at
each other in dismay; for none but Hardy, Loveit, and Tarlton
knew the secret. ' My cane,' said Mr. Trueman, and Mr.
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. ! ' cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye 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'll tell
you all ; I should never have thought of stealing the apples if
447
TARLTON
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 ; wasrtt it ? J said he, appealing to Hardy,
whose word he knew must be believed. ' Oh, dear sir ! ' con-
' May God bless you !
tinned 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'm
not going to flog you.' ' Thank you, sir,' said Tarlton, getting
448
TARLTON
up 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. 3
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 punishment 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 to the guilty penitents, ' though I
should be glad to oblige you it wouldn't be just ; but there, 3
pointing to Hardy, ' there is one who has merited a reward ;
the highest I can give him is that of pardoning his companions.'
Hardy bowed and his face glowed with pleasure, whilst
everybody present sympathised in his feelings.
' I am sure,' thought Loveit, ' this is a lesson I shall never
forget. 3
' Gentlemen,' said the old man, with a faltering voice, ' it
wasn't for the sake of my apples that I spoke ; and you, sir, 3
said he to Hardy, ' I thank you for saving my dog. If you
please, I'll 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 hand on
Hardy's head ; ' may God bless you I'm sure God will bless
all such boys as you are.'
2 G 449
THE BASKET-WOMAN.
Toute leur e"tude tait de se complaire et de s'entr'aider. *
PAUL ET VIRGINIE.
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 could scarcely suppose could be in-
habited, if they did not see the smoke rising from its peaked
roof. An old woman lives in this hovel, 2 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 when the good old woman first took them into her hut
and 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 another 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
behind the carriage wheels to prevent them from rolling back-
wards 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 spinning,
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 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
1 Their whole study was how to please and to help one another.
2 This was about the close of the last century.
451
THE BASKET-WOMAN
boy said to her, ' Grandmother,' for that was the name by
which she liked that these children should call her * grand-
mother, 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 underneath the wheels, to hinder them from
rolling back ! The people who are in the carriages give you a
halfpenny or a penny for doing this, don'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 halfpence ? and
could not we bring them all to you ? Do, pray, dear grand-
mother, try us for one day to-morrow, will you ? '
' 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 prevent the wheels from rolling
back, by putting stones behind them ; and she said, c This is
called scotching the wheels ' ; and she took oft" the boy's hat and
gave it to the little girl, to hold up to the carriage-windows,
ready for the halfpence.
When she thought that the children knew how to manage
by 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 halfpence. She carried
them all in her brother's hat to her grandmother in the evening ;
and the old woman smiled, and thanked the children. She
said that they had been useful 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, ' what is the
matter with your hand ? '
* Only a pinch only one pinch that I got, as I was putting a
stone behind a 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 chimney-corner, and that is
of no use. I'll make it of some use, if I may have it.'
452
THE BASKET-WOMAN
1 Take it then, dear,' said the old woman ; ' and you'll find
the handle of the broken crutch under my bed. 3
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, grandmamma, look at my scotcher.
I call this thing my scotcher j 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 ; we shall never
want stones any more. My scotcher 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, grandmother,' said the little girl.
1 So do I, my dear Anne,' said the old woman ; ' for I mean
that you and your brother 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 fruit-stall, 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 halfpence for yourselves, children, it is fair
you should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once
and a way in your lives.'
' We'll 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 postillion 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 halfpence from the travellers.
When it grew dusk in the evening, Anne said to her brother
* I don't think any more carriages will come by to-day. Let
us count the halfpence, and carry them home now to grand-
mother.'
453
THE BASKET-WOMAN
* No, not yet,' answered Paul, ' let them alone let them
lie still in the hole where I have put them. I daresay more
carriages will come by before it is quite dark, and then we shall
have more halfpence.'
Paul had taken the halfpence out of his hat, and he had put
them into a hole in the high bank by the roadside ; and Anne
said 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 blackberries
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 scotcher
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 brother was gather-
ing blackberries, and she said, * Paul, I'm sadly tired, sadly
tired/ 1 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 bit longer. Perhaps a carriage might go by whilst 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 halfpence, 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 halfpence for you.'
Anne held the hat ; and she afterwards went on to the other
carriages. Money was thrown to her from each of them ; and
454
THE BASKET-WOMAN
when they had all gotten safely to the top of the hill, she and
her brother sat down upon a large stone by the roadside, to
count their treasure. First they began by counting what was
in the hat * One, two, three, four halfpence.'
' But, oh, brother, look at this ! ' exclaimed Anne ; * this is
not the same as the other halfpence.'
' No, indeed, it is not,' cried Paul, ' it is no halfpenny ; it is
a guinea, a bright golden guinea ! ' ' Is it ? ' said Anne, who
had never seen a guinea in her life before, and who did not
know its value ; ' and will it do as well as a halfpenny to buy
gingerbread ? I'll run to the fruit-stall and ask the woman ;
shall I?'
' No, no, J said Paul, ' you need not ask any woman, or any-
body but me ; I can tell you all about it, as well as anybody in
the whole world.'
' The whole world ! Oh, Paul, you forgot. Not so well as
my grandmother.'
' 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 understand what I
am going to tell you, for I can assure you that I don't think I
quite understood it myself, Anne, the first time my grand-
mother 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.
4 Why, Paul, you know the fruit-woman said she would give
us a dozen plums for a penny. Now, for this little guinea,
would she give us two hundred and fifty-two dozen ? '
4 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 to all the pleasure. But now I'll tell you what I am
thinking of, Anne, that we might buy something for my grand-
455
' But, oh, brother, look at this .' this is iwt the same as the other halfpence.'
THE BASKET-WOMAN
mother that would be very useful to her indeed, with the
guinea something that would last a great while.'
' What, brother ? What sort of thing ? ' ' Something that
she said she wanted very much last winter, when she was so ill
with the rheumatism something that she said yesterday, when
you were making her bed, she wished she might be able to buy
before next winter. 3
' I know, I know what you mean ! ' said Anne ' a blanket.
Oh, 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 ! 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, brother.'
'Yes, a great many ; but I never saw anything there or any-
where 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'll buy the blanket to-
morrow. I'm going to Dunstable with her spinning.'
' And you'll bring the blanket to me, and I shall make the
bed very neatly, that will be all right all happy ! ' said Anne,
clapping her hands.
' But stay ! Hush ! don't clap your hands so, Anne ; it will
not be all happy, I'm afraid,' said Paul, and his countenance
changed, and he looked very grave. ' It will not be all right,
I'm afraid, for there is one thing we have neither of us thought
of, but that we ought to think about. We cannot buy the
blanket, I'm afraid.' ' Why, Paul, why ? ' ' Because I don'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.' ' But who gave it to you, Anne ? '
' Some of the people in those chaises, Paul. I don't know
which of them, but I daresay it was the little rosy girl.'
* No,' said Paul, ' for when she called you to the chaise
door, she said, " Here's some halfpence for you." Now, if she
gave you the guinea, she must have given it to you by
mistake.'
457
THE BASKET-WOMAN
' 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 halfpence into the hat, and I
daresay he gave us the guinea 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. 3 ' 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 her 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 you gave it you by mistake,
I warrant ; and what I would have you do is, to go 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 Dunstable, instead of
going on the next stage ; and it is likely that whosoever gave
you a guinea instead of a halfpenny has found out their mistake
by this time. All you can do is to go and inquire for the
gentleman who was 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 innkeepers to
whom they belong. I read the name of the innkeeper upon
that chaise. It was John Nelson. 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.'
458
THE BASKET-WOMAN
Anne and her brother passed with great courage the tempt-
ing stall that was covered with gingerbread and ripe plums,
and pursued their way steadily through the streets of Dunstable ;
but Paul, when he came to the shop where he had seen the
.blanket, stopped for a moment and said, 'It is a great pity,
Anne, that the guinea is not ours. However, .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. 3 ' Look up,
and you'll 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 postillions were
rubbing down the horses, or rolling the chaises into the coach-
house.
' What now ? What business have you here, pray ? ' said
a. waiter, who almost ran over Paul, as he was crossing the
yard in a great hurry to get some empty bottles from the bottle-
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 amongst 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 ? ' said one
of the postillions.
' What should such a one as he is know about chaises ? '
interrupted the hasty waiter, and he was going to turn Paul
out of the yard ; but the hostler caught hold of his arm and
said, Maybe 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'll find the chaise for you, if it is 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 postillion who drove that chaise, were
found ; and the postillion told Paul that he was just going into
459
THE BASKET-WOMAN
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 ourselves.'
' Yes,' said the hostler ; < that they have a right to do.'
The postillion 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 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 ! '
exclaimed the woman to whom they belonged.
' We'll 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 desire to know how such beautiful things
could be made of straw ; but the woman had not time to answer
before the postillion 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
halfpenny, I hear ; and I understand you've brought it back
again ; that's right, give me hold of it.' * No, brother,' said
Anne, t this is not the gentleman that was reading.' * Pooh,
child, I came in Mr. Nelson's green chaise. Here's the
postillion can tell you so. I and my master came in that
chaise. I and 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'll
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.' He 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.'
460
THE BASKET-WOMAN
' Pray, Mrs. Landlady,' cried this gentleman's servant,
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 D unstable ; 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 postillion
was still waiting, as if to speak to him ; and she observed
them afterwards 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 don't you
carry in the sweetmeat-puffs 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 amongst them several children, sitting
round a supper-table.
' Ay, 5 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 best parlour
had done supper. 'When they come to their wine,' added
she, * I'll speak a good word for you, and get you called in
afore the children are sent to bed.'
The landlady, after the usual speech of, / hope the supper
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
461
THE BASKET-WOMAN
a decent body without would, I daresay, be proud to show
them her pincushion-boxes, and her baskets and slippers, and
her other curiosities?
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 curiosities,
The children gathered round her large pannier as it opened,
but they did not touch any of her things.
' Ah, 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,' continued the gentleman, ' that they may not spoil their
other shoes.' ' And will you buy them, papa ? ' ' No, I can-
not indulge myself,' said her father, * in 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.'
'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 halfpenny by mistake ; and
not five minutes ago I saw the boy give the guinea to a gentle-
man'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'll 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
462
THE BASKET-WOMAN
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 most likely that she did.
1 But I can be certain whether the guinea you returned be
mine or no,' said the gentleman. ' I marked the guinea ; it
was a light one ; the only guinea I had, which I put into my
waistcoat pocket this morning.' He rang the bell, and desired
the waiter to let the gentleman 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. The dishonest servant, who
was supping upon larks and claret, knew nothing of what was
going on ; but his 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 indignation, 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 brother 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 grand-
mother.'
' 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
463
His master came in -with a face of indignation, and demanded ' The guinea-
the guinea, sir ! '
THE BASKET-WOMAN
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, 5 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.'
' Should you like to learn how to make such baskets as
these ? ' said the gentleman, pointing to one of the Dunstable
straw-baskets. ' Oh, 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'm 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 I hope to
see that you and your scholars are going on well. If I find
that 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 is not
far. I'll walk with you, and see you safe home myself.'
The gentleman detained them a few minutes longer, till a
messenger whom he had dispatched to purchase the much-
wished-for blanket returned.
* Your grandmother will sleep well upon this good blanket,
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 END
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