Kitobni o'qish: «The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children»

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 impression 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 fancy names and dresses in Miss Edgeworth's stories, became her daily familiar companions from that day forth.

Many of the stories in the Parent's 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 countermarching; volunteers were assembling; husbandmen, throwing 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 sitting 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 afterwards 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 farming and rack-rents; of pipes for hot-houses to be heated by stable dung, of speaking machines, and finally in a postscript 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 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 of the new-married pair on their way to Edgeworthstown passing the suspended corpse of a man hanging between the shafts of a cart. Miss Edgeworth 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 Parent's 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 opening 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 leaves her pillow upon a stone before the door, and of the 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 weeping 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 Edgeworth'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 help she so greatly relied. Young Edward Strutt, afterwards 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 Parliament 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 Réalité, 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 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' – so he calls the descriptions; and he adds that a novel which makes good its pretensions of giving a perfectly correct picture 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, instruct more successfully, and we are sure please more frequently, 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 splendid scenes of an imaginary world' to the favourite experiments 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 principle. 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 adjustment 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, 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.

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 veneration on the writer who is at one time combating Locke and at another time making a catechism for children in their fourth year. A voluntary descent from the dignity of science is perhaps the hardest lesson which humility can teach.'

It seems, however, no very easy task to write for children. Those only who have been interested in the education of a family, who have patiently followed children through the first processes of reasoning, who have daily watched over their thoughts and feelings – those only who know with what ease and rapidity the early associations of ideas are formed, on which the future taste, character, and happiness depend, can feel the dangers and difficulties of such an undertaking.

Indeed, in all sciences the grand difficulty has been to ascertain facts – a difficulty which, in the science of education, 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 distinction 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 confined to no particular rank, and should be enforced with equal care and energy upon the minds of young people of every station; and it is hoped that these principles have never been forgotten in the following pages.

As the ideas of children multiply, the language of their books should become less simple; else their taste will quickly be disgusted, or will remain stationary. Children that live with people who converse with elegance will not be 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. 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 proportion 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 considered 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 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,' 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, 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.'

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, '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 afterwards, 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 carthorses, 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.

Mary was in hopes that the rent would not be called for 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.

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 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 schoolmistress that they stopped, and she gave them a good account of these orphans. She particularly commended Mary's honesty, in having immediately paid all her mother's debts to the utmost farthing, as far as her money would go. She told the ladies how Mary had been turned out of her house, and how she had offered her goat, of which she was very fond, to discharge a debt due for her schooling; and, in short, the schoolmistress, who had known Mary for 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 bogberries, 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 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.²

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 Gilbert why he did not bring an answer, he did not attempt to make any excuse; he did not say, 'There was no answer, please your honour' or, 'They bid me not wait' 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.

'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."'

LAZY LAWRENCE

In the pleasant valley of Ashton 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.

'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? 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 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.' 'But I could earn something, though, I say,' cried Jem proudly; 'and I will earn something– if it be ever so little, it will be something– and I shall do my very best; so I will.' 'That I'm sure of, my child,' said his mother, drawing him towards her and kissing him; 'you were always a good, industrious lad, that I will say afore your face or 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 Lightfoot, and went to Farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries.

A great part of the morning was spent in putting them into the ground; and, as soon as that was finished, he set out again in quest of the old woman, whom, to his great joy, he spied sitting at her corner of the street with her board before her. But this old woman was deaf and cross; and when at last Jem made her hear his questions, he could get no answer from her, but that she found the fossils where he would never find any more. 'But can't I look where you looked?' 'Look away, nobody hinders you,' replied the old woman; and these were the only words she would say.

Jem was not, however, a boy to be 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,' 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. However, some of the neighbours said that he was a good-natured 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 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 neighbourhood who was making a grotto. 'She will very likely buy your stones into the bargain. Come along, my lad; we can but try.'

The lady lived but a very little way off, so that they were soon at her house. She was alone in her parlour, and was sorting a bundle of feathers of different colours; they lay on a sheet of pasteboard upon a window seat, and it 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? I thought I saw him here just now.' 'And here I am, ma'am,' cried Jem, creeping from under the table with some few remaining feathers which he had picked from the carpet; 'I thought,' added he, pointing to the others, 'I had better be doing something than standing idle, ma'am.' She smiled, and, pleased with his activity and simplicity, began to ask him several questions; such as who he was, where he lived, what employment he had, and how much a day he earned by gathering fossils.

'This is the first day 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.' 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. That, instead of encouraging you to be industrious, would teach you to be idle.'

Jem did not quite understand what she meant by this, but answered, 'I'm sure I 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 I 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 gardener will set you to weed the shrubberies, and I will pay you sixpence a day. Remember, you must be at the gates by six o'clock.' Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away.

It was late in the evening, and 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 water-side about a quarter of a mile, till he came to the man's house. He was just come home from work, and was surprised when Jem showed him the half-crown, saying, 'Look what I got for the stones; you are to have half, you know.' 'No,' said the man, when he had heard his story, I shall not take half of that; it was given to you. I expected but a shilling at the most, and the half of that is but sixpence, and that I'll take. 'Wife, 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 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 off a piece of the border with his spade.

'Then, little boy,' said the lady, 'so much shall be your task every day. The gardener will mark it off for you; and when you've done, the rest of the day you may do what you please.'

Jem was extremely glad of this; and the next day he had 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 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 yourself as well as ever. Come, run – one, two, three, and away.' 'Ah, no, I can't run, indeed,' said he hanging back heavily; 'you know I can play all day long if I like it, so I 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 a horse.' '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 anything I want out of him – see! a penny, twopence, threepence, fourpence – there's eightpence in all; would not you be happy if you had eightpence?' 'Why, I don't know,' said Jem, laughing, 'for you 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 sixpence; and my silver penny, is four and sevenpence – four and sevenpence!' 'You have not!' said Lawrence, roused so as absolutely to stand upright, 'four and 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 it far?' said Lawrence, following half-running, half-hobbling, till he came to the stable, where Jem showed him his treasure. 'And how did you come by it – honestly?' 'Honestly! to be sure I did; I earned it all.' '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 I 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 little Newton crack 'em for me, for that's the worst of nuts, there's the trouble of cracking 'em.' 'Well, you never deserve to have a nut.' 'But you'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 anybody. 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, unfortunately 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, 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 streaming 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.

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 I 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 accustomed to the swearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and interest in their disputes and battles. As this was an amusement 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 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 Farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries, he remembered to have seen a great quantity of this heath; and, as it was now only six o'clock in the evening, he knew that he should have time to feed Lightfoot, stroke him, go to the common, return, and make one trial of his skill before he went to bed.

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 whatever he pleased; that by behaving well he would certainly, sooner or later, secure the esteem and love of all who knew him, even of those who had the 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 disagreeable things, and a great deal of rough work, at your first setting out; but be faithful and obedient to your mistress, and obliging to your fellow-servants, and all will go well. Mrs. Churchill will make you a very good mistress, if you behave properly; and I have no doubt but you will.' 'Thank you, sir.' 'And you will always – I mean, as long as you deserve it – find a friend in me.' 'Thank you, sir – I am sure you are – ' There Franklin stopped short, for the recollection of all Mr. Spencer's goodness rushed upon him at once, and he could not say another word. 'Bring me a candle to seal this letter,' said his master; and he was very glad to get out of the room. He came back with the candle, and, with a stout heart, stood by 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, I hope you will keep this boy under your own eye.' And she received him with a cold 'Very well, ma'am,' which plainly showed 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 expressing 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?' – '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 Villaintropic 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, 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 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 expectations in pleasing his mistress; but unfortunately he found it more difficult to please his fellow-servants, and he sometimes offended when he least expected it. He had made great progress in the affections of 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, impertinent, 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.'

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 him: 'For,' said he to himself, 'I have a clear conscience, and that is more than Felix can have. I know how he wins cook's favour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her; for since the day I saw the basket, she has done nothing but huff me.'

The history of the basket was this. Mrs. Pomfret, the 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, suspiciously 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 – '

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!' 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 Villaintropic 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, 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.'

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 himself his firm ally, and had on his part received from Franklin unequivocal proofs of friendship; for it must be told that every other morning, when it was Felix's turn to get breakfast, Felix never was up in decent time, and must inevitably have come to public disgrace if Franklin had not 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 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 morning. 'My cold turkey, as I'm alive!' exclaimed the housekeeper, 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, perceiving 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 in which he had lived so well with the butler, did not hesitate to confront his aunt with assurance equal to her own. He knew how to bring his charge home to her. He produced a note in her own handwriting, the purport of which was to request her cousin's acceptance of 'some delicate cold turkey,' and to beg she would send her, by the return of the bearer, a little of her cherry-brandy.

Mrs. Churchill coolly wrote upon the back of the note her cook's discharge, and informed Felix 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 opportunity to rectify their mistake; and Mrs. Pomfret was now prepared to see everything which Franklin did in the most favourable point of view; especially as the next day 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 to a neighbouring alehouse to drink with his friends. The alehouse 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 indulgence 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 frequented; 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 conversation, and encouraged him as much as possible to talk; for they had secret views, which the butler was by no means sufficiently sober to discover.

Mrs. Churchill had some fine old family plate; and these men belonged to a gang of 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 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 corrupted by the habits of petty pilfering and daily falsehood. It was agreed that, the first time his mistress sent him out on a message, he should carry the key of the house door to his cousin's, and deliver it into the hands of one of the gang, who were there in waiting for it. Such was the scheme.

Felix, the night after all this had been planned, went to bed and fell fast asleep; but the butler, who had not yet stifled the voice of conscience, felt, in the silence of the night, so insupportably miserable that, instead of going to rest, he stole softly into the pantry for a bottle of his mistress's wine, and there drinking glass after glass, he 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 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. Pomfret, 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.

'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!' '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.' '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.

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 candlestick 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 your tongue; why should you poke yourself into this scrape; what have you to do with it, I should be glad to know?' 'Nothing in the world, oh nothing in the world; I'm sure I beg your pardon, ma'am,' answered Felix, in a soft tone; and, sneaking off, left his friend Corkscrew to fight his own battle, secretly resolving to desert in good time, if he saw any danger of the alehouse transactions coming to light.

Corkscrew could make but very blundering excuses for himself; and, conscious of 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,' 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 disturbing you,' cried Mrs. Pomfret, at the same time throwing the shutters wide open; 'but, to be sure, ma'am, I have something 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 went to bed; for, besides the japanned candlestick, which of itself I'm sure is strong enough to hang a man, there's another circumstance, ma'am, that certifies it to me – though I have not mentioned 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 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 anything 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. 'How long have you lived with me?' said she, pausing; 'three weeks, I think?' 'Three weeks and four days, madam.' 'That is but a short time; yet you have conducted yourself so as to make me think I may depend upon you. You know this key?' 'I believe, madam, it is the key of the house door.' 'It is; I shall trust it in your care. It is a great trust for so young a person as you are.' Franklin stood silent, with a firm but modest look. 'If you take the charge of this key,' continued his mistress, 'remember it is upon condition that you never give it out of your own hands. In the daytime it must not be left in the door. You must not tell anybody where you keep it at night; and the house door must not be unlocked after eleven o'clock at night, unless by my orders. Will you take charge of the key upon these conditions?' 'I will, madam, do anything you order me,' said Franklin, and received the key 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 discontent; and they treated Franklin with the greatest seeming kindness and cordiality.

Everything went on smoothly for three days. The butler never attempted his usual midnight visits to the alehouse, but went to bed in proper time, and paid particular court to Mrs. Pomfret, in order to dispel her suspicions. She had never had any idea of the real fact, that he and Felix were joined in a plot with housebreakers to rob the house, but thought he only went out at irregular hours to indulge himself in his passion for drinking.

Thus stood affairs the night before Mrs. Churchill's birthday. Corkscrew, by the housekeeper's means, ventured to present a petition that he might go to the play the next day, and his request was granted. Franklin came into the kitchen just when all the servants had gathered round the butler, who, with great importance, was reading aloud the play-bill. Everybody present soon began to speak at once, and with great enthusiasm talked of the playhouse, the actors and actresses; and then Felix, in the first pause, turned to Franklin and said, 'Lord, you know nothing of all this! you never went to a play, did you?' 'Never,' said Franklin, and felt, he did not know why, a little ashamed; and he longed extremely to go to one. 'How should you like to go to the play with me to-morrow?' said Corkscrew. 'Oh,' exclaimed Franklin, 'I should like it exceedingly.' 'And do you think mistress would let you if I asked?' 'I think – maybe she would, if Mrs. 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 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 cannot,' 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 objection, I suppose, to going to the play with me?' 'Oh, I should like it of all things, if I did not come between anybody else. But come, come!' added the hypocrite, assuming a tone of friendly persuasion, 'you won't be such a blockhead, Franklin, as to lose going to the play for nothing; it's only just obstinacy. What harm can it do to lend Mr. Corkscrew the key for five minutes? he'll give it you back again safe and sound.' 'I don't doubt that,' answered Franklin. 'Then it must be all because you don't wish to oblige Mr. Corkscrew.' 'No, but I can't oblige him in this; for, as I told you before, my mistress trusted me. I promised never to let the key out of my own hands, and you would not have me break my trust. Mr. Spencer told me that was worse than robbing.'

At the word robbing both 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.

'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 housebreakers; 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. '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, 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. 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,' 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 mistaken at the first in any boy in my born days; but he has won me by his own deserts, and I shall from this time forth love all the Villaintropic folks for his sake.'

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 1st 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, everybody knew how. He built a new house at the entrance of the village, and had a large well-fenced garden, yet, notwithstanding 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 neighbours. 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 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 thenceforward 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 gratefully 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 to show her attention. At her door the first branch of hawthorn 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 herself behind the high hedge, that she might listen to their conversation.

'Where's Susan?' were the first unwelcome words which she overheard. 'Ay, where's Susan?' repeated Philip, stopping short in the middle of a new tune that he was playing on his pipe. 'I wish Susan would come! I want her to sing me this same tune over again; I have not it yet.'

'And I wish Susan would come, I'm sure,' cried a little girl, whose lap was full of primroses. 'Susan will give me some thread to tie up my nosegays, and she'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.'

'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, as she must now be called, were a hundred miles off, out of our way, I know. No later than yesterday she threw down my ninepins in one of her ill-humours, as she was walking by with her gown all trailing in the dust.'

'Yes,' cried Mary, the little primrose-girl, 'her gown is always trailing. She does not hold it up nicely, like Susan; and with all her fine clothes she never looks half so neat. Mamma says she wishes I may be like Susan, when I grow up to be a great girl, and so do I. I should not like to look conceited as Barbara does, if I was ever so rich.'

'Rich or poor,' said Philip, 'it does not become a girl to look conceited, much less bold, as Barbara did the other day, when she was 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, looking very gloomy. Susan put his supper upon the table, and set his own chair for him; but he pushed away the chair and turned from the table, saying – 'I shall eat nothing, child! Why have you such a fire to roast me at this time of the year?'

'You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a little cheerful wood fire in the evening; and there was a great shower of hail; your coat is quite wet, we must dry it.'

'Take it, then, child,' said he, pulling it off – 'I shall soon have no coat to dry – and take my hat too,' said he, throwing it upon the ground.

Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry, and then stood anxiously looking at her mother, who was not well; she had this day fatigued herself with baking; and now, alarmed by her husband's moody 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 reflecting, 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 told me I might catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now.' Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievous hen.

'Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!' cried Susan, as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.

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.'⁷ The saying became proverbial in the village. Susan's little companions repeated it, and applied it upon many occasions, whenever any one claimed more than his share of 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 recommended 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 everything?'

Barbara did not know that her father meant to go to the Abbey that morning, for Attorney Case was mysterious even to his own family about his morning rides. He never chose to be asked where he was going, or where he had been; and this made his servants more than commonly inquisitive to trace him.

Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real cunning he was not sufficiently 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 it 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, however, 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 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 whole 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 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?'

'No – you have said enough,' replied Sir Arthur.

'The case, indeed, lies in a nutshell,' said the attorney, who had by this time worked himself up to such a pitch of professional enthusiasm that, intent upon his vision of a 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,' 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 certainly 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 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 forehead, 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 wonderfully upon his own mind, and he judged of others by himself. The tenants had been in the reluctant but constant practice of making him continual petty offerings; and he resolved to try the same course with Sir Arthur, whose resolution to be his own agent, he thought, argued a close, saving, avaricious 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 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 I 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.' '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 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?' 'Some of them are wrong, and I've written them out again,' said Susan. 'Some of them! All of them, I think, seem to be wrong, if I can read,' said her father, rather angrily, and he pointed out to her sundry strange mistakes. Her head, indeed, had been running upon her poor lamb. She corrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and bore to be blamed with so much good humour, that her father at last said that it was impossible ever to scold Susan, without being in the wrong at the last.

As soon as all was set right, 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 disappointed if she was later than usual, and she did not like to keep them waiting, because they were very patient, good boys; so she put off the visit to her lamb, and went immediately for her brothers.

CHAPTER II

 
Evn 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, 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 coming towards him, he changed his hand and played one of his most lively tunes. The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him; some who were in the foremost row whispered to each other, 'He 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.'

'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.

'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 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 sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat. 'I'll take these halfpence,' 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,' 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 downright certain sure of it, the shilling was not over and above good.' Then turning to Susan, to screen himself from manifest danger, for the attorney's son looked upon him with a vengeful mien, 'But here's Susan here, who understands silver a great deal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.'

'I'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,' 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 herself, 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 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 simplicity 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.

The good news that Farmer Price was to be employed to collect the rents, and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month, soon spread over the village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful tidings confirmed by Susan herself. The crowd on the play-green increased every minute.

'Yes,' cried the triumphant Philip, 'I tell you it's all true, every word of it. Susan's too modest to say it herself; but I tell ye all, Sir Arthur gave us this play-green for ever, on account of her being so good.'

You see, at last Attorney Case, with all his cunning, has not proved a match for 'Simple Susan.'

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. Cox, an alehouse-keeper, who did not bear a very good character.

'Please your honour, sir,' said he to Mr. Somerville, 'I expected, since I bid as fair and fairer for it than any other, that you would have let me the house next the apothecary's. Was not it fifteen guineas I mentioned in my proposal? and did not your honour give it against me for thirteen?' 'My honour did just so,' replied Mr. Somerville calmly. 'And please your honour, but I 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. 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 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.'

Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether he 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 – 'I broke your window, sir,' said he to Mr. Somerville. 'I broke your window with this ball; but I did not know that I had done it, till this moment, I assure you, or I should have told you before. 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. Somerville, 'and one of the lads challenged me to hit a mark in the wall, which I did; but he said I did not hit it, and bade me give him up my ball as the forfeit. This I would not do; and when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. He ran to look for it in the street, but could not find it, which I was very glad of; but I was very sorry just now to find it myself lying upon this heap of shavings, sir, under this broken window; for, as soon as I saw it lying there, I knew I must have been the person that broke the window; and through this window came the white pigeon. Here's one of his white feathers sticking in the gap.'

'Yes,' said the carpenter, 'and in the bow-window room below there's plenty of his 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 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, 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 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 Somerville.

At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes met to drink, and to concert plans of robberies. Their place of meeting was at the alehouse of Mr. Cox, the man who, as our readers may remember, was offended by Mr. Somerville's hinting that he was fond of drinking and of quarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been refused the new inn.

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 messages secretly and quickly. Cox's son, a lad of about nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession. Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O'Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion and 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 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 Somerville; 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 between 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 prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by any one but themselves.

Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, 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.' 'That's my own boy,' said his father. 'We thank you, sir; but we'll not take the money; I don't like to take the price of blood.'

'I know the difference, my good friends,' said Mr. Somerville, 'between vile informers and courageous, honest men.' 'Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we are honest.' 'And, what is more,' said Mr. Somerville, 'I have a notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you were rich.

'Will you, my good lad,' continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment's pause – 'will you trust me with your 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.

'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 birthday; 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 recollect now? But you never remember about birthdays, mamma. That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura's birthday, or – or – or mine, mamma.'

'What do you mean, my dear? I 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—I do not like playthings only because they are new: but Bell does, I believe – for that puts me in mind – Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of old playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing, because they were old; but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma; I'll tell you all that was in the drawer.'

'Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not time to listen to you.'

'Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show you the drawer. I want you to 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 between that day and any other day?' 'And will you, Rosamond – not now, but when you have time to think about it – tell me why I should make any difference between your birthday 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 mistaken. 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 – '

'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 filigree-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 passing in the lane.

Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her 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 afterwards; 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 replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver-laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, 'Sit still, child.' 'I must go to my mother, sir,' said the child; 'besides, you have spoiled all my lace. I can't stay.' 'Can't you?' said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, 'I'll teach you to complain of me.' And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress's coach, and was out of sight in an instant.

'Poor girl!' exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice; 'poor little girl!'

At this instant her mother said to Rosamond – 'Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree-paper, buy it.' 'Yes, madam,' said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately 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! 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?' 'I, 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 somebody else gives?' 'Always? – no, not always.' 'Oh, only on birthdays.'

Rosamond, laughing: 'Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous, – my godmother said that she did.' 'So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous.' 'Why, is it not generous to make presents?' said 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 godmother 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 – but you must not tell that I told you.' 'No, – but if I am asked?' 'Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be sure. So I'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 was the matter.'

We 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 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.' '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 Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let us look at it!'

The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not 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 departed 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. 'Nobody can get any like it, I say,' repeated Bell; 'nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am sure. Mamma won't let her, if I ask her not.' 'Very well,' said Laura coolly, 'I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don't want any of it.' 'Yes, but you do, though,' said Bell, more angrily. 'No, indeed,' said Laura, smiling. 'You do, in the bottom of your heart; but you say you 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,' 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.'

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. Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and 'Who can have done this?' was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood in sullen silence, 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. '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 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 – 'I 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.

'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 became 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,' said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter's want of politeness than at her falsehood. 'Take her away, Nancy, till she has done crying,' added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil.

Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. A smile from her father, who stood by, a silent spectator of the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections; nor were they entirely dissipated by the 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 situation 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?'

'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 anything 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.'

'The thing I like the best of all others, father,' said Rosamond, 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 just felt makes me like something else much better.'

ETON MONTEM

[Extracted 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 collection, called Salt, is taken from the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of the School in his studies at Cambridge. This collection is made by the Scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round the country.

'At eleven o'clock, the youths being assembled in their habiliments at the College, the Royal Family set off from the Castle to see them, and, after walking round the 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 Seminary, 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 himself to arrange the procession round the Royal carriages; and even when the horses were taken off, with the assistance of the Duke of Kent, fastened the traces round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any 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 displaying 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 Cumberland, 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 silver; Roman cap

'Mr. Drury, mazarin blue; fancy cap

'Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw

'Mr. Routh, pink and silver; Spanish hat

'Mr. Curtis, purple; fancy cap

'Mr. Lloyd, blue; ditto

'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.

Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill.

Farmer Hearty.

A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.

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 the 'Windmill Inn' at Salt Hill

Mr. and Mrs. Newington, the Landlord and Landlady

Landlady. 'Tis an unpossibility, 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. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.

Landlord (takes his tankard and drinks). Anything for a quiet life. If it is an unpossibility, I've no more to say; only, for the soul of me, I can't see the great unpossibility, wife.

Landlady. Wife, indeed! – wife! – wife! wife every minute.

Landlord. Heyday! 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. Landlady! 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. Newington, 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).

Landlady. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments 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, featherbed 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 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. Wheeler! —Captain Wheeler, if you please.

Landlord. You, Captain Wheeler! – Why, I thought in former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that was Captain at the Montems; and 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 salt⁸ I reckon I shall pocket. Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand! No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge – hey?

Landlord. And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge 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.

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? Well, then, my watch must go.

Landlord. Nay, nay! but you are in such a hurry to pay – you won't hear a man. Half this is enough for your share o' the mischief, in all conscience. Mr. Wheeler, there, had the horse on the same day.

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.)

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 entrée; 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. I could not guess the cause of these variations.

Mrs. Talb. (aside). I guess the cause too well.

Louisa. But as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I was in haste to leave her. I should make a very bad, and, I am sure, a miserable toad eater. I had much rather, if I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread, than live as toad eater with anybody.

Mrs. Talb. Fine talking, dear Louisa!

Louisa. 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 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 flatter 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.)

Landlady. Waiter! – Miss Bursal's curricle, and Mr. Bursal's vis-à-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 immediately, 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 'ave 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 everybody in spirits. I 'ear everybody's to be 'ere; and my brother tells me, 'twill be the finest ever seen at HEton. 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.)

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. '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 with her whip).

Mr. 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 introduction 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 communicate – ' Hum! what can it be? – (going).

Miss B. (aside). Perhaps some match to propose for me! (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 gentlemen 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 Hogmorton'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.)

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, ma'm, 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 (to the Landlady). Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men's clothes?

Landlady (aside to Farmer). Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush! 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 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 for 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, I 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 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 the way

Landlady. You are going on, I suppose, ma'am?

Waiter (aside to Landlord). Not if she could help it; but there's no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal's come.

Landlord. I say nothing, for 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.

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

A field 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 the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.

Talb. Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw you, my lord! That's well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; stick fast. Fifty-six friends, Wheeler inclusive, hey, my lord! hey, my lud!

Lord J. Talbot exclusive, I find, contrary to my expectations.

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.

Lord J. 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.'⁹

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 Bursal's not purse-proud, and you can. Give you joy.

Burs. A choice electioneerer! – ha! ha! ha!

Wheel. (faintly). He! he! he! – a choice electioneerer, as you say.

(Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal; manent Lord J. and Talbot.)

Lord J. There was a time, Talbot —

Talb. There was a time, my lord – to save trouble and a long explanation – there was a time when you liked Talbots better than spaniels; you understand me?

Lord J. I have found it very difficult to understand you of late, Mr. Talbot.

Talb. Yes, because you have used other people's understandings 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.

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 sintimint; for, for my share I'd not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, 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 lard) 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 yourself 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, wise-a-wee 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?
 

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.

Lord J. Well, no matter who wrote it, – sing it again.

Rory. Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will 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 continues 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.

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.

Lord J. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who —

Talb. (warmly). Unmasking, my lord —

Rory (holding 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 presume —

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 o' the face¹⁰– 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 telling 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?

1st Boy. Wheeler! Wheeler for ever! huzza!

Rory. Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! Captain Talbot for ever! huzza!

2nd Boy. Captain he'll never be, – at least not to-morrow; for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.

1st Boy. And that turns the scale.

Rory. Oh, the scale may turn back again.

3rd 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 won'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! (It 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 consequence.

Wheel. Of no consequence! But, my dear Bursal, what could put that into your head? that's the strangest, oddest fancy. Of no consequence! Bursal, of no consequence! Why, everybody that knows anything – everybody that has seen Bursal House – knows that you are of the greatest consequence, my dear Bursal.

Burs. (taking out his watch, and opening it, looks at it). No, I'm of no consequence. I wonder that rascal Finsbury is not come yet with the dresses (still looking at his watch).

Wheel. (aside). If Bursal takes it into his head not to lend me the money to pay for my captain's dress, what will become of me? for I have not a shilling – and Lord John won't pay for me – and Finsbury has orders not to leave the house till he is paid by everybody. What will become of me? – (bites his nails).

Burs. (aside). How I love to make him bite his nails! (Aloud.) I know I'm of no consequence. (Strikes his repeater.)

Wheel. What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal! It is the best I ever heard.

Burs. So it well may be; for it cost a mint of money.

Wheel. No matter to you what anything costs. Happy dog as you are! You roll in money; and yet you talk of being of no consequence.

Burs. But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord John – am I?

Wheel. Are you? Why, 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?

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 – I'm sorry to tell you, here's Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill. Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has broke her leg, and there she's lying at a farmhouse, 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 cleverness; 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 – Bursal 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

In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned. In front, 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 her arms. The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her

1st 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,' you should say.

Patty. This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so long. It strayed away from the rest; and I should have lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good young gentleman. Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty. That's the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the ditch for me, into which he had fallen – pretty creature!

1st 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

Farmer. 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, 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 I?

Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.

Farm. Ay, so he was. 'Here, you,' says he, meaning me – 'open this gate for me.' Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have 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 sartain sure he could never come to good after.

Talb. (aside). I do think, from the description, that this was Wheeler; and I have paid for the horse which he spoiled! (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.)

ACT THE THIRD

SCENE I

The Garden of the 'Windmill Inn' at Salt Hill

Miss Bursal, Mrs. Newington, Sally the Chambermaid

(Miss Bursal, in a fainting state, is sitting on a garden stool, and leaning her head against the Landlady. Sally is holding a glass of water and a smelling bottle.)

Miss Bursal. Where am I? Where am I?

Landlady. At the 'Windmill,' at Salt Hill, young lady; and ill or well, you can't be better.

Sally. Do you find yourself better since coming into the air, miss?

Miss B. Better! Oh, I shall never be better!

(Leans 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 be's at the doors.

Landlady (aside). Simpleton! (Aloud.) 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. Cur'ous! Indeed, miss, if I look a little cur'ous, or so (looking at her dress), 'tis only because I was frighted to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron when I came out; and this apron —

Miss B. Hush! hush! child. Don't tell me about clean aprons, 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 hearth. Be pleased to lean on my harm, and you'll soon be there.

Miss B. (going). Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody interude 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-à-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 lordship's vote and interest.

Lord J. My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler; but I said not a syllable about my interest. My friends, perhaps, have not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot. I shall leave them to their own inclinations.

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 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 J. 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! – Finsbury'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.

1st Boy. And I lieutenant.

2nd Boy. And I ensign.

3rd Boy. And I college salt-bearer.

4th Boy. And I oppidan.

5th 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. Come 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.

6th 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.

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 disagreeable 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 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 – In front, Wheeler (dressed as Captain), Bursal, and Finsbury

Fins. I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this dress.

Burs. Infinite credit! Why, he'll have no objection to 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, I 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.

1st Boy. I've not paid, but here's my money.

Several Boys. We have not paid, but here's our money.

6th Boy. Order there, I am marshal. All that have paid march off to the staircase, and take your seats there, one by one. March!

(As they march by, one by one, so as to display their dresses, Mr. Finsbury bows, and says,)

A thousand thanks, gentlemen. Thank you, gentlemen. Thanks, gentlemen. The finest sight ever I saw out of Lon'on.

Rory, as each lad passes, catches his arm, Are you a Talbotite, or a Wheelerite? To each who answers 'A Wheelerite,' Rory replies, 'Phoo! dance off, then. Go to the devil and shake yourself.'¹¹ Each who 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.) Finsbury'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?

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 I spoiled. (To the Landlord.) I'll pay for the horse.

Farm. I does not want to be paid for my corn. The short of it is, young gentlemen, this 'un here, in the fine thing-em-bobs (pointing to Wheeler), is a shabby fellow; he went and spoiled Master Newington's best hunter.

Land. (panting). Ruinationed him! ruinationed him!

Rory. But was that all the shabbiness? Now I might, or any of us might, have had such an accident as that. I suppose he paid the gentleman for the horse, or will do so, in good time.

Land. (holding his sides). 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 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 (pointing 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 J. I must not say, 'Huzza for Talbot!'

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV

Windsor Terrace

Lady Piercefield, Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, and a little girl of six years old, Lady Violetta, daughter to Lady 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, I wish you would let me show it to mamma.

Louisa. And welcome, my dear; it is only a sketch of 'The Little Merchants,' a story which Violetta was reading, and she asked me to try to draw the pictures of the little merchants 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 Violetta's cheek). You are a little fool. Miss Talbot is only playing with you.

Violet. No, indeed, mamma; she is in earnest; are not you, Louisa? – Oh, say yes!

Louisa. Yes.

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 Portsmouth, 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 the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, as my son tells me —

(A cry of 'Huzza! huzza!' behind the scenes.)

Enter Lord John

Lord J. (hastily). How d'ye do, mother? Miss Talbot, I 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

FORGIVE AND FORGET

In the neighbourhood of a seaport town in the west of England 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?'

'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 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.' 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 boy. Be so kind,' continued he, turning to the shopman, 'as to reach down that china jar for me.'

The shopman lifted down the jar very carefully, and the captain took off the cover, and pulled out some tulip-roots. 'You seem, by the quantity of seeds you have got, to belong to a gardener. Are you fond of gardening?' said he to Maurice.

'Yes, sir,' replied Maurice, 'very fond of it; for my father is a gardener, and he lets me help 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 companion 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 Arthur's 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.'

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 anything that he had; and so I did not like him; how could I? But, I believe that hating people makes us unhappy; for I know I never was happy when I was 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.

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 judgment of them. He thought that it showed spirit, to remember and to resent an injury; and, therefore, though he was not an ill-natured man, he was sometimes led, by this mistaken idea of spirit, to do ill-natured things: 'A warm friend and a bitter enemy,' was one of his maxims, 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.'

When first he settled near Mr. Grant, the gardener, he felt inclined to dislike him, because he was told that Mr. Grant was a Scotchman, and he had a prejudice against Scotchmen; all of whom he believed to be cunning and avaricious, because he had once been overreached by a Scotch 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 friend as a true-born Englishman.'

Grant had some remarkably fine raspberries. The fruit was so large as to be quite a curiosity. When it was in season, many strangers came from the neighbouring town, which was a sea-bathing place, to look at these raspberries, which obtained the name of 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 the luck to be as book-larned 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 workhouse 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 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.'

'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 Brobdingnag raspberries was somewhat different from that which Mr. Oakly received. The message was, that the raspberries were not Mr. Grant's; that therefore he had no right to give them away; that they belonged to his son Maurice, and that this was not the right time of 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 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 I 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 angry 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: —

(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.'¹²

'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 strawberries 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 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.'

'I 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 without my leave.'

'Well, well,' said the attorney, 'I understand all that; but what I want to make you, Mr. Oakly, understand is, that this Grant and his son only want to make up matters with you, and prevent the thing's coming to a fair trial, by sending you, in this underhand sort of way, a bribe of a few raspberries.'

'A bribe!' exclaimed Oakly, 'I never took a bribe, and I never will'; and, with sudden indignation, he pulled the raspberry plants from the ground in which Arthur was planting them; and he threw them over the wall into Grant's garden.

Maurice had put his tulip, which was beginning to blow, in a flower-pot, on the top of the wall, in hopes that his friend Arthur would see it from day to day. Alas! 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 produce the finest flower of its kind. A tulip was the flower which was thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently numbers of people 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 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 accident) broke it.' 'Somebody! who?' cried Arthur and Mr. Oakly at once. 'Somebody who threw the raspberry-plants back again over the wall,' replied Maurice. 'That was me – that somebody was me,' said Oakly. 'I scorn to deny it; but I did not intend to break your tulip, Maurice.'

'Dear Maurice,' said Arthur – 'you know I may call him dear Maurice – now you are by, 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 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 forgive – ' '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-larning 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.'

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 childhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that 'gentlemen should be above being careful and saving'; and he had unfortunately 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 was anxious that his son should early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous.

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's they were eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. 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.'

'"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 afterwards, 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 your parcel? – I wonder what is in mine! I wish I could get this string off – I must cut it.'

'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 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, something 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 downstairs. '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,' 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 himself 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,' 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 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 famous bow and arrow that Lady Diana has given me; but, perhaps,' added he, with a scornful laugh, 'you like a cat's cradle better than a bow and arrow.'

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to use it very well.

'Ben,' said his uncle, 'you seem to be a good marksman, though you have not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow, and, perhaps, if you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of September; and, in the meantime, 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 understand these things,' added he, with an air of simplicity; 'but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case; and if it is necessary – or, if you think it necessary, that you shall have a uniform – why, I'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; 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 unanimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, that 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 considering the good sense of what his uncle said to him, replied, with childish petulance, 'Indeed, sir, I don't know what other people think; 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 admired 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 continued 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 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 halfpence 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 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 hereabouts, 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 eating good things.'

'The cathedral!' said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness – 'the cathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? I thought we came out to see about a uniform.'

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's countenance as he pronounced these words, like one 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.' '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.

'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.'¹³ '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 fluttered and chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.

'He is afraid of us,' said Ben; 'he is not used to eat before strangers, I suppose.'

'Ah, no, sir,' said the young man, with a deep sigh, 'that is not the thing. He is used enough to eat afore 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.'

'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, winding 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.'

OLD POZ

 
Lucy, daughter to the Justice.
Mrs. Bustle, landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'
Justice Headstrong.
Old Man.
William, a Servant.
 

SCENE I

The House of Justice Headstrong – A hall – Lucy watering some myrtles – A servant behind the scenes is heard to say —

I tell you my master is not up. You can't see him, so go about your business, I say.

Lucy. 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.)

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 Headstrong's Study

(He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool – a table and chocolate beside him – Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)

Just. Well, well, my darling, presently; I'll see him presently.

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!

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, I'm busy. I've business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?

Lucy. And the old man, papa?

Just. What old man? I tell you what, I've been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can't wait, let him go about his business. 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.

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 for 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 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 dispatched 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 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 —

Just. Let him finish his story, I say.

Lucy. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle —

Land. (turning suddenly round to Lucy). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma'am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.

(Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)

Old 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, forsooth! none such ever slept at the 'Saracen's Head' afore, or 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, 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.

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 I came to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in —

Just. (imperiously). Silence! Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won't command 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?

Just. (with magnanimity). I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle. Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.

Land. Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.

(Exit Landlady, angry.)

SCENE III

Justice Headstrong, Old Man, and Lucy

Lucy. Ah, now, I'm glad he can speak; now tell papa; and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good-natured. Don't contradict him, though, because he told me not.

Just. 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.

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 it). Nonsense! nonsense! it's no such thing; it's no such thing, I say – no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box. I won't believe it. Nothing shall make me believe it ever – that's poz.

Lucy (takes the box and holds it up before her father's eyes). You did not see the box, did you, papa?

Just. Yes, yes, yes, child – nonsense! it's all a lie from beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a 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!

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. Contradict 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?

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, containing a magpie – The Justice drops the committal out of his hand

Just. Hey! – what, Mrs. Landlady – the old magpie? hey?

Land. Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who'd have thought it? Miss was very clever – it was she caught the thief. Miss was very clever.

Old M. Very good! very good!

Just. Ay, darling, her father's own child! How was it, child? Caught the thief, with the mainour, 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.

Lucy. Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman 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! 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?

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 —that's poz!

THE MIMIC

CHAPTER I

Mr. and Mrs. Montague spent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.

Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in forming the 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 inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part they cannot judge of the whole; and from the superficial view which they can have in short visits and desultory 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 of 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.

During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything 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 continually 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 consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and the lists at the Ball and the Pump rooms; so that, with a memory unencumbered with literature and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing and correct list of births, deaths, and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, which are necessary to the conversation of a water-drinking place, and essential to the character of a 'very pleasant woman.'

'A very pleasant woman' Mrs. Tattle was usually called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather all that could be told about them. The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified 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 sometimes 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 '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 Marianne 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 Mainwarings 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 productive of 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 relation of her own, after she had lost one whole globe¹⁴ of her lungs.'

The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight. Neither was this 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 knowledge, 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, unfortunately 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 conceive 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 conversation of those who were older or more fashionable than herself.

This word fashionable, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had not observed that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her 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 incomparable mimic'; but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited. Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he became quite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters 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 acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they 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 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.'

'Yes, I know that,' said Frederick; 'I would refuse if I could; but we ought not to do anything rude, should we? So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say.'

'You have made such confusion,' replied Sophy, 'between "couldn't" and "wouldn't" and "shouldn't," that I can't understand you: surely they are all different things.'

'Different! no,' cried Frederick – 'could, would, should, might, and ought are all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know.'

Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be confounded, 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 cadwallader 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.'

'I was not disputing, I was reasoning.'

'Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no business to do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?'

At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.

'There!' 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.

'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?'

'Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls right, by the recipe, like a cook.'

'Indeed! indeed! but she would,' cried Marianne, eagerly; 'and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully; and when I was ill she always weighed 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.'

'Well, granting that she could make the best pudding in the whole world, what does that signify? I say she never would, so it comes to the same thing.'

'Never would! how can you tell that, brother?'

'Why, now look at her, with her books, and her 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,' 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 anything 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.'