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TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME I (of X)

MORAL TALES

By Maria Edgeworth







PREFACE.

It has been somewhere said by Johnson, that merely to invent a story is
no small effort of the human understanding. How much more difficult is
it to construct stories suited to the early years of youth, and, at
the same time, conformable to the complicate relations of modern
society--fictions, that shall display examples of virtue, without
initiating the young reader into the ways of vice--narratives, written
in a style level to his capacity, without tedious detail, or vulgar
idiom! The author, sensible of these difficulties, solicits indulgence
for such errors as have escaped her vigilance.

In a former work the author has endeavoured to add something to the
increasing stock of innocent amusement and early instruction, which
the laudable exertions of some excellent modern writers provide for the
rising generation; and, in the present, an attempt is made to provide
for young people, of a more advanced age, a few Tales, that shall
neither dissipate the attention, nor inflame the imagination.

In a work upon education, which the public has been pleased to notice,
we have endeavoured to show that, under proper management, amusement and
instruction may accompany each other through many paths of literature;
whilst, at the same time, we have disclaimed and reprehended all
attempts to teach in play. Steady, untired attention is what alone
produces excellence. Sir Isaac Newton, with as much truth as modesty,
attributed to this faculty those discoveries in science, which brought
the heavens within the grasp of man, and weighed the earth in a balance.
To inure the mind to athletic vigour is one of the chief objects of
good education; and we have found, as far as our limited experience has
extended, that short and active exertions, interspersed with frequent
agreeable relaxation, form the mind to strength and endurance, better
than long-continued feeble study.

Hippocrates, in describing the robust temperament, tells us that the
_athletae_ prepare themselves for the _gymnasium_ by strong exertion,
which they continued till they felt fatigue; they then reposed till they
felt returning strength and aptitude for labour: and thus, by alternate
exercise and indulgence, their limbs acquire the firmest tone of health
and vigour. We have found, that those who have tasted with the keenest
relish the beauties of Berquin, Day, or Barbauld, pursue a demonstration
of Euclid, or a logical deduction, with as much eagerness, and with more
rational curiosity, than is usually shown by students who are nourished
with the hardest fare, and chained to unceasing labour.

"Forester" is the picture of an eccentric character--a young man who
scorns the common forms and dependencies of civilized society; and
who, full of visionary schemes of benevolence and happiness, might, by
improper management, or unlucky circumstances, have become a fanatic and
a criminal.

The scene of "The Knapsack" is laid in Sweden, to produce variety; and
to show that the rich and poor, the young and old, in all countries, are
mutually serviceable to each other; and to portray some of those virtues
which are peculiarly amiable in the character of a soldier.

"Angelina" is a female Forester. The nonsense of _sentimentality_ is
here aimed at with the shafts of ridicule, instead of being combated
by serious argument. With the romantic eccentricities of Angelina are
contrasted faults of a more common and despicable sort. Miss Burrage is
the picture of a young lady who meanly natters persons of rank; and
who, after she has smuggled herself into good company, is ashamed to
acknowledge her former friends, to whom she was bound by the strongest
ties of gratitude.

"Mademoiselle Panache" is a sketch of the necessary consequences of
imprudently trusting the happiness of a daughter to the care of those
who can teach nothing but accomplishments.

"The Prussian Vase" is a lesson against imprudence, and on exercise of
judgment, and an eulogium upon our inestimable trial by jury. This tale
is designed principally for young gentlemen who are intended for the
bar.

"The Good Governess" is a lesson to teach the art of giving lessons.

In "The Good Aunt," the advantages which a judicious early education
confers upon those who are intended for public seminaries are pointed
out. It is a common error to suppose that, let a boy be what he may,
when sent to Eton, Westminster, Harrow, or any great school, he will
be moulded into proper form by the fortuitous pressure of numbers; that
emulation will necessarily excite, example lead, and opposition polish
him. But these are vain hopes: the solid advantages which may be
attained in these large nurseries of youth must be, in a great measure,
secured by previous domestic instruction.

These Tales have been written to illustrate the opinions delivered in
"Practical Education." As their truth has appeared to me to be confirmed
by increasing experience, I sat down with pleasure to write this preface
for my daughter. It is hoped that the following stories will afford
agreeable relaxation from severer studies, and that they will be
thought--what they profess to be--_Moral_ Tales.

R.L. EDGEWORTH




CONTENTS.


FORESTER

THE PRUSSIAN VASE

THE GOOD AUNT

ANGELINA; OR, L'AMIE INCONNUE

THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS

MADEMOISELLE PANACHE

THE KNAPSACK






FORESTER


Forester was the son of an English gentleman, who had paid some
attention to his education, but who had some singularities of opinion,
which probably influenced him in his conduct toward his children.

Young Forester was frank, brave, and generous, but he had been taught to
dislike politeness so much, that the common forms of society appeared to
him either odious or ridiculous; his sincerity was seldom restrained by
any attention to the feelings of others. His love of independence was
carried to such an extreme, that he was inclined to prefer the life
of Robinson Crusoe in his desert island, to that of any individual in
cultivated society. His attention had been early fixed upon the follies
and vices of the higher classes of people; and his contempt for selfish
indolence was so strongly associated with the name of gentleman, that
he was disposed to choose his friends and companions from amongst his
inferiors: the inequality between the rich and the poor shocked him; his
temper was enthusiastic as well as benevolent; and he ardently wished to
be a man, and to be at liberty to act for himself, that he might reform
society, or at least his own neighbourhood. When he was about nineteen
years old, his father died, and young Forester was sent to Edinburgh, to
Dr. Campbell, the gentleman whom his father had appointed his guardian.
In the choice of his mode of travelling his disposition appeared. The
stage-coach and a carrier set out nearly at the same time from Penrith.
Forester, proud of bringing his principles immediately into action, put
himself under the protection of the carrier, and congratulated himself
upon his freedom from prejudice. He arrived at Edinburgh in all the
glory of independence, and he desired the carrier to set him down at Dr.
Campbell's door.

"The doctor is not at home," said the footman, who opened the door.

"He _is_ at home," exclaimed Forester with indignation; "I see him at
the window."

"My master is just going to dinner, and can't see any body now," said
the footman; "but if you will call again at six o'clock, maybe he may
see you, my good lad."

"My name is Forester--let me in," said Forester, pushing-forwards.

"Forester!--Mr. Forester!" said the footman; "the young gentleman that
was expected in the coach to-day?" Without deigning to give the footman
any explanation, Forester took his own portmanteau from the carrier;
and Dr. Campbell came down-stairs just when the footman was officiously
struggling with the young gentleman for his burden. Dr. Campbell
received his pupil very kindly; but Forester would not be prevailed upon
to rub his shoes sufficiently upon the mat at the bottom of the stairs,
or to change his disordered dress before he made his appearance in the
drawing-room. He entered with dirty shoes, a threadbare coat, and hair
that looked as if it never had been combed; and he was much surprised
by the effect which his singular appearance produced upon the risible
muscles of some of the company.

"I have done nothing to be ashamed of," said he to himself; but,
notwithstanding all his efforts to be and to appear at ease, he was
constrained and abashed. A young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, seemed
to enjoy his confusion with malignant, half-suppressed merriment, in
which Dr. Campbell's son was too good-natured, and too well-bred, to
participate. Henry Campbell was three or four years older than Forester,
and _though_ he looked like a gentleman, Forester could not help being
pleased with the manner in which he drew him into conversation. The
secret magic of politeness relieved him insensibly from the torment of
false shame.

"It is a pity this lad was bred up a gentleman," said Forester to
himself, "for he seems to have some sense and goodness."

Dinner was announced, and Forester was provoked at being interrupted in
an argument concerning carts and coaches, which he had begun with Henry
Campbell. Not that Forester was averse to eating, for he was at this
instant ravenously hungry: but eating in company he always found equally
repugnant to his habits and his principles. A table covered with a clean
table-cloth; dishes in nice order; plates, knives, and forks, laid at
regular distances, appeared to our young Diogenes absurd superfluities,
and he was ready to exclaim, "How many things I do not want!" Sitting
down to dinner, eating, drinking, and behaving like other people,
appeared to him difficult and disagreeable ceremonies. He did not
perceive that custom had rendered all these things perfectly easy to
every one else in company; and as soon as he had devoured his food his
own way, he moralized in silence upon the good sense of Sancho Panza,
who preferred eating an egg behind the door to feasting in public; and
he recollected his favourite traveller Le Vaillant's[1] enthusiastic
account of his charming Hottentot dinners, and of the disgust that he
afterwards felt, on the comparison of European etiquette and African
_simplicity_.

[Footnote 1: Le Vaillant's Travels in Africa, vol. i. p. 114.]

"Thank God, the ceremony of dinner is over," said Forester to Henry
Campbell, as soon as they rose from table.

All these things, which seemed mere matter of course in society,
appeared to Forester strange ceremonies. In the evening there were cards
for those who liked cards, and there was conversation for those who
liked conversation. Forester liked neither; he preferred playing with a
cat; and he sat all night apart from the company in a corner of a sofa.
He took it for granted that the conversation could not be worth his
attention, because he heard Lady Catherine Mackenzie's voice amongst
others; he had conceived a dislike, or rather a contempt for this lady,
because she showed much of the pride of birth and rank in her manners.
Henry Campbell did not think it necessary to punish himself for her
ladyship's faults, by withdrawing from entertaining conversation; he
knew that his father had the art of managing the frivolous subjects
started in general company, so as to make them lead to amusement and
instruction; and this Forester would probably have discovered this
evening, had he not followed his own thoughts, instead of listening to
the observations of others. Lady Catherine, it is true, began with a
silly history of her hereditary antipathy for pickled cucumbers; and she
was rather tiresome in tracing the genealogy of this antipathy through
several generations of her ancestry; but Dr. Campbell said "that he had
heard, from an ingenious gentleman of her ladyship's family, that her
ladyship's grandfather, and several of his friends, nearly lost their
lives by pickled cucumbers;" and thence the doctor took occasion to
relate several curious circumstances concerning the effects of different
poisons.

Dr. Campbell, who plainly saw both the defects and the excellent
qualities of his young ward, hoped that, by playful raillery, and by
well-timed reasoning, he might mix a sufficient portion of good sense
with Forester's enthusiasm, might induce him gradually to sympathize in
the pleasures of cultivated society, and might convince him that virtue
is not confined to any particular class of men; that education, in the
enlarged sense of the word, creates the difference between individuals
more than riches or poverty. He foresaw that Forester would form a
friendship with his son, and that this attachment would cure him of his
prejudices against _gentlemen_, and would prevent him from indulging his
taste for vulgar company. Henry Campbell had more useful energy,
though less apparent enthusiasm, than his new companion: he was always
employed; he was really independent, because he had learned how to
support himself either by the labours of his head or of his hands; but
his independence did not render him unsociable; he was always ready
to sympathize with the pleasures of his friends, and therefore he was
beloved: following his father's example, he did all the good in his
power to those who were in distress; but he did not imagine that
he could reform every abuse in society, or that he could instantly
new-model the universe. Forester became, in a few days, fond of
conversing, or rather of holding long arguments, with Henry; but his
dislike to the young laird, Archibald Mackenzie, hourly increased.
Archibald and his mother, Lady Catherine Mackenzie, were relations
to Mrs. Campbell, and they were now upon a visit at her house. Lady
Catherine, a shrewd woman, fond of precedence, and fully sensible of the
importance that wealth can bestow, had sedulously inculcated into the
mind of her son all the maxims of worldly wisdom which she had collected
in her intercourse with society; she had inspired him with family pride,
but at the same time had taught him to pay obsequious court to his
superiors in rank or fortune: the art of rising in the world, she knew,
did not entirely depend upon virtue or ability; she was consequently
more solicitous about her son's manners than his morals, and was more
anxious that he should form high connexions, than that he should apply
to the severe studies of a profession. Archibald was nearly what might
be expected from his education, alternately supple to his superiors, and
insolent to his inferiors: to insinuate himself into the favour of young
men of rank and fortune, he affected to admire extravagance; but his
secret maxims of parsimony operated even in the midst of dissipation.
Meanness and pride usually go together. It is not to be supposed that
young Forester had such quick penetration, that he could discover the
whole of the artful Archibald's character in the course of a few days'
acquaintance; but he disliked him for good reasons, because he was a
laird, because he had laughed at his first entree, and because he was
learning to dance.



THE SKELETON.


About a week after our hero's arrival at Dr. Campbell's, the doctor was
exhibiting some chemical experiments, with which Henry hoped that his
young friend would be entertained; but Forester had scarcely been five
minutes in the laboratory, before Mackenzie, who was lounging about the
room, sneeringly took notice of a large hole in his shoe. "It is
easily mended," said the independent youth; and he immediately left the
laboratory, and went to a cobbler's, who lived in a narrow lane, at the
back of Dr. Campbell's house. Forester had, from his bed-chamber window,
seen this cobbler at work early every morning; he admired his industry,
and longed to be acquainted with him. The good-humoured familiarity of
Forester's manner pleased the cobbler, who was likewise diverted by the
eagerness of _the young gentleman_ to mend his own shoe. After spending
some hours at the cobbler's stall, the shoe was actually mended, and
Forester thought that his morning's work was worthy of admiration. In
a court (or, as such places are called in Edinburgh, a close) near the
cobbler's, he saw some boys playing at ball: he joined them; and, whilst
they were playing, a dancing-master with his hair powdered, and who
seemed afraid of spattering his clean stockings, passed through the
court, and interrupted the ball players for a few seconds. The boys,
as soon as the man was out of hearing, declared that he passed through
_their_ court regularly twice a day, and that he always kicked their
marbles out of the ring. Without staying to weigh this evidence
scrupulously, Forester received it with avidity, and believed all that
had been asserted was true, because the accused was a dancing-master;
from his education he had conceived an antipathy to dancing-masters,
especially to such as wore silk stockings, and had their heads well
powdered. Easily fired at the idea of any injustice, and eager to
redress the grievances of _the poor,_ Forester immediately concerted
with these boys a scheme to deliver them from what he called the
insolence of the dancing-master, and promised that he would compel him
to go round by another street.

In his zeal for the liberty of his new companions, our hero did not
consider that he was infringing upon the liberties of a man who had
never done him any injury, and over whom he had no right to exercise any
control.

Upon his return to Dr. Campbell's, Forester heard the sound of a violin;
and he found that his enemy, M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master, was
attending Archibald Mackenzie: he learnt, that he was engaged to give
another lesson the next evening; and the plans of the confederates
in the ball-alley were arranged accordingly. In Dr. Campbell's room
Forester remembered to have seen a skeleton in a glass case; he seized
upon it, carried it down to his companions, and placed it in a niche in
the wall, on the landing-place of a flight of stone stairs down which
the dancing-master was obliged to go. A butcher's son (one of Forester's
new companions) he instructed to stand at a certain hour behind the
skeleton, with two rushlights, which he was to hold up to the eye-holes
in the skull.

The dancing-master's steps were heard approaching at the expected hour;
and the boys stood in ambush to enjoy the diversion of the sight. It was
a dark night; the fiery eyes of the skeleton glared suddenly upon the
dancing-master, who was so terrified at the spectacle, and in such haste
to escape, that his foot slipped, and he fell down the stone steps: his
ankle was sprained by the fall, and he was brought to Dr. Campbell's.
Forester was shocked at this tragical end of his intended comedy. The
poor man was laid upon a bed, and he writhed with pain. Forester, with
vehement expressions of concern, explained to Dr. Campbell the cause
of this accident, and he was much touched by the dancing-master's good
nature, who, between every twinge of pain, assured him that he should
soon be well, and endeavoured to avert Dr. Campbell's displeasure.
Forester sat beside the bed, reproaching himself bitterly; and he was
yet more sensible of his folly, when he heard, that the boys, whose
part he had hastily taken, had frequently amused themselves with playing
mischievous tricks upon this inoffensive man, who declared, that he had
never purposely kicked their marbles out of the ring, but had always
implored them to make way for him with all the civility in his power.

Forester resolved, that before he ever again attempted to do justice, he
would, at least, hear both sides of the question.



THE ALARM.


Forester would willingly have sat up all night with M. Pasgrave, to
foment his ankle from time to time, and, if possible, to assuage the
pain: but the man would not suffer him to sit up, and about twelve
o'clock he retired to rest. He had scarcely fallen asleep, when his
door opened, and Archibald Mackenzie roused him, by demanding, in
a peremptory tone, how he could sleep when the whole family were
frightened out of their wits by his pranks?

"Is the dancing-master worse? What's the matter?" exclaimed Forester in
great terror.

Archihald replied, that he was not talking or thinking about the
dancing-master, and desired Forester to make haste and dress himself,
and that he would then soon hear what was the matter.

Forester dressed himself as fast as he could, and followed Archibald
through a long passage, which led to a back staircase. "Do you hear the
noise?" said Archibald.

"Not I," said Forester.

"Well, you'll hear it plain enough presently," said Archibald: "follow
me down-stairs."

He followed, and was surprised, when he got into the hall, to find all
the family assembled. Lady Catherine had been awakened by a noise, which
she at first imagined to be the screaming of an infant. Her bedchamber
was on the ground floor, and adjoining to Dr. Campbell's laboratory,
from which the noise seemed to proceed. She awakened her son Archibald
and Mrs. Campbell; and, when she recovered her senses a little, she
listened to Dr. Campbell, who assured her, that what her ladyship
thought was the screaming of an infant was the noise of a cat: the
screams of this cat were terrible; and, when the light approached the
door of the laboratory, the animal flew at the door with so much fury,
that nobody could venture to open it. Every body looked at Forester, as
if they suspected that he had confined the cat, or that he was in some
way or other the cause of the disturbance. The cat, which, from his
having constantly fed and played with it, had grown extremely fond of
him, used to follow him often from room to room; and he now recollected,
that it followed him the preceding evening into the laboratory, when he
went to replace the skeleton. He had not observed whether it came out
of the room again, nor could he now conceive the cause of its yelling
in this horrible manner. The animal seemed to be mad with pain. Dr.
Campbell asked his son whether all the presses were locked. Henry said
he was sure they were all locked. It was his business to lock them every
evening; and he was so exact, that nobody doubted his accuracy.

Archibald Mackenzie, who all this time knew, or at least suspected the
truth, held himself in cunning silence. The preceding evening he, for
want of something to do, had strolled into the laboratory, and, with
the pure curiosity of idleness, peeped into the presses, and took the
stoppers out of several of the bottles. Dr. Campbell happened to come
in, and carelessly asked him if he had been looking in the presses; to
which question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive for telling a
falsehood, immediately replied in the negative. As the doctor turned his
head, Archibald put aside a bottle, which he had just before taken out
of the press; and, fearing that the noise of replacing the glass stopper
would betray him, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. How
much useless cunning! All this transaction was now fully present to
Archibald's memory: and he was well convinced that Henry had not seen
the bottle when he afterwards went to lock the presses; that the cat
had thrown it down; and that this was the cause of all the yelling that
disturbed the house. Archibald, however, kept his lips fast closed; he
had told one falsehood; he dreaded to have it discovered; and he hoped
the blame of the whole affair would rest upon Forester. At length the
animal flew with diminished fury at the door; its screams became feebler
and feebler, till, at last, they totally ceased. There was silence: Dr.
Campbell opened the door: the cat was seen stretched upon the ground,
apparently lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor animal, he
saw a twitching motion in one of its hind legs; Dr. Campbell said, that
it was the convulsion of death. Forester was just going to lift up his
cat, when his friend Henry stopped his hand, telling him, that he would
burn himself, if he touched it. The hair and flesh of the cat on one
side were burnt away, quite to the bone. Henry pointed to the broken
bottle, which, he said, had contained vitriolic acid.

Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the bottle of vitriolic acid
had been taken out of its place. Suspicion naturally fell upon Forester,
who, by his own account, was the last person in the room before
the presses had been locked for the night. Forester, in warm terms,
asserted, that he knew nothing of the matter. Dr. Campbell coolly
observed, that Forester ought not to be surprised at being suspected
upon this occasion; because every body had the greatest reason to
suspect the person, whom they had detected in one _practical joke,_ of
planning another.

"Joke!" said Forester, looking down upon his lifeless favourite; "do
you think me capable of such cruelty? Do you doubt my truth?" exclaimed
Forester, haughtily. "You are unjust. Turn me out of your house this
instant. I do not desire your protection, if I have forfeited your
esteem."

"Go to bed for to-night in my house," said Dr. Campbell; "moderate your
enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has passed."

Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a benevolent
smile, as he looked after him, "He wants nothing but a little common
sense. Henry, you must give him a little of yours."

In the morning, Forester first went to inquire how the dancing-master
had slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. Campbell's door.

"My father is not awake," said Henry; but Forester marched directly up
to the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain with no gentle
hand, cried, with a loud voice, "Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your
pardon. I was angry when I said you were unjust."

"And I was asleep when you begged my pardon," said Dr. Campbell, rubbing
his eyes.

"The dancing-master's ankle is a great deal better; and I have buried
the poor cat," pursued Forester: "and I hope now, doctor, you'll at
least tell me, that you do not really suspect me of any hand in her
death."

"Pray let me go to sleep," said Dr. Campbell, "and _time_ your
explanations a little better."



THE GERANIUM.


The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain; and Forester
spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin for him, as his had
been broken in his fall; his watch had likewise been broken against the
stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch as a useless bauble,
yet he determined to get this mended; and his friend Henry went with him
for this purpose to a watchmaker's.

Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with the watchmaker
upon the internal state of the bruised watch, Archibald Mackenzie, who
followed them _for a lounge_, was looking over some new watches, and
ardently wished for the finest that he saw. As he was playing with this
fine watch, the watchmaker begged that he would take care not to break
it.

Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak to a
_tradesman_, replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was able to
pay for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, "he had no doubt of that,
but that the watch was not his property; it was Sir Philip Gosling's,
who would call for it, he expected, in a quarter of an hour."

At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly changed his tone:
he had a great ambition to be of Sir Philip's acquaintance, for Sir
Philip was a young man who was to have a large fortune when he should
come of age, and who, in the meantime, spent as much of it as possible,
with great _spirit_ and little judgment. He had been sent to Edinburgh
for his education; and he spent his time in training horses, laying
bets, parading in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own
phrase, _quizzing_ every sensible young man, who applied to literature
or science. Sir Philip, whenever he frequented any of the professor's
classes, took care to make it evident to every body present, that he did
not come there to learn, and that he looked down with contempt upon
all who were _obliged_ to study; he was the first always to make any
disturbance in the classes, or, in his elegant language, _to make a
row_.

This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archibald Mackenzie was
ambitious. He stayed in the shop, in hopes that Sir Philip would arrive:
he was not disappointed; Sir Philip came, and, with address which
lady Catherine would perhaps have admired, Archibald entered into
conversation with the young baronet, if conversation that might be
called, which consisted of a species of fashionable dialect, devoid of
sense, and destitute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect
was absolutely unintelligible: after he had listened to it with sober
contempt for a few minutes, he pulled Henry away, saying, "Come, don't
let us waste our time here; let us go to the brewery that you promised
to show me."

Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of his indignant
friend, for at this instant the door of a little back parlour behind
the watchmaker's shop opened slowly, and a girl of about seven years old
appeared, carrying, with difficulty, a flower-pot, in which there was
a fine large geranium in full flower. Henry, who saw that the child
was scarcely able to carry it, took it out of her hands, and asked her,
"Where she would like to have it put?"

"Here, for to-day!" said the little girl, sorrowfully; "but to-morrow it
goes away for ever."

The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, because "she had
watched it all the winter," and said, "that she was very fond of it;
but that she was willing to part with it, though it was just come into
flower, because the apothecary had told her, that it was the cause of
her grandmother's having been taken ill. Her grandmother lodged," she
said, "in _that_ little room, and the room was very close, and she was
taken ill in the night--so ill, that she could hardly speak or stir; and
when the apothecary came, he said," continued the little girl, "it was
no wonder any body was ill, who slept in such a little close room, with
such a great geranium in it, _to poison the air_. So my geranium must
go!" concluded she with a sigh: "but, as it is for grandmother, I shall
never think of it again."

Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with the modest simplicity
of this child's countenance and manner, and they were pleased with the
unaffected generosity with which she gave up her favourite geranium.
Forester noted this down in his mind as a fresh instance in favour of
his _exclusive_ good opinion of the poor. This little girl looked
poor, though she was decently dressed; she was so thin, that her little
cheek-bones could plainly be seen; her face had not the round, rosy
beauty of cheerful health: she was pale and sallow, and she looked in
patient misery. Moved with compassion, Forester regretted that he had no
money to give where it might have been so well bestowed. He was always
_extravagant_ in his generosity; he would often give five guineas where
five shillings would have been enough, and by these means he reduced
himself to the necessity sometimes of refusing assistance to deserving
objects. On his journey from his father's house to Edinburgh, he
lavished, in undistinguishing charity, a considerable sum of money; and
all that he had remaining of this money he spent in purchasing the new
violin for M. Pasgrave. Dr. Campbell absolutely refused to advance his
ward any money till his next quarterly allowance should become due.
Henry, who always perceived quickly what passed in the minds of others,
guessed at Forester's thoughts by his countenance, and forebore to
produce his own money, though he had it just ready in his hand: he knew
that he could call again at the watchmaker's, and give what he pleased,
without ostentation.

Upon questioning the little girl further, concerning her grandmother's
illness, Henry discovered, that the old woman had sat up late at night
knitting, and that, feeling herself extremely cold, she got a pan of
charcoal into her room; that, soon afterwards, she felt uncommonly
drowsy; and when her little grand-daughter spoke to her, and asked her
why she did not come to bed, she made no answer: a few minutes after
this, she dropped from her chair. The child was extremely frightened,
and though she felt it very difficult to rouse herself, she said,
she got up as fast as she could, opened the door, and called to the
watchmaker's wife, who luckily had been at work late, and was now raking
the kitchen fire. With her assistance the old woman was brought into the
air, and presently returned to her senses: the pan of charcoal had been
taken away before the apothecary came in the morning; as he was in a
great hurry when he called, he made but few inquiries, and consequently
condemned the geranium without sufficient evidence. As he left the
house, he carelessly said, "My wife would like that geranium, I think."
And the poor old woman, who had but a very small fee to offer, was eager
to give any thing that seemed to please the _doctor_.

Forester, when he heard this story, burst into a contemptuous
exclamation against the meanness of this and of all other apothecaries.
Henry informed the little girl, that the charcoal had been the cause of
her grandmother's illness, and advised them never, upon any account, to
keep a pan of charcoal again in her bedchamber; he told her, that many
people had been killed by this practice. "Then," cried the little girl,
joyfully, "if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that made
grandmother ill, I may keep my beautiful geranium:" and she ran
immediately to gather some of the flowers, which she offered to Henry
and to Forester. Forester, who was still absorbed in the contemplation
of the apothecary's meanness, took the flowers, without perceiving that
he took them, and pulled them to pieces as he went on thinking. Henry,
when the little girl held the geraniums up to him, observed, that the
back of her hand was bruised and black; he asked her how she had hurt
herself, and she replied innocently, "that she had not hurt _herself_,
but that her schoolmistress was a very _strict_ woman." Forester,
roused from his reverie, desired to hear what the little girl meant by a
_strict_ woman, and she explained herself more fully: she said, that,
as a favour, her grandmother had obtained leave from some great lady to
send her to a charity school: that she went there every day to learn
to read and work, but that the mistress of the charity school used her
scholars very severely, and often kept them for hours, after they had
done their own _tasks_, to spin for her; and that she beat them if they
did not spin as much as she expected. The little girl's grandmother then
said, that she knew all this, but that she did not dare to complain,
because the schoolmistress was under the patronage of some of "the
grandest ladies in Edinburgh," and that, as she could not afford to pay
for her little lass's schooling, she was forced to have her taught as
well as she could _for nothing_.

Forester, fired with indignation at this history of injustice, resolved,
at all events, to stand forth immediately in the child's defence; but,
without staying to consider how the wrong could be redressed, he thought
only of the quickest, or, as he said, the most manly means of doing the
business: he declared, that if the little girl would show him the way to
the school, he would go that instant and speak to the woman in the midst
of all her scholars. Henry in vain represented that this would not be a
prudent mode of proceeding.

Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely to the power of his
own eloquence, he set out with the child, who seemed rather afraid to
come to open war with her tyrant. Henry was obliged to return home to
his father, who had usually business for him to do about this time. The
little girl had stayed at home on account of her grandmother's illness,
but all the other scholars were hard at work, spinning in a close room,
when Forester arrived.

He marched directly into the schoolroom. The wheels stopped at once on
his appearance, and the schoolmistress, a raw-boned, intrepid-looking
woman eyed him with amazement: he broke silence in the following
words:--

"Vile woman, your injustice is come to light! How can you dare to
tyrannize over these poor children? Is it because they are poor? Take my
advice, children, resist this tyrant, put by your wheels, and spin for
her no more."

The children did not move, and the schoolmistress poured out a torrent
of abuse in broad Scotch, which, to the English ear of Forester,
was unintelligible. At length she made him comprehend her principal
questions--Who he was? and by whose authority he interfered between her
and her scholars? "By nobody's authority," was Forester's answer; "I
want no authority to speak in the cause of injured innocence." No sooner
had the woman heard these words, than she called to her husband, who was
writing in an adjoining room: without further ceremony, they both seized
upon our hero, and turned him out of the house.

The woman revenged herself without mercy upon the little girl whom
Forester had attempted to defend, and dismissed her, with advice never
more to complain of being obliged to spin for her mistress.

Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise, Forester returned home,
attributing the failure of his eloquence chiefly to his ignorance of the
Scotch dialect.



THE CANARY BIRD


At his return, Forester heard, that all Dr. Campbell's family were
going that evening to visit a gentleman who had an excellent cabinet of
minerals. He had some desire to see the fossils; but when he came to
the gentleman's house, he soon found himself disturbed at the praises
bestowed by some ladies in company upon a little canary bird, which
belonged to the mistress of the house. He began to kick his feet
together, to hang first one arm and then the other over the back of his
chair, with the obvious expression of impatience and contempt in
his countenance. Henry Campbell, in the meantime, said, without any
embarrassment, just what he thought about the bird. Archibald Mackenzie,
with artificial admiration, said a vast deal more than he thought, in
hopes of effectually recommending himself to the lady of the house.
The lady told him the history of three birds, which had successively
inhabited the cage before the present occupier. "They all died,"
continued she, "in a most _extraordinary_ manner, one after another, in
a short space of time, in convulsions."

"Don't listen," whispered Forester, pulling Henry away from the crowd
who surrounded the bird-cage; "how can you listen, like that polite
hypocrite, to this foolish woman's history of her _extraordinary_
favourites? Come down-stairs with me, I want to tell you my adventure
with the schoolmistress; we can take a turn in the hall, and come back
before the cabinet of minerals is opened, and before these women have
finished the ceremony of tea. Come."

"I'll come presently," said Henry; "I really want to hear this."

Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of the lady's favourite
birds like a polite hypocrite, but like a good-natured sensible person;
the circumstances recalled to his memory the conversation that we
formerly mentioned, which began about pickled cucumbers, and ended with
Dr. Campbell's giving an account of the effects of some poisons. In
consequence of this conversation, Henry's attention had been turned to
the subject, and he had read several essays, which had informed him of
many curious facts. He recollected, in particular, to have met with
the account[2] of a bird that had been poisoned, and whose case bore a
strong resemblance to the present. He begged leave to examine the cage,
in order to discover whether there were any lead about it, with which
the birds could have poisoned themselves. No lead was to be found: he
next examined whether there were any white or green paint about it;
he inquired whence the water came which the birds had drunk; and he
examined the trough which held their seeds. The lady, whilst he was
pursuing these inquiries, said she was sure that the birds could not
have died either for want of air or exercise, for that she often left
the cage open on purpose, that they might fly about the room. Henry
immediately looked round the room, and at length he observed in an
inkstand, which stood upon a writing table, a number of wafers, which
were many of them chipped round the edges; upon sweeping out the
bird-cage, he found a few very small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds
and dust; he was now persuaded that the birds had eaten the wafers, and
that they had been poisoned by the red lead which they contained; he
was confirmed in this opinion, by being told, that the wafers had lately
been missed very frequently, and it had been imagined that they had been
used by the servants. Henry begged the lady would try an experiment,
which might probably save the life of her new favourite; the lady,
though she had never before tried an experiment, was easily prevailed
upon. She promised Henry that she would lock up the wafers; and he
prophesied that her bird would not, like his predecessors, come to an
untimely end. Archibald Mackenzie was vexed to observe, that knowledge
had in this instance _succeeded_ better, even with a lady, than
flattery. As for Forester, he would certainly have admired his friend
Henry's ingenuity, if he had been attending to what had passed; but he
had taken a book, and had seated himself in an arm-chair, which had been
placed on purpose for an old gentleman in company, and was deep in the
history of a man who had been cast away, some hundred years ago, upon a
desert island.

[Footnote 2: Falconer, on the Poison of Lead and Copper.]

He condescended, however, to put down his book when the fossils were
produced: and, as if he had just awakened from a dream, rubbed his eyes,
stretched himself, and joined the rest of the company. The malicious
Archibald, who observed that Forester had seated himself, through
absence of mind, in a place which prevented some of the ladies from
seeing the fossils, instantly made a parade of his own politeness,
to contrast himself advantageously with the rude negligence of his
companion; but Archibald's politeness was always particularly directed
to the persons in company whom he thought of the most importance. "You
can't see there," said Forester, suddenly rousing himself, and observing
that Dr. Campbell's daughter, Miss Flora Campbell, was standing behind
him; "had you not better sit down in this chair? I don't want it,
because I can see over your head; sit down." Archibald smiled at
Forester's simplicity, in paying his awkward compliment to the
young lady, who had, according to his mode of estimating, the least
pretensions to notice of any one present. Flora Campbell was neither
rich nor beautiful, but she had a happy mixture in her manners of
Scottish sprightliness and English reserve. She had an eager desire to
improve herself, whilst a nice sense of propriety taught her never to
intrude upon general notice, or to recede from conversation with airs
of counterfeit humility. Forester admired her abilities, because he
imagined that he was the only person who had ever discovered them; as
to her manners, he never observed these, but even whilst he ridiculed
politeness he was anxious to find out what she thought polite. After
he had told her all that he knew concerning the fossils, as they were
produced from the cabinet--and he was far from ignorant--he at length
perceived that she knew full as much of natural history as he did, and
he was surprised that a young lady should know so much, and should not
be conceited. Flora, however, soon sunk many degrees in his opinion;
for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was shut, some of the company
talked of a ball, which was to be given in a few days, and Flora, with
innocent gaiety, said to Forester, "Have you learnt to dance a Scotch
reel since you came to Scotland?" "_I!_" cried Forester with contempt;
"do you think it the height of human perfection to dance a Scotch
reel?--then that fine young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, will suit
you much better than I shall." And Forester returned to his arm-chair
and his desert island.



THE KEY.


It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company in such abrupt
displeasure at Flora Campbell's question, for had he borne the idea of
a Scotch reel more like a philosopher, he would have heard of something
interesting relative to the intended ball, if any thing relative to a
ball could be interesting to him. It was a charity-ball, for the benefit
of the mistress of the very charity-school[3] to which the little girl
with the bruised hand belonged. "Do you know," said Henry to Forester,
when they returned home, "that I have great hopes we shall be able
to get justice done to the poor children? I hope the tyrannical
schoolmistress may yet be punished. The lady, with whom we drank tea
yesterday is one of the patronesses of the charity-school."

[Footnote 3: There is no charity-school of this description in
Edinburgh; this cannot, therefore, be mistaken for private satire.]

"Lady patronesses!" cried Forester; "we need not expect justice from a
lady patroness, depend upon it, especially at a ball; her head will be
full of feathers, or some such things. I prophesy you will not succeed
better than I have."

The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter Henry from pursuing
a scheme which he had formed. The lady, who was the mistress of the
canary bird, came in a few days to visit his mother, and she told him
that his experiment had succeeded, that she had regularly locked up the
wafers, and that her favourite bird was in perfect health. "And what
fee, doctor," said she, smiling, "shall I give you for saving his life?"

"I will tell you in a few minutes," replied Henry; and in a few minutes
the little girl and her geranium were sent for, and appeared. Henry told
the lady all the circumstances of her story with so much feeling, and at
the same time with so much propriety, that she became interested in
the cause: she declared that she would do every thing in her power
to prevail upon the other ladies to examine into, the conduct of the
schoolmistress, and to have her dismissed immediately, if it should
appear that she had behaved improperly.

Forester, who was present at this declaration, was much astonished, that
a lady, whom he had seen caressing a canary-bird, could speak with
so much decision and good sense. Henry obtained his fee: he asked
and received permission to place the geranium in the middle of the
supper-table at the ball; and he begged that the lady would take an
opportunity, at supper, to mention the circumstances which he had
related to her; but this she declined, and politely said, that she was
sure Henry would tell the story much better than she could.

"Come out and walk with me," said Forester to Henry, as soon as the lady
was gone. Henry frequently left his occupations with great good-nature,
to accompany our hero in his rambles, and he usually followed the
subjects of conversation which Forester started. He saw, by the gravity
of his countenance, that he had something of importance revolving in his
mind. After he had proceeded in silence for some time along the walk,
under the high rock called Arthur's Seat, he suddenly stopped, and,
turning to Henry, exclaimed, "I esteem you; do not make me despise you!"

"I hope I never shall," said Henry, a little surprised by his friend's
manner; "what is the matter?"

"Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty artifices, and supple
address, to such people as Archibald Mackenzie," pursued Forester, with
enthusiasm:

     "Who noble ends by noble means pursues--"
     "Will scorn canary birds, and _cobble shoes_,"

Replied Henry, laughing; "I see no meanness in my conduct: I do not know
what it is you disapprove."

"I do not approve," said Forester, "of your having recourse to _mean
address_ to obtain justice."

Henry requested to know what his severe friend meant by _address_; but
this was not easily explained. Forester, in his definition of _mean
address_, included all that attention to the feelings of others, all
those honest arts of pleasing, which make society agreeable. Henry
endeavoured to convince him, that it was possible for a person to wish
to please, nay, even to succeed in that wish, without being insincere.
Their argument and their walk continued, till Henry, who, though very
active, was not quite so robust as his friend, was completely tired,
especially as he perceived that Forester's opinions remained unshaken.

"How effeminate you _gentlemen_ are!" cried Forester: "see what it is to
be brought up in the lap of luxury. Why, I am not at all tired; I could
walk a dozen miles further, without being in the least fatigued!"

Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to walk a number of
miles without being fatigued, but he did not consider it as the highest
perfection of human nature. In his friend's present mood, nothing less
could content him, and Forester went on to demonstrate to the weary
Henry, that all fortitude, all courage, and all the manly virtues, were
inseparably connected with _pedestrian indefatigability_. Henry, with
good-natured presence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have
called _mean address_, diverted our hero's rising indignation by
proposing that they should both go and look at the large brewery which
was in their way home, and with which Forester would, he thought, be
entertained.

The brewery fortunately turned the course of Forester's thoughts, and,
instead of quarrelling with his friend for being tired, he condescended
to postpone all further debate. Forester had, from his childhood, a
habit of twirling a key, whenever he was thinking intently: the key had
been produced, and had been twirling upon its accustomed thumb during
the argument upon address; and it was still in Forester's hand when they
went into the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was essential
to his power of attending; at length, as he stopped to view a large
brewing vat, the key unluckily slipped from his thumb, and fell to the
bottom of the vat: it was so deep, that the tinkling sound of the key,
as it touched the bottom, was scarcely heard. A young man who belonged
to the brewery immediately descended by a ladder into the vat, to get
the key, but scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down
senseless. Henry Campbell was speaking to one of the clerks of the
brewery when this accident happened: a man came running to them with the
news, "The vat has not been cleaned; it's full of bad air." "Draw him
up, let down a hook and cords for him instantly, or he's a dead man,"
cried Henry, and he instantly ran to the place. What was his terror,
when he beheld Forester descending the ladder! He called to him to stop;
he assured him that the man could be saved without his hazarding his
life: but Forester persisted; he had one end of a cord in his hand,
which he said he could fasten in an instant round the man's body. There
was a skylight nearly over the vat, so that the light fell directly upon
the bottom.

Henry saw his friend reach the last step of the ladder. As Forester
stooped to put the rope round the shoulders of the man, who lay
insensible at the bottom of the vat, a sudden air of idiocy came over
his animated countenance; his limbs seemed no longer to obey his will;
his arms dropped, and he fell insensible.

The spectators, who were looking down from above, were so much
terrified, that they could not decide to do any thing; some cried,
"It's all over with him! Why would he go down?" Others ran to procure
a hook--others called to him to take up the rope again, if he possibly
could: but Forester could not hear or understand them, Henry Campbell
was the only person who, in this scene of danger and confusion, had
sufficient presence of mind to be of service.

Near the large vat, into which Forester had descended, there was a
cistern of cold water. Henry seized a bucket, which was floating in
the cistern, filled it with water, and emptied the water into the vat,
dashing it against the sides, to disperse the water, and to displace
the mephitic air[4], He called to the people, who surrounded him,
for assistance; the water expelled the air; and, when it was safe to
descend, Henry instantly went down the ladder himself, and fastened the
cord round Forester, who was quite helpless.

[Footnote 4: Carbonic acid gas.]

"Draw him up!" said Henry, They drew him up. Henry fastened another cord
round the body of the other man, who lay at the bottom of the vessel,
and he was taken up in the same manner. Forester soon returned to his
senses, when he was carried into the air; it was with more difficulty
that the other man, whose animation had been longer suspended, was
recovered; at length, however, by proper application, his lungs played
freely, he stretched himself, looked round upon the people who were
about him with an air of astonishment, and was some time before he
could recollect what had happened to him. Forester, as soon as he had
recovered the use of his understanding, was in extreme anxiety to know
whether the poor man, who went down for his key, had been saved. His
gratitude to Henry, when he heard all that had passed, was expressed in
the most enthusiastic manner.

"I acted like a madman, and you like a man of sense," said Forester.
"You always know how to do good: I do mischief, whenever I attempt to
do good. But now, don't expect, Henry, that I should give up any of my
opinions to you, because you have saved my life. I shall always argue
with you just as I did before. Remember, I despise _address_, I don't
yield a single point to you. Gratitude shall never make me a sycophant."



THE FLOWERPOT.


Eager to prove that he was not a sycophant, Forester, when he returned
home with his friend Henry, took every possible occasion to contradict
him, with even more than his customary rigidity; nay, he went further
still, to vindicate his sincerity.

Flora Campbell had never entirely recovered our hero's esteem, since she
had unwittingly expressed her love for Scotch reels; but she was happily
unconscious of the crime she had committed, and was wholly intent upon
pleasing her father and mother, her brother Henry, and herself. She had
a constant flow of good spirits, and the charming domestic talent of
making every trifle a source of amusement to herself and others: she
was sprightly, without being frivolous; and the uniform sweetness of
her temper showed, that she was not in the least in want of flattery, or
dissipation, to support her gaiety. But Forester, as the friend of her
brother, thought it incumbent upon him to discover faults in her which
no one else could discover, and to assist in her education, though she
was only one year younger than himself. She had amused herself, the
morning that Forester and her brother were at the brewery, with painting
a pasteboard covering for the flower-pot which held the poor little
girl's geranium. Flora had heard from her brother of his intention
to place it in the middle of the supper-table, at the ball; and she
flattered herself, that he would like to see it ornamented by her hands
at his return. She produced it after dinner. Henry thanked her, and
her father and mother were pleased to see her eagerness to oblige her
brother. The cynical Forester alone refused his sympathy. He looked at
the flower-pot with marked disdain. Archibald, who delighted to contrast
himself with the unpolished Forester, and who remarked that Flora and
her brother were both somewhat surprised at his unsociable silence,
slyly said, "There's something in this flower-pot Miss Campbell, which
does not suit Mr. Forester's correct taste; I wish he would allow us to
profit by his criticisms."

Forester vouchsafed not a reply.

"Don't you like it, Forester?" said Henry.

"No, he does not like it," said Flora, smiling; "don't force him to say
that he does."

"Force me to say I like what I don't like!" repeated Forester; "no, I
defy any body to do that."

"But why," said Dr. Campbell, laughing, "why such a waste of energy
and magnanimity about a trifle? If you were upon your trial for life or
death, Mr. Forester, you could not look more resolutely guarded--more as
if you had 'worked up each corporal agent' to the terrible feat!"

"Sir," said Forester, who bore the laugh that was raised against him
with the air of a martyr, "I can bear even your ridicule in the cause
of truth." The laugh continued at the solemnity with which he pronounced
these words. "I think," pursued Forester, "that those who do not respect
truth in trifles, will never respect it in matters of consequence."

Archibald Mackenzie laughed more loudly, and with affectation, at this
speech: Henry and Dr. Campbell's laughter instantly ceased.

"Do not mistake us," said Dr. Campbell; "we did not laugh at your
principles, we only laughed at your manner."

"And are not principles of rather more consequence than manners?"

"Of infinitely more consequence," said Dr. Campbell: "but why, to
excellent principles, may we not add agreeable manners? Why should not
truth be amiable, as well as respectable? You, who have such enlarged
views for the good of the whole human race, are, I make no doubt,
desirous that your fellow-creatures should love truth, as well as you
love it yourself."

"Certainly, I wish they did," said Forester.

"And have your observations upon the feelings of others, and upon your
own, led you to conclude, that we are most apt to like those things
which always give us pain? And do you, upon this principle, wish to make
truth as painful as possible, in order to increase our love for it?"

"I don't wish to make truth painful," said Forester; "but, at the same
time, it is not my fault if people can't bear pain. I think people who
can't bear pain, both of body and mind, cannot be good for any thing;
for, in the first place, they will always," said Forester, glancing his
eye at Flora and her flower-pot,--"they will always prefer flattery to
truth, as all weak people do."

At this sarcastic reflection, which seemed to be aimed at the sex, Lady
Catherine, Mrs. Campbell, and all the ladies present, except Flora,
began to speak at once in their own vindication.

As soon as there was any prospect of peace, Dr. Campbell resumed his
argument in the calmest voice imaginable.

"But, Mr. Forester, without troubling ourselves for the present with
the affairs of the ladies, or of weak people, may I ask what degree
of unnecessary pain you think it the duty of a strong person, a moral
Samson, to bear?"

"Unnecessary pain! I do not think it is any body's duty to bear
_unnecessary_ pain."

"Nor to make others bear it?"

"Nor to make others bear it."

"Then we need argue no further. I congratulate you, Mr. Forester, upon
your becoming so soon a proselyte to politeness."

"To politeness!" said Forester, starting back.

"Yes, my good sir; real politeness only teaches us to save others
from _unnecessary pain_; and _this_ you have just allowed to be your
wish.--And now for the grand affair of Flora's flower-pot. You are not
bound by politeness to tell any falsehoods; weak as she is, and a woman,
I hope she can bear to hear the painful truth upon such an important
occasion."

"Why," said Forester, who at last suffered his features to relax into a
smile, "the truth then is, that I don't know whether the flower-pot be
pretty or ugly, but I was determined not to say it was pretty."

"But why," said Henry, "did you look so heroically severe about the
matter?"

"The reason I looked grave," said Forester, "was, because I was afraid
your sister Flora would be spoiled by all the foolish compliments that
were paid to her and her flower-pot."

"You are very considerate; and Flora, I am sure, is much obliged to
you," said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "for being so clear-sighted to the
dangers of female vanity. You would not then, with a safe conscience,
trust the completion of her education to her mother, or to myself?"

"I am sure, sir," said Forester, who now, for the first time, seemed
sensible that he had not spoken with perfect propriety, "I would not
interfere impertinently for the world. You are the best judges; only I
thought parents were apt to be partial. Henry has saved my life, and I
am interested for every thing that belongs to him. So I hope, if I
said any thing rude, you will attribute it to a good motive. I wish the
flower-pot had never made its appearance, for it has made me appear very
impertinent."

Flora laughed with so much good humour at this odd method of expressing
his contrition, that even Forester acknowledged the influence of
engaging manners and sweetness of temper. He lifted up the flower-pot,
so as completely to screen his face, and, whilst he appeared to be
examining it, he said, in a low voice, to Henry, "She is above the
foibles of her sex."

"Oh, Mr. Forester, take care!" cried Flora.

"Of what?" said Forester, starting.

"It is too late now," said Flora.

And it was too late. Forester, in his awkward manner of lifting the
flower-pot and its painted case, had put his thumbs into the mould, with
which the flower-pot had been newly filled. It was quite soft and wet.
Flora, when she called to him, saw the two black thumbs just ready to
stamp themselves upon her work, and her warning only accelerated its
fate; for, the instant she spoke, the thumbs closed upon the painted
covering, and Forester was the last to perceive the mischief that he had
done.

There was no possibility of effacing the stains, nor was there time
to repair the damage, for the ball was to commence in a few hours, and
Flora was obliged to send her disfigured work, without having had the
satisfaction of hearing the ejaculation which Forester pronounced in her
praise behind the flower-pot.



THE BALL.


Henry seized the moment when Forester was softened by the mixed effect
of Dr. Campbell's raillery and Flora's good humour, to persuade him,
that it would be perfectly consistent with sound philosophy to dress
himself for a ball, nay, even to dance a country-dance. The word _reel_,
to which Forester had taken a dislike, Henry prudently forbore to
mention; and Flora, observing, and artfully imitating her brother's
prudence, substituted the word _hays_ instead of _reels_ in her
conversation. When all the party were ready to go to the ball, and the
carriages at the door, Forester was in Dr. Campbell's study, reading the
natural history of the elephant.

"Come," said Henry, who had been searching for him all over the house,
"we are waiting for you; I'm glad to see you dressed--come!"

"I wish you would leave me behind," said Forester, who seemed to have
relapsed into his former unsociable humour, from having been left
half an hour in his beloved solitude; nor would Henry probably have
prevailed, if he had not pointed to the print of the elephant[5]. "That
mighty animal, you see, is so docile, that he lets himself be guided by
a young boy," said Henry; "and so must you."

[Footnote 5: Cabinet of Quadrupeds.]

As he spoke he pulled Forester gently, who thought he could not
show less docility than his favourite animal. When they entered the
ball-room, Archibald Mackenzie asked Flora to dance, whilst Forester was
considering where he should put his hat. "Are you going to dance without
me? I thought I had asked you to dance with me. I intended it all the
time we were coming in the coach."

Flora thanked him for his kind intentions; whilst Archibald, with a look
of triumph, hurried his partner away, and the dance began. Forester saw
this transaction in the most serious light, and it afforded him subject
for meditation till at least half a dozen country-dances had been
finished. In vain the Berwick Jockey, the Highland Laddie, and the
Flowers of Edinburgh, were played; "they suited not the gloomy habit" of
his soul. He fixed himself behind a pillar, proof against music, mirth,
and sympathy: he looked upon the dancers with a cynical eye. At length
he found an amusement that gratified his present splenetic humour; he
applied both his hands to his ears, effectually to stop out the sound of
the music, that he might enjoy the ridiculous spectacle of a number of
people capering about, without any apparent motive. Forester's attitude
caught the attention of some of the company; indeed, it was strikingly
awkward. His elbows stuck out from his ears, and his head was sunk
beneath his shoulders. Archibald Mackenzie was delighted beyond measure
at his figure, and pointed him out to his acquaintance with all possible
expedition. The laugh and the whisper circulated with rapidity. Henry,
who was dancing, did not perceive what was going on till his partner
said to him, "Pray, who is that strange mortal?"

"My friend," cried Henry: "will you excuse me for one instant?" And he
ran up to Forester, and roused him from his singular attitude. "He is,"
continued Henry, as he returned to his partner, "an excellent young
man, and he has superior abilities; we must not quarrel with him for
trifles."

With what different eyes different people behold the same objects!
Whilst Forester had been stopping his ears, Dr. Campbell, who had more
of the nature of the laughing than of the weeping philosopher, had found
much benevolent pleasure in contemplating the festive scene. Not that
any folly or ridicule escaped his keen penetration; but he saw every
thing with an indulgent eye, and, if he laughed, laughed in such a
manner, that even those who were the objects of his pleasantry could
scarcely have forborne to sympathize in his mirth. Folly, he thought,
could be as effectually corrected by the tickling of a feather, as by
the lash of the satirist. When Lady Margaret M'Gregor, and Lady Mary
Macintosh, for instance, had almost forced their unhappy partners into a
quarrel to support their respective claims to precedency, Dr. Campbell,
who was appealed to as the relation of both the furious fair ones,
decided the difference expeditiously, and much to the amusement of the
company, by observing, that, as the pretensions of each of the ladies
were incontrovertible, and precisely balanced, there was but one
possible method of adjusting their precedency--by their age. He was
convinced, he said, that the youngest lady would with pleasure yield
precedency to the elder. The contest was now, which should stand the
lowest, instead of which should stand the highest, in the dance: and
when the proofs of seniority could not be settled, the fair ones drew
lots for their places, and submitted that to chance which could not be
determined by prudence.

Forester stood beside Dr. Campbell whilst all this passed, and wasted
a considerable portion of virtuous indignation upon the occasion. "And
look at that absurd creature!" exclaimed Forester, pointing out to Dr.
Campbell a girl who was footing and pounding for fame at a prodigious
rate. Dr. Campbell turned from the pounding lady to observe his own
daughter Flora, and a smile of delight came over his countenance:
for "_parents are apt to be partial_"--especially those who have such
daughters as Flora. Her light figure and graceful agility attracted the
attention even of many impartial spectators; but she was not intent upon
admiration: she seemed to be dancing in the gaiety of her heart; and
that was a species of gaiety in which every one sympathized, because it
was natural, and of which every one approved, because it was innocent.
There was a certain delicacy mixed with her sportive humour, which
seemed to govern, without restraining, the tide of her spirits. Her
father's eye was following her as she danced to a lively Scotch tune,
when Forester pulled Dr. Campbell's cane, on which he was leaning,
and exclaimed, "Doctor, I've just thought of an excellent plan for a
tragedy!"

"A tragedy!" repeated Dr. Campbell, with unfeigned surprise; "are you
sure you don't mean a comedy?"

Forester persisted that he meant a tragedy, and was proceeding to open
the plot. "Don't force me to your tragedy now," said Dr. Campbell, "or
it will infallibly be condemned. I cannot say that I have my _buskin_
on! and I advise you to take yours off. Look, is that the tragic muse?"

Forester was astonished to find, that so great a man as Dr. Campbell
had so little the power of abstraction; and he retired to muse upon the
opening of his tragedy in a recess under the music gallery. But here he
was not suffered long to remain undisturbed; for, near this spot, Sir
Philip Gosling presently stationed himself; Archibald Mackenzie, who
left off dancing as soon as Sir Philip entered the room, came to the
half-intoxicated baronet; and they, with some other young men, worthy
of their acquaintance, began so loud a contest concerning the number
of bottles of claret which a man might, could, or should drink at a
sitting, that even Forester's powers of abstraction failed, and his
tragic muse took her flight.

"Supper! Supper! thank God!" exclaimed Sir Philip, as supper was now
announced. "I'd never set my foot in a ballroom," added he, with several
suitable oaths, "if it were not for the supper."

"Is that a rational being?" cried Forester to Dr. Campbell, after Sir
Philip had passed them.

"Speak a little lower," said Dr. Campbell, "or he will infallibly prove
his title to rationality by shooting you, or by making you shoot him,
through the head."

"But, sir," said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, whilst all the
rest of the company were going down to supper, "how can you bear such a
number of foolish, disagreeable people with patience?"

"What would you have me do?" said Dr. Campbell. "Would you have me get
up and preach in the middle of a ball-room? Is it not as well, since we
are here, to amuse ourselves with whatever can afford us any amusement,
and to keep in good humour with all the world, especially with
ourselves?--and had we not better follow the crowd to supper?"

Forester went down-stairs; but, as he crossed an antechamber, which
led to the supper-room, he exclaimed, "If I were a legislator, I would
prohibit balls."

"And if you were a legislator," said Dr. Campbell, pointing to a
tea-kettle, which was on the fire in the antechamber, and from the spout
of which a grey cloud of vapour issued--"if you were a legislator, would
not you have stoppers wedged tight into the spouts of all tea-kettles in
your dominions?"

"No, sir," said Forester; "they would burst."

"And do you think that folly would not burst, and do more mischief than
a tea-kettle in the explosion, if you confined it so tight?"

Forester would willingly have stayed in the antechamber, to begin a
critical dissection of this allusion; but Dr. Campbell carried him
forwards into the supper-room. Flora had kept a seat for her father; and
Henry met them at the door.

"I was just coming to see for you, sir," said he to his father. "Flora
began to think you were lost."

"No," said Dr. Campbell, "I was only detained by a would-be Cato, who
wanted me to quarrel with the whole world, instead of eating my supper.
What would you advise me to eat, Flora?" said he, seating himself beside
her.

"Some of this trifle, papa;" and as she lightly removed the flowers with
which it was ornamented, her father said, "Yes, give me some trifle,
Flora. Some characters are like that trifle--flowers and light froth at
the top, and solid, good sweetmeat, beneath."

Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some trifle. "But I
don't see any use in the flowers, sir," said he.

"Nor any beauty," said Dr. Campbell.

Forester picked the _troublesome_ flowers out of his trifle, and ate a
quantity of it sufficient for a Stoic. Towards the end of the supper, he
took some notice of Henry, who had made several ineffectual efforts to
amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as seemed to suit the time and
place. Time and place were never taken into Forester's consideration: he
was secretly displeased with his friend Henry for having danced all the
evening instead of sitting still; and he looked at Henry's partner with
a scrutinizing eye. "So," said he, at last, "I observe I have not been
thought worthy of your conversation to-night: this is what _gentlemen,
polite gentlemen_, who dance _reels_, call friendship!"

"If I had thought that you would have taken it ill I should dance
reels," said Henry, laughing, "I would have made the sacrifice of a
reel at the altar of friendship; but we don't come to a ball to make
sacrifices to friendship, but to divert ourselves."

"If we can," said Forester, sarcastically: here he was prevented from
reproaching his friend any longer, for a party of gentlemen began to
sing catches, at the desire of the rest of the company.

Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsensical words that were
sung; and he was composing an essay upon the power of the ancient bards,
and the effect of national music, when Flora's voice interrupted him:
"Brother," said she, "I have won my wager." The wager was, that Forester
would not during supper observe the geranium that was placed in the
middle of the table.

As soon as the company were satisfied, both with their supper and their
songs, Henry, whose mind was always _present_, seized the moment when
there was silence to turn the attention of the company towards the
object upon which his own thoughts were intent. The lady-patroness, the
mistress of the canary-bird, had performed her promise: she had spoken
to several of her acquaintance concerning the tyrannical schoolmistress;
and now, fixing the attention of the company upon the geranium, she
appealed to Henry Campbell, and begged him to explain its history. A
number of eager eyes turned upon him instantly; and Forester felt, that
if he had been called upon in such a manner he could not have uttered
a syllable. He now felt the great advantage of being able to speak,
without hesitation or embarrassment, before numbers. When Henry related
the poor little girl's story, his language and manner were so unaffected
and agreeable, that he interested every one who heard him in his
cause. A subscription was immediately raised; every body was eager to
contribute something to the child, who had been so ready, for her old
grandmother's sake, to part with her favourite geranium. The lady who
superintended the charity-school agreed to breakfast the next morning at
Dr. Campbell's, and to go from his house to the school precisely at the
hour when the schoolmistress usually set her unfortunate scholars to
their extra task of spinning.

Forester was astonished at all this; he did not consider that negligence
and inhumanity are widely different. The lady-patronesses had,
perhaps, been rather negligent in contenting themselves with seeing the
charity-children _show well_ in procession to Church, and they had not
sufficiently inquired into the conduct of the schoolmistress; but, as
soon as the facts were properly stated, the ladies were eager to exert
themselves, and candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in
trusting so much to the reports of the superficial visitors, who had
always declared that the school was going on perfectly well.

"More people who are in the wrong," said Dr. Campbell to Forester,
"would be corrected, if some people who are in the right had a little
candour and patience joined to their other virtues."

As the company rose from the supper-table, several young ladies gathered
round the geranium to admire Flora's pretty flower-pot. The black
stains, however, struck every eye. Forester was standing by rather
embarrassed. Flora, with her usual good-nature, refrained from all
explanation, though the exclamations of "How was that done?"--"Who could
have done that?" were frequently repeated.

"It was an accident," said Flora; and, to change the conversation, she
praised the beauty of the geranium; she gathered one of the fragrant
leaves, but, as she was going to put it amongst the flowers in her
bosom, she observed she had dropped her moss-rose. It was a rarity at
this time of year: it was a rose which Henry Camphell had raised in a
conservatory of his own construction.

"Oh, my brother's beautiful rose!" exclaimed Flora.

Forester, who had been much pleased by her good-nature about the stains
on the flower-pot, now, contrary to his habits, sympathized with her
concern for the loss of her brother's moss-rose. He even exerted himself
so far as to search under the benches and under the supper-table. He
was fortunate enough to find it; and eager to restore the prize, he
with more than his usual gallantry, but not with less than his customary
awkwardness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his body
over a bench, pushed his arm between two young ladies into the midst
of the group which surrounded Flora. As his arm extended his wrist
appeared, and at the sight of that wrist all the young ladies shrank
back, with unequivocal tokens of disgust. They whispered--they tittered;
and many expressive looks were lost upon our hero, who still resolutely
held out the hand upon which every eye was fixed. "Here's your rose! Is
not this the rose?" said he, still advancing the dreaded hand to Flora,
whose hesitation and blushes surprised him. Mackenzie burst into a loud
laugh; and in a whisper, which all the ladies could hear, told Forester,
that "Miss Campbell was afraid to take the rose out of his hands, lest
she should catch from him what he had caught from the carter who
had brought him to Edinburgh, or from some of his companions at the
cobbler's."

Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the bench, rushed
between Flora and another lady, made towards the door in a straight
line, pushing every thing before him, till a passage was made for him by
the astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if he had been a mad
dog.

"Forester!" cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who were standing upon the
steps before the door, speaking about the carriages, "what's the matter?
where are you going? The carriage is coming to the door."

"I had rather walk--don't speak to me," said Forester; "I've been
insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command myself. I did not knock
him down. Pray let me pass!"

Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the strength of an
enraged animal from his keepers; and he must have found his way home by
instinct, for he ran on without considering how he went. He snatched the
light from the servant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell's--hurried
to his own apartment--locked, double-locked, and bolted the door--flung
himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, "Thank God! I've
done no mischief. Thank God! I didn't knock him down. Thank God! he
is out of my sight, and I am cool now--quite cool: let me recollect it
all."

Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile his pride to
his present circumstances. "Archibald spoke the truth--why am I angry?
why _was_ I angry, I mean!" He reasoned much with himself upon the
nature of true and false shame: he represented to himself that the
disorder which disfigured his hands was thought shameful only because it
was _vulgar_; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral; that the
young tittering ladies who shrunk back from him were not supreme judges
of right and wrong; that he ought to despise their opinions, and he
despised them with all his might for two or three hours, as he walked
up and down his room with unremitting energy. At length our peripatetic
philosopher threw himself upon his bed, determined that his repose
should not be disturbed by such trifles: he had by this time worked
himself up to such a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could
with composure meet the disapproving eyes of millions of his
fellow-creatures; but he was alone when he formed this erroneous
estimate of the strength of the human mind. Wearied with passion and
reason, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was continually presenting
flowers, which nobody would accept; awakened at the imaginary repetition
of Archibald's laugh, composed himself again to sleep, and dreamed that
he was in a glover's shop, trying on gloves, and that, amongst a hundred
pair which he pulled on, he could not find one that would fit him.
Just as he tore the last pair in his hurry, he awakened, shook off his
foolish dream, saw the sun rising between two chimneys many feet below
his windows, recollected that in a short time he should be summoned to
breakfast, that all the lady-patronesses were to be at this breakfast,
that he could not breakfast in gloves, that Archibald would perhaps
again laugh, and Flora perhaps again shrink back. He reproached himself
for his weakness in foreseeing and dreading this scene: his aversion to
lady-patronesses and to balls was never at a more formidable height; he
sighed for liberty and independence, which he persuaded himself were
not to be had in his present situation. In one of his long walks he
remembered to have seen, at some miles' distance from the town of
Edinburgh, a gardener and his boy, who were singing at their work.
These men appeared to Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler, who
formerly was the object of his admiration; and he was persuaded that he
should be much happier at the gardener's cottage than he could ever be
at Dr. Campbell's house.

"I am not fit," said he to himself, "to live amongst _idle gentlemen_
and _ladies_; I should be happy if I were a useful member of society;
a gardener is a useful member of society, and I will be a gardener, and
live with gardeners."

Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn the preceding night at
the fatal ball, dressed himself in his old coat, tied up a small bundle
of linen, and took the road to the gardener's.



BREAKFAST.


When Henry found that Forester was not in his room in the morning, he
concluded that he had rambled out towards Salisbury Craigs, whither he
talked the preceding day of going to botanize.

"I am surprised," said Dr. Campbell, "that the young gentleman is out
so early, for I have a notion that he has not had much sleep since we
parted, unless he walks in his sleep, for he has been walking over my
poor head half the night."

Breakfast went on--no Forester appeared. Lady Catherine began to fear
that he had broken his neck upon Salisbury Craigs, and related all the
falls she had ever had, or had ever been near having, in carriages,
on horseback, or otherwise. She then entered into the geography of
Salisbury Craigs, and began to dispute upon the probability of his
having fallen to the east or to the west.

"My dear Lady Catherine," said Dr. Campbell, "we are not sure that he
has been upon Salisbury Craigs; whether he has fallen to the east or to
the west, we cannot, therefore, conveniently settle."

But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination travelled fast, went on
to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to whom the great Forester estate would
go in case of any accident having happened or happening to the young
gentleman before he should come of age.

Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satisfaction upon this
point, when a servant put a letter into his hands. Henry looked in great
anxiety. Dr. Campbell glanced his eye over the letter, put it into
his pocket, and desired the servant to show the person who brought the
letter into his study.

"It's only a little boy," said Archibald; "I saw him as I passed through
the hall."

"Cannot a little boy go into my study?" said Dr. Campbell, coolly.

Archibald's curiosity was strongly excited, and he slipped out of the
room a few minutes afterward, resolved to speak to the boy, and to
discover the purpose of his embassy. But Dr. Campbell was behind him
before he was aware of his approach, and just as Archibald began to
cross-examine the boy in these words, "So you came from a young man who
is about my size?" Dr. Campbell put both his hands upon his shoulders,
saying, "He came from a young man who does not in the least resemble
you, believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie."

Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed by the civilly
contemptuous look with which Dr. Campbell pronounced these words, that
he retired from the study without even attempting any of his usual
equivocating apologies for his intrusion. Dr. Campbell now read
Forester's letter. It was as follows:--

"Dear Sir,

"Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I am not insensible of
your kindness. For the step I have taken, I can offer no apology merely
to my guardian; but you have treated me, Dr. Campbell, as your friend,
and I shall lay my whole soul open to you.

"Notwithstanding your kindness,--notwithstanding the friendship of
your son Henry, whose excellent qualities I know how to value,--I most
ingenuously own to you that I have been far from happy in your house. I
feel that I cannot be at ease in the vortex of dissipation; and the more
I see of the higher ranks of society, the more I regret that I was _born
a gentleman_. Neither my birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain
me from pursuing that line of life which, I am persuaded, leads to
virtue and tranquillity. Let those who have no virtuous indignation obey
the voice of fashion, and at her commands let her slaves eat the bread
of idleness till it palls upon the sense! I reproach myself with having
yielded, as I have done of late, my opinions to the persuasions of
friendship; my mind has become enervated, and I must fly from the
fatal contagion. Thank Heaven, I have yet the power to fly: I have yet
sufficient force to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the mental
degeneracy of the base monarch, who hugged his fetters because they were
of gold.

"I am conscious of powers that fit me for something better than to waste
my existence in a ball-room; and I will not sacrifice my liberty to
the absurd ceremonies of daily dissipation. I, that have been the
laughing-stock of the mean and frivolous, have yet sufficient manly
pride, unextinguished in my breast, to assert my claim to your esteem:
to assert, that I never have committed, or shall designedly commit, any
action unworthy of the friend of your son.

"I do not write to Henry, lest I should any way involve him in my
misfortunes: he is formed to shine in the _polite_ world, and his
connexion with me might tarnish the lustre of his character in the eyes
of the '_nice-judging fair_.' I hope, however, that he will not utterly
discard me from his heart, though I cannot dance a reel. I beg that he
will break open the lock of the trunk that is in my room, and take out
of it my Goldsmith's Animated Nature, which he seemed to like.

"In my table-drawer there are my Martyn's Letters on Botany, in which
you will find a number of plants that I have dried for Flora--_Miss_
Flora Campbell, I should say. After what passed last night, I can
scarcely _hope_ they will be accepted. I would rather have them burned
than refused; therefore please to burn them, and say nothing more upon
the subject. Dear sir, do not judge harshly of me; I have had a severe
conflict with myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would
rather that you should judge of me with severity than that you should
extend to me the same species of indulgence with which you last night
viewed the half-intoxicated baronet.

"I can bear any thing but contempt.

"Yours, &c.

"P.S. I trust that you will not question the bearer; he knows where I
am; I therefore put you on your guard. I mean to earn my own bread as
a gardener; I have always preferred the agricultural to the commercial
system."

To this letter, in which the mixture of sense and extravagance did not
much surprise Dr. Campbell, he returned the following answer:--

"My dear cobbler, gardener, orator, or by whatever other name you choose
to be addressed, I am too old to be surprised at any thing, otherwise I
might have been rather surprised at some things in your eloquent letter.
You tell me that you have the power to fly, and that you do not hug your
chains, though they are of gold! Are you an alderman, or Daedalus? or
are these only figures of speech? You inform me, that you cannot live
in the vortex of dissipation, or eat the bread of idleness, and that you
are determined to be a gardener. These things seem to have no necessary
connexion with each other. Why you should reproach yourself so bitterly
for having spent one evening of your life in a ball-room, which I
suppose is what you allude to when you speak of a vortex of dissipation,
I am at a loss to discover. And why you cannot, with so much honest
pride yet unextinguished in your breast, find any occupation more worthy
of your talents, and as useful to society, as that of a gardener, I own,
puzzles me a little. Consider these things coolly; return to dinner, and
we will compare at our leisure the advantages of the mercantile and
the agricultural system. I forbear to question your messenger, as you
desire; and I shall not show your letter to Henry till after we have
dined. I hope by that time you will insist upon my burning it; which,
at your request, I shall do with pleasure, although it contains several
good sentences. As I am not yet sure you have _departed this life_, I
shall not enter upon my office of executor; I shall not break open the
lock of your trunk (of which I hope you will some time, when your mind
is less exalted, find the key), nor shall I stir in the difficult case
of Flora's legacy. When next you write your will, let me, for the sake
of your executor, advise you to be more precise in your directions; for
what can be done if you order him to give and burn the same thing in
the same sentence? As you have, amongst your other misfortunes, the
misfortune to be born heir to five or six thousand a year, you should
learn a little how to manage your own affairs, lest you should, amongst
your _poor_ or _rich_ companions, meet with some who are not quite so
honest as yourself.

"If, instead of returning to dine with us, you should persist in your
gardening scheme, I shall have less esteem for your good sense, but I
shall forbear to reproach you. I shall leave you to learn by your own
experience, if it be not in my power to give you the advantages of mine
gratis. But, at the same time, I shall discover where you are, and shall
inform myself exactly of all your proceedings. This, as your guardian,
is my duty. I should further warn you, that I shall not, whilst you
choose to live in a rank below your own, supply you with your customary
yearly allowance. Two hundred guineas a year would be an extravagant
allowance in your present circumstances. I do not mention money with any
idea of influencing your generous mind by mercenary motives; but it
is necessary that you should not deceive yourself by inadequate
experiments: you cannot be rich and poor at the same time. I gave you
the day before yesterday five ten-pound notes for your last quarterly
allowance; I suppose you have taken these with you, therefore you cannot
be in any immediate distress for money. I am sorry, I own, that you are
so well provided, because a man who has fifty guineas in his pocket-book
cannot distinctly feel what it is to be compelled to earn his own bread.

"Do not, my dear ward, think me harsh; my friendship for you gives me
courage to inflict present pain, with a view to your future advantage.
You must not expect to see any thing of your friend Henry until you
return to us. I shall, as his father and your guardian, request that he
will trust implicitly to my prudence upon this occasion; that he will
make no inquiries concerning you; and that he will abstain from all
connexion with you whilst you absent yourself from your friends. You
cannot live amongst the vulgar (by the vulgar I mean the ill-educated,
the ignorant, those who have neither noble sentiments nor agreeable
manners), and at the same time enjoy the pleasures of cultivated
society. I shall wait, not without anxiety, till your choice be decided.

"Believe me to be

"Your sincere friend and guardian,

"H. CAMPBELL."

As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter, he returned to the
company. The ladies, after breakfast, proceeded to the charity-school;
but Henry was so anxious to learn what was become of his friend
Forester, that he could scarcely enjoy the effects of his own benevolent
exertions. It was with difficulty, such as he had never before
experienced, that Dr. Campbell obtained from him the promise to suspend
all intercourse with Forester. Henry's first impulse, when he read the
letter, which his father now found it prudent to show him, was to search
for his friend instantly. "I am sure," said he, "I shall be able to
find him out; and if I can but see him, and speak to him, I know I could
prevail upon him to return to us."

"Yes," said Dr. Campbell, "perhaps you might persuade him to return;
but that is not the object: unless his understanding be convinced, what
should we gain?"

"It should be convinced. I _could_ convince him," cried Henry.

"I have, my dear son," said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "the highest opinion
of your logic and eloquence; but are your reasoning powers stronger
to-day than they were yesterday? Have you any new arguments to produce?
I thought you had exhausted your whole store without effect."

Henry paused.

"Believe me," continued his father, lowering his voice, "I am not
insensible to your friend's good, and, I will say, _great_ qualities; I
do not leave him to suffer evils, without feeling as much perhaps as you
can do; but I am convinced, that the solidity of his character, and the
happiness of his whole life, will depend upon the impression that is now
made upon his mind by _realities_. He will see society as it is. He
has abilities and generosity of mind which will make him a first-rate
character, if his friends do not spoil him out of false kindness."

Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his father, and gave him the
promise which he desired.

"But," added he, "I still have hopes from your letter--I should not be
surprised to see Forester at dinner to-day."

"I should," said Dr. Campbell.

Dr. Campbell, alas! was right. Henry looked eagerly towards the door
every time it opened, when they were at dinner: but he was continually
disappointed. Flora, whose gaiety usually enlivened the evenings, and
agreeably relieved her father and brother after their morning studies,
was now silent.

Whilst Lady Catherine's volubility overpowered even the philosophy
of Dr. Campbell, she wondered--she never ceased wondering--that Mr.
Forester did not appear, and that the doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and
Henry and Flora, were not more alarmed. She proposed sending twenty
different messengers after him. She was now convinced, that he had not
fallen from Salisbury Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her ladyship,
that he had a letter from him in his pocket, and that he was safe; but
she thought that there was imminent danger of his enlisting in a frolic,
or, perhaps, marrying some cobbler's daughter in a pet. She turned to
Archibald Mackenzie, and exclaimed, "He was at a cobbler's; it could
not be merely to mend his shoes. What sort of a lassy is the cobbler's
daughter? or has the cobbler a daughter?"

"She is hump-backed, luckily," said Dr. Campbell, coolly.

"That does not signify," said Lady Catherine; "I'm convinced she is at
the bottom of the whole mystery; for I once heard Mr. Forester say--and
I'm sure you must recollect it, Flora, my dear, for he looked at you at
the time--I once heard him say, that personal beauty was no merit, and
that ugly people ought to be liked--or some such thing--out of humanity.
Now, out of humanity, with his odd notions, it's ten to one, Dr.
Campbell, he marries this cobbler's hump-backed daughter. I'm sure, if I
were his guardian, I could not rest an instant with such a thought in my
head."

"Nor I," said Dr. Campbell, quietly; and in spite of her ladyship's
astonishment, remonstrances, and conjectures, he maintained his resolute
composure.



THE GARDENER.


The gardener who had struck Forester's fancy, was a square, thick,
obstinate-eyed, hard-working, ignorant, elderly man, whose soul was
intent upon his petty daily gains, and whose honesty was of that
"coarse-spun, vulgar sort[6]," which alone can be expected from men of
uncultivated minds. Mr. M'Evoy, for that was the gardener's name, was
both good-natured and selfish; his views and ideas all centered in
his own family; and his affection was accumulated and reserved for two
individuals, his son and his daughter. The son was not so industrious
as the father; he was ambitious of seeing something of the world, and
he consorted with all the young 'prentices in Edinburgh, who would
condescend to forget that he was a country boy, and to remember that
he expected, when his father should die, _to be rich_. Mr. M'Evoy's
daughter was an ugly, cross-looking girl, who spent all the money that
she could either earn or save upon ribands and fine gowns, with which
she fancied she could supply all the defects of her person.

[Footnote 6: Mrs. Barbauld'a Essay on the Inconsistency of Human
Expectations.]

This powerful motive for her economy operated incessantly upon her mind,
and she squeezed all that could possibly be squeezed for her private use
from the frugal household. The boy, whose place Forester thought himself
so fortunate to supply, had left the gardener, because he could not bear
to work and be scolded without eating or drinking.

The gardener willingly complied with our hero's first request; he gave
him a spade, and he set him to work. Forester dug with all the energy
of an enthusiast, and dined like a philosopher upon long kail; but long
kail did not charm him so much the second day as it had done the first;
and the third day it was yet less to his taste; besides, he began to
notice the difference between oaten and wheaten bread. He, however,
recollected that Cyrus lived, when he was a lad, upon water-cresses--the
black broth of the Spartans he likewise remembered, and he would not
complain. He thought, that he should soon accustom himself to his
scanty, homely fare. A number of the disagreeable circumstances of
poverty he had not estimated when he entered upon his new way of life;
and though at Dr. Campbell's table he had often said to himself, "I
could do very well without all these things," yet, till he had actually
tried the experiment, he had not _clear_ ideas upon the subject. He
missed a number of little pleasures and conveniences, which he had
scarcely noticed, whilst they had every day presented themselves as
matters of course. The occupation of digging was laborious, but it
afforded no exercise to his mind, and he felt most severely the want of
Henry's agreeable conversation; he had no one to whom he could now talk
of the water-cresses of Cyrus, or the black broth of the Spartans;
he had no one with whom he could dispute concerning the Stoic or the
Epicurean doctrines, the mercantile or the agricultural system. Many
objections to the agricultural system, which had escaped him, occurred
now to his mind; and his compassion for the worms, whom he was obliged
to cut in pieces continually with his spade, acted every hour more
forcibly upon his benevolent heart. He once attempted to explain his
feelings for the worms to the gardener, who stared at him with all
the insolence of ignorance, and bade him mind his work, with a tone of
authority which ill suited Forester's feelings and love of independence.

"Is ignorance thus to command knowledge? Is reason thus to be silenced
by boorish stupidity?" said Forester to himself, as he recollected the
patience and candour with which Dr. Campbell and Henry used to converse
with him. He began to think, that in cultivated society he had enjoyed
more liberty of mind, more freedom of opinion, than he could taste in
the company of an illiterate gardener. The gardener's son, though his
name was Colin, had no Arcadian simplicity, nothing which could please
the classic taste of Forester, or which could recall to his mind the
Eclogues of Virgil, or the golden age; the Gentle Shepherd, or the
Ayrshire Ploughman. Colin's favourite holiday's diversion was playing at
_goff_; this game, which is played with a bat loaded with lead, and with
a ball, which is harder than a cricket-ball, requires much strength and
dexterity. Forester used, sometimes, to accompany the gardener's son to
the _Links_,[7] where numbers of people, of different descriptions are
frequently seen practising this diversion. Our hero was ambitious of
excelling at the game of _goff_; and, as he was not particularly adroit,
he exposed himself, in his first attempts, to the derision of the
spectators, and he likewise received several severe blows. Colin laughed
at him without mercy; and Forester could not help comparing the rude
expressions of his new companion's untutored vanity with the unassuming
manners and unaffected modesty of Henry Campbell. Forester soon took an
aversion to the game of _goff_, and recollected Scotch reels with less
contempt.

[Footnote 7: A lea or common near Edinburgh.]

One evening, after having finished his task of digging (for digging was
now become a task), he was going to take a walk to Duddingstone lake,
when Colin, who was at the same instant setting out for the Links,
roughly insisted upon Forester's accompanying him. Our hero, who was
never much disposed to yield to the taste of others, positively refused
the gardener's son, with some imprudent expressions of contempt.
From this moment Colin became his enemy, and, by a thousand malicious
devices, contrived to show his vulgar hatred.

Forester now, to his great surprise, discovered that hatred could exist
in a cottage. Female vanity, he likewise presently perceived, was not
confined to the precincts of a ball-room; he found that Miss M'Evoy
spent every leisure moment in the contemplation of her own coarse image
in a fractured looking-glass. He once ventured to express his dislike
of a many- plaid in which Miss M'Evoy had arrayed herself _for
a dance_; and the fury of her looks, and the loud-toned vulgarity of
her conceit, were strongly contrasted with the recollection of
Flora Campbell's gentle manners and sweetness of temper. The painted
flower-pot was present to his imagination, and he turned from the lady
who stood before him with an air of disgust, which he had neither
the wish nor the power to conceal. The consequences of offending this
high-spirited damsel our hero had not sufficiently considered: the
brother and sister, who seldom agreed in any thing else, now agreed,
though from different motives, in an eager desire to torment Forester.
Whenever he entered the cottage, either to rest himself, or to partake
of those "savoury messes, which the _neat-handed_ Phillis dresses," he
was received with sullen silence, or with taunting reproach. The old
gardener, stupid as he was, Forester thought an agreeable companion,
compared with his insolent son and his vixen daughter. The happiest
hours of the day, to our hero, were those which he spent at his work;
his affections, repressed and disappointed, became a source of misery to
him.

"Is there nothing in this world to which I can attach myself?" said
Forester, as he one day leaned upon his spade in a melancholy mood.
"Must I spend my life in the midst of absurd altercations? Is it for
this that I have a heart and an understanding? No one here comprehends
one word I say--I am an object of contempt and hatred, whilst my soul
is formed for the most benevolent feelings, and capable of the most
extensive views. And of what service am I to my fellow-creatures? Even
this stupid gardener, even a common labourer, is as useful to society as
I am. Compared with Henry Campbell, what am I? Oh, Henry!--Flora!--could
you see me at this instant, you would pity me."

But the fear of being an object of pity wakened Forester's pride; and
though he felt that he was unhappy, he could not bear to acknowledge
that he had mistaken the road to happiness. His imaginary picture of
rural felicity was not, to be sure, realized; but he resolved to bear
his disappointment with fortitude, to fulfil his engagements with
his master, the gardener, and then to seek some other more eligible
situation. In the meantime, his benevolence tried to expand itself upon
the only individual in this family who treated him tolerably well: he
grew fond of the old gardener, because there was nothing else near him
to which he could attach himself, not even a dog or a cat. The old man,
whose temper was not quite so enthusiastical as Forester's, looked
upon him as an industrious simple young man, above the usual class of
servants, and rather wished to keep him in his service, because he gave
him less than the current wages. Forester, after his late reflections
upon digging, began to think, that, by applying his understanding to
the business of gardening, he might perhaps make some discoveries, which
should excite his master's everlasting gratitude, and immortalize
his own name. He pledged a shirt and a pair of stockings at a poor
bookseller's stall, for some volumes upon gardening; and these, in spite
of the ridicule of Colin and Miss M'Evoy, he studied usually at his
meals. He at length met with an account of some experiments upon
fruit-trees, which he thought would infallibly make the gardener's
fortune.

"Did you not tell me," said Forester to the gardener, "that cherries
were sometimes sold very high in Edinburgh?"

"Five a penny," said the gardener; and he wished, from the bottom of his
heart, that he had a thousand cherry-trees, but he possessed only one.

He was considerably alarmed, when Forester proposed to him, as the
certain means of making his fortune, to strip the bark off this
cherry-tree, assuring him, that a similar experiment had been tried and
had succeeded; that his cherry-tree would bear twice as many cherries,
if he would only strip the bark from it. "Let me try one branch for an
experiment--I _will try_ one branch!"

But the gardener peremptorily forbade all experiments, and, shutting
Forester's book, bade him leave such nonsense, and mind his business.

Provoked by this instance of tyrannical ignorance, Forester forgot
his character of a _servant boy_, and at length called his master an
obstinate fool.

No sooner were these words uttered, than the gardener emptied the
remains of his watering-pot coolly in Forester's face, and, first paying
him his wages, dismissed him from his service.

Miss M'Evoy, who was at work, seated at the door, made room most
joyfully for Forester to pass, and observed, that she had long since
prophesied he would not _do_ for them.

Forester was now convinced, that it was impossible to reform a positive
old gardener, to make him try new experiments upon cherry-trees, or to
interest him for the progress of science. He deplored the perversity
of human nature, and he began, when he reflected upon the characters of
Miss M'Evoy and her brother, to believe, that they were beings distinct
from the rest of their species; he was, at all events, glad to have
parted with such odious companions. On his road to Edinburgh he had time
for various reflections.

"Thirty shillings, then, with hard bodily labour, I have earned for one
month's service!" said Forester to himself. "Well, I will keep to my
resolution. I will live upon the money I earn, and upon that alone; I
will not have recourse to my bank notes till the last extremity." He
took out his pocket-book, however, and looked at them, to see that
they were safe. "How wretched," thought he, "must be that being, who
is obliged to purchase, in his utmost need, the assistance of his
fellow-creatures with such vile trash as this! I have been unfortunate
in my first experiment; but all men are not like this selfish gardener
and his brutal son, incapable of disinterested friendship."

Here Forester was interrupted in his meditations by a young man, who
accosted him with--"Sir, if I don't mistake, I believe I have a key of
yours."

Forester looked up at the young man's face, and recollected him to be
the person who had nearly lost his life in descending for his key into
the brewing-vat.

"I knew you again, sir," continued the brewer's clerk, "by your twirling
those scissors upon your finger, just as you were doing that day at the
brewery."

Forester was not conscious, till this moment, that he had a pair of
scissors in his hand: whilst the gardener was paying him his wages, to
relieve his _mauvaise honte_, our hero took up Miss M'Evoy's scissors,
which lay upon the table, and twirled them upon his fingers, as he used
to do with a key. He was rather ashamed to perceive, that he had not yet
cured himself of such a silly habit. "I thought the lesson I got at the
brewery," said he, "would have cured me for ever of this foolish trick;
but the diminutive chains of habit[8], as somebody says, are scarcely
ever heavy enough to be felt, till they are too strong to be broken."

[Footnote 8: Dr. Johnson's Vision of Theodore.]

"_Sir!_" said the astonished clerk.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said our hero, who now perceived by his
countenance that his observation on the peculiar nature of the chains
of habit was utterly unintelligible to him; "pray, sir, can you tell me
what o'clock it is?"

"Half after four--I am--sir," said the clerk, producing his watch, with
the air of a man who thought a watch a matter of some importance. "Hum!
He can't be a gentleman; he has no watch!" argued he with himself; and
he looked at Forester's rough apparel with astonishment. Forester had
turned back, that he might return Miss M'Evoy her scissors. The brewer's
clerk was going in the same direction to collect some money for his
master. As they walked on, the young man talked to our hero with
good-nature, but with a species of familiarity, which was strikingly
different from the respectful manner in which he formerly addressed
Forester, when he had seen him in a better coat, and in the company of a
young gentleman.

"You have left Dr. Campbell's, then?" said he, looking with curiosity.
Forester replied, that he had left Dr. Campbell's, because he preferred
earning his own bread to living an idle life among gentlemen and ladies.

The clerk, at this speech, looked earnestly in Forester's face, and
began to suspect that he was deranged in his mind.

As the gravity of our hero's looks, and the sobriety of his demeanour,
did not give any strong indications of insanity, the clerk, after a few
minutes' consideration, inclined to believe, that Forester concealed the
truth from him; that probably he was some dependant of Dr. Campbell's
family; that he had displeased his friends, and had been discarded in
disgrace. He was confirmed in these suppositions by Forester's telling
him, that he had just left the service of a gardener; that he did not
know where to find a lodging for the night; and that he was in want of
some employment, by which he might support himself independently.

The clerk, who remembered with gratitude the intrepidity with which
Forester had hazarded his life to save him the morning that he was at
the brewery, and who had also some compassion for a young gentleman
reduced to poverty, told him that if he could write a good hand, knew
any thing of accounts, and could get a character for _punctuality_
(meaning to include honesty in this word) from any creditable people,
he did not doubt that his master, who had large concerns, might find
employment for him as an under-clerk. Forester's pride was not agreeably
soothed by the manner of this proposal, but he was glad to hear of a
_situation_, to use the clerk's genteel expression; and he moreover
thought, that he should now have an opportunity of comparing the
commercial and agricultural systems.

The clerk hinted, that he supposed Forester would choose to "make
himself smart," before he called to offer himself at the brewery, and
advised him to call about six, as by that time in the evening his master
was generally at leisure.

A dinner at a public-house (for our hero did not know where else to
dine), and the further expense of a new pair of shoes, and some other
articles of dress, almost exhausted his month's wages: he was very
unwilling to make any of these purchases, but the clerk assured him,
that they were indispensable; and, indeed, at last, his appearance was
scarcely upon a par with that of his friendly adviser.



THE BET.


Before we follow Forester to the brewery, we must request the attention
of our readers to the history of a bet of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie's.

We have already noticed the rise and progress of this young gentleman's
acquaintance with Sir Philip Gosling. Archibald,

     "Whose ev'ry frolic had some end in view,
     Ne'er played the fool, but played the rascal too,"
     --Anonymous

cultivated assiduously the friendship of this weak, dissipated, vain
young baronet, in hopes that he might, in process of time, make some
advantage of his folly. Sir Philip had an unfortunately high opinion of
his own judgment; an opinion which he sometimes found it difficult to
inculcate upon the minds of others, till he hit upon the compendious
method of laying high wagers in support of all his assertions. Few
people chose to venture a hundred guineas upon the turn of a straw. Sir
Philip, in all such contests, came off victorious; and he plumed himself
much upon the success of his purse. Archibald affected the greatest
deference for Sir Philip's judgment; and, as he observed that the
baronet piqued himself upon his skill as a jockey, he flattered him
indefatigably upon this subject. He accompanied Sir Philip continually
in his long visits to the livery-stables; and he made himself familiarly
acquainted with the keeper of the livery-stables, and even with the
hostlers. So low can interested pride descend! All this pains Archibald
took, and more, for a very small object. He had set his fancy upon
Sawney, one of his friend's horses; and he had no doubt, but that he
should either induce Sir Philip to make him a present of this horse, or
that he should jockey him out of it, by some well-timed bet.

In counting upon the baronet's generosity, Archibald was mistaken. Sir
Philip had that species of _good-nature_ which can lend, but not
that which can give. He offered to lend the horse to Archibald
most willingly; but the idea of giving it was far distant from his
imagination. Archibald, who at length despaired of his friend's
generosity, had recourse to his other scheme of the wager. After having
judiciously lost a few guineas to Sir Philip in wagers, to confirm him
in his extravagant opinion of his own judgment, Archibald, one evening,
when the fumes of wine and vanity, operating together, had somewhat
exalted the man of judgment's imagination, urged him, by artful,
hesitating contradiction, to assert the most incredible things of one of
his horses, to whom he had given the name of Favourite. Archibald knew,
from the _best authority_--from the master of the livery-stables, who
was an experienced jockey--that Favourite was by no means a match for
Sawney; he therefore waited quietly till Sir Philip Gosling laid a
very considerable wager upon the head of his "Favourite." Archibald
immediately declared, he could not, in conscience--that he could not,
for the honour of Scotland, give up his friend Sawney.

"Sawney!" cried Sir Philip; "I'll bet fifty guineas, that Favourite
beats him hollow at a walk, trot, or gallop, whichever you please."

Archibald artfully affected to be startled at this defiance, and,
seemingly desirous to draw back, pleaded his inability to measure purses
with such a rich man as Sir Philip.

"Nay, my boy," replied Sir Philip, "that excuse shan't stand you in
stead. You have a pretty little pony there, that Lady Catherine has just
given you; if you won't lay me fifty guineas, will you risk your pony
against my judgment?"

Archibald had now brought his friend exactly to the point at which
he had been long aiming. Sir Philip staked his handsome horse Sawney
against Archibald's sorry pony, upon this wager, that Favourite should,
at the first trials, beat Sawney at a walk, a trot, and a gallop.

Warmed with wine, and confident in his own judgment, the weak baronet
insisted upon having the bet immediately decided. The gentlemen ordered
out their horses, and the wager was to be determined upon the sands of
Leith.

Sir Philip Gosling, to his utter astonishment, found himself for once
mistaken in his judgment. The treacherous Archibald coolly suffered him
to exhale his passion in unavailing oaths, and at length rejoiced to
hear him consoling himself with the boast, that this was the first wager
upon horse-flesh that he had ever lost in his life. The master of the
livery-stables stared with well-affected incredulity, when Sir Philip,
upon his return from the sands of Leith, informed him, that Favourite
had been beat hollow by Sawney; and Archibald, by his additional
testimony, could scarcely convince him of the fact, till he put two
guineas into his hand, when he recommended _his_ new horse Sawney to his
particular care. Sir Philip, who was not gifted with quick observation,
did not take notice of this last convincing argument. Whilst this
passed, he was talking eagerly to the hostler, who confirmed him in his
opinion, which he still repeated as loud as ever, "that Favourite ought
to have won." This point Archibald prudently avoided to contest; and he
thus succeeded in duping and flattering his friend at once.

"Sawney for ever!" cried Archibald, as soon as Sir Philip had left
the stables. "Sawney for ever!" repeated the hostler, and reminded
Mackenzie, that he had promised him half a guinea. Archibald had no
money in his pocket; but he assured the hostler, that he would remember
him the next day. The next day, however, Archibald, who was expert in
parsimonious expedients, considered that he had better delay giving the
hostler his half-guinea, till it had been earned by his care of Sawney.

It is the usual error of cunning people to take it for granted, that
others are fools. This hostler happened to be a match for our young
laird in cunning, and, as soon as he perceived that it was Archibald's
intention to cheat him of the interest of his half-guinea, he determined
to revenge himself in his _care_ of Sawney. We shall hereafter see the
success of his devices.



THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE.


Scarcely had Archibald Mackenzie been two days in possession of the
long-wished-for object of his mean soul, when he became dissatisfied
with his own saddle and bridle, which certainly did not, as Sir Philip
observed, suit his new horse. The struggles in Archibald's mind, betwixt
his taste for expense and his habits of saving, were often rather
painful to him. He had received from Lady Catherine a ten-guinea
note, when he first came to Dr. Campbell's; and he had withstood many
temptations to change it. One morning (the day that he had accompanied
Henry and Forester to the watchmaker's) he was so strongly charmed
by the sight of a watch-chain and seals, that he actually took his
bank-note out of his scrutoire at his return home, put it into his
pocket, when he dressed for dinner, and resolved to call that evening
at the watchmaker's to indulge his fancy, by purchasing the watch-chain,
and to gratify his family pride, by getting his coat of arms splendidly
engraven upon the seal. He called at the watchmaker's, in company with
Sir Philip Gosling, but he could not agree with him respecting the
price of the chain and seals; and Archibald consoled himself with the
reflection, that his bank-note would still remain. He held the note in
his hand, whilst he higgled about the price of the watch-chain.

"Oh, d--n the expense!" cried Sir Philip.

"Oh, I mind ten guineas as little as any man," said Archibald, thrusting
the bank-note, in imitation of the baronet, with affected carelessness,
into his waistcoat-pocket. He was engaged that night to go to the
play with Sir Philip, and he was much hurried in dressing. His servant
observed that his waistcoat was stained, and looked out another for him.

Now this man sometimes took the liberty of wearing his master's clothes;
and, when Archibald went to the play, the servant dressed himself in the
stained waistcoat, to appear at a ball, which was given that night in
the neighbourhood, by some "gentleman's gentleman." The waistcoat was
rather too tight for the servant: he tore it, and instead of sending it
to the washerwoman's, to have the stain washed out, as his master
had desired, he was now obliged to send it to the tailor's to have it
mended.

Archibald's sudden wish for a new saddle and bridle for Sawney could not
be gratified without changing the bank-note; and, forgetting that he
had left it in the pocket of his waistcoat the night that he went to the
play, he searched for it in the scrutoire, in which he was accustomed to
keep his treasures. He was greatly disturbed, when the note was not
to be found in the scrutoire; he searched over and over again; not
a pigeon-hole, not a drawer, remained to be examined. He tried to
recollect when he had last seen it, and at length remembered, that he
put it into his waistcoat-pocket, when he went to the watchmaker's; that
he had taken it out to look at, whilst he was in the shop; but whether
he had brought it home safely or not he could not precisely ascertain.
His doubts upon this subject, however, he cautiously concealed,
resolved, if possible, to make somebody or other answerable for his
loss. He summoned his servant, told him that he had left a ten-guinea
bank-note in his waistcoat-pocket the night that he went to the play,
and that, as the waistcoat was given into his charge, he must be
answerable for the note. The servant boldly protested, that he neither
could nor would be at the loss of a note which he had never seen.

Archibald now softened his tone; for he saw, that he had no chance of
bullying the servant. "I desired you to send it to the washerwoman's,"
said he.

"And so I did, sir," said the man.

This was true, but not the whole truth. He had previously sent the
waistcoat to the tailor's to have the rent repaired, which it received
the night he wore it at the ball. These circumstances the servant
thought proper to suppress; and he was very ready to agree with his
master in accusing the poor washerwoman of having stolen the note. The
washerwoman was extremely industrious, and perfectly honest; she had a
large family, that depended upon her labour, and upon her character, for
support. She was astonished and shocked at the charge that was brought
against her, and declared, that if she were able, she would rather pay
the whole money at once, than suffer any suspicion to go abroad against
her. Archibald rejoiced to find her in this disposition; and he assured
her, that the only method to avoid disgrace, a lawsuit, and ruin, was
instantly to pay, or to promise to pay, the money. It was out of her
power to pay it; and she would not promise what she knew she could not
perform.

Archibald redoubled his threats; the servant stood by his master. The
poor woman burst into tears; but she steadily declared that she was
innocent; and no promise could be extorted from her, even in the
midst of her terror. Though she had horrible, perhaps not absolutely
visionary, ideas of the dangers of a lawsuit, yet she had some
confidence in the certainty that justice was on her side. Archibald
said, that she might _talk_ about justice as much as she pleased, but
that she must prepare to submit to _the law_. The woman trembled at the
sound of these words; but, though ignorant, she was no fool, and she had
a friend in Dr. Campbell's family, to whom she resolved to apply in her
distress. Henry Campbell had visited her little boy when he was ill,
and had made him some small present; and, though she did not mean to
encroach upon Henry's good-nature, she thought, that he had so much
_learning_, that he certainly could, without its costing her any thing,
put her in the right way to avoid the _law_, with which she had been
threatened by Archibald Mackenzie and his servant.

Henry heard the story with indignation, such as Forester would have
felt in similar circumstances; but prudence tempered his enthusiastic
feelings; and prudence renders us able to assist others, whilst
enthusiasm frequently defeats its own purposes, and injures those whom
it wildly attempts to serve. Henry, knowing the character of Archibald,
governed himself accordingly; he made no appeal to his feelings; for
he saw that the person must be deficient in humanity, who could have
threatened a defenceless woman with such severity; he did not speak of
justice to the tyrannical laird, but spoke of _law_. He told Archibald,
that being thoroughly convinced of the woman's innocence, he had drawn
up a statement of her case, which she, in compliance with his advice,
was ready to lay before an advocate, naming the first counsel in
Edinburgh.

The young laird repeated, with a mixture of apprehension and suspicion,
"Drawn up a case! No; you can't know how to draw up cases; you are not a
lawyer--you only say this to bully me."

Henry replied, that he was no lawyer; that he could, notwithstanding,
state plain facts in such a manner, he hoped, as to make a case
intelligible to any sensible lawyer; that he meant to show what he had
written to his father.

"You'll show it to me, first, won't you?" said Archibald, who wished to
gain time for consideration.

Henry put the paper, which he had drawn up, into his hands, and waited
with a determined countenance beside him, whilst he perused the case.
Archibald saw that Henry had abilities and steadiness to go through with
the business; the facts were so plainly and forcibly stated, that
his hopes even from law began to falter. He therefore talked about
humanity--said, he pitied the poor woman; could not bear to think of
distressing her; but that, at the same time, he had urgent occasion for
money; that, if he could even recover five guineas of it, it would be
something. He added, that he had debts, which he could not, in honour,
delay to discharge.

Now Henry had five guineas, which he had reserved for the purchase of
some additions to his cabinet of mineralogy, and he offered to lend
this money to Archibald, to pay _the debts that he could not, in honour,
delay to discharge_, upon express condition, that he should say nothing
more to the poor woman concerning the bank-note.

To this condition Archibald most willingly acceded; and as Henry, with
generous alacrity, counted the five guineas into his hand, this mean,
incorrigible being said to himself, "What fools these bookish young men
are, after all! Though he can draw up cases so finely, I've taken him in
at last; and I wish it were ten guineas instead of five!"

Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices of this
avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall now relieve ourselves,
by turning from the history of meanness to that of enthusiasm. The
faults of Forester we hope and wish to see corrected; but who can be
interested for the selfish Archibald Mackenzie?



FORESTER, A CLERK.


We left Forester when he was just going to offer himself as clerk to
a brewer. The brewer was a prudent man; and he sent one of his porters
with a letter to Dr. Campbell, to inform him that a young lad, whom
he had formerly seen in company with Mr. Henry Campbell, and who, he
understood, was the doctor's ward, had applied to him, and that he
should be very happy to take him into his service, if his friends
approved of it, and could properly recommend him. In consequence of Dr.
Campbell's answer to the brewer's letter, Forester, who knew nothing of
the application to his friends, obtained the vacant clerkship. He did
not, however, long continue in his new _situation_. At first he felt
happy, when he found himself relieved from, the vulgar petulance of Miss
M'Evoy and her brother Colin: in comparison with their rude ill-humours,
the clerks who were his companions appeared patterns of civility. By
hard experience, Forester was taught to know, that obliging manners in
our companions add something to the happiness of our lives. "My mind
to me a kingdom is," was once his common answer to all that his friend
Henry could urge in favour of the pleasures of society; but he began now
to suspect, that separated from social intercourse, his mind, however
enlarged, would afford him but a dreary kingdom.

He flattered himself, that he could make a friend of the clerk who
had found his key: this young man's name was Richardson; he was
good-natured, but ignorant; and neither his education nor his abilities
distinguished him from any other clerk in similar circumstances.
Forester invited him to walk to Arthur's Seat, after the _monotonous_
business of the day was over, but the clerk preferred walking on
holidays in Prince's-street; and, after several ineffectual attempts to
engage him in moral and metaphysical arguments, our hero discovered
the depth of his companion's ignorance with astonishment. Once, when he
found that two of the clerks, to whom he had been talking of Cicero and
Pliny, did not know any thing of these celebrated personages, he said,
with a sigh,

     "But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
        Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
      Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
        And froze the genial current of their soul."

The word _penury_, in this stanza, the clerks at least understood, and
it excited their "noble rage;" they hinted, that it ill became a person,
who did not dress nearly as well as themselves, to give himself such
airs, and to taunt his betters with poverty; they said that they
supposed, because he was an Englishman, as they perceived by his accent,
he thought he might insult Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him
to attempt any explanation; their pride and their prejudices combined
against him: and, though their dislike to him was not so outrageous as
that of the gardener, gentle Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to
make him uneasy in his situation. Richardson was as steady as could
reasonably be expected; but he showed so little desire to have "_the
ample page, rich with the spoils of time_," unrolled to him, that he
excited our young scholar's contempt. No friendships can be more unequal
than those between ignorance and knowledge. We pass over the journal of
our hero's hours, which were spent in casting up and verifying accounts;
this occupation, at length he decided, must be extremely injurious to
the human understanding: "All the higher faculties of my soul," said he
to himself, "are absolutely useless at this work, and I am reduced to
a mere machine." But there were many other circumstances in the
_mercantile system_, which Forester had not foreseen, and which shocked
him extremely. The continual attention to petty gain, the little
artifices which a tradesman thinks himself justifiable in practising
upon his customers, could not be endured by his ingenuous mind. One
morning the brewery was in an uncommon bustle; the clerks were all in
motion. Richardson told Forester that they expected a visit in a few
hours from the gauger and the supervisor, and that they were preparing
for their reception. When the nature of these preparations was explained
to Forester; when he was made to understand that the business and duty
of a brewer's clerk was to assist his master in evading certain clauses
in certain acts of parliament; when he found, that to trick a gauger
was thought an excellent joke, he stood in silent moral astonishment. He
knew about as much of the revenue laws as the clerks did of Cicero and
Pliny; but his sturdy principles of integrity could not bend to any
of the arguments, founded on expediency, which were brought by his
companions in their own and their master's justification. He declared
that he must speak to his master upon the subject immediately. His
master was as busy as he could possibly be; and, when Forester insisted
upon seeing him, he desired that he would speak as quickly as he could,
for that he expected the supervisor every instant. Our hero declared,
that he could not, consistently with his principles, assist in evading
the laws of his country. The brewer stared, and then laughed; assured
him that he had as great a respect for the laws as other people; that he
did nothing but what every person in his situation was obliged to do in
their own defence. Forester resolutely persisted in his determination
against all clandestine practices. The brewer cut the matter short, by
saying, he had not time to argue; but that he did not choose to keep
a clerk who was not in his interests; that he supposed the next thing
would be, to betray him to his supervisor.

"I am no traitor!" exclaimed Forester; "I will not stay another instant
with a master who suspects me."

The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance; but what
exasperated Forester the most was the composure of his friend Richardson
during this scene, who did not even offer to shake hands with him, when
he saw him going out of the house: for Richardson had a good place,
and did not choose to quarrel with his master, for a person whom he now
verily believed to be, as he had originally suspected, insane.

"This is the world!--this is friendship!" said Forester to himself.

His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied him with eloquent
invectives against human nature, even while he ardently desired to serve
his fellow-creatures. He wandered through the streets of Edinburgh,
indulging himself alternately in misanthropic reflections and benevolent
projects. One instant, he resolved to study the laws, that he might
reform the revenue laws; the next moment, he recollected his own passion
for a desert island, and he regretted that he could not be shipwrecked
in Edinburgh.

The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester from his reverie; he
looked up, and saw a thin, pale man fiddling to a set of dancing dogs,
that he was exhibiting upon the flags, for the amusement of a crowd
of men, women, and children. It was a deplorable spectacle; the dogs
appeared so wretched, in the midst of the merriment of the spectators,
that Forester's compassion was moved, and he exclaimed--

"Enough, enough!--They are quite tired; here are some halfpence!"

The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh spectators were yet to
see the sight; and though the exhausted animals were but little inclined
to perform their antic feats, their master twitched the rope, that was
fastened round their necks, so violently, that they were compelled to
renew their melancholy dance.

Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler's hand, and began an
expostulation, not one word of which was understood by the person to
whom it was addressed. A stout lad, who was very impatient at this
interruption of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently
from words he proceeded to blows.

Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a boxer as
his opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on both sides; but, at
length, our young Quixote received what has no name in heroic language,
but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, covered with blood
and bruises, he was carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring
house. It was a printer and bookseller's shop. The bookseller treated
him with humanity; and, after advising him not to be so hastily engaged
to be the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he was, and whether he
had any friends in Edinburgh, to whom he could send.

This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with a variety of
people, was a good judge of the language of gentlemen; and, though there
was nothing else in Forester's manners which could have betrayed him, he
spoke in such good language, that the bookseller was certain that he had
received a liberal education.

Our hero declined telling his history; but the printer was so well
pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to give him
employment; and, as soon as he recovered from his bruises, Forester was
eager to learn the art of printing.

"The art of printing," said he, "has emancipated mankind, and printers
ought to be considered as the most respectable benefactors of the human
race."

Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that struck his
imagination, he was now persuaded that printers' devils were angels, and
that he should be supremely blessed in a printer's office.

"What employment so noble!" said he, as he first took the
composing-stick in his hand; "what employment so noble, as that of
disseminating knowledge over the universe!"



FORESTER, A PRINTER.


It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity in his new trade:
his companions formed, with amazing celerity, whole sentences, while he
was searching for letters, which perpetually dropped from his awkward
hands: but he was ashamed of his former versatility, and he resolved to
be steady to his present way of life. His situation, at this printer's,
was far better suited to him than that which he had quitted, with so
much disgust, at the brewer's. He rose early, and, by great industry,
overcame all the difficulties which at first so much alarmed him. He
soon became the most useful journeyman in the office. His diligence and
good behaviour recommended him to his master's employers. Whenever any
work was brought, Forester was sent for. This occasioned him to be much
in the shop, where he heard the conversation of many ingenious men who
frequented it; and he spent his evenings in reading. His understanding
had been of late uncultivated; but the fresh seeds that were now
profusely scattered upon the vigorous soil took root, and flourished.

Forester was just at that time of life when opinions are valued for
being _new_: he heard varieties of the most contradictory assertions in
morals, in science, in politics. It is a great advantage to a young
man to hear opposite arguments, to hear all that can be said upon every
subject.

Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of notions which he
had acquired from his education; he heard many, whom he could not
think his inferiors in abilities, debating questions which he formerly
imagined scarcely admitted of philosophic doubt. His mind became more
humble; but his confidence in his own powers, after having compared
himself with numbers, if less arrogant, was more secure and rational: he
no longer considered a man as a fool the moment he differed with him in
opinion; but he was still a little inclined to estimate the abilities of
authors by the party to which they belonged. This failing was increased,
rather than diminished, by the company which he now kept.

Amongst the young students who frequented Mr.----'s, the bookseller, was
Mr. Thomas ----, who, from his habit of _blurting_ out strange opinions
in conversation, acquired the name of Tom Random. His head was confused
between politics and poetry; his arguments were paradoxical, his diction
florid, and his gesture something between the spouting action of a
player, and the threatening action of a pugilist.

Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from the first day he
heard him speak.

Tom Random asserted, that "this great globe, and all that it inhabits,"
must inevitably be doomed to destruction, unless certain ideas of
his own, in the government of the world, were immediately adopted by
universal acclamation.

It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Forester felt for
his new friend it was for the first week blind, enthusiastic
admiration--every thing that he had seen or heard before appeared to
him trite and obsolete; every person who spoke temperate common sense
he heard with indifference or contempt; and all who were not zealots
in literature, or in politics, he considered as persons whose
understandings were so narrow, or whose hearts were so depraved, as to
render them "unfit to hear themselves convinced."

Those who read and converse have a double chance of correcting their
errors.

Forester most fortunately, about this time, happened to meet with a book
which in some degree counteracted the inflammatory effects of Random's
conversation, and which had a happy tendency to sober his enthusiasm,
without lessening his propensity to useful exertions: this book was the
Life of Dr. Franklin.

The idea that this great man began by being a _printer_ interested our
hero in his history; and whilst he followed him, step by step, through
his instructive narrative, Forester sympathized in his feelings, and
observed how necessary the smaller virtues of order, economy, industry,
and patience were to Franklin's great character and splendid success.
He began to hope that it would be possible to do good to his
fellow-creatures, without overturning all existing institutions.

About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in Forester's
education. One evening his friend, Tom Random, who was printing a
pamphlet, came, with a party of his companions, into Mr.----, the
bookseller's shop, enraged at the decision of a prize in a literary
society to which they belonged.

All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly declared that
he had been treated with the most flagrant injustice; and the author
himself was too angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion.

"Would you believe it?" said he to Forester--"my essay has not been
thought worthy of the prize! The medal has been given to the most
wretched, tame, commonplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in
this world is done by corruption, by party, by secret influence!"

At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and Forester
sympathized in his feelings.

In the midst of the author's exclamations, a messenger came with the
manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of the society
to have a certain number of copies printed off with all possible
expedition.

Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury of criticism,
began to read aloud some of the passages which he disliked.

Though it was marred in the reading, Forester could not agree with his
angry friend in condemning the performance. It appeared to him excellent
writing and excellent sense.

"Print it--print it then, as fast as you can--that is your
business--that's what you are paid for. Every one for himself," cried
Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at Forester; and, as he
flung out of the shop with his companions, he added, with a contemptuous
laugh, "A printer's devil setting up for a critic! He may be a capital
judge of pica and brevier, perhaps--but let not the compositor go beyond
his stick."

"Is this the man," said Forester, "whom I have heard so eloquent in the
praise of candour and liberality? Is this the man who talks of universal
toleration and freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any one
should differ from him in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who
would have equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls
a compositor a printer's devil? Is this the man who cants about the
_pre-eminence of mind_ and the _perfections of intellect_, and yet now
takes advantage of his rank, of his _supporters_, of the cry of his
partisans, to bear down the voice of reason?--'Let not the compositor go
beyond his composing-stick!'--And why not? Why should not he be a
judge of writing?" At this reflection, Forester eagerly took up the
manuscript, which had been flung at his feet. All his indignant feelings
instantly changed into delightful exultation--he saw the hand--he read
the name of Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, "_An Essay
on the best Method of reforming Abuses_." This was the subject proposed
by the society; and Henry had written upon the question with so much
moderation, and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown himself the
friend of rational liberty, that all the members of the society who were
not borne away by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of
this performance.

Random's declamation only inflamed the minds of his own partisans. Good
judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it, "This is all very fine;
but what would this man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to
support."

Forester read Henry Campbell's essay with all the avidity of friendship;
he read it again and again--his generous soul was incapable of envy; and
whilst he admired, he was convinced by the force of reason.

His master desired that he would set about the essay early in the
morning; but his eagerness for his friend Henry's fame was such, that he
sat up above half the night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the
next day at the business; and as all hands were employed on the essay,
it was finished that evening.

Forester rubbed his hands with delight, when he had set the name of
Henry Campbell in the title-page--but an instant afterwards he sighed
bitterly.

"I am only a printer," said he to himself. "These just arguments, these
noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds of my fellow-creatures: no
one will ever ask, 'Who set the types?'"

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Tom Random and two
of his partisans: he was extremely displeased to find that the printers
had not been going on with his pamphlet; his personal disappointments
seemed to increase the acrimony of his zeal for the public good:
he declaimed upon politics--upon the necessity for the immediate
publication of his sentiments, for the salvation of the state. His
action was suited to his words: violent and blind to consequences,
with one sudden kick, designed to express his contempt for the opposite
party, this political Alnaschar unfortunately overturned the form which
contained the types for the newspaper of the next day, which was
just going to the press--a newspaper in which he had written splendid
paragraphs.

Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account which
Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the patience with
which he once bore a similar accident. The printers, with secret
imprecations against oratory, or at least against those orators who
think that action is every thing, set to work again to repair the
mischief.

Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon having
finished his hard day's work, when a man from the shop came to inquire
whether three hundred cards, which had been ordered the week before to
be printed off, were finished. The man to whom the order was given had
forgotten it, and he was going home: he decidedly answered, "No; the
cards can't be done till to-morrow: we have left work for this night,
thank God."

"The gentleman says he must have them," expostulated the messenger.

"He _must_ not, he cannot have them. I would not print a card for his
majesty at this time of night," replied the sullen workman, throwing his
hat upon his head, in token of departure.

"What are these cards?" said Forester.

"Only a dancing-master's cards for his ball," said the printer's
journeyman. "I'll not work beyond my time for any dancing-master that
wears a head."

The messenger then said, that he was desired to ask for the manuscript
card.

This card was hunted for all over the room; and, at last, Forester found
it under a heap of refuse papers: his eye was caught with the name
of his old friend, Monsieur Pasgrave, the dancing-master, whom he had
formerly frightened by the skeleton with the fiery eyes.

"I will print the cards for him myself; I am not at all tired," cried
Forester, who was determined to make some little amends for the injury
which he had formerly done to the poor dancing-master. He resolved to
print the cards for nothing, and he stayed up very late to finish them.
His companions all left him, for they were in a great hurry to see, what
in Edinburgh is a rare sight, the town illuminated.

These illuminations were upon account of some great naval victory.

Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave's cards, did what no other workman
would have done; he finished for him, on this night of public joy, his
three hundred cards. Every now and then, as he was quietly at work,
he heard the loud huzzas in the street: his waning candle sunk in the
socket, as he had just packed up his work.

By the direction at the bottom of the cards, he learned where M.
Pasgrave lodged, and, as he was going out to look at the illuminations,
he resolved to leave them himself at the dancing-master's house.



THE ILLUMINATIONS.


The illuminations were really beautiful. He went up to the Castle,
whence he saw a great part of the Old Town, and all Prince's-street,
lighted up in the most splendid manner. He crossed the Earth-mound into
Prince's-street. Walking down Prince's-street, he saw a crowd of people
gathered before the large illuminated window of a confectioner's shop.
As he approached nearer, he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random,
who was haranguing the mob. The device and motto which the confectioner
displayed in his window displeased this gentleman, who, beside his
public-spirited abhorrence of all men of a party opposite to his own,
had likewise private cause of dislike to this confectioner, who had
refused him his daughter in marriage.

It was part of Random's new system of political justice to revenge his
own quarrels.

The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, made the instruments
of private malice, when they think they are acting in a public cause,
readily joined in Tom Random's cry of "Down with the motto! Down with
the motto!"

Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing dogs, had learned a little
prudence, and who had just printed Henry Campbell's Essay on the best
Means of reforming Abuses, did not mix with the rabble, but joined in
the entreaties of some peaceable passengers, who prayed that the poor
man's windows might be spared. The windows were, notwithstanding,
demolished with a terrible crash, and the crowd, then alarmed at the
mischief they had done, began to disperse. The constables, who had been
sent for, appeared. Tom Random was taken into custody. Forester was
pursuing his way to the dancing-master's, when one of the officers of
justice exclaimed, "Stop!--stop him!--he's one of 'em: he's a great
friend of Mr. Random: I've seen him often parading arm in arm in
High-street with him."

This, alas! was too true: the constables seized Forester, and put
him, with Tom Random, and the ringleader of the riot, into a place of
confinement for the night.

Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of his former friend and
present enemy, had, during this long night, leisure for much wholesome
reflection upon the danger of forming imprudent intimacies. He resolved
never to walk again in High-street arm in arm with such a man as Tom
Random.

The constables were rather hasty in the conclusion they drew from this
presumptive evidence.

Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was not a little
astonished at Tom Random's consoling himself with drinking instead
of philosophy. The sight of this enthusiast, when he had completely
intoxicated himself, was a disgusting but useful spectacle to our
indignant hero. Forester was shocked at the union of gross vice and
rigid pretensions to virtue: he could scarcely believe that the reeling,
stammering idiot whom he now beheld was the same being from whose lips
he had heard declamations upon the _omnipotence of intellect_--from
whose pen he had seen projects for the government of empires.

The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illuminations, had
regretted that his cards could not be printed, went early in the morning
to inquire about them at the printer's.

The printer had learnt that one of his boys was taken up amongst the
rioters: he was sorry to find that Forester had gotten himself into such
a scrape: but he was a very cautious snug man, and he did not choose to
interfere: he left him quietly to be dealt with according to law.

The dancing-master, however, was interested in finding him out, because
he was informed that Forester had sat up almost all night to print his
cards, and that he had them now in his pocket.

M. Pasgrave at length gained admittance to him in his confinement:
the officers of justice were taking him and Random before Mr. W----, a
magistrate, with whom informations had been lodged by the confectioner,
who had suffered in his windows.

Pasgrave, when he beheld Forester, was surprised to such a degree, that
he could scarcely finish his bow, or express his astonishment, either in
French or English. "Eh, monsieur! mon Dieu! bon Dieu! I beg ten million
pardons--I am come to search for a printer who has my cards in his
pocket."

"Here are your cards," said Forester: "let me speak a few words to
you." He took M. Pasgrave aside. "I perceive," said he, "that you have
discovered who I am. Though in the service of a printer, I have still as
much the feelings and principles of a gentleman as I had when you saw me
in Dr. Campbell's house. I have particular reasons for being anxious
to remain undiscovered by Dr. Campbell, or any of his family: you may
depend upon it that my reasons are not dishonourable. I request that you
will not, upon any account, betray me to that family. I am going before
a magistrate, and am accused of being concerned in a riot, which I did
every thing in my power to prevent."

"Ah! monsieur," interrupted the dancing-master, "but you see de grand
inconvenience of concealing your _rank_ and name. You, who are comme il
faut, are confounded with the mob: permit me at least to follow you to
Mr. W----, the magistrate: I have de honneur to teach les demoiselles
his daughters to dance; dey are to be at my ball--dey take one half
dozen tickets. I must call dere wid my cards; and I shall, if you will
give me leave, accompany you now, and mention dat I know you to be
un homme comme il faut, above being guilty of an unbecoming action. I
flatter myself I have some interest wid de ladies of de family, and dat
dey will do me de favour to speak to monsieur leur cher pere sur votre
compte."

Forester thanked the good-natured dancing-master, but he proudly said,
that he should trust to his own innocence for his defence.

M. Pasgrave, who had seen something more of the world than our hero, and
who was interested for him, because he had once made him a present of an
excellent violin, and because he had sat up half the night to print the
ball cards, resolved not to leave him entirely to his innocence for a
defence: he followed Forester to Mr. W----'s. The magistrate was a slow,
pompous man, by no means a good physiognomist, much less a good judge of
character. He was proud of his authority, and glad to display the
small portion of legal knowledge which he possessed. As soon as he
was informed that some young men were brought before him, who had been
engaged the preceding night in a _riot_, he put on all his magisterial
terrors, and assured the confectioner, who had a private audience
of him, that he should have justice, and that the person or persons
concerned in breaking his window or windows should be punished with the
utmost severity that the law would allow. Contrary to the humane spirit
of the British law, which supposes every man to be innocent till it is
proved that he is guilty, this harsh magistrate presumed that every man
who was brought before him was guilty till he was proved to be innocent.
Forester's appearance was not in his favour: he had been up all night;
his hair was dishevelled; his linen was neither fine nor white; his
shoes were thick-soled and dirty; his coat was that in which he had been
at work at the printer's the preceding day; it was in several places
daubed with printers' ink; and his unwashed hands bespoke his trade. Of
all these circumstances the slow circumspect eye of the magistrate took
cognizance one by one. Forester observed the effect which this survey
produced upon his judge; and he felt that appearances were against
him, and that appearances are sometimes of consequence. After having
estimated his poverty by these external symptoms, the magistrate looked,
for the first time, in his face, and pronounced that he had one of the
worst countenances he ever beheld. This judgment once pronounced, he
proceeded to justify, by wresting to the prisoner's disadvantage every
circumstance that appeared. Forester's having been frequently seen
in Tom Random's company was certainly against him: the confectioner
perpetually repeated that they were constant companions; that they were
intimate friends; that they were continually walking together every
Sunday; and that they often had come arm in arm into his shop, talking
politics; that he believed Forester to be of the same way of thinking
with Mr. Random; and that he saw him close behind him, at the moment the
stones were thrown that broke the windows. It appeared that Mr. Random
was at that time active in encouraging the mob. To oppose the angry
confectioner's conjectural evidence, the lad who threw the stone, and
who was now produced, declared that Forester held back his arm, and
said, "My good lad, don't break this man's windows: go home quietly;
here's a shilling for you." The person who gave this honest testimony,
in whom there was a strange mixture of the love of mischief and the
spirit of generosity, was the very lad who fought with Forester, and
beat him, about the dancing dogs. He whispered to Forester, "Do you
remember me? I hope you don't bear malice." The magistrate, who heard
this whisper, immediately construed it to the prisoner's disadvantage.
"Then, sir," said he, addressing himself to our hero, "this gentleman,
I understand, claims acquaintance with you; his acquaintance really
does you honour, and speaks, strongly in favour of your character. If
I mistake not, this is the lad whom I sent to the Tolbooth, some little
time ago, for a misdemeanour; and he is not, I apprehend, a stranger to
the stocks."

Forester commanded his temper as well as he was able, and observed, that
whatever might be the character of the young man who had spoken in his
favour, his evidence would, perhaps, be thought to deserve some credit,
when the circumstances of his acquaintance with the witness were known.
He then related the adventure of the dancing dogs, and remarked, that
the testimony of an enemy came with double force in his favour. The
language and manner in which Forester spoke surprised all who were
present; but the history of the dancing dogs appeared so ludicrous and
so improbable, that the magistrate decidedly pronounced it to be "a
fabrication, a story invented to conceal the palpable collusion of the
witnesses." Yet, though he one moment declared that he did not believe
the story, he the next inferred from it, that Forester was disposed to
riot and sedition, since he was ready to fight with a vagabond in the
streets for the sake of a parcel of dancing dogs.

M. Pasgrave, in the meantime, had, with great good-nature, been
representing Forester in the best light he possibly could to the young
ladies, the magistrate's daughters. One of them sent to beg to speak
to their father. M. Pasgrave judiciously dwelt upon his assurances of
Forester's being a gentleman: he told Mr. W---- that he had met him in
one of the best families in Edinburgh; that he knew he had some private
reasons for concealing that he was a gentleman: "perhaps the young
gentleman was reduced to temporary distress," he said; but whatever
might be these reasons, M. Pasgrave vouched for his having very
respectable friends and connexions. The magistrate wished to know the
family in which M. Pasgrave had met Forester; but he was, according
to his promise, impenetrable on this subject. His representations had,
however, the desired effect upon Mr. W----: when he returned to the
examination of our hero, his opinion of his countenance somewhat varied;
he despatched his other business; bailed Tom Random on high sureties;
and, when Forester was the only person that remained, he turned to him
with great solemnity; bade him sit down; informed him that he knew him
to be a gentleman; that he was greatly concerned that a person like him,
who had respectable friends and connexions, should involve himself in
such a disagreeable affair; that it was a matter of grief and surprise
to him, to see a young gentleman in such apparel; that he earnestly
recommended to him to accommodate matters with his friends; and, above
all things, to avoid the company of seditious persons. Much good advice,
but in a dictatorial tone, and in cold, pompous language, he bestowed
upon the prisoner, and at length dismissed him. "How different," said
Forester to himself, "is this man's method of giving advice from Dr.
Campbell's!"

This lesson strongly impressed, however, upon our hero's mind the
belief, that external appearance, dress, manners, and the company we
keep, are the usual circumstances by which the world judge of character
and conduct. When he was dismissed from Mr. W----'s august presence,
the first thing he did was to inquire for Pasgrave: he was giving the
magistrate's daughters a lesson, and could not be interrupted; but
Forester left a note for him, requesting to see him at ten o'clock the
next day, at Mr. ----, the bookseller's. New mortifications awaited our
hero: on his return to his master's, he was very coldly received; Mr.
---- let him know, in unqualified terms, that he did not like to
employ any one in his work who got into quarrels at night in the public
streets. Forester's former favour with his master, his industry and
talents, were not considered without envy by the rest of the journeymen
printers; and they took advantage of his absence to misrepresent him to
the bookseller: however, when Forester came to relate his own story,
his master was convinced that he was not to blame; that he had worked
extremely hard the preceding day; and that, far from having been
concerned in a riot, he had done every thing in his power to prevent
mischief. He desired to see the essay, which was printed with so much
expedition: it was in the hands of the corrector of the press. The
sheets were sent for, and the bookseller was in admiration at the
extraordinary correctness with which it was printed; the corrector of
the press scarcely had occasion to alter a word, a letter, or a stop.
There was a quotation in the manuscript from Juvenal. Henry Campbell
had, by mistake, omitted to name the satire and line, and the author
from which it was taken, though he had left a blank in which they were
to be inserted. The corrector of the press, though a literary gentleman,
was at a stand. Forester immediately knew where to look for the passage
in the original author: he found it, and inserted the book and line in
their proper place. His master did not suffer this to pass unobserved;
he hinted to him, that it was a pity a young man of his abilities
and knowledge should waste his time in the mere technical drudgery of
printing. "I should be glad now," continued the bookseller, "to employ
you as a corrector of the press, and to advance you, according to your
merits, in the world; _but_," glancing his eye at Forester's dress, "you
must give me leave to say, that some attention to outward appearance
is necessary in our business. Gentlemen call here, as you well know,
continually, and I like to have the people about me make a creditable
appearance. You have earned money since you have been with me--surely
you can afford yourself a decent suit of clothes and a cleaner shirt. I
beg your pardon for speaking so freely; but I really have a regard for
you, and wish to see you get forward in life."



FORESTER, A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS.


Forester had not, since he left Dr. Campbell's, been often spoken to
in a tone of friendship. The bookseller's well-meant frank remonstrance
made its just impression; and he resolved to make the necessary
additions to his wardrobe; nay, he even went to a hair-dresser, to
have his hair cut and brought into decent order. His companions, the
printers, had not been sparing in their remarks upon the meanness of
his former apparel, and Forester pleased himself with anticipating
the respect they would feel for him, when he should appear in better
clothes. "Can such trifles," said he to himself, "make such a change
in the opinion of my fellow-creatures? And why should I fight with the
world for trifles? My real merit is neither increased nor diminished by
the dress I may happen to wear; but I see, that unless I waste all my
life in combating the prejudices of superficial observers, I should
avoid all those pecuiliarities in my external appearance which prevent
whatever good qualities I have from obtaining their just respect." He
was surprised at the blindness of his companions, who could not discover
his merit through the roughness of his manners and the disadvantages
of his dress; but he determined to shine out upon them in the superior
dress and character of a corrector of the press. He went to a tailor's,
and bespoke a suit of clothes. He bought new linen; and our readers
will perhaps hear with surprise, that he actually began to consider very
seriously whether he should not take a few lessons in dancing. He had
learned to dance formerly, and was not naturally either inactive or
awkward: but his contempt for the art prevented him, for some years,
from practising it; and he had nearly forgotten his wonted agility.
Henry Campbell once, when Forester was declaiming against dancing,
told him, that if he had learned to dance, and excelled in the art, his
contempt for the trifling accomplishment would have more effect upon the
minds of others, because it could not be mistaken for envy. This remark
made a deep impression upon our hero, especially as he observed that his
friend Henry was not in the least vain of his personal graces, and
had cultivated his understanding, though he could dance a Scotch reel.
Scotch reels were associated in Forester's imagination with Flora
Campbell; and in balancing the arguments for and against learning to
dance, the recollection of Archibald Mackenzie's triumphant look, when
he led her away as his partner at the famous ball, had more influence
perhaps upon Forester's mind than his pride and philosophy apprehended.
He began to have some confused design of returning, at some distant
period, to his friends; and he had hopes that he should appear in a
more amiable light to Flora, after he had perfected himself in an
accomplishment which he fancied she admired prodigiously. His esteem for
that lady was rather diminished by this belief; but still a sufficient
quantity remained to excite in him a strong ambition to please. The
agony he felt the night he left the ball-room was such, that he could
not even now recollect the circumstances without confusion and anguish
of mind. His hands were now such as could appear without gloves; and he
resolved to commence the education of his feet.

M. Pasgrave called upon him, in consequence of the message which he
left at the magistrate's: his original design in sending for the
dancing-master was to offer him some acknowledgment for his obliging
conduct. "M. Pasgrave," said he, "you have behaved towards me like a
man of honour; you have kept my secret; I am convinced that you will
continue to keep it inviolate." As he spoke, he produced a ten-guinea
bank-note, for at length he had prevailed upon himself to have recourse
to his pocket-book, which, till this day, had remained unopened.
Pasgrave stared at the sight of the note, and withdrew his hand at
first, when it was offered; but he yielded at length, when Forester
assured him that he was not in any distress, and that he could perfectly
well afford to indulge his feelings of gratitude. "Nay," continued
Forester, who, if he had not always practised the maxims of politeness,
notwithstanding possessed that generosity of mind and good sense
on which real politeness must depend--"you shall not be under any
obligation to me, M. Pasgrave: I am just going to ask a favour from you.
You must teach me to dance." "Wid de utmost pleasure," exclaimed the
delighted dancing-master; and the hours of his attendance were soon
settled. Whatever Forester attempted, he pursued with energy. M.
Pasgrave, after giving him a few lessons, prophesied that he would do
him infinite credit; and Forester felt a secret pride in the idea
that he should surprise his friends, some time or other, with his new
accomplishment.

He continued in the bookseller's service, correcting the press for him,
much to his satisfaction; and the change in his personal appearance
pleased his master, as it showed attention to his advice. Our hero, from
time to time, exercised his talents in writing; and, as he inserted his
compositions under a fictitious signature, in his master's newspaper,
he had an opportunity of hearing the most unprejudiced opinions of a
variety of critics, who often came to read the papers at their house.
He stated, in short essays, some of those arguments concerning the
advantages and disadvantages of politeness, luxury, the love of society,
misanthropy, &c., which had formerly passed between him and Henry
Campbell; and he listened to the remarks that were made upon each side
of the question. How it happened, we know not; but after he had taken
lessons for about six weeks from M. Pasgrave, he became extremely
solicitous to have a solution of all his Stoical doubts, and to furnish
himself with the best possible arguments in favour of civilized society.
He could not bear the idea that he yielded his opinions to any thing
less than strict demonstration: he drew up a list of queries,
which concluded with the following question:--"What should be the
distinguishing characteristics of the higher classes of people in
society?" This query was answered in one of the public papers, a few
days after it appeared in Mr. ----'s paper, and the answer was signed
_H.C., a Friend to Society_. Even without these initials, Forester would
easily have discovered it to be Henry Campbell's writing; and several
strokes seemed to be so particularly addressed to him, that he could not
avoid thinking Henry had discovered the querist. The impression which
arguments make upon the mind varies with time and change of situation.
Those arguments in favour of subordination in society, in favour of
agreeable manners, and attention to the feelings of others in the small
as well as in the great concerns of life, which our hero had heard with
indifference from Dr. Campbell and Henry in conversation, struck him,
when he saw them in a printed essay, with all the force of conviction;
and he wondered how it had happened that he never before perceived them
to be conclusive.

He put the newspaper, which contained this essay, in his pocket; and,
after he had finished his day's work, and had taken his evening lesson
from M. Pasgrave, he went out with an intention of going to a favourite
spot upon Arthur's Seat, to read the essay again at his leisure.

But he was stopped at the turn from the North Bridge, into High-street,
by a scavenger's cart. The scavenger, with his broom which had just
swept the High-street, was clearing away a heap of mud. Two gentlemen
on horseback, who were riding like postilions, came up during this
operation--Sir Philip Gosling and Archibald Mackenzie. Forester had his
back towards them, and he never looked round, because he was too intent
upon his own thoughts. Archibald was mounted upon Sawney, the horse
which he had so _fairly_ won from his friend Sir Philip. The half-guinea
which had been promised to the hostler had not yet been paid; and the
hostler, determined to revenge himself upon Archibald, invented an
ingenious method of gratifying his resentment. He taught Sawney to rear
and plunge whenever his legs were touched by the broom with which the
stables were swept. When Sawney was perfectly well trained to this
trick, the cunning hostler communicated his design, and related his
cause of complaint against Archibald, to a scavenger, who was well
known at the livery stables. The scavenger entered into his friend the
hostler's feeling, and promised to use his broom in his cause,
whenever a convenient and public opportunity should offer. The hour of
retribution was now arrived: the scavenger saw his young gentleman in
full glory, mounted upon Sawney; he kept his eye upon him, whilst, in
company with the baronet, he came over the North Bridge: there was a
stop, from the meeting of carts and carriages. The instant Archibald
came within reach of the broom, the scavenger slightly touched Sawney's
legs; Sawney plunged and reared, and reared and plunged. The scavenger
stood grinning at the sight. Forester attempted to seize the horse's
bridle; but Sawney, who seemed determined upon the point, succeeded.
When Forester snatched at his bridle, he reared, then plunged; and
Archibald Mackenzie was fairly lodged in the scavenger's cart. Whilst
the well-dressed laird floundered in the mud, Forester gave the horse
to the servant, who had now ridden up; and, satisfied that Mackenzie had
received no material injury, inquired no further. He turned to assist a
poor washerwoman, who was lifting a large basket of clean linen into her
house, to get it out of the way of the cart. As soon as he had helped
her to lift the basket into her passage, he was retiring, when he heard
a voice at the back-door, which was at the other end of the passage. It
was the voice of a child; and he listened, for he thought he had heard
it before. "The door is locked," said the washerwoman. "I know who it is
that is knocking; it is only a little girl who is coming for a cap which
I have there in the basket." The door was unlocked, and Forester saw the
little girl to whom the fine geranium belonged. What a number of ideas
she recalled to his mind! She looked at him, and hesitated, courtesied,
then turned away, as if she was afraid she was mistaken, and asked the
washerwoman if she had plaited her grandmother's cap. The woman searched
in her basket, and produced the cap nicely plaited. The little girl, in
the meantime, considered Forester with anxious attention. "I believe,"
said she, timidly, "you are, or you are very like, the gentleman who was
so good as to--" "Yes," interrupted Forester, "I know what you mean.
I am the man who went with you to try to obtain justice from your
tyrannical schoolmistress: I did not do you any good. Have you
seen--have you heard any thing of--?" Such a variety of recollections
pressed upon Forester's heart, that he could not pronounce the name of
Henry Campbell; and he changed his question. "Is your old grandmother
recovered?"

"She is quite well, thank you, sir; and she is grown young again, since
you saw her: perhaps you don't know how good Mr. Henry and the young
lady have been to us. We don't live now in that little, close, dark room
at the watchmaker's. We are as happy, sir, as the day is long." "But
what of Henry? what of--?" "Oh, sir! but if you are not very busy, or in
a great hurry--it is but a little way off--if you _could_ come and look
at our new house--I don't mean _our_ house, for it is not ours; but
we take care of it, and we have two little rooms to ourselves; and Mr.
Henry and Miss Flora very often come to see us. I wish you could come to
see how nice our rooms are! The house is not far off, only at the back
of the Meadows." "Go, show me the way--I'll follow you," said Forester,
after he had satisfied himself that there was no danger of his meeting
any of Dr. Campbell's family.



THE MEADOWS.


Our hero accompanied the little girl with eager, benevolent curiosity.
"There," said she, when they came to the Meadows, "do you see that white
house, with the paling before it?" "But that cannot be your house!" "No,
no, sir: Dr. Campbell and several gentlemen have the large room,
and they come there twice a-week to teach something to a great many
children. Grandmother can explain all that better to you, sir, than I
can; but all I know is, that it is our business to keep the room aired
and swept, and to take care of the glass things which you'll see; and
you shall see how clean it is: it was _I_ swept it this morning."

They had now reached the gate which was in the paling before the
house. The old woman came to the door, clean, neat, and cheerful; she
recollected to have seen Forester in company with Henry Campbell at the
watchmaker's; and this was sufficient to make him a welcome guest. "God
bless the family, and all that belongs to them, for ever and ever!" said
the woman. "This way, sir." "Oh, don't look into our little rooms yet:
look at the great room first, if you please, sir," said the child.

There was a large table in the middle of this long room, and several
glass retorts, and other chemical vessels, were ranged upon shelves;
wooden benches were placed on each side of the table. The grandmother,
to whom the little girl had referred for a clear explanation, could
not, however, tell Forester very exactly the use of the retorts; but she
informed him that many of the manufacturers in Edinburgh sent their sons
hither twice a-week; and Dr. Campbell, and Mr. Henry Campbell, and some
other gentlemen, came by turns to instruct them. Forester recollected
now that he once heard Henry talking to his father about a scheme for
teaching the children of the manufacturers of Edinburgh some knowledge
of chemistry, such as they might afterwards apply advantageously to the
arts and every-day business of life.

"I have formed projects, but what good have I ever actually done to my
fellow-creatures?" said Forester to himself. With melancholy steps he
walked to examine every thing in the room. "Dr. Campbell sits in this
arm-chair, does not he? And where does Henry sit?" The old woman placed
the chairs for him as they usually were placed. Upon one of the shelves
there was a slate, which, as it had been written upon, the little girl
had put by very carefully; there were some calculations upon the weight
of different gases, and the figures Forester knew to be Henry's: he
looked at every thing that was Henry's with pleasure. "Because I used to
be so rough in my manner to him," said Forester to himself, "I dare say
that he thinks I have no feeling, and I suppose he has forgotten me by
this time: I deserve, indeed, to be forgotten by every body! How could
I leave such friends!" On the other side of the slate poor Forester saw
his own name written several times over, in his friend's hand-writing,
and he read two lines of his own poetry, which he remembered to have
repeated to Henry the day that they walked to Arthur's Seat. Forester
felt much pleasure from this little proof of his friend's affection.
"Now won't you look at our nice rooms?" said the child, who had waited
with some patience till he had done pondering upon the slate.

The little rooms were well arranged, and their neatness was not now as
much lost upon our hero as it would have been some time before. The old
woman and her grand-daughter, with all the pride of gratitude, exhibited
to him several little presents of furniture which they had received
from Dr. Campbell's family. "Mr. Henry gave me this! Miss Flora gave me
that!" was frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door of her
own room. On a clean white deal bracket, which "_Mr. Henry lad put
up with his own hands_," stood the well-known geranium in its painted
flower-pot. Forester saw nothing else in the room, and it was in vain
that both the old woman and her grand-daughter talked to him at once;
he heard not a word that was said to him. The flowers were all gone, and
the brown calyces of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of
time which had elapsed since he had first seen them. "I am sorry there
are no flowers to offer you," said the little girl, observing Forester's
melancholy look; "but I thought you did not like geraniums; for I
remember when I gave you a fine flower in the watchmaker's shop you
pulled it to pieces, and threw it on the ground." "I should not do so
now," said Forester. The black marks on the painted flower-pot had been
entirely effaced: be turned away, endeavoured to conceal his emotion,
and took leave of the place as soon as the grateful inhabitants would
suffer him to depart. The reflection that he had wasted his time,
that he had never done any good to any human being, that he had lost
opportunities of making both himself and others happy, pressed upon his
mind; but his Stoical pride still resisted the thought of returning
to Dr. Campbell's. "It will be imagined that I yield my opinions from
meanness of spirit," said he to himself. "Dr. Campbell certainly has
no further regard or esteem for me; neither he nor Henry have troubled
themselves about my fate: they are doing good to more deserving objects;
they are intent upon literary pursuits, and have not time to bestow a
thought upon me. And Flora, I suppose, is as gay as she is good. I alone
am unhappy,--a wanderer,--an outcast,--a useless being."

Forester, whilst he was looking at the geranium, or soon afterwards,
missed his handkerchief; the old woman and her grand-daughter searched
for it all over the house, but in vain: he then thought he must have
left it at the washerwoman's, where he met the little girl; he called to
inquire for it, upon his return to Edinburgh. When he returned to this
woman's house for his handkerchief, he found her sitting upon a low
stool, in her laundry, weeping bitterly; her children stood round her.
Forester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she told him that
a few minutes after he left her, the young gentleman who had been thrown
from his horse into the scavenger's cart was brought into her house,
whilst his servant went home for another suit of clothes for him. "I
did not at first guess that I had ever seen the young gentleman before,"
continued she; "but when the mud was cleared from his face I knew him to
be Mr. Archibald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his face
then or at any time. He was in a very bad humour after his tumble, and
he began again to threaten me about a ten-guinea bank-note, which he and
his servant declare they sent in his waistcoat pocket to be washed: I'm
sure I never saw it. Mr. Henry Campbell quieted him about it for awhile;
but just now he began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a
lawyer, and that he will make me pay the whole note; and he swore at me
as if I had been the worst creature in the world; and, God knows, I work
hard for my children, and never wronged any one in my days!"

Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections as soon as he
could assist any one who was in distress, bade the poor woman dry
her tears, and assured her that she had nothing to fear; for he would
instantly go to Dr. Campbell, and get him to speak to Mackenzie. "If
it is necessary," said he, "I'll pay the money myself." She clasped
her hands joyfully as he spoke, and all her children joined in an
exclamation of delight. "I'll go to Dr. Campbell's this instant," said
our hero, whose pride now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this
injured woman; he totally forgot himself, and thought only of her: "I'll
go to Dr. Campbell's, and I will speak to Mr. Mackenzie immediately."



A SUMMONS


Whilst Forester was walking through the streets, with that energy which
the hope of serving his fellow-creatures always excited in his generous
mind, he even forgot a scheme which he had, in spite of his Stoical
pride and his dread of being thought to give up his opinions from
meanness, resolved in his imagination. He had formed the design of
returning to his friends an altered being in his external appearance: he
had ordered a fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. He had
laid aside the dress and manners of a gentleman from the opinion that
they were degrading to the character of a man: as soon as this prejudice
had been conquered, he began to think he might resume them. Many were
the pleasing anticipations in which he indulged himself: the looks of
each of his friends, the generous approving eye of Henry, the benevolent
countenance of Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all painted
by his fancy; and lie invented every circumstance that was likely to
happen--every word that would probably be said by each individual. We
are sure that our readers will give our enthusiastic hero credit for
his forgetting these pleasing reveries--for his forgetting himself,
nay, even Flora Campbell--when humanity and justice called upon him for
exertion.

When he found himself in George's-square, within sight of Dr. Campbell's
house, his heart beat violently, and he suddenly stopped to
recollect himself. He had scarcely stood a few instants, when a hard,
stout-looking man came up to him, and asked him if his name were
Forester: he started, and answered, "Yes, sir, what is your business
with me?" The stranger replied by producing a paper, and desiring him
to read it. The paper, which was half printed, half written, began with
these words:--"You are hereby required to appear before me--"

"What is all this?" exclaimed our hero. "It is a summons," replied the
stranger: "I am a constable, and you will please to come with me before
Mr. W----. This is not the first time you have been before him, I am
told." To this last insolent taunt Forester made no reply, but in a firm
tone said that he was conscious of no crime, but that he was ready
to follow the constable, and to appear before Mr. W----, or any other
magistrate, who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though he summoned
all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he was much astonished by
this proceeding; he could not help reflecting, that an individual in
society who has friends, an established character, and a _home_, is in
a more desirable situation than an unconnected being, who has no one
to answer for his conduct,--no one to rejoice in his success, or to
sympathize in his misfortunes. "Ah, Dr. Campbell! happy father! in the
midst of your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent ward!" said
Forester to himself, while his mind revolted from seeking his friend's
assistance in this discreditable situation. "You do not know how near he
is to you! you do not know that he was just returning to you! you do not
see that he is, at this moment, perhaps, on the brink of disgrace!"



THE BANK-NOTES.


Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell had forgotten him;
but we shall not yet explain further upon this subject; we only throw
out this hint, that our readers may not totally change their good
opinion of the doctor. We must now beg their attention to the
continuation of the history of Archibald Mackenzie's bank-note.

Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the colours were changed
in one spot on the right-hand pocket of her son's waistcoat. "My dear
Archibald," said she, "what has happened to your smart waistcoat? What
is that terrible spot?" "Really, ma'am, I don't know," said Archibald,
with his usual soft voice and deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed
that it seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some acid. "Did
you wear that waistcoat, Mr. Mackenzie," said he, "the night the large
bottle of vitriolic acid was broken--the night that poor Forester's cat
was killed: don't you remember?" "Oh, I did not at first recollect; I
cannot possibly remember, indeed,--it is so long ago,--what waistcoat I
wore on that particular night." The extreme embarrassment in Archibald's
manner surprised Henry. "I really don't perceive your _drift_,"
continued Mackenzie: "what made you ask the question so earnestly?" He
was relieved when Henry answered, that he only wished to know whether
it was probable that it was stained with vitriolic acid; "because,"
said he, "I think _that_ is the pocket in which you said you left
your ten-guinea note; then, perhaps, the note may have been stained."
"Perhaps so," replied Mackenzie dryly. "And if it were, you could
identify the note: you have forgotten the number; but if the note has
been stained with vitriolic acid, we should certainly be able to know
it again: the acid would have changed the colour of the ink." Mackenzie
eagerly seized this idea; and immediately, in pursuance of Henry's
advice, went to several of the principal bankers in Edinburgh, and
requested that if a note, stained in such a manner, should be presented
to them, they would stop payment of it till Mackenzie should examine it.
Some time elapsed, and nothing was heard of the note. Mackenzie gave up
all hopes of recovering it; and in proportion as these hopes diminished,
his old desire of making the poor washerwoman answerable for his loss
increased. We have just heard this woman's account of his behaviour to
her, when he came into her house to be refitted, after his tumble from
Sawney into the scavenger's cart. All his promises to Henry he
thought proper to disregard: promises appeared to him mere matters of
convenience; and the idea of "_taking in_" such a young man as Henry
Campbell was to him an excellent joke. He resolved to keep the five
guineas quietly which Henry lent him; and, at the same time, to frighten
this innocent industrious woman into paying him the value of his
bank-note.

Upon Mackenzie's return to Dr. Campbell's, after his fall from Sawney,
the first thing he heard was that his note was found; that it had been
stopped at the bank of Scotland; and that one of the clerks of the bank,
who brought it for his examination, had been some time waiting for his
return from riding. When the note was produced, Henry saw that two or
three of the words which had been written in ink, the name of the person
to whom it was payable, and the date of the month and year, were so pale
as to be scarcely visible; and that there was a round hole through one
corner of the paper. This round hole puzzled Henry, but he had no doubt
that the ink had been thus nearly obliterated by vitriolic acid. He
poured a few drops, diluted with water, upon some printing, and the ink
was quickly turned to nearly the same pale colour as that in Mackenzie's
note. The note was easily traced, as it had not passed through many
hands--our readers will be sorry to hear it--to M. Pasgrave, the
dancing-master. Mackenzie and the clerk went directly to his house,
found him at home, and without much preface, informed him of their
business. The dancing-master trembled from head to foot, and, though
innocent, exhibited all the signs of guilt; he had not the slightest
knowledge of business, and the manner and language of the banker's clerk
who accompanied Mackenzie terrified him beyond measure, because he did
not comprehend one word in ten that he said about checks, entries,
and day-books; and he was nearly a quarter of an hour before he could
recover sufficient presence of mind to consider from whom he received
the note. At length, after going over, in an unintelligible manner, all
the puzzled accounts of monies received and paid which he kept in his
head, he declared that he clearly recollected to have received the
ten-guinea note at Mr. Macpherson's, the tailor; that he went a few
weeks ago to settle his year's account with him; and that in change
for a twenty-pound note, he received that which the banker's clerk
now produced. To Mackenzie it was perfectly indifferent who was found
guilty, so that he could recover his money. "Settle it as you will
amongst you," said he, "the money must be refunded, or I must have you
all before a magistrate directly." Pasgrave, in great perturbation, set
out for Mr. Macpherson's, showed him the note, and reminded him of the
day when he paid his account. "If you received the note from us, sir,"
said the master-tailor, very calmly, "it must be entered in our books,
for we keep regular accounts." The tailor's foreman, who knew much more
of the affair than his master, appealed, with assumed security, to the
entry in the books. By this entry it appeared that M. Pasgrave
settled his account the 17th of October; that he paid the balance by a
twenty-pound note, and that he received in change a ten-guinea note on
Sir William Forbes's bank. "You see, sir," said the tailor, "this cannot
possibly be Mr. Mackenzie's; for his note is on the bank of Scotland.
Our entry is as full as possible; and I am ready to produce my books,
and to abide by them, in any court of justice in the world." M. Pasgrave
was totally at a loss; he could only repeat, that he remembered to have
received Mackenzie's note from one of the tailor's men, who brought it
to him from an inner room. The foreman boldly asserted, that he brought
the change exactly as his master gave it to him, and that he knew
nothing more of the matter. But, in fact, he knew a great deal more:
he had found the note in the pocket of Mackenzie's waistcoat, which his
servant had left to be mended, after he had torn it furtively, as has
been already related. When his master called him into the inner room,
to give him the change for Pasgrave, he observed that there was a
ten-guinea note wrapped up with some halfpence; and he thought that it
would be a prudent thing to substitute Mackenzie's note, which he had
by him, in the place of this. He accordingly gave Pasgrave Mackenzie's
note, and thrust the note which he had received from his master into a
corner of his trunk, where he usually kept little windfalls, that came
to him by the negligence of customers--toothpick-cases, loose silver,
odd gloves, &c., all which he knew how to dispose of. But this bank-note
was a higher prize than usual, and he was afraid to pass it till all
inquiry had blown over. He knew his master's regularity; and he thought
that if the note was stopped afterwards at any of the banks, it could
never be traced further than to M. Pasgrave. He was rejoiced to see that
this poor man was in such trepidation of mind that he could not, in the
least, use his understanding; and he saw, with much satisfaction, that
his master, who was a positive man, and proud of the accuracy of his
books, was growing red in the face in their defence. Mackenzie, in the
meantime, who had switched his boots with great impatience during their
debate, interfered at last with, "Come, gentlemen, we can't stand here
all day to hear you give one another the lie. One of you, it's plain,
must shell out your corianders; but, as you can't settle which, we must
put you to your oath, I see." "Mr. W----'s is not far off, and I am
ready to go before him with my books this instant," said the fiery
master-tailor. "My books were never called in question since I was in
trade till this instant; and nobody but a French dancing-master, who
understands no more of debtor and creditor than my goose, would stand
out against such an entry as this." To Mr. W----'s the tailor, his
foreman, the dancing-master, the banker's clerk, and Mackenzie,
repaired. Pasgrave turned paler than ever dancer turned before; and gave
himself, his character, and his wife and children, all up for lost,
when he heard that he was to be put upon his oath. He drew back when Mr.
W---- held the book to him, and demanded whether he would swear to the
person from whom he received the note. He said he could not swear; but
to the best of his belief--en conscience--en honneur--foi d'honnete
homme--he was convinced he received it from Mr. Macpherson's foreman.
The foreman, who, from one step in villany, found himself hurried on to
another and another, now scrupled not to declare that he was ready to
take his oath that he delivered the note and change, just as his master
gave it to him, to M. Pasgrave. The magistrate turned to the paler,
conscientious, incapacitated dancing-master, and in a severe tone
said--"Appearances are strangely against you, M. Pasgrave. Here's a
young gentleman has lost a bank-note--it is stopped at the bank
of Scotland--it is traced home to you--you say you got it from Mr.
Macpherson or his foreman--his books are produced--the entry in them is
clearly against you; for it states that the note given to you in change
was one of Sir William Forbes's bank; and this which I hold now in my
hand is of the Bank of Scotland. Please now to tell how this note of
the Bank of Scotland, which has been proved to be the property of Mr.
Mackenzie, came into your possession? From whom did you receive it? or
how did you come by it? I am not surprised that you decline taking an
oath upon this occasion." "Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi!" cried
the innocent, but terrified man, throwing himself upon one knee, in
an attitude, which, on the stage, would have produced a sublime
effect--"Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi! I have no more dan de child
no sense in affairs." Mackenzie interrupted him with a brutal laugh. The
more humane banker's clerk was moved by the simplicity of this avowed
ignorance of business. He went up to the distracted dancer, and said,
"It is not to be expected that every body should understand business as
_we_ do, sir: if you are innocent, only give yourself time to recollect;
and though it's unfortunate that you never keep any regular accounts,
maybe we shall be able to make out this affair of the entry. If Mr.
W---- will give me leave to take this pen and ink, and if you will try
to recollect all the persons from whom you have received money lately--"
"Ah, mon Dieu! dat is impossible." Then he began to name the quarterly
and half-yearly payments that he had received from his various pupils.
"Did any of them lately give you a ten-guinea note?" "Ah, oui, je
me rappelle--un jeune monsieur--un certain monsieur, qui ne veut pas
que--qui est la incognito--who I would not betray for the world; for he
has behave wid de most parfaite generosite to me." "But did he give
you a ten-guinea bank-note? that is all we want to know," said the
magistrate. "Mais--oui--yes." "About what time?" said the clerk. It was
about the beginning of October: and this was so near the time when he
settled accounts with Mr. Macpherson, the tailor, that he even himself
began to believe it possible that he had mistaken one note for the
other. "When the young gentleman gave you the note," said the banker's
clerk, "surely you must have looked at it--you must have observed
these remarkable stains?" Pasgrave replied, that he did look at it, he
supposed; that he saw it was a ten-guinea note; it might be stained, it
might not be stained; he could not pretend to be certain about it. He
repeated his assurances that he was ignorant of business, and of every
thing in this world but dancing. "Pour la danse, je m'y connois--pour
les affaires, je n'en sais rien, moi." He, with his usual simplicity,
added, that if Mr. W---- would give him leave, he would go to the young
gentleman, his friend, and learn from him exactly the number of the note
which he had given him; that he was sure he could recollect his own note
immediately. Mackenzie, who thought that this was merely pretence, in
order to escape, told him that he could not be suffered to go out upon
his parole. "But," said Mr. W----, "tell us the name of this young
gentleman who has so much generosity, and who lives incognito. I don't
like gentlemen who live incognito. I think I had a young man here before
me, about two months ago, charged with breaking a confectioner's windows
in a riot, the night of the great illuminations--Hey? don't I remember
some such thing? And you, M. Pasgrave, if I mistake not, interested
yourself mightily about this young man, and told me and my daughters,
sir, that he was a young gentleman incognito. I begin to see through
this affair. Perhaps I this is the same young gentleman from whom you
received the I note. And pray what value did you give for it?" Pasgrave,
whose fear of betraying Forester now increased his confusion, stammered,
and first said the note was a present, but afterwards added, "I have
been giving de young person lessons in dancing for des six week."

"Well, then, we must summon this young person," said Mr. W----. "Tell us
his name, if you please," said Mackenzie; "I have some suspicion that
I know your gentleman incognito." "You need not trouble him," said the
magistrate; "I know the name already, and I know where the bird is to
be found: his name, if he has not changed it since he was last in this
room, is Forester." "Forester!" exclaimed Mackenzie; "I thought so! I
always thought how he would turn out. I wonder what his friends, the
Campbells, will have to say for him now!"

Mr. W----'s pen stopped. "His friends, the Campbells--humph! So the
Campbells are his friends, are they?" repeated he. "They _were_ his
friends," answered Mackenzie; "but Mr. Forester thought proper, nobody
knows why, to run away from them, some months ago; the only reason I
could ever learn was that he did not like to live amongst gentlemen: and
he has been living ever since incognito, amongst blackguards, and we see
the fruits of it." Mackenzie eagerly handed the summons, as soon as it
was signed, to a constable; and Mr. W---- directed the constable to Mr.
----'s, the bookseller, adding, "Book-sellers and printers are dangerous
persons." The constable, who had seen Forester the night that he was
confined with Tom Random, knew his face and person; and we have told
our readers that he met Forester in George's-square, going to Dr.
Campbell's, to vindicate the innocence of the poor washerwoman.

The tailor's foreman was not a little alarmed when the summons was sent
for our hero; he dreaded that the voice of truth should be heard, and he
skulked behind the rest of the company. What astonishment did Forester
feel when he entered the room, and saw the group that surrounded the
justice's table!--Archibald Mackenzie, with an insulting sneer on his
lips--Pasgrave, with eyes fixed upon him in despair--Mr. Macpherson,
the tailor, pointing to an entry in his book--his foreman shrinking
from notice--the banker's clerk, with benevolent scepticism in his
countenance--and the justice, with a portentous scowl upon his brow.

"Come forward, Mr. Forester," said the magistrate, as our hero made a
sudden pause of astonishment; "come forward, sir!" Forester advanced
with calm intrepidity. "You are better dressed than when I had the
honour of seeing you here some time ago, sir. Are you a printer
still, or a gentleman? Your dress certainly bespeaks a change in your
condition." "I am sure I should hardly know Mr. Forester again, he has
grown such a beau--comparatively speaking, I mean," said Mackenzie. "But
certainly, M. Pasgrave, you must have made some mistake; I don't know
how to believe my senses! Is this the young gentleman to whom you
alluded? do you know him--?" "Give me leave, Mr. Mackenzie," interrupted
the justice: "I shall examine this young incognito myself. I think I
know how to come at the truth. Will you do me the favour, sir, to inform
me whether you recollect any thing of a ten-guinea bank-note which you
gave or paid, some time in last October, to this gentleman?" pointing
to M. Pasgrave. "I do," replied Forester, in a distinct, unembarrassed
voice, "perfectly well remember giving M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea
bank-note." "Ah, monsieur, je ne suis pas un ingrat. Ne pensez pas
que--" "Oh, M. Pasgrave," interrupted Mackenzie, "this is no time for
compliments and fine speeches: for God's sake, let us get to the bottom
of this affair without further ceremony!" "Sir," said the banker's
clerk, "all we want to know is the number of your note, and the firm of
the house. Was your note one of Sir William Forbes's, or of the Bank
of Scotland?" Forester was silent. "I do not recollect," said he, after
some pause. "You don't recollect, sir," said the justice, "is something
like an evasive answer. You must have a vast number of bank-notes then,
we must presume, if you cannot recollect to what bank your ten-guinea
note belonged." Forester did not understand this logic; but he simply
repeated his assertion. "Pray, sir," said the tailor, who could no
longer restrain his impatience--"Pray, sir," said the magistrate, in a
solemn manner, "be silent. I shall find out the truth. So, Mr. Forester,
you cannot possibly recollect the house of your note? You will tell us
next, I dare say, that you cannot possibly recollect how you came by
it." "Sir," said Forester, "if it is necessary, I can readily tell you
how I came by it." "It is very necessary, sir, for your own credit." "I
received it from Dr. Campbell." "Dr. Campbell!" repeated the magistrate,
changing his tone. "And I have some idea that the doctor gave me a list
of the numbers of that and four other notes, with which I fortunately
have not parted." "Some idea means nothing in a court of justice, sir;
if you have any such paper, you can do us the favour to produce it." Now
this list was locked up in the trunk, of which the key was dropped into
the brewing-vat. Richardson, the clerk, had returned the key to him;
but, such is the force of habit, he had not cured himself of the foolish
trick of twirling it upon his thumb; and about two months ago he dropped
it in one of his walks to Arthur's Seat. He long searched for it amongst
the rocky fragments, but at last gave it up--he little imagined of how
much consequence it might be to him. Dr. Campbell had once refused to
break open the lock, and he felt very unwilling to apply to him in his
present circumstances. However, he wrote a few lines to Henry Campbell;
but, as soon as he had written them, his pride again revolted from
the thoughts of supplicating the assistance of his friend in such
a disgraceful situation. "If you don't choose to write," said the
officious malevolence of Archibald, "I can, however, speak; I'll desire
Dr. Campbell to open your trunk, and search for the paper." He left the
room before Forester could make any further opposition.

"I have answered, I hope, both distinctly and respectfully, all the
questions that you have asked me," said Forester, turning to Mr. W----.
"I hope you will no longer keep me in the dark. Of what am I suspected?"
"I will tell you, sir," replied the deliberate, unfeeling magistrate;
"you are suspected of having, I will not say _stolen_, but you are
more than suspected of having come unfairly by a certain ten-guinea
bank-note, which the young gentleman who has just left the room lost
a few months ago." Forester, as this speech was slowly pronounced,
sat down, folded his arms, and appeared totally insensible--quite
unconscious that he was in the presence of a magistrate, or that any
human being was observing him. "Ah, mon cher monsieur, pardonnez!" cried
Pasgrave, bursting into tears. "N'en parlons plus," added he, turning
to the magistrate. "Je payerai tout ce qu'il faut. I will pay de ten
guineas. I will satisfy every body. I cannot never forgive myself if I
bring him into any disgrace." "Disgrace!" exclaimed Forester, starting
up, and repeating the word in a tone which made every person in the
room, not excepting the phlegmatic magistrate, start and look up to him,
with a sudden feeling of inferiority. His ardent eye spoke the language
of his soul. No words could express his emotion. The master-tailor
dropped his day-book. "Constable--call a constable!" cried the justice.
"Sir, you forget in whose presence you are--you think, I suppose, that
your friends, the Campbells, will bear you out. Sir, I would have you
to know that all the Campbells in Scotland can't bail you for a felony.
Sir, philosophers should know these things. If you cannot clear yourself
to my entire satisfaction, Mr. Forester, I shall commit you--in one
word--to gaol: yes--look as you please, sir--to gaol. And if the doctor
and his son, and all his family, come up to bail you, I shall, _meo
periculo_, refuse their bail. The law, sir, is no respecter of persons.
So none of your rhodomontades, young gentleman, in my presence; but step
into this closet, if you please; and, I advise you, bring your mind into
a becoming temperament, whilst I go to dinner. Gentlemen," continued
he to Macpherson and Pasgrave, "you'll be so good to wait here in this
apartment. Constable, look to your prisoner," pointing to the door of
the closet. "John, let me know when Dr. Campbell arrives; and tell them
to send up dinner directly," said the justice to his butler.

Whilst he dines, we must leave the tailor complaining that he was
wasting precious time; the foreman in the panic of guilt; and the
good-natured dancing-master half distracted betwixt his fears and his
ignorance. He looked from time to time through the key-hole of the
closet in which Forester was confined, and exclaimed, "Grand Dieu! comme
il a l'air noble a cet instant! Ah! lui coupable! he go to gaol! it is
impossible!"

"We shall see how that will be presently," said the foreman, who had
hitherto preserved absolute silence. "I abide by my books," said the
master-tailor; "and I wish Dr. Campbell would make haste. _I have lost a
day!_"

In spite of the tailor's imperial exclamation, he was obliged to wait
some time longer. When Mackenzie arrived at Dr. Campbell's, Henry was
not at home: he was gone to the house at the back of the meadows, to
prepare some chemical experiments for the next day's lecture. Mackenzie,
however, found Dr. Campbell at home in his study; and, in a soft
hypocritical voice, lamented that he was obliged to communicate some
disagreeable circumstances relating to young Mr. Forester. "You do
not, I presume, know where that unfortunate, misguided youth is at
present--at this moment, I mean." "I do not know where he is at this
moment," said Dr. Campbell, calmly; "but I know where he has been for
some time--at Mr. ----'s, the bookseller. I have had my eye upon him
ever since he left this house. I have traced him from place to place.
Though I have said little about him, Mr. Mackenzie, I have a great
regard for my unfortunate ward." "I am sorry for it, sir," said
Mackenzie: "I fear I must wound your feelings the more deeply." "What is
the matter? pray speak at once," cried Dr. Campbell, who now forgot all
his usual calmness. "Where is Forester?" "He is at this moment before
Mr. W----, the magistrate, sir, charged with--but, I own, I cannot
believe him guilty--" "Charged with what? For God's sake, speak plainly,
Mr. Mackenzie!" "Then, in one word, sir, my lost bank-note is traced
home to Mr. Forester. M. Pasgrave says he received it from him."
"Surely, sir," said Dr. Campbell, with indignation, "you would not
insinuate that Forester has stolen your bank-note?" "I insinuate
nothing, doctor," said Archibald; "but, I fear, the thing is too
plainly proved. My bank-note has certain stains, by which it has been
identified. All that I know is, that Mr. W---- says he can take no
bail; and that he must commit Mr. Forester to gaol, unless he can clear
himself. He says, that a few days before he left your house, you
paid him his quarterly allowance of fifty guineas, in five ten-guinea
bank-notes." "He says true--I did so," said Dr. Campbell eagerly. "And
he says that you gave them to him wrapped in a piece of paper, on which
the numbers of the notes were written." "I remember it distinctly: I
desired him to take care of that paper." "He is not famous for taking
care, you know, sir, of any thing. He says, he believes he threw it
into his trunk; but he has lost the key of the trunk, I understand." "No
matter; we can break it open this instant, and search for the paper,"
cried Dr. Campbell, who was now extremely alarmed for his ward.
Mackenzie stood by without offering any assistance, whilst Dr. Campbell
broke open the trunk, and searched it with the greatest anxiety. It was
in terrible disorder. The coat and waistcoat which Forester wore at the
ball were crammed in at the top; and underneath appeared unfolded linen,
books, boots, maps, shoes, cravats, fossils, and heaps of little
rumpled bits of paper, in which the fossils had once been contained. Dr.
Campbell opened every one of these. The paper he wanted was not amongst
them. He took every thing out of the box, shook and searched all the
pockets of the coat, in which Forester used, before his reformation,
to keep hoards of strange papers. No list of bank-notes appeared. At
length, Dr. Campbell espied the white corner of a paper-mark in a volume
of Goldsmith's Animated Nature, He pulled out this mark, and to his
great joy, he found it to be the very paper he wanted. "So it's found,
is it?" said Mackenzie, disappointed; whilst Dr. Campbell seized his
hat, left every thing upon the floor, and was very near locking the door
of the room upon Mackenzie. "Don't lock me in here, doctor--I am going
back with you to Mr. W----'s" said Arcibald. "Won't you stay? dinner's
going up--Mr. W---- was going this dinner when I came away." Without
listening to him, Dr. Campbell just let him out, locked the door, and
hurried away to his poor ward.

"I have let things go to far," said he to himself. "As long as
Forester's credit was not in danger, as long as he was unknown, it was
very well; but now his character is at stake; he may pay too dear for
his experience."

"Dr. Campbell," said the pompous magistrate, who hated philosophers,
rising from table as Dr. Campbell entered, "do not speak to me of
bailing this ward of yours--it is impossible, sir; I know my duty." "I
am not come to offer bail for my ward," said Dr. Campbell, "but to prove
his innocence." "We must hope the best," said Mr. W----; and, having
forced the doctor to pledge him in a bumper of port, "Now I am ready to
proceed again to the examination of all parties concerned."

Dr. Campbell was now shown into the room where Mr. Macpherson, his
foreman and Pasgrave, were waiting. "Ah, monsieur, Dieu merci, vous
voila!" exclaimed Pasgrave. "You may go," said Mr. W---- to the
constable: "but wait below stairs." He unlocked the closet-door.
Forester, at the sight of Dr. Campbell, covered his face with his hands;
but, an instant afterwards, advanced with intrepidity. "You cannot, I am
sure, believe me to be guilty of any meanness, Dr. Campbell," said he.
"Imprudent I have been, and I suffer for my folly." "Guilty!" cried
Dr. Campbell; "no: I could almost as soon suspect my own son of such an
action. But my belief is nothing to the purpose. We must _prove_ your
innocence." "Ah, oui, monsieur--and mine too; for I am innocent, I can
assure you," cried M. Pasgrave.

"The whole business, sir," said the banker's clerk, who had, by this
time, returned to hear the termination of the affair--"the whole thing
can be settled in two minutes, by a gentleman like you, who understands
business. Mr. Forester cannot recollect the number or the firm of a
ten-guinea bank-note which he gave to M. Pasgrave. M. Pasgrave cannot
recollect either; and he is in doubt whether he received this
stained note, which Mr. Mackenzie lost, from Mr. Forester or from
Mr. Macpherson, the tailor." "There can be no doubt about me," said
Macpherson. "Dr. Campbell, will you be so good to look at the entry? I
acknowledge, I gave M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea note; but here's the number
of it, 177, of Forbes's bank. Mr. Mackenzie's note, you see, is of the
bank of Scotland; and the stains upon it are so remarkable, that, if I
had ever seen it before, I should certainly remember it. I'll take
my oath I never saw it before." "Sir," said Forester eagerly to Dr.
Campbell, "you gave me five ten-guinea notes: here are four of them in
this pocket-book; the fifth I gave to M. Pasgrave. Can you tell me the
number of that note?" "I can," said Dr. Campbell, producing the paper
which he found in Goldsmith's Animated Nature. "I had the precaution
to write down the numbers of all your notes myself: here they are."
Forester opened his pocket-book: his four remaining notes were compared,
and perfectly agreed with the numbers in the list. The fifth, the number
of the note which he gave to Pasgrave, was 1260, of the New Bank. "One
of your ten-guinea notes," said Dr. Campbell to Pasgrave, "you paid
into the bank of Scotland; and this gentleman," pointing to the banker's
clerk, "stopped it this morning. Now you have had another ten-guinea
note; what became of that?" Pasgrave, who understood Dr. Campbell's
plain method of questioning him, answered immediately, "I did give the
other to my hair-dresser, not long ago, who lives in ---- street." Dr.
Campbell instantly went himself to the hair-dresser, found that he had
the note still in his possession, brought him to Mr. W----'s, and, when
the note was examined, it was found to be 1260 of the New Bank, which
exactly corresponded with the entry in the list of notes which Dr.
Campbell had produced.

"Then all is right," said Dr. Campbell. "Ah, oui!--Ah, non!" exclaimed
Pasgrave. "What will become of me?" "Compose yourself, my good sir,"
said Dr. Campbell. "You had but two ten-guinea notes, you are sure of
that?" "But two--but two: I will swear but two." "You are now certain
which of these two notes you had from my ward. The other, you say, you
received from ----" "From dis gentleman, I will swear," cried Pasgrave,
pulling the tailor's foreman forwards. "I can swear now I am in no
embarras: I am sure I did get de oder note from dis gentleman." The
master-tailor was astonished to see all the pallid marks of guilt in his
foreman's countenance. "Did you change the note that I gave you in
the inner room?" said Mr. Macpherson. The foreman, as soon as he could
command his voice, denied the charge; and persisted in it that he gave
the note and change, which his master wrapped up, exactly as it was, to
the dancing-master. Dr. Campbell proposed that the tailor's shop, and
the foreman's room, should be searched. Mr. W---- sent proper people
to Mr. Macpherson's; and whilst they are searching his house, we may
inquire what has become of Henry Campbell.



THE CATASTROPHE.


Henry Campbell, the last time we heard of him, was at the house at the
back of the meadows. When he went into the large room to his chemical
experiments, the little girl, who was proud of having arranged it
neatly, ran on before him, and showed him the places where all his
things were put. "The writing and the figures are not rubbed off your
slate--there it is, sir," said she, pointing to a high shelf. "But whose
handkerchief is this?" said Henry, taking up a handkerchief which
was under the slate. "Gracious! that must be the good gentleman's
handkerchief; he missed it just as he was going out of the house. He
thought he had left it at the washerwoman's, where I met him; and
he's gone back to look for it there. I'll run with it to the
washerwoman's,--maybe she knows where to find him." "But you have not
told me who he is. Whom do you mean by the good gentleman?" "The good
gentleman, sir, that I saw with you at the watchmaker's, the day that
you helped me to carry the great geranium out of my grandmother's room."
"Do you mean that Forester has been here?" exclaimed Henry. "I never
heard his name, sir; but I mean that the gentleman has been here, whom I
call the good gentleman, because it was he who went with me to my cross
schoolmistress, to try to persuade her to use me well. She beat me, to
be sure, after he was gone, for what he had said; but I'm not the less
obliged to him, because he did every thing as he thought for the best.
And so I'll run with his handkerchief to the woman's, who will give it
safe to him."

Henry recollected his promise to his father. It required all his power
over himself to forbear questioning the child, and endeavouring to
find out something more of his friend. He determined to mention the
circumstance to his father, and to Flora, as soon as he returned home.
He was always impatient to tell any thing to his sister that interested
himself or his friends; for Flora's gaiety was not of that unfeeling
sort which seeks merely for amusement, and which, unmixed with sympathy
for others, may divert in a companion, but disgusts in a friend.

Whilst Henry was reflecting upon the manner in which he might most
expeditiously arrange his chemical experiments and return home, the
little girl came running back, with a face of great distress. As soon
as she had breath to speak, she told Henry that when she went to the
washerwoman's with the handkerchief, she was told a sad piece of news;
that Mr. Forester had been taken up, and carried before Mr. W----, the
magistrate. "We don't know what he has done: I'm sure I don't think he
can have done any thing wrong." Henry no sooner heard these words than
he left all his retorts, rushed out of the house, hurried home to his
father, and learned from Flora, with great surprise, that his father had
already been sent for, and was gone to Mr. W----'s. She did not know the
circumstances that Mackenzie related to Dr. Campbell, but she told him
that her father seemed much alarmed; that she met him crossing the hall,
and that he could not stop to speak to her. Henry proceeded directly to
Mr. W----'s, and he arrived there just as the people returned from the
search of the tailor's house. His opinion of Forester's innocence was
so strong, that when he entered the room, he instantly walked up to
him, and embraced him, with a species of frank confidence in his manner
which, to Forester, was more expressive than any thing that he could
have said. The whole affair was quickly explained to him; and the people
who had been sent to Mr. Macpherson's now came up-stairs to Mr. W----,
and produced a ten-guinea bank-note, which was found in the foreman's
box. Upon examination, this note was discovered to be the very note
which Mr. Macpherson sent with the change to Pasgrave. It was No. 177,
of Sir William Forbes's bank, as mentioned in the circumstantial entry
in the day-book. The joy of the poor dancing-master at this complete
proof of his innocence was rapturous and voluble. Secure of the sympathy
of Forester, Henry, and Dr. Campbell, he looked at them by turns, whilst
he congratulated himself upon this "_eclaircissement_," and assured the
banker's clerk that he would in future keep accounts. We are impatient
to get rid of the guilty foreman: he stood a horrible image of despair.
He was committed to gaol; and was carried away by the constables,
without being pitied by any person present. Every body, however, was
shocked. Mackenzie broke silence first, by exclaiming, "Well, now, I
presume, Mr. W----, I may take possession of my bank-note again." He
took up all the notes which lay upon the table to search amongst them
for his own. "Mine, you know, is stained," said Archibald. "But it is
very singular," said Henry Campbell, who was looking over his shoulder,
"that here are two stained notes. That which was found in the foreman's
box is stained in one corner, exactly as yours was stained, Mr.
Mackenzie." Macpherson, the tailor, now stooped to examine it. "Is this
No. 177, the note that I sent in change, by my foreman, to M. Pasgrave?
I'll take my oath it was not stained in that manner when I took it out
of my desk. It was a new and quite clean note: it must have been stained
since." "And it must have been stained with vitriolic acid," continued
Henry. "Ay, there's cunning for you," cried Archibald. "The foreman, I
suppose, stained it, that it might not be known again." "Have you any
vitriolic acid in your house?" pursued Henry, addressing himself to
the master-tailor. "Not I, indeed, sir; we have nothing to do with such
things. They'd be very dangerous to us." "Pray," said Henry, "will you
give me leave, Mr. W----, to ask the person who searched the foreman's
box a few questions?" "Certainly sir," said Mr. W----; "though, I
protest, I cannot see what you are driving at." Henry inquired what was
found in the box with the bank-note. The man who searched it enumerated
a variety of things. "None of these," said Henry, "could have stained
the note: are you sure that there was nothing else?" "Nothing in the
world; nothing but an old glass stopper, I believe." "I wish I could
see that stopper," said Henry. "This note was rolled round it," said the
man: "but I threw it into the box again. I'll go and fetch it, sir, if
you have any curiosity to see it." "Curiosity to see an old stopper?
No!" cried Archibald Mackenzie, with a forced laugh; "what good would
that do us? We have been kept here long enough. I move that we go
home to our dinners." But Dr. Campbell, who saw that Henry had some
particular reason for wishing to see this glass stopper, seconded his
son. The man went for it; and when he brought it into the room, Henry
Campbell looked at it very carefully, and then decidedly said, fixing
his eyes upon Archibald Mackenzie, who in vain struggled to keep his
countenance from changing. "This glass stopper, Mr. Mackenzie, is the
stopper of my father's vitriolic acid bottle, that was broken the night
the cat was killed. This stopper has stained both the bank-notes. And
it must have been in the pocket of your waistcoat." "My pocket!"
interrupted Archibald: "how should it come into my pocket? It never was
in _my_ pocket, sir." Henry pointed to the stain on his waistcoat. He
wore the very waistcoat in question. "Sir," said Archibald, "I don't
know what you mean by pointing at my waistcoat. It is stained, it is
true, and very likely by vitriolic acid; but, as I have been so often in
the doctor's laboratory, when your chemical experiments have been going
on, is it not very natural to suppose that a drop of one of the acids
might have fallen on my clothes? I have seen your waistcoats stained,
I am sure. Really, Mr. Campbell, you are unfriendly, uncharitable; your
partiality for Mr. Forester should not blind you, surely. I know you
want to exculpate him from having any hand in the death of that cat: but
that should not, my dear sir, make you forget what is due to justice.
You should not, permit me to say, endeavour to criminate an innocent
person." "This is all very fine," said Henry; "and you may prove your
innocence to me at once, Mr. Mackenzie, if you think proper, by showing
that the waistcoat was really, as you assert, stained by a drop of
vitriolic acid falling upon the outside of it. Will you show us the
inside of the pocket?" Mackenzie, who was now in too much confusion to
know distinctly what Henry meant to prove, turned the pocket inside out,
and repeated, "That stopper was never in my pocket, I'll swear." "Don't
swear to that, for God's sake," said Henry. "Consider what you are
saying. You see that there is a hole burnt in this pocket. Now if a drop
of acid had fallen, as you said, upon the outside of the waistcoat, it
must have been more burnt on the outside than on the inside." "I
don't know--I can't pretend to be positive," said Archibald; "but what
signifies all this rout about the stopper?" "It signifies a great deal
to me," said Dr. Campbell, turning away from Mackenzie with contempt,
and addressing himself to his ward, who met his approving eye with proud
delight--"it signifies a great deal to me. Forgive me, Mr. Forester,
for having doubted your word for a moment." Forester held his guardian's
hand, without being able for some instants to reply. "You are coming
home with us, Forester?" said Henry. "No," said Dr. Campbell, smiling;
"you must not ask him to come home with us to-night. We have a little
dance at our house to-night. Lady Catherine Mackenzie wished to take
leave of her Edinburgh friends. She goes from us to-morrow. We must not
expect to see Forester at a ball; but to-morrow morning--" "I see," said
Forester, smiling, "you have no faith in my reformation. Well, I have
affairs to settle with my master, the printer. I must go home, and take
leave of him. He has been a good master to me; and I must go and finish
my task of correcting. Adieu." He abruptly left Dr. Campbell and Henry,
and went to the bookseller's, to inform him of all that had passed, and
to thank him for his kindness. "You will be at a loss to-morrow for a
corrector of the press," said he. "I am determined you shall not suffer
for my vagaries. Send home the proof-sheets of the work in hand to me,
at Dr. Campbell's, and I will return them to you punctually corrected.
Employ me till you have provided yourself with another, I will not say a
better hand. I do not imagine," continued Forester, "that I can pay
you for your kindness to me by presents; indeed, I know you are in such
circumstances that you disdain money. But I hope you will accept of a
small mark of my regard--a complete font of new types."

Whilst Forester's generous heart expanded with joy at the thoughts of
returning once more to his friends, we are sorry to leave him, to finish
the history of Archibald Mackenzie. He sneaked home after Dr. Campbell
and Henry, whose silent contempt he well understood. Dr. Campbell
related all that had passed to Lady Catherine. Her ladyship showed
herself more apprehensive that her son's meanness should be made known
to the world, than indignation or sorrow for his conduct. Archibald,
whilst he was dressing for the ball, began to revolve in his mind
certain words which his mother had said to him _about his having
received the lie direct from Henry Campbell--his not having the spirit
of a gentleman._ "She certainly meant," said he to himself, "that I
ought to fight him. It's the only way I can come off, as he spoke so
plainly before Mr. W----, and all those people: the banker's clerk
too was by; and, as my mother says, it will be talked of. I'll get Sir
Philip Gosling to go with my message. I think I've heard Dr. Campbell
say, he disapproved of duels. Perhaps Henry won't fight. Has Sir Philip
Gosling sent to say, whether he would be with us at the ball to-night?"
said Archibald to the servant who was dressing his hair. "No, sir,"
replied the servant: "Sir Philip's man has not been here: but Major
O'Shannon has been here twice since you were away, to see you. He said
he had some message to deliver from Sir Philip to you." "To me!
message to me!" repeated Archibald, turning pale. Archibald knew Major
O'Shannon, who had of late insinuated himself into Sir Philip Gosling's
favour, had a particular dislike to him, and had successfully bullied
him upon one or two occasions. Archibald had that civil cowardice,
which made him excessively afraid of the opinion of the world; and Major
O'Shannon, a gamester, who was jealous of his influence over the rich
dupe, Sir Philip, determined to entangle him in a quarrel. The major
knocked at the door a third time before Archibald was dressed; and when
he was told that he was dressing, and could not see any one, he sent up
the following note:--

"SIR,

"The last time I met you at the livery-stables, in company with my
friend, Sir Philip Gosling, I had the honour of telling you my mind, in
terms sufficiently explicit, concerning a transaction, which cannot have
escaped your memory. My friend, Sir Philip, declares you never hinted
that the pony was spavined. I don't pretend to be so good a jockey as
you, but you'll excuse my again saying, I can't consider your conduct
as that of a gentleman. Sir Philip is of my mind; and if you resent my
interference, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman.
If not, you will do well to leave Edinburgh along with your mother
to-morrow morning; for Edinburgh is no place for cowards, as long as one
has the honour of living in it, who calls himself (by courtesy)

"Your humble servant,

"CORNELIUS O'SHANNON.

"P.S. Sir Philip is at your service, after your settling with me."

Archibald, oppressed with the sense of his own meanness, and somewhat
alarmed at the idea of fighting three duels, to retrieve his credit,
thought it best to submit, without struggle, in the first instance, to
that public disgrace which he had merited. He wrote a shabby apology to
Major O'Shannon and Sir Philip, concluding with saying, that rather than
lose a friend he so much valued as Sir Philip Gosling, he was willing
to forget all that had passed, and even to take back the pony, and to
return Sawney, if the matter could, by this means, be adjusted to his
satisfaction. He then went to his mother, and talked to her, in a high
style, of his desperate intentions with respect to Henry Campbell.
"Either he or I must fall, before we quit the ground," said the artful
Archibald--well knowing that Lady Catherine's maternal tenderness
would be awakened by these ideas. Other ideas were also awakened in
the prudent mother's mind. Dr. Campbell was nearly related to a general
officer, from whom she looked for promotion for her son. She repented,
upon reflection, of what she had hastily said concerning _the lie
direct, and the spirit of a gentleman_; and she softened down her pride,
and talked of her dislike to breaking up old family friendships. Thence
she digressed into hints of the advantages that might accrue from
cultivating Dr. Campbell's good opinion; admitted that Henry was
strangely prejudiced in favour of his rough friend Forester; but
observed that Mr. Forester, after all, though singular, was a young man
of merit, and at the head of a very considerable estate. "Archibald,"
said she, "we must make allowances, and conciliate matters--unless you
make this young gentleman your friend, you can never hope to be on an
eligible footing with his guardian. His guardian, you see, is glad to
get him back again, and, I dare say, has his reasons. I never saw him,
and I know him well, in such spirits in my life as he was when he came
back to us to announce the probability of his ward's return to-morrow
morning. The doctor, I dare say, has good reasons for what he does; and
I understand his ward is reconciled to the idea of living in the world,
and enjoying his fine fortune like other people. So I hope you and he,
and of course you and the doctor, and Henry Campbell, will be very good
friends. I shall leave you at Edinburgh for a few months, till we get
our commission; and I shall beg the doctor to introduce you to his
friend and relation, General D----. If he can do nothing for you, you
may look towards the Church. I trust to your prudence, not to think of
Flora Campbell, though I leave you in the house with her; for you can't
afford, Archibald, to marry a girl with so small a fortune; and, you may
be sure, her friends have other views for her. Pray let me hear no more
of duels and quarrels. And let us go down into the ball-room; for Miss
Campbell has been dressed and down-stairs this half hour; and I would
not have you inattentive--that might displease as much as the other
extreme. In short, I may safely leave you to your own discretion." Lady
Catherine, after this prudent exhortation, entered the ball-room,
where all the company soon after assembled. Seated in gay ranges,
the well-dressed belles were eager for the dancing to commence. Lady
Catherine stood by Dr. Campbell; and as soon as the ball began, when the
music played, and she saw every one absorbed in themselves, or in their
partners, she addressed herself to the doctor on the subject which was
next her heart, or rather next her imagination. "The general is to be
with you shortly, I understand," said she. Dr. Campbell coldly answered
in the affirmative. "To be candid with you, doctor, if you'll sit down,
I want to have a little chat with you about my Archibald. He is not
every thing I could wish, and I see you are displeased with him about
this foolish business that has just happened. For my own part, I think
him to blame; but we must pardon, we must make allowances for the errors
of youth; and I need not, to a man of your humanity, observe what a
cruel thing it is to prejudice the world against a young man, by telling
little anecdotes to his disadvantage. Relations must surely uphold one
another; and I am convinced you will speak of Archibald with candour
and friendship." "With candour and with truth," replied Dr. Campbell. "I
cannot pretend to feel friendship merely on the score of relationship."

The proud blood mounted into Lady Catherine's face, and she replied,
"Some consideration of one's own relations, I think, is not unbecoming.
Archibald, I should have thought, had as strong a claim upon Dr.
Campbell's friendship as the son of an utter stranger to the family. Old
Mr. Forester had a monstrous fortune, 'tis true; but his wife, who was
no grand affair, I believe--a merchant's daughter, I'm told--brought him
the greatest part of it; and yet, without any natural connexion between
the families, or any thing very desirable, setting fortune out of the
question, you accept the guardianship of this young man, and prefer him,
I plainly see, to my Archibald. I candidly ask you the question, and
answer me candidly."

"As you have explicitly asked the question, I will answer your ladyship
candidly. I do prefer my ward to your son. I have avoided drawing
comparisons between your son and Forester; and I now wish to avoid
speaking of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, because I have little hope of being
of service to him."

"Nay," said Lady Catherine, softening her tone, "you know you have it in
your power to be of the greatest service to him."

"I have done all I could," said Dr. Campbell, with a sigh; "but habits
of--"

"Oh, but I'm not talking of habits," interrupted Lady Catherine. "I'll
make him alter his habits. We shall soon turn him into what you like:
he's very quick; and you must not expect every young man to be just cut
out upon the pattern of our dear Henry. I don't want to trouble you to
alter his habits, or to teach him chemistry, or any of those things. But
you can, you know, without all that, do him an essential service."

"How?" said Dr. Campbell.

"Why how? I don't know you this evening, you are so dry. Ken you not
what I mean? Speak three words for him to your friend, the general."

"Your ladyship must excuse me," said Dr. Campbell.

Lady Catherine was stunned by this distinct refusal. She urged Dr.
Campbell to explain the cause of his dislike to her son.

"There is a poor washerwoman now below stairs," replied Dr. Campbell,
"who can explain to you more than I wish to explain; and a story about a
horse of Sir Philip Gosling was told to me the other day, by one of the
baronet's friends, which I should be glad Mr. Archibald Mackenzie could
contradict effectually."

"Archibald, come here," said Lady Catherine: "before the next dance
begins, I must speak to you. What is this about a horse of Sir Philip
Gosling?"

"Ma'am!" said Archibald, with great astonishment. At this instant one
of Dr. Campbell's servants came into the room, and gave two notes to
Archibald, which, he said, two gentlemen had just left, and desired him
to deliver to Mr. Mackenzie whilst he was in the ball-room, if possible.

"What is it?--What are they, child?" cried Lady Catherine. "I will see
them." Her ladyship snatched the notes, read, and when she saw that
her son, in the grossest terms, was called a coward, for refusing the
challenges of two such fashionable men as Sir Philip Gosling and Major
O'Shannon, all her hopes of him were at an end. "Our family is disgraced
for ever!" she exclaimed; and then, perceiving that she had uttered this
unguarded sentence loud enough for several of the company to hear, she
endeavoured to laugh, and fell into violent hysterics. She was carried
out of the ball-room. A whisper now ran round the room of--"What's the
matter with Lady Catherine Mackenzie?" It was at an unfortunate
moment that she was carried out, for all the dancers had just seated
themselves, after a brisk country dance; and the eyes of all the young
and old were upon her ladyship as she made her exit. A young man, a
friend of Major O'Shannon, who was present, whispered the secret to his
partner; she, of course, to her next neighbour. Archibald saw that the
contents of the notes were made public; and he quitted the apartment,
"to inquire how his mother did."

The buzz of scandal was general for some moments; but a new object soon
engrossed the attention of the company. "Pray," said a young lady, who
was looping up Flora Campbell's gown, "who is this gentleman, who is
just coming into the room?" Flora looked up, and saw a well-dressed
stranger entering the room, who had much the appearance of a gentleman.
He certainly resembled a person she had seen before; but she could
scarcely believe that her eyes did not deceive her. Therefore she
hesitatingly replied to the young lady's question, "I don't know--I am
not sure." But she, an instant afterwards, saw her brother Henry and
her father advance so eagerly to meet the stranger, that her doubts
vanished; and, as he now directed his steps towards the spot where
she was standing, she corrected her first answer to her companion's
question, and said, "Yes, I fancy--it certainly is--Mr. Forester."
Forester, with an open countenance, slightly tinged with the blush
of ingenuous shame, approached her, as if he was afraid she had not
forgotten some things which he wished to be forgotten; and yet as if he
was conscious that he was not wholly unworthy of her esteem. "Amongst
other prejudices of which I have cured myself," said he to Dr. Campbell,
"since we parted, I have cured myself of my foolish antipathy to Scotch
reels."

"That I can scarcely believe," said Dr. Campbell, with an incredulous
smile.

"I will convince you of it," said Forester, "if you will promise to
forget all my other follies."

"_All!_" said Dr. Campbell. "Convince me first; and then it will be time
enough to make such a desperate promise."

Flora was rather surprised when our once cynical hero begged the favour
of her hand, and led her to dance a reel. M. Pasgrave would have been in
ecstasy if he had seen his pupil's performance.

"And now, my dear Forester," said Dr. Campbell, as his ward returned
to claim his promise of a general amnesty, "if you do not turn out a
coxcomb, if you do not 'mistake reverse of wrong for right,' you will
infallibly be a very great man. Give me a pupil who can cure himself of
any one foible, and I have hope of him. What hope must I not have of him
who has cured himself of so many!"






THE PRUSSIAN VASE


Frederick the Second, king of Prussia, after his conquest of Saxony,
transported, it is said[1], by force, several manufacturers from Dresden
to Berlin, where he was very desirous of establishing the manufacture
of china. These unfortunate people, separated from their friends, their
home, and their native country, were compelled to continue their labours
for the profit and for the glory of their conqueror. Amongst the number
of those sufferers was Sophia Mansfeld. She was young, handsome, and
possessed considerable talents. Several pieces of porcelain of her
design and modelling were shown to Frederick, when he visited the
manufactory at Meissen, in Saxony; and their taste and workmanship
appeared to him so exquisite, that he determined to transport the artist
to his capital. But from the time of her arrival at Berlin, Sophia
Mansfeld's genius seemed to forsake her. It was her business to sketch
designs, and to paint them on the porcelain; but either she could not
or would not execute these with her former elegance: the figures were
awkward and spiritless, and it was in vain that the overseer of the
works attempted to rouse her to exertion; she would sit for hours, with
her pencil in her hand, in a sort of reverie. It was melancholy to see
her. The overseer had compassion upon her; but his compassion was not so
great as his dread of the king's displeasure; and he at length declared,
that the next time Frederick visited the works, he must complain of her
obstinate idleness.

[Footnote 1: Vide Wraxall'g Memoirs of the Court of Berlin.]

The monarch was expected in a few days; for, in the midst, of his
various occupations, Frederick, who was at this time extremely intent
upon the establishment of the porcelain manufactory at Berlin, found
leisure frequently to inspect it in person. The king, however, was
prevented from coming at the appointed hour by a review at Potzdam. His
majesty had formed the singular project of embodying, and training to
the science of arms, the Jews in his dominions[2]. They were rather
awkward in learning the manual exercise; and the Jewish review, though
it afforded infinite amusement to the spectators, put Frederick so much
out of humour, that, as soon as it was over, he rode to his palace of
Sans Souci, and shut himself up for the remainder of the morning. The
preceding evening an English traveller, who had passed some time at
Paris with the Count de Lauragais, in trying experiments upon porcelain
clays, and who had received much instruction on this subject from Mr.
Wedgewood, of Etruria, had been presented to the king, and his majesty
had invited him to be present at a trial of some new process of
importance, which was to be made this morning at his manufactory.
The English traveller, who was more intent upon his countryman
Mr. Wedgewood's fame than upon the martial manoeuvres of the Jews,
proceeded, as soon as the review was finished, to exhibit his English
specimens to a party of gentlemen, who had appointed to meet him at the
china-works at Berlin.

[Footnote 2: Wraxall's Memoirs of the Court of Berlin, &c.]

Of this party, was a youth of the name of Augustus Laniska, who was
at this time scarcely seventeen years old. He was a Pole by birth--a
Prussian by education. He had been bred up at the military school at
Potzdam, and being distinguished by Frederick as a boy of high spirit
and capacity, he was early inspired with enthusiastic admiration of this
monarch. His admiration, however, was neither blind nor servile. He
saw Frederick's faults as well as his great qualities; and he often
expressed himself with more openness and warmth upon this subject than
prudence could justify. He had conversed with unusual freedom about
Frederick's character with our English traveller; and whilst he was
zealous to display every proof of the king's greatness of mind, he was
sometimes forced to acknowledge that "there are disadvantages in living
under the power of a despotic sovereign."

"A despotic sovereign! You will not then call your Frederick a despot?"
whispered the English traveller to the young Pole, as they entered the
china-works at Berlin. "This is a promising manufactory, no doubt,"
continued he; "and Dresden china will probably soon be called Berlin
china, by which the world in general will certainly be much benefited.
But in the meantime look around you, and read your monarch's history
in the eyes of those prisoners of war--for such I must call these
expatriated manufacturers."

There were, indeed, many countenances in which great dejection was
visible. "Look at that picture of melancholy," resumed the Englishman,
pointing to the figure of Sophia Mansfeld--"observe even now, whilst the
overseer is standing near her, how reluctantly she works! 'Tis the way
with all slaves. Our English manufacturers (I wish you could see them)
work in quite another manner--for they are free--"

"And are free men, or free women, never ill?" said Laniska; "or do you
Englishmen blame your king, whenever any of his subjects turn pale?--The
woman at whom you are now looking is evidently ill. I will inquire from
the overseer what is the matter with her."

Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him in German several
questions, to which he received answers that he did not translate to the
English traveller; he was unwilling that any thing unfavourable to the
cause of his sovereign should appear; and, returning to his companion,
he changed the conversation. When all the company were occupied round
the furnaces, attending to the Englishman's experiments, Laniska went
back to the apartment where Sophia Mansfeld was at work. "My good girl,"
said he to her, "what is the matter with you? The overseer tells me,
that since you came here you have done nothing that is worth looking at;
yet this charming piece (pointing to a bowl of her painting, which had
been brought from Saxony) is of your design, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," replied Sophia, "I painted it--to my sorrow. If the king had
never seen or liked it, I should now be--" The recollection of her home,
which at this instant rushed full upon her mind, overpowered her, and
she paused.

"You would now be in Saxony," resumed Laniska; "but forget Saxony, and
you will be happy at Berlin."

"I cannot forget Saxony, sir," answered the young woman, with modest
firmness; "I cannot forget a father and mother whom I love, who are old
and infirm, and who depended on me for their support. I cannot forget
every thing--every body that I have ever loved: I wish I could."

"Sir," whispered a Prussian workman, who stood by--"sir, she has a
lover in Saxony, to whom she was just going to be married, when she was
carried off from her cottage, and brought hither."

"Cannot her lover follow her?" said Laniska.

"He is in Berlin, in concealment," replied the workman, in a whisper;
"you won't betray him, I am sure."

"Not I," said Laniska; "I never betrayed any one, and I never
shall--much less the unfortunate. But why is her lover in concealment?"

"Because it is the king's pleasure," replied the Prussian, "that she
should no longer consider him as her lover. You know, sir, several of
these Saxon women have been compelled, since their arrival at Berlin,
to marry Prussians. Sophia Mansfeld has fallen to the lot of a Prussian
soldier, who swears that if she delays another month to marry him, he
will complain to the king of her obstinacy. Our overseer, too, threatens
to complain of her idleness. She is ruined if she go on in this way: we
tell her so, but she seems to have lost all sense; for she sits as she
does now, like one stupified, half the day, let us say what we will to
her. We pity her; but the king knows best: the king must be obeyed."

"Slave!" exclaimed Laniska, bursting into a sudden transport of
indignation, "slave! you are fit to live only under a tyrant. The
king knows best! the king must be obeyed! What! when his commands are
contrary to reason, to justice, to humanity?" Laniska stopped short, but
not before the high tone of his voice, and the boldness of the words
he uttered, had astonished and dismayed all present,--all except Sophia
Mansfeld: her whole countenance became suddenly illuminated; she
started up, rushed forwards, threw herself at the feet of Laniska, and
exclaimed, "Save me! you can save me! you have courage; and you are a
powerful lord, and you can speak to the king. Save me from this detested
marriage!"

The party of gentlemen who had been in the next chamber now entered the
room, curious to know what had drawn thither such a crowd of workmen. On
seeing them enter, Sophia, recollecting herself, rose, and returned
to her work quietly; whilst Laniska, much agitated, seized hold of the
Englishman's arm, and hurried out of the manufactory.

"You are right, you are right," cried he, "Frederick is a tyrant! But
how can I save his victim?"

"Not by violence, my Augustus; not by violence!" replied a young man
of the name of Albert, who followed Laniska, anxious to restrain the
impetuosity of his friend's temper, with which he was well acquainted.
"By imprudence," said he, "you will but expose yourself to danger; you
will save, you will serve no one."

"Tame prudence will neither save nor serve any one, however it may
prevent its possessor from exposing _himself_ to danger," retorted
Laniska, casting upon Albert a look of contemptuous reproach. "Prudence
be your virtue,--courage mine."

"Are they incompatible?" said Albert, calmly.

"I know not," replied Laniska; "but this I know, that I am in no humour
to reason that point, or any other, according to all those cursed forms
of logic, which, I believe, you love better than any thing else."

"Not better than I love you, as I prove by allowing you to curse them
as much and as often as you think proper," replied Albert, with a smile,
which could not, however, force one from his angry friend.

"You are right to practise logic and rhetoric," resumed Laniska, "as
much and as often as you can, since in your profession you are to make
your bread by your tongue and your pen. I am a soldier, or soon to be a
soldier, and have other arms and other feelings."

"I will not dispute the superiority of your arms," replied Albert; "I
will only beg of you to remember, that mine will be at your service
whenever you want or wish for them."

This temperate and friendly reply entirely calmed Laniska. "What would
become of Augustus Laniska," said he, giving Albert his hand, "if he had
not such a friend as you are? My mother may well say this, as she does
ten times a-day; but now take it in your sober manner, what can we do
for this poor woman? for something must be done."

After some consideration, Albert and Laniska determined to draw up a
petition for Sophia, and to present it to the king, who was known to pay
ready and minute attention to every application made to him in writing,
even by the meanest of his subjects. The petition was presented, and an
answer anxiously expected. Frederick, when at Potzdam, often honoured
the Countess Laniska with a visit. She was a woman of considerable
information and literature, acquirements not common amongst the Polish
or Prussian ladies; and the king distinguished the countess by his
approbation, in order to excite some emulation amongst his female
subjects. She held a sort of _conversazione_ at her house, which was
frequented by all foreigners of distinction, and especially by some of
the French literati, who were at this time at Frederick's court.

One evening--it was a few days after Sophia Mansfeld's petition had been
presented--the king was at the Countess Laniska's, and the company were
conversing upon some literary subject, when Frederick, who had been
unusually silent, suddenly turned to the English traveller, who was one
of the company, and asked him whether his countryman, Mr. Wedgewood, had
not made a beautiful imitation of the Barberini, or Portland Vase?

The Englishman replied, that the imitation was so exquisite, as scarcely
to be known by the best judges from the original: and he went on,
with much eagerness, to give a description of the vase, that he might
afterward, for the honour of his country, repeat some lines written upon
the subject by an English poet[3]. Frederick was himself a poet, and a
judge of poetry; he listened to the lines with attention; and, as soon
as the Englishman had finished speaking, he exclaimed, "I will write a
description of the Prussian vase myself."

[Footnote 3: Darwin.--See his description of the Barberini vase in the
Botanic Garden. We hope our readers will pardon this anachronism.]

"The Prussian Vase!" said the English traveller: "I hope I may have the
honour of seeing it before I leave Berlin."

"If you prolong your stay another month, your curiosity will probably be
gratified," replied Frederick. "The Prussian Vase is not yet in being;
but I have this day determined to offer a reward, that I know will
produce a vase worthy of Prussia. Those who have the command of motives,
and know their power, have also the command of all that the arts, or
what is called a _genius_ for the arts, can produce. The human mind, and
human fingers, are much the same in Italy, in England, and in Prussia.
Then, why should not we have a Prussian as as well as a Wedgewood's or
a Barberini Vase? We shall see. I do not understand _mon metier de roi_,
if I cannot call forth talents where I know them to exist. There is,"
continued the king, fixing his eyes full upon Laniska, "there is, in my
porcelain manufactory at Berlin, a woman of considerable talents, who is
extremely anxious to return, along with some lovers of hers, to Saxony.
Like all other _prisoners of war_, she must purchase her liberty from
the conqueror; and if she cannot pay her ransom in gold, let her pay it
by her talents. I do not give premiums to idleness or obstinacy. _The
king must be obeyed, whether he knows how to command or not: let all
the world, who are able to judge, decide._" Frederick, as soon as he had
finished this speech, which he pronounced in a peremptory tone, left the
room; and Laniska's friend, who perceived that the imprudent words he
had uttered in Berlin had reached the king's ear, gave the young man up
for lost. To their surprise, however, the king took no further notice of
what had happened, but received Laniska the next day at Sans Souci with
all his usual kindness. Laniska, who was of an open, generous temper,
was touched by this conduct; and, throwing himself at Frederick's feet,
he exclaimed:--

"My king! forgive me, if in a moment of indignation I called you a
_tyrant_."

"My friend, you are yet a child, and I let children and fools speak of
me as they please," replied Frederick. "When you are an older man,
you will judge more wisely, or, at least, you will speak with more
discretion within twenty miles of a _tyrant's_ palace. Here is my answer
to your Sophia Mansfeld's petition," added he, giving Laniska the paper,
which Albert had drawn up; at the bottom of which was written, in the
king's own hand, these words:--

"I will permit the artist who shall produce, before this day month,
the most beautiful vase of Berlin china, to marry or not to marry,
whomsoever he or she shall think proper, and to return to Saxony with
all imaginable expedition. If the successful artist choose to remain at
Berlin, I will add a reward of 500 crowns. The artist's name shall be
inscribed on the vase, which shall be called the Prussian Vase." No
sooner had Sophia Mansfeld read these words, than she seemed animated
with new life and energy. She was likely to have many competitors; for,
the moment the king's intentions were made known in the manufactory, all
hands and heads were at work. Some were excited by the hope of regaining
their liberty; others stimulated by the mention of 500 crowns; and some
were fired with ambition to have their name inscribed on the Prussian
Vase. But none had so strong a motive for exertion as Sophia. She was
indefatigable. The competitors consulted the persons whom they believed
to have the best taste in Berlin and Potzdam. Sophia's designs were
shown, as soon as they were sketched, to the Countess Laniska, whose
advice was of material use to her.

At length, the day which was to decide her fate arrived. The vases were
all ranged, by the king's order, in his gallery of paintings at Sans
Souci; and in the evening, when Frederick had finished the business of
the day, he went thither to examine them. Laniska and some others were
permitted to accompany him: no one spoke, whilst Frederick was comparing
the works of the different competitors.

"Let this be the Prussian Vase," said the king. It was Sophia
Mansfeld's. Laniska just stayed to show her name, which was written
underneath the foot of the vase, and then he hurried away to communicate
the happy news to Sophia, who was waiting, with her lover, at the house
of the Countess Laniska, in Potzdam, impatient to hear her fate.
She heard it with inexpressible joy; and Laniska's generous heart
sympathized in her happiness. It was settled that she should the next
morning be married to her lover, and return with him to her father and
mother in Saxony. The happy couple were just taking leave of the young
count and his mother, when they were alarmed by the sound of many voices
on the great staircase. Some persons seemed to be disputing with the
countess's servants for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the
cause of the disturbance. The hall was filled with soldiers.

"Are you the young Count Laniska?" said an officer to him, the moment he
appeared.

"I _am_ the young Count Laniska," replied he, in a firm tone. "What do
you want with me? and why this disturbance in my mother's house at this
unseasonable hour?"

"We come here by the king's orders," replied the soldier. "Is not there
in this house a woman of the name of Sophia Mansfeld?"

"Yes," replied Laniska: "what do you want with her?"

"She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, count," replied the
soldier.

It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The soldiers could give
none; they knew nothing, but that their orders were to convey Sophia
Mansfeld immediately to Meissen in Saxony, and to lodge Count Laniska in
the castle of Spandau, a state prison.

"I must know my crime before I submit to punishment," cried Laniska,
in a passionate voice; but he restrained the natural violence of his
temper, on seeing his mother appear, and, at her request, yielded
himself up a prisoner without resistance, and without a murmur. "I
depend on your innocence, my son, and on the justice of the king," said
the countess; and she took leave of him without shedding a tear. The
next day, even before the king arrived at Potzdam, she went to the
palace, determined to wait there till she could see him, that she might
hear from his own lips the cause of her son's imprisonment. She waited
a considerable time--for, without alighting from horseback, Frederick
proceeded to the parade, where he was occupied for some hours; at length
he alighted, and the first person he saw, on entering his palace, was
the Countess Laniska.

"I am willing to believe, madam," said he, "that you have no share in
your son's folly and ingratitude."

"My son is, I hope, incapable of ingratitude, sir," answered the
countess, with an air of placid dignity. "I am well aware that he may
have been guilty of great imprudence."

"At six o'clock this evening let me see you, madam," replied the king,
"at Sans Souci, in the gallery of paintings, and you shall know of what
your son is accused."

At the appointed hour she was in the gallery of paintings at Sans Souci.
No one was there. She waited quietly for some time, then walked up and
down the gallery with extreme impatience and agitation; at last, she
heard the king's voice and his step; the door opened, and Frederick
appeared. It was an awful moment to the mother of Laniska. She stood in
silent expectation.

"I see, madam," said the king, after fixing his penetrating eye for some
moments on her countenance, "I see that you are, as I believe you to
be, wholly ignorant of your son's folly." As he spoke, Frederick put his
hand upon the vase made by Sophia Mansfeld, which was placed on a small
stand in the middle of the gallery. The countess, absorbed by her own
reflections, had not noticed it.

"You have seen this vase before," said the king; "and you have probably
seen the lines which are inscribed on the foot of it."

"Yes," said the countess, "they are my son's writing."

"And they are written by his own hand," said the king.

"They are. The poor Saxon woman who draws so admirably cannot write; and
my son wrote the inscription for her."

"The lines are in a high strain of _panegyric_," said the king; and he
laid a severe emphasis on the word _panegyric_.

"Whatever may be my son's faults," said the countess, "your majesty
cannot suspect him of being a base flatterer. Scarcely a month has
elapsed since his unguarded openness exposed him to your displeasure.
Your majesty's magnanimity, in pardoning his imprudent expressions,
convinced him at once of his error in having used them; and, in the fit
of enthusiasm with which your kindness upon that occasion inspired him,
he, who is by no means a poet by profession, composed the two lines of
_panegyric_ which seem to have given your majesty offence, but which I
should never have conceived could be the cause of his imprisonment."

"You plead like a mother, madam," said the king; "but you reason like a
woman. Have I ever said that your son was imprisoned for having written
two lines of flattery? No, madam: I know how to smile both at flattery
and satire, when they are undisguised; but there is a degree of baseness
which I cannot so easily pardon. Be patient, madam; I will listen to all
you can say in your son's defence, when you have read this inscription.
But, before you read it, understand that I was upon the point of sending
this vase to Paris. I had actually given orders to the man who was
packing up that case (pointing to a half-packed case of porcelain) to
put up the Prussian Vase as a present for a Prussian _bel esprit_ of
your acquaintance. The man showed me the inscription at the bottom
of the vase. I read the flattering lines with pleasure, and
thought them--as people usually think flattering lines made on
themselves--excellent. I was even fool enough immediately to consider
how I could reward the author, when my friend, the packer, interrupted
the course of my thoughts, by observing, with some exclamation of
astonishment, that the blue colour of the vase came off in one spot,
where he had been rubbing it. I looked, and saw that part of the
inscription at the bottom of the vase had been covered over with blue
paint. At first sight, I read the words, 'On the character of Frederick
the Great;' the blue paint had concealed the next word, which is
now, madam, sufficiently legible." The word to which the king pointed
was--_tyrant_. "Those flattering lines, madam, you comprehend, were
written--'On the character of Frederick, the great _tyrant_.'

"I shall spare you, madam, all the reflections I have made on this
occasion. _Tyrant_ as I am, I shall not punish the innocent mother for
the follies of her son. I shall be at your house, along with the rest of
your friends, on Tuesday evening."

The unhappy mother of Laniska withdrew from the presence of the king,
without attempting any reply. Her son's conduct admitted, she thought,
of no apology, if it were really true that he had written the words to
which his name was signed. Of this she doubted; but her consternation
was at first so great, that she had not the power to think. A general
belief remained in her mind of her son's innocence; but then a number of
his imprudent words and actions came across her memory; the inscription
was, apparently, in his own hand-writing. The conversation which had
passed in the porcelain manufactory at Berlin corroborated the idea
expressed in this inscription. The countess, on her return home, related
the circumstances, with as much composure as she could, to Albert, who
was waiting to hear the result of her interview with the king. Albert
heard her relation with astonishment; he could not believe in his
friend's guilt, though he saw no means of proving his innocence. He
did not, however, waste his time in idle conjectures, or more idle
lamentations: he went immediately to the man who was employed to pack up
the vase; and, after questioning him with great care, he went to Berlin
to the porcelain manufactory, and inquired whether any persons were
present when Laniska wrote the inscription for Sophia Mansfeld. After
Albert had collected all the information that could be obtained, his
persuasion of Laniska's innocence was confirmed.

On Tuesday Frederick had promised to come to the countess's
_conversazione_. The company, previous to his majesty's arrival, were
all assembled round the sofa, on which she was seated, and they were
eagerly talking over Laniska's affair. "What a blessing it is," cried
the English traveller, "to live in a country where no man can be
imprisoned without knowing of what he is accused! What a blessing it is
to live under a government where no man can be condemned without trial,
and where his trial must be carried on in open day, in the face of his
country, his peers, his equals!"--The Englishman was in the midst of
a warm eulogium upon the British mode of trial by jury, when Frederick
entered the room, as it was his custom, without being announced: and
the company were so intently listening to our traveller, they did not
perceive that the king was one of his auditors. "Would to Heaven," cried
the Countess Laniska, when the Englishman paused--"would to Heaven my
son could have the advantage of such a trial!"

"And would to Heaven," exclaimed Albert, "that I might plead his cause!"

"On one condition," said Frederick; and, at the sound of his voice,
every one started--"on one condition, young man, your prayer shall be
granted. You shall plead your friend's cause, upon condition that, if
you do not convince his judges of his innocence, you shall share his
punishment. His punishment will be a twelvemonth's imprisonment in the
castle of Spandau; and yours the same, if you fail to establish your
cause and his. Next to the folly of being imprudent ourselves, that of
choosing imprudent friends is the most dangerous. Laniska shall be
tried by his equals; and, since _twelve_ is the golden, harmonic, divine
number, for which justice has a blind predilection, let him have
twelve judges, and call them, if you please, a jury. But I will name my
counsel, and you counsel for Laniska. You know the conditions--do you
accept of them?"

"Willingly, sire!" cried Albert, joyfully. "You will permit me to have
access to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau?"

"That is a new condition; but I grant it. The governor shall have orders
to admit you to see and converse with his prisoner for two hours; but
if, after that conversation, your opinion of your friend should change,
you will not blame me if I hold you to your word."

Albert declared that he desired no more: and the Countess Laniska,
and all who were present, joined in praising Frederick's clemency and
Albert's generosity. The imprisonment of Laniska had been much talked
of, not only in public companies at Potzdam and at Berlin, but, what
affected Frederick much more nearly, it had become the subject of
conversation amongst the literati in his own palace at Sans Souci. An
English traveller, of some reputation in the literary world, also knew
the circumstances, and was interested in the fate of the young count.
Frederick seems to have had a strong desire to be represented in an
amiable point of view by writers who, he believed, could transmit his
fame to posterity. Careless of what might be _said_ of him, he was
anxious that nothing should be _printed_ derogatory to his reputation.
Whether the desire to give to foreigners a striking proof of his
magnanimity, or whether his regard for the young count, and his
friendship for his mother, were his motives in granting to Laniska this
_trial by jury_, cannot and need not be determined. Unmixed virtue is
not to be expected from kings more than from common men.

After his visit to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau, Albert felt no
inclination to recede from the agreement into which he had entered; but
Laniska was much alarmed when he was told of what had passed. "Oh, my
generous friend!" exclaimed the young count, "why did you accept of
the conditions offered to you by the king? You may--I am sure you
do--believe in my innocence; but you will never be able to prove it. You
will soon be involved in my disgrace."

"I shall think it no disgrace," replied Albert, "to be the
fellow-prisoner of an innocent friend."

"Do not you remember," said Laniska, "that, as we were returning
from Berlin, after my unlucky visit to the porcelain manufactory, you
promised me, that whenever I should be in want of your weapons, they
should be at my service? I little thought that I should so soon be in
such need of them. Farewell--I pray for their success."

On the day appointed for the trial of Laniska, crowds of people of all
ranks flocked to hear the proceedings. A spacious building in Potzdam,
intended for a barrack, was, upon this occasion, converted into a hall
of justice; a temporary gallery was erected for the accommodation of the
audience; and a platform was raised in the centre of the hall, where
the judge's chair was placed: on the right hand of his chair a space was
railed in for the reception of the twelve young gentlemen, who were to
act as jurors; on the left another space was railed in for spectators.
In the front there was a large table, on each side of which were benches
for the counsel and witnesses: those for the crown on the right hand;
those for the prisoner on the left. Every thing had, by the king's
orders, been prepared in this manner, according to the English custom.

The Countess Laniska now entered the court, with a few friends, who
had not yet forsaken her. They took their seats at the lower end of the
gallery; and as every eye turned upon the mother, who waited to hear the
trial of her son, an awful silence prevailed. This lasted but for a few
moments; it was succeeded by a general whispering amongst the crowds,
both in the hall and in the gallery. Each individual gave his opinion
concerning the event of the trial: some declared that the circumstances
which must appear against Laniska were so strong, that it was madness
in Albert to undertake his defence; others expressed great admiration of
Albert's intrepid confidence in himself and his friend. Many studied
the countenance of the king, to discover what his wishes might be; and
a thousand idle conjectures were formed from his most insignificant
movements.

At length, the temporary judge having taken his seat, twelve young
gentlemen were chosen, from the most respectable families in Potzdam,
to act as jurors. The prisoner was summoned to answer to the charges
brought against him, in the name of Frederick the Second, king of
Prussia. Laniska appeared, guarded by two officers: he walked up to the
steps of the platform with an air of dignity, which seemed expressive of
conscious innocence; but his countenance betrayed involuntary marks of
emotion, too strong for him to command, when, on raising his eyes, he
beheld his friend Albert, who stood full in his view. Albert maintained
an immovable composure of countenance. The prisoner was now asked
whether he had any objections to make to any of the twelve persons who
had been selected to judge his cause. He made none. They proceeded to
take an oath, "that, in their decision, they would suffer no motives to
influence them but a sense of truth and justice." The judge then rose,
and addressing himself to the jury, said:--

"Gentlemen,

"You are here, by the king's order, to form your opinions concerning the
guilt or innocence of the prisoner, commonly known by the name of Count
Augustus Laniska. You will learn the nature and circumstances of the
accusation against him from Mr. Warendorff, the gentleman on my right
hand, who in this cause has the honour of being counsel for his majesty.
You will hear from the gentleman on my left, Albert Altenburg, all that
can be said in defence of the prisoner, for whom he voluntarily offers
himself as counsel. After having listened to the arguments that may be
adduced, and to the witnesses that shall be examined on each side, you
are, gentlemen, according to the tenour of the oath which has just been
administered to you, to decide, without regard to any consideration but
truth and justice. Your opinion is to be delivered to me by the
eldest amongst you, and it is to be expressed in one or other of these
phrases--_guilty_ or _not guilty_.

"When I shall have heard your decision, I am, in his majesty's name, to
pronounce sentence accordingly. If the prisoner be judged by you _not
guilty_, I am to announce to him that he is thenceforward at liberty,
and that no stain affixes to his honour from the accusation that has
been preferred against him, or from his late imprisonment, or from this
public trial. If, on the contrary, your judgment shall be, that the
prisoner is _guilty_, I am to remand him to the castle of Spandau, where
he is to remain confined for twelve months from this day. To the
same punishment I am also to condemn Albert Altenburg, if he fail to
establish in your minds the innocence of the Count Laniska. It is upon
this condition that he is permitted to plead the cause of his friend.

"Gentlemen, you are called upon to give impartial attention in this
cause, by your duty to your king and to your country."

As soon as the judge, after making this short address to the jury, had
seated himself, Mr. Warendorff, counsel for the crown, rose, and spoke
in the following manner:--

"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,

"It is with inexpressible concern that I find myself called upon to
plead in this cause. To be the accuser of any man is an invidious task:
to be the accuser of such a man as I once thought--as you perhaps still
think--the young Count Laniska must, to a person of generous feelings,
be in a high degree difficult and distressing. I do not pretend to more
generosity or delicacy of sentiment than others; but I beg any of
you, gentlemen, to imagine yourselves for a moment in my place, and to
conceive what must be my sensations as a man, and as an advocate. I am
not ignorant how popular the name of Augustus Laniska is, both in Berlin
and Potzdam. I am not ignorant that the young count has been in the
habit of living amongst you, gentlemen, on terms of familiarity,
friendship, and confidence; nor can I doubt that the graceful, manly
manner, and open deportment, for which he is so eminently distinguished,
must have strongly prepossessed you in his favour. I am not ignorant
that I have to plead against him before his friends, in the presence of
his mother--a mother respected even in a higher degree than her son is
beloved; respected for her feminine virtues--for her more than feminine
endowments; who, had she no other claim upon your hearts, must, by the
unfortunate situation in which she now appears, command your sympathy.

"You must all of you feel, likewise, strongly prepossessed in favour
of that noble-minded youth, who has undertaken to defend the prisoner's
cause, at the hazard of sharing his punishment. I respect the general
character of Albert Altenburg; I admire his abilities; I applaud him,
for standing forward in defence of his friend; I pity him, because
he has a friend, for whom, I fear, even he will find it impossible
to establish any plausible defence. But the idea that he is acting
handsomely, and that he has the sympathy of numbers in his favour, will
doubtless support the young advocate in his arduous task. He appears in
this court in the striking character of counsel, disinterested counsel,
for his friend.

"Gentlemen, I also appear in this court as counsel, disinterested
counsel for a friend. Yes, gentlemen, I am permitted to call Frederick
the Great _my friend_. He is not, as other great monarchs have been,
ambitious to raise himself above the sphere of humanity; he does not
desire to be addressed in the fulsome strains either of courtly or of
poetical adulation: he wishes not to be worshipped as a god, but to be
respected as a man[4]. It is his desire to have friends that shall
be faithful, or subjects that shall be obedient. Happy his obedient
subjects--they are secure of his protection: happy, thrice happy, his
faithful friends--they are honoured with his favour and his confidence.
It was in the power of the prisoner now before you to have been in
this enviable class. You all of you know that the Countess Laniska, his
mother, has for years been honoured by the friendship of her sovereign;
even the conduct of her son has not been able to shake his confidence in
her. A Pole by birth, Augustus Laniska was educated amongst the first of
the Prussian nobility, at the military academy at Potzdam, that
nursery of heroes. From such an education--from the son of such
a mother--honourable sentiments and honourable conduct were to
be expected. Most confidently were they expected by his king, who
distinguished the young count, as you all know, even in his boyish days.
The count is said to be of a temper naturally impetuous: the errors
into which such a temper too publicly betrayed him were pardoned by the
indulgence of his king. I am compelled to recall one recent instance of
the truth of these assertions, as it is immediately connected with the
present cause."

[Footnote 4: AEschylus.]

Here Mr. Warendorff related all that had passed at the porcelain
manufactory at Berlin, and the king's subsequent conduct towards
Count Laniska. On the magnanimity of his majesty, the eloquent counsel
expatiated for a considerable time; but the applauses with which this
part of his oration was received by a party in the gallery, who were
seated near the king, were so loud, as almost to drown the voice of the
orator, and effectually to distract the attention of those employed to
take down his words. When he could again be heard distinctly, he resumed
as follows:

"I am not surprised at these testimonies of admiration which burst from
the warm hearts of his majesty's subjects; I am only surprised that a
heart could be found in his dominions on whom such magnanimity could
make no impression. I am shocked, I am grieved, when I find such a heart
in the person of Count Laniska. Can it be believed that, in the course
of one short month after this generous pardon, that young nobleman
proved himself the basest of traitors--a traitor to the king, who
was his friend and benefactor? Daring no longer openly to attack, he
attempted secretly to wound the fame of his sovereign. You all of you
know what a degree of liberty, even licence, Frederick the Great permits
to that species of satirical wit with which the populace delight to
ridicule their rulers. At this instant there are various anonymous
pasquinades on the garden-gates at Sans Souci, which would have provoked
the resentment--the fatal resentment--of any other monarch upon earth.
It cannot be doubted that the authors of these things could easily be
discovered, if the king condescended to make any inquiries concerning
them: it cannot be doubted that the king has power to punish the
offenders: yet they remain untouched, perhaps unknown. Our sovereign
is not capable of feeling the petty emotions of vulgar spleen
or resentment; but he could not be insensible to the treacherous
ingratitude of one, whom he imagined to have been attached to him by
every tie of kindness and of duty. That the Count Laniska should choose
the instant when the king was showing him unusual favour, to make that
favour an instrument of his base malice, is scarcely credible. Yet,
Prussians, incredible as it sounds to us, it is true. Here are my
proofs: here are my witnesses."

Mr. Warendorff, at this instant, uncovered the Prussian Vase, and then
pointed to a Jew, and to the master of the porcelain manufactory, who
stood beside him, ready to give their evidence. We omit that part of
Mr. Warendorff's speech which contained the facts that have been already
related. The Prussian Vase was handed to the jury: the verses in praise
of Frederick the Great were read, and the word _tyrant_ was seen,
afterward, with the utmost surprise. In the midst of the general
indignation, Mr. Warendorff called upon the Jew to come forward and
give his evidence. This Jew was an old man, and there was something
remarkable in his looks. His head was still; his neck was stiff; but
his eyes moved with incessant celerity from side to side, and he seemed
uneasy at not being able to see what was passing behind him: there was
a certain firmness in his attitude, but his voice trembled when he
attempted to speak. All these circumstances prepossessed Laniska's
friends against the Jew the moment he appeared; and it was justly
observed, that his having the misfortune to be a Jew was sufficient
to prejudice many of the populace against him, even before a word he
uttered reached their ears. But impartial spectators judged that the
poor man was only terrified at being called upon to speak in so large an
assembly. Solomon (for that was the name of the Jew), after having taken
an oath upon the Talmud that he would speak nothing but the truth, made
the following answers to the questions put to him by Mr. Warendorff:--

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Did you ever see this vase before?"

_Solomon_.--"Yes."

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Where? when? Tell all you know about it to the
gentlemen of the jury."

_Solomon_.--"The first time I saw that vase was in the gallery of
paintings, at the king's palace of Sans Souci; to the best of my
recollection, it was on the night of the first day of the month, about
ten o'clock, or, perhaps, it might be eleven: I wish to be exact; but I
cannot be certain as to the hour precisely."

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"The exact hour is not of any consequence: proceed.
Tell us how you came to see this vase. Take your time to speak. We are
in no hurry: the truth will appear sooner or later."

_Solomon_.--"His majesty himself put the vase into my hands, and
commanded me to pack it up, with some other china, which he was going to
send as a present to a gentleman at Paris. I am something of a judge of
china myself, being used to selling small pieces of it up and down the
town and country. So I was struck with the first sight of this
beautiful vase; I looked at it very carefully, and wiped away, with my
handkerchief, the dust which had settled on the white figures: here is
the very handkerchief. I wiped the vase all over; but, when I came
to rub the bottom, I stopped to read the verses _on the character of
Frederick the Great_; and having read these, I rubbed the white letters
quite clean: the ground on which they were written was blue. I found
that some of the blue colour came off upon my handkerchief, which
surprised me a good deal. Upon examining further, I perceived that the
colour came off only in one spot, of about an inch long, and half an
inch broad. The king was at this time standing with his back to me,
looking at a new picture which had just been hung up in the gallery;
but hearing me make an exclamation ('_Father Abraham!_' I believe it was
that I said), his majesty turned round. 'What is the matter with you,
Solomon? You look wondrous wise,' his majesty was pleased to say. 'Why
do you call on Father Abraham at this time of day? Do you expect that he
will help you to pack up that china--hey, Solomon, my friend?' I had
no power to answer this question, for by this time, to my utter
astonishment, I had discovered that, on the spot where I had rubbed off
the blue paint, there was a word written--the word was _tyrant_. '_On
the character of Frederick, the great tyrant!_' Said I to myself--'what
can this mean?' The king snatched the vase from my hands, read what I
had read, saw the paint which had been rubbed off upon my handkerchief,
and without saying one word left the gallery. This is all I know about
the matter."

The Jew bowed to the court, and Mr. Warendorff told him that, having
closed his evidence, he might depart. But Albert rose to desire that the
judge would order him to remain in court, as he purposed to examine,
or, according to the English term, to _cross-examine_ him further, at
a proper time. The judge ordered the Jew to remain in court. The
next witness called, on the part of the crown, was the master of
the porcelain manufactory of Berlin; to whom Mr. Warendorff put the
following questions:--

_Q_.--"Have you seen the verses which are inscribed on the foot of this
vase?"

_Answer_.--"Yes, I have."

_Q_.--"Do you recollect what words are written over the verses?"

_Answer_.--"I do: the words are--'On the character of Frederick, the
great tyrant.'"

_Q_.--"Do you know by whom those words and these verses were written?"

_Answer_.--"I believe that they were written by Count Augustus Laniska."

_Q_.--"How do you know? or why do you believe it?"

_Answer_.--"I was present when Sophia Mansfeld, the woman by whom the
vase was designed, told the count that she did not know how to write,
and that she would be obliged to him if he would write the inscription
himself on it. The vase at this time had not been put into the furnace.
It was in what we call biscuit. The Count Laniska took a proper tool,
and said that he would write the inscription as she desired. I saw
him writing on the bottom of the vase for some minutes. I heard him
afterward call to one of the workmen, and desire that he would put the
vase into the furnace: the workman accordingly carried it into the next
room to the furnace, as I believe."

_Q_.--"Did you see the inscription on the vase after it was taken out of
the furnace? and was the word 'tyrant' then on it?"

_Answer_.--"I did not see the vase immediately upon its being taken out
of the furnace; but I saw it about an hour afterward. At that time I
read the inscription: the word 'tyrant' was not then visible on the
vase; the place where it now appears was blue. I carried it myself,
along with some others, to the king's palace at Sans Souci. The night of
the first day of this month his majesty sent for me, and showed me the
word _tyrant_ on the vase: I had never seen it there till then. It
could not have been written after the china was baked: it must have been
written whilst the biscuit was soft; and it must have been covered
over with the blue paint after the vase was taken out of the furnace. I
believe the word was written by Count Laniska, because I saw nobody
else write upon the vase hut him; because the word exactly resembles the
handwriting of the rest of the inscription; and because I, upon a former
occasion, heard the count make use of that very word in speaking of
Frederick the Great."

Here the master of the porcelain manufactory finished speaking, and was
going, with Mr. Warendorff's permission, to retire; but Albert signified
his intention to cross-examine him also, and the judge commanded that
he should remain in court. The two next witnesses who were produced and
examined were the workman who carried the vase to the furnace, and the
man whose business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace. Neither
of these witnesses could write or read. The workman deposed, that he
carried the Prussian Vase, as he was desired, to the furnace; that no
one touched it on the way thither. The man whose business it was to put
the biscuit into the furnace swore that he put it along with several
other vases into the furnace; that he attended the fire, and that no one
touched any of them till they were baked and taken out by him. Here the
evidence for the prosecution closed. Mr. Warendorff observed, that he
should forbear to expatiate further upon the conduct of the prisoner;
that he had been ordered by his sovereign to speak of him with all
possible moderation; that he earnestly hoped the defence that should be
made for Count Laniska might be satisfactory; and that the mode of trial
which had been granted to him by the king was a sufficient proof of the
clemency of his majesty, and of his earnest desire to allow the prisoner
every possible means of re-establishing his character in the eyes of
the public. Albert now rose. The Count Laniska, who had appeared unmoved
during Mr. Warendorff's oration, changed countenance the moment Albert
rose in his defence; the Countess Laniska leaned forward over the rails
of the gallery in breathless anxiety: there was no sound heard in the
whole gallery, except the jingling of the chain of the king's sword,
with which he was playing.

"I shall not attempt, gentlemen," said Albert, "to move your sympathy
by a pathetic description of my own feelings _as a man, and as an
advocate_. Whatever mine may be, it is my wish and my duty to repress
them. I have need of that calm possession of my understanding, which
will be necessary to convince yours of the innocence of my friend.
To convince is my object. If it were in my power, I should, upon
the present occasion, disdain to persuade. I should think it equally
incompatible with my own honour and that of the Count Laniska. With
these sentiments, I refrain, Prussians, from all eulogium upon the
magnanimity of your king. Praises from a traitor, or from the advocate
of a traitor, must be unworthy of a great monarch, or of a generous
people. If the prisoner before you shall be proved to be no traitor, he
will doubtless have opportunities of expressing by actions, better than
I can by words, his gratitude to his sovereign, for having allowed him
this public trial by his equals--men who are able to discern and to
assert the truth. It cannot have escaped their observation, that no
positive evidence whatever has yet been produced against the prisoner.
No one has yet been heard to swear that he _saw_ Count Laniska write the
word _tyrant_ upon this vase. The first witness, Solomon the Jew, has
informed us of what our senses could not leave us room to doubt, that
the word is actually engraved upon the porcelain: further, he has told
us that it was covered over with blue paint, which he rubbed off with
his handkerchief. All this may be true; but the wisdom of Solomon,
united to that of Baron Warendorff, has failed to point out to us any
certain connexion between this blue paint, this handkerchief, and
the supposed guilt of the Count Laniska. The master of the porcelain
manufactory came next, and I apprehended that, as being a more
respectable witness than the Jew, it was reserved for him to supply
this link in the chain of evidence. But this respectable witness simply
swore, that he heard a woman say she could not write or read; that she
asked Count Laniska to write an inscription upon a vase for her; that,
in consequence of this request, the count wrote something upon the vase,
he does not pretend to know what; but he believes that the word _tyrant_
must have been one of the words then written by the count, because he
saw no one else write on the vase; because the hand-writing of that word
resembles the rest of the inscription; and because the count, in his
hearing, had, upon a former occasion, made use of the same expression in
speaking of the king. I recapitulate this evidence, to show that it is
in no part _positive_: that it all rests upon circumstances. In order to
demonstrate to you that the word in question could not have been written
by any person but Laniska, two witnesses are produced--the workman who
carried the vase to the furnace, and he who put it into the fire. The
one has positively sworn that no person touched the vase on the way to
the furnace. The other as positively swears that no one meddled with the
vase after it was put into the furnace.

"It is granted that the word could not have been engraved after the
biscuit was baked. The witness, however, has not sworn, or asserted,
that there was no interval of time between his receiving the vase and
his putting it into the fire. What became of it during this interval?
How long did it last? Will the witness swear that no one touched it
during this interval?

"These are questions which I shall put to him presently. I hope I have
established my first assertion, that you have no _positive_ evidence of
the prisoner's guilt.

"You well know, gentlemen, that where positive evidence of any supposed
fact cannot be produced, our judgments must be decided by the balance
of _probabilities_; and it is for this reason that the study of
probabilities, and the power of comparing them, has, in a late
celebrated essay, been called _the Science of Judges_.[5] To you, judges
of my friend, all the probabilities of his supposed guilt have been
stated. Weigh and compare them with those which I shall produce
in favour of his innocence. His education, his character, his
understanding, are all in his favour. The Count Laniska must be much
below the common standard of human virtue and capacity, if, without any
assignable motive, he could have committed an action at once so base
and so absurd as this of which he is accused. His temper is naturally or
habitually open and impetuous, even to extreme imprudence. An instance
of this imprudence, and of the manner in which it was pardoned by the
king, has been stated to you. Is it probable that the same man should be
both ingenuous and mean? Is it probable that the generosity with which
he was treated made no impression upon his heart? His heart must, upon
this supposition, be selfish and unfeeling. Look up, gentlemen, towards
that gallery--look at that anxious mother! those eager friends! Could
Laniska's fate excite such anxiety, if he were selfish and unfeeling?
Impossible! But, suppose him destitute of every generous sentiment, you
cannot imagine Count Laniska to be a fool. You have been lately reminded
that he was early distinguished for his abilities by a monarch, whose
penetration we cannot doubt. He was high in the favour of his sovereign:
just entering upon life--a military life; his hopes of distinction
resting entirely upon the good opinion of his general and his king: all
these fair expectations he sacrifices--for what? for the pleasure--but
it could be no pleasure--for the folly of writing a single word. Unless
the Count Laniska be supposed to have been possessed with an insane
desire of writing the word _tyrant_, how can we account for his writing
it upon this vase? Did he wish to convey to France the idea, that
Frederick the Great is a tyrant? A man of common sense could surely have
found, at least, safer methods of doing so than by engraving it as his
opinion upon a vase which he knew was to pass through the hands of the
sovereign whom he purposed thus treacherously to insult. The extreme
improbability that any man in the situation, with the character, habits,
and capacity of Count Laniska, should have acted in this manner amounts,
in my judgment, almost to a _moral impossibility_. I knew nothing more,
gentlemen, of this cause, when I first offered to defend Laniska at
the hazard of my liberty: it was not merely from the enthusiasm of
friendship that I made this offer; it was from the sober conviction
of my understanding, founded upon the accurate calculation of moral
probabilities.

[Footnote 5: Voltaire--Essai sur les Probabilites en fait de Justice.]

"It has been my good fortune, gentlemen, in the course of the inquiries
which I have since made, to obtain further confirmation of my opinion.
Without attempting any of that species of oratory which may be necessary
to cover falsehood, but which would encumber instead of adorning truth,
I shall now, in the simplest manner in my power, lay the evidence before
the court."

The first witness Albert called was the workman who carried the vase to
the man at the furnace. Upon his cross-examination, he said that he did
not deliver the vase into the hands of the man at the furnace, but that
he put it, along with several other pieces, upon a tray, on a table,
which stood near the furnace.

_Albert_.--"You are certain that you put it upon a tray?"

_Witness_.--"Quite certain."

_Albert_.--"What reason have you for remembering that circumstance
particularly?"

_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I at first set this vase upon the
ledge of the tray, and it was nearly falling. I was frightened at that
accident, which makes me particularly remember the thing. I made room
upon the tray for the vase, and left it quite safe upon the tray: I am
positive of it."

_Albert_.--"That is all I want with you, my good friend."

The next witness called was the man whose business it was to put the
vases into the furnace.

_Albert_.--"Did you see the witness who was last examined put this vase
upon a tray when he left it under your care?"

_Witness_.--"I did."

_Albert_.--"You are certain that he put it _upon the tray?_ What reason
have you to remember that circumstance particularly?"

_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I heard the witness cry out, 'There,
William, I had like to have thrown down this cursed vase; but, look you
here, I've left it quite safe upon the tray.' Upon this, I turned
and looked, and saw that vase standing upon the tray, safe, with some
others."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect any thing else that passed?"

_Witness_.--"Only that the witness told me I must put it--the vase, I
mean--into the furnace directly; and I answered to that, 'All in good
time; the furnace is not ready yet; it will go in along with the rest.'"

_Albert_.--"Then you did not put it into the furnace immediately after
it was left with you?"

_Witness_.--"No, I did not--but that was not my fault--I could not; the
furnace was not hot enough."

_Albert_.--"How long do you think it was, from the time it was left upon
the tray, till you put it into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"I don't know--I can't be positive: it might be a quarter
of an hour, or twenty minutes; or it might be half an hour. I cannot be
positive, sir; I cannot be positive."

_Albert_.--"You need not be positive. Nobody wants you to be positive.
Nobody wants to entrap you, my good friend. During this quarter of an
hour, or twenty minutes, or half an hour, that you speak of, did you
ever lose sight of this vase?"

_Witness_.--"To be sure I did. I did not stand watching it all the
while. Why should I? It was safe enough."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect where you found the vase when you took it
to put it into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"Yes: it was standing as it might be here, in the middle of
the table."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect whether it was standing _upon_ the tray or
not?"

_Witness_.--"It was not _upon_ the tray, as I recollect: no, I'm sure it
was not, for I carried to the furnace first the tray and all that was on
it, and then I remember, I came back for this, which was standing, as I
said before, as it might be here, in the middle of the table."

_Albert_.--"Was any body, except yourself, at the furnace, or in the
room, from the time that this vase was brought to you, till you put it
into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"Not as I remember. It was our dinner-time. All the men,
except myself, were gone to dinner: I stayed to mind the furnace."

_Albert_.--"It was you, then, that took this vase off the tray, was it?"

_Witness_.--"No, it was not. I never took it off the tray. I told you it
was not upon the tray with the others; I told you it was upon the table,
as it might be here."

_Albert_.--"Yes, when you were going to put it into the furnace, you
said that you saw it standing in the middle of the table; but you
recollect that you saw the workman who brought it put it upon the tray.
You told us you remembered that circumstance perfectly."

_Witness_.--"Yes, so I do."

_Albert_.--"The vase could not have got off the tray of itself. You did
not take it off. How came it off, do you think?"

_Witness_.--"I don't know. I can't tell. Somebody, to be sure, must
have taken it off. I was minding the furnace. My back was to the door. I
don't recollect seeing any body come in; but many might have come in and
out, without my heeding them."

_Albert_.--"Take your own time, my good friend. Recollect yourself;
perhaps you may remember."

_Witness_.--"Oh, yes, now you put me upon recollecting, I do remember
that Solomon the Jew came in, and asked me where Sophia Mansfeld was;
and it certainly must have been he who took the vase off the tray; for
now I recollect, as I looked round once from the furnace, I saw him with
it in his hand; he was looking at the bottom of it, as I remember: he
said, here are some fine verses, or some such thing; but I was minding
the furnace. That's all I know about the matter."

_Albert_.--"That is enough."

The next witness who came forward was the husband of Sophia
Mansfeld.--He deposed, that on the 29th of April, the day on which the
Prussian Vase was finished, as stated by the former evidence, and sent
to be put into the furnace, he met Sophia Mansfeld in the street: she
was going home to dinner. He asked to see the vase: she said that it
was, she believed, put into the furnace, and that he could not then see
it; that she was sorry he had not come sooner, for that he could have
written the inscription on it for her, and that would have spared her
the shame of telling Count Laniska that she could not read or write.
She added, that the count had written all that was wanting for her. The
witness, being impatient to see the vase, went as fast as he could to
the manufactory, in hopes of getting a sight of it before it was put
into the furnace. He met Solomon the Jew at the door of the manufactory,
who told him that he was too late, that all the vases were in the
furnace; he had just seen them put in. The Jew, as the witness now
recollects, though it did not strike him at the time, was eager to
prevent him from going into the furnace-room. Solomon took him by the
arm, and walked with him up the street, talking to him of some money
which he was to remit to Meissen, to Sophia Mansfeld's father and
mother.

_Albert_ asked the witness on whose account this money was to be
remitted by the Jew to Meissen.

_Witness_.--"The money was to be remitted on Sophia Mansfeld's account."

_Albert_.--"Did she borrow it from the Jew?"

_Witness_.--"No; the Jew owed it to her for work done by her. She had
the art of painting on glass. She had painted some glasses for a large
magic lantern, and several small pictures on glass. She did these things
at the hours when she was not obliged to be at the manufactory. She rose
very early in the morning and worked hard. She sold her work to the Jew
upon condition that he would remit the price agreed upon to her father
and mother, who were old, and depended on her for support."

_Albert_.--"Was the money punctually remitted to her father and mother
by the Jew?"

_Witness_.--"Not a farthing of it was remitted by him, as Sophia
discovered since her return to Meissen."

_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew say any thing about Sophia
Mansfeld's returning to Saxony?"

_Witness_.--"Yes; I once heard the Jew say that he hoped she never would
leave Berlin, because she was of great use to him. He advised me to
settle in Berlin. This passed about six weeks ago. About a week before
the prize was decided by the king, I met the Jew, and told him Sophia
had good hopes of getting back to Saxony. He looked very much vexed, and
said, 'She is not sure of that.'"

_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew speak of Count Laniska?"

_Witness_.--"Yes, about two months ago I saw him in the street when I
was speaking to Solomon, and I asked the Jew who he was. He answered,
'He is the Count Laniska--a man that I hate, and on whom I will be
revenged some time or other.' I asked why he hated the count. The Jew
replied, 'Because the Christian dog has made the corps of Jews his
laughing-stock. This day, when my son was going through his manual
exercise before the king, Count Laniska was holding his sides with
laughter. I'll be revenged upon him some time or other.'"

_Albert_.--"I have no occasion, sir, to trouble you with any farther
questions."

The next witness who appeared was a druggist of Berlin. He deposed,
that, on the 30th of April, Solomon the Jew came to his shop and asked
for blue paints; that, after trying the colours very carefully upon the
back of a letter, which he took out of his pocket, he bought a small
quantity of a shade of blue, which the witness produced in court.

Albert ordered that the paint should be handed to the gentlemen of the
jury, that they might compare it with the blue ground of the Prussian
Vase. With this it was found, upon comparison, to match exactly.

_Albert to the druggist_.--"Do you know what became of the paper upon
which you say the Jew tried your colours?"

_Witness_.--"Yes; here it is. I found it under the counter, after the
Jew went away, and I kept it to return to him, as I saw there was an
account on the other side of the paper, which I imagined he might want.
He never happened to call at my shop afterwards, and I forgot that I had
such a paper, till you, sir, called upon me about a week ago, to make
inquiry on this subject. You desired me to keep the paper carefully, and
not to let any one know that it was in my possession, till the day on
which the trial of Count Laniska was to come on. I have complied with
your request, and here is the paper."

The paper was handed to the jury; and one of the shades of blue exactly
matched that of the ground of the Prussian Vase. Albert now called upon
the Jew to produce, once more, the handkerchief with which he had rubbed
off the paint. The chain of evidence was now complete, for the blue on
the handkerchief was precisely the same as the colours on the paper
and on the vase. After the jury had satisfied themselves of this
resemblance, Albert begged that they would read what was written upon
the paper. The first thing that struck their eyes was the word _tyrant_
frequently repeated, as if by some one who had been practising to write
different hands. One of these words was an exact resemblance of the word
_tyrant_ on the Prussian Vase; and Albert pointed out a circumstance,
which had till now escaped attention, that the letter _r_, in this word,
was made differently from all the _ars_ in the rest of the inscription.
The writing of the Count Laniska had, in every other respect, been
successfully imitated.

After Albert had shown these things to the jury, he here closed the
evidence in favour of the prisoner, observing, that the length of time
which the trial had lasted seemed to have somewhat fatigued both the
judge and jury; and, knowing that it was now their usual hour of dinner,
he prudently forbore to make a long speech upon the evidence which had
been laid before them in favour of his friend: he left it to their own
understandings to determine the balance of probabilities between the
honour of Count Laniska and the honesty of Solomon the Jew.

The judge, in a manner which would have done honour even to the English
bench, summed up the evidence on both sides, and gave a distinct and
impressive charge to the jury, who, without leaving the court, gave a
verdict in favour of the prisoner. Loud acclamations filled the hall. In
the midst of these acclamations, the word--"Silence!" was pronounced
by that voice which never failed to command instantaneous obedience in
Prussia. All eyes turned upon the monarch.

"This court is now dissolved," said his majesty. "My judgment confirms
the verdict of the jury. Count Laniska, I took your sword from you too
hastily. Accept of mine in its stead." And as he pronounced these words,
Frederick ungirded his sword, and presented it to the young count. "As
for you, sir," continued the king, addressing himself to Albert, "you
want no _sword_ for the defence of your friends. Your arms are superior
to ours. Let me engage them in my service; and, trust me, I shall not
leave them long unemployed, or unrewarded."

There was but one person present to whom this speech seemed to give no
satisfaction. This person was Solomon the Jew, who stood apart, waiting
in black silence to learn his own fate. He was sentenced, not to a
year's imprisonment in the castle of Spandau, but to sweep the streets
of Potzdam (including the court in front of Count Laniska's palace) for
a twelvemonth.

After having heard this sentence, which was universally approved of, the
spectators began to retire.

The king dined--it is always important to know where great men
dine--Frederick the Great dined this day at the Countess Laniska's,
in company with her son, his friend Albert, and the English traveller.
After dinner, the king withdrew to attend parade; and it was observed
that he wore the Count Laniska's sword.

"You will allow," said the countess to the English traveller, "that our
king is a great man; for none but great men can bear to acknowledge that
they have been mistaken."

"You will allow, madam," replied the Englishman, "that it was our
English trial by jury which convinced the king of his mistake."

"And you applaud him for granting that trial," said Albert.

"To a certain degree I do," said the Englishman, from whom it was
difficult to extort praise of a despotic king--"to a certain degree, I
do; but you will observe, that this trial by jury, which is a matter of
favour to you Prussians, is a matter of right to us Englishmen. Much as
I admire your king of Prussia, I admire our English constitution more."






THE GOOD AUNT


Charles Howard was left an orphan when he was very young. His father
had dissipated a large fortune, and lost his life in a duel, about some
_debt of honour_, which had been contracted at the gaming-table. Without
fortune and without friends, this poor boy would probably have lived
and died in wretchedness, but for the humanity of his good aunt, Mrs.
Frances Howard. This lady possessed a considerable fortune, which, in
the opinion of some of her acquaintance, was her highest merit: others
respected her as the branch of an ancient family: some courted her
acquaintance because she was visited by the best company in town: and
many were ambitious of being introduced to her, because they were
sure of meeting at her house several of those distinguished literary
characters who throw a radiance upon all who can contrive to get within
the circle of their glories. Some few, some very few of Mrs. Howard's
acquaintance, admired her for her real worth, and merited the name of
friends.

She was a young and cheerful woman when she first undertook the
education of her little nephew. She had the courage to resist the
allurements of dissipation, or all that by her sex are usually thought
allurements. She had the courage to apply herself seriously to the
cultivation of her understanding: she educated herself, that she might
be able to fulfil the important duty of educating a child. Hers was not
the foolish fondness of a foolish aunt; she loved her nephew, and she
wished to educate him, so that her affection might increase, instead of
diminishing, as he grew up. By associating early pleasure with reading,
little Charles soon became fond of it: he was never forced to read books
which he did not understand; his aunt used, when he was very young, to
read aloud to him any thing entertaining that she met with; and whenever
she perceived by his eye that his attention was not fixed, she stopped.
When he was able to read fluently to himself, she selected for him
passages from books, which she thought would excite his curiosity to
know _more_; and she was not in a hurry to cram him with knowledge, but
rather anxious to prevent his growing appetite for literature from being
early satiated. She always encouraged him to talk to her freely about
what he read, and to tell her when he did not like any of the books
which she gave him. She conversed with him with so much kindness and
cheerfulness; she was so quick at perceiving his latent meaning; and she
was so gentle and patient when she reasoned with him, that he loved to
talk to her better than to any body else; nor could little Charles ever
thoroughly enjoy any pleasure without her sympathy.

The conversation of the sensible, well-informed people who visited Mrs.
Howard contributed to form her nephew's taste. A child may learn as much
from conversation as from books--not so many historic facts, but as much
instruction. Greek and Latin were the grand difficulties. Mrs. Howard
did not understand Greek and Latin; nor did she, though a woman, set too
high or too low a value upon the learned languages. She was convinced
that a man might be a great scholar without being a man of sense; she
was also persuaded that a man of sense might be a good scholar. She knew
that, whatever abilities her nephew might possess, he could not be upon
a footing with other men in the world, without possessing that species
of knowledge which is universally expected from gentlemen, as an
essential proof of their having received a liberal education; nor did
she attempt to undervalue the pleasures of classic taste merely because
she was not qualified to enjoy them: she was convinced, by the testimony
of men of candour and judgment, that a classical taste is a source of
real enjoyment, and she wished her nephew's literary pleasures to have
as extensive a range as possible.

To instruct her nephew in the learned languages, she engaged a good
scholar and a man of sense: his name--for a man is nothing without a
name--was Russell[1]. Little Charles did not at first relish Latin;
he used sometimes to come from his Latin lessons with a very dull,
stupified face, which gradually brightened into intelligence, after he
had talked for a few minutes with his aunt. Mrs. Howard, though pleased
to perceive that he was fond of her, had not the weakness to sacrifice
his permanent advantage to her transient gratification. One evening
Charles came running up-stairs to his aunt, who was at tea; several
people happened to be present. "I have done with Mr. Russell, and my
Latin, ma'am, thank goodness--now may I have the elephant and the camel,
or the bear and her cubs, that you marked for me last night?"

[Footnote 1: RUSSELL.--This name is chosen for that of a good tutor,
because it was the name of Mr. Edgeworth's tutor, at Oxford: Mr. Russell
was also tutor to the late Mr. Day. Both by Mr. Day and Mr. Edgeworth he
was respected, esteemed, and beloved, in no common degree.]

The company laughed at this speech of Charles: and a silly lady--for
even Mrs. Howard could not make all her acquaintance wise--a silly lady
whispered to Charles, "I've a notion, if you'd tell the truth, now, that
you like the bear and her cubs a great deal better than you do Latin and
Mr. Russell."

"I like the bear a great deal better than I do Latin, to be sure," said
the boy; "but as for Mr. Russell--why, I think," added he, encouraged by
the lady's smiles, "I think I like the bear better than Mr. Russell."

The lady laughed affectedly at this sally.

"I am sure," continued Charles, fancying that every person present was
delighted with his wit, "I am sure, at any rate, I like the learned pig
fifty times better than Mr. Russell!"

The judicious lady burst into a second fit of laughter. Mrs. Howard
looked very grave. Charles broke from the lady's caresses, and going up
to his aunt, timidly looking up in her face, said, "Am I a fool?"

"You are but a child," said Mrs. Howard; and, turning away from him, she
desired the servant, who waited at tea, to let Mr. Russell know that
she desired the _honour_ of his company. Mrs. Holloway--for that was the
silly lady's name--at the words, "honour of his company," resumed her
gravity, but looked round to see what the rest of the company thought.

"Give me leave, Mr. Russell," said Mrs. Howard, as soon as he came into
the room, "to introduce you to a gentleman, for whose works I know you
have a great esteem." The gentleman was a celebrated traveller, just
returned from abroad, whose conversation was as much admired as his
writings.

The conversation now took a literary turn. The traveller being polite,
as well as entertaining, drew out Mr. Russell's knowledge and abilities.
Charles now looked up to his tutor with respect. Children have
sufficient penetration to discover the opinions of others by their
countenance and manner, and their sympathy is quickly influenced by the
example of those around them. Mrs. Howard led the traveller to speak
of what he had seen in different countries--of natural history--of
the beaver, and the moose-deer, and the humming-bird, that is scarcely
larger than a bumble bee; and the mocking-bird, that can imitate the
notes of all other birds. Charles _niched_ himself into a corner of the
sofa upon which the gentlemen were sitting, and grew very attentive. He
was rather surprised to perceive that his tutor was as much entertained
with the conversation as he was himself.

"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Howard to the traveller, "is it true that the
humming-bird is a passionate little animal? Is the story told by the
author of the Farmer's Letters true?"

"What story?" said Charles, eagerly.

"Of a humming-bird that flew into a fury with a flower, and tore it to
pieces, because it could not get the honey out of it all at once."

"Oh, ma'am," said little Charles, peeping over his tutor's shoulders,
"will you show me that? Have you got the book, _dear_ aunt?"

"It is Mr. Russell's book," said his aunt.

"Your book!" cried Charles: "what, and do you know all about animals,
and those sorts of entertaining things, as well as Latin? And can
you tell me, then, what I want very much to know, how they catch the
humming-bird?"

"They shoot it."

"Shoot it! but what a large hole they must make in its body and
beautiful feathers! I thought you said its whole body was no bigger than
a bee--a humble bee."

"They make no hole in its body--they shoot it without ruffling even its
feathers."

"How, how?" cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, whom he now
regarded no longer as a mere man of Latin.

"They charge the gun with water," said Mr. Russell, "and the poor little
humming-bird is stunned by the discharge."

The conversation next turned upon the entertaining chapter on instinct,
in Dr. Darwin's Zoonomia. Charles did not understand all that was said,
for the gentlemen did not address themselves to him. He never listened
to what he did not understand: but he was very quick at hearing whatever
was within the limits of his comprehension. He heard of the tailor-bird,
that uses its long bill as a needle, to sew the dead and the living
leaf together, of which it makes its light nest, lined with feathers and
gossamer: of the fish called the 'old soldier,' that looks out for the
empty shell of some dead animal, and fits this armour upon himself: of
the Jamaica spider, that makes himself a house under ground, with a door
and hinges, which door the spider and all the members of his family take
care to shut after them, whenever they go in and out.

Little Charles, as he sat eagerly attentive in his corner of the sofa,
heard of the trumpet of the common gnat[2], and of its proboscis, which
serves at once for an awl, a saw, and a pump.

[Footnote 2: St. Pierre, Etudes de la Nature.]

"Are there any more such things," exclaimed Charles, "in these books?"

"A great many," said Mr. Russell.

"I'll read them all," cried Charles, starting up--"may I? may not I,
aunt?"

"Ask Mr. Russell," replied his aunt: "he who is obliged to give you the
pain of learning what is tiresome, should have the pleasure of rewarding
you with entertaining books. Whenever he asks me for Dr. Darwin and
St. Pierre, you shall have them. We are both of one mind. We know that
learning Latin is not the most amusing occupation in the world, but
still it must be learned."

"Why," said Charles modestly, "you don't understand Latin, aunt, do
you?"

"No," said Mrs. Howard, "but I am a woman, and it is not thought
necessary that a woman should understand Latin; nor can I explain to
you, at your age, why it is expected that a gentleman should; but here
are several gentlemen present--ask them whether it be not necessary that
a gentleman should."

Charles gathered all the opinions, and especially that of the
entertaining traveller.

Mrs. Holloway, the silly lady, during that part of the conversation from
which she might have acquired some knowledge, had retired to the further
end of the room to a game at trictrac with an obsequious chaplain. Her
game being finished, she came up to hear what the crowd round the sofa
could be talking about; and hearing Charles ask the opinions of the
gentlemen about the necessity of learning Latin, she nodded sagaciously
at Mrs. Howard, and, by way of making up for former errors, said to
Charles, in the most authoritative tone,--

"Yes, I can assure you, Mr. Charles, I am quite of the gentlemen's
opinion, and so is every body--and this is a point upon which I have
some right to speak; for my Augustus, who is only a year and seven
months older than you are, sir, is one of the best scholars of his age,
I am told, in England. But then, to be sure, it was flogged into him
well at first, at a public school, which, I understand, is the best way
of making good scholars."

"And the best way of making boys love literature?" said Mrs. Howard.

"Certainly, certainly," said Mrs. Holloway, who mistook Mrs. Howard's
tone of inquiry for a tone of assertion, a tone more familiar to
her--"certainly, ma'am, I knew you would come round to my notions at
last. I'm sure my Augustus must be fond of his Latin, for never in the
vacations did I ever catch him with any English book in his hand!"

"Poor boy!" said Charles, with unfeigned compassion, "And when, my
dear Mrs. Howard," continued Mrs. Holloway, laying her hand upon Mrs.
Howard's arm, with a yet untasted pinch of snuff between her fingers,
"when will you send Mr. Charles to school?"

"Oh, aunt, don't send me away from you--Oh, sir! Mr. Russell, try me--I
will do my very, _very_ best, without having it flogged into me, to
learn Latin--only try me."

"Dear sir, I really beg your pardon," said Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Russell;
"I absolutely only meant to support Mrs. Howard's opinion for the sweet
boy's good; and I thought I saw you go out of the room, or somebody else
went out, whilst I was at trictrac. But I'm convinced a private tutor
may do wonders at the same time; and if my Augustus prejudiced me
in favour of public education, you'll excuse a mother's partiality.
Besides, I make it a rule never to interfere in the education of my
boys. Mr. Holloway is answerable for them; and if he prefer public
schools to a private tutor, you must be sensible, sir, it would be very
wrong in me to set my poor judgment in opposition to Mr. Holloway's
opinion."

Mr. Russell bowed; for, when a lady claims a gentleman's assent to a
series of inconsistent propositions, what answer can he make but--a bow?
Mrs. Holloway's carriage was now at the door, and, without troubling
herself any further about the comparative merits of public and private
education, she departed.

When Mrs. Howard was left alone with her nephew, she seized the moment,
while his mind was yet warm, to make a lasting impression. Charles,
instead of going to Buffon's account of the elephant, which he was very
impatient to read, sat down resolutely to his Latin lesson. Mrs. Howard
looked over his shoulder, and when he saw her smile of approbation, he
said, "Then you won't send me away from you?"

"Not unless you oblige me to do so," said his aunt: "I love to have you
with me, and I will try for one year whether you have energy enough to
learn what is disagreeable to you, without--"

"Without its being flogged into me," said Charles: "you shall see."

This boy had a great deal of energy and application. The Latin lessons
were learned very perfectly; and as he did not spend above an hour a day
at them, he was not disgusted with application. His general taste for
literature, and his fund of knowledge, increased rapidly from year to
year, and the activity of his mind promised continual improvement. His
attachment to Mrs. Howard increased as he grew up, for she never claimed
any gratitude from her pupil, or exacted from him any of those little
observances, which women sometimes consider as essential proofs of
affection. She knew that these minute attentions are particularly
irksome to boys, and that they are by no means the natural expressions
of their feelings. She had sufficient strength of mind to be secure in
the possession of those qualities which merit esteem and love, and
to believe that the child whom she had educated had a heart and
understanding that must feel and appreciate her value.

When Charles Howard was about thirteen, an event happened which changed
his prospects in life. Mrs. Howard's large fortune was principally
derived from an estate in the West Indies, which had been left to her by
her grandfather. She did not particularly wish to be the proprietor of
slaves; and from the time that she came to the management of her own
affairs, she had been desirous to sell her West India property.
Her agent represented to her that this could not be done without
considerable loss. From year to year the business was delayed, till at
length a gentleman, who had a plantation adjoining to hers, offered to
purchase her estate. She was neither one of those ladies who, jealous
of their free will, would rather _act for themselves_, that is to say,
follow their own whims in matters of business, than consult men who
possess the requisite information; nor was she so ignorant of business,
or so indolent, as to be at the mercy of any designing agent or
attorney. After consulting proper persons, and after exerting a just
proportion of her own judgment, she concluded her bargain with the West
Indian. Her plantation was sold to him, and all her property was shipped
for her on board _The Lively Peggy_. Mr. Alderman Holloway, husband
to the silly Mrs. Holloway, was one of the trustees appointed by her
grandfather's will. The alderman, who was supposed to be very knowing
in all worldly concerns, sanctioned the affair with his approbation. The
lady was at this time rich; and Alderman Holloway applauded her humanity
in having stipulated for the liberty and _provision grounds_ of some old
<DW64>s upon her plantation; he even suggested to his son Augustus, that
this would make a very pretty, proper subject for a copy of verses, to
be addressed to Mrs. Howard. The verses were written in elegant Latin;
and the young gentleman was proceeding with some difficulty in his
English translation of them, when they were suppressed by parental
authority. The alderman changed his opinion as to the propriety of the
argument of this poem: the reasons which worked upon his mind were never
distinctly expressed; they may, however, be deduced from the perusal of
the following letter:--

"TO MRS. FRANCES HOWARD.

"DEAR MADAM,

"Sorry am I to be under the disagreeable necessity of communicating
to you thus abruptly, the melancholy news of the loss of 'The Lively
Peggy,' with your valuable consignment on board, viz. sundry puncheons
of rum, and hogsheads of sugar, in which commodities (as usual) your
agent received the purchase-money of your late fine West India estate.
I must not, however reluctantly, omit to mention the casket of your
grandmother's jewels, which I now regret was sent by this opportunity.
'Tis an additional loss--some thousands, I apprehend.

"The captain of the vessel I have just seen, who was set on shore,
on the 15th ultimo, on the coast of Wales: his mate mutinied, and, in
conspiracy with the crew, have run away with the vessel.

"I have only to add, that Mrs. Holloway and my daughter Angelina
sincerely unite with me in compliments and condolence; and I shall be
happy if I can be of any service in the settlement of your affairs.

"Mrs Holloway desires me to say, she would do herself the honour of
waiting upon you to-morrow, but is setting out for Margate.

"I am, dear madam,

"Your most obedient and humble servant,

"A. T. Holloway.

"P.S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting to insure."

Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, gave it to her
nephew, who was reading in the room with her when she received it. He
showed more emotion on reading it than she had done. The coldness of
the alderman's letter seemed to strike the boy more than the loss of a
fortune--"And this is a friend!" he exclaimed with indignation.

"No, my love," said Mrs. Howard, with a calm smile, "I never thought Mr.
Holloway any thing more than a common acquaintance: I hope--I am sure I
have chosen _my friends_ better."

Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, which seemed to
say, "Did you mean to call me one of your friends?" and then he grew
very thoughtful.

"My dear Charles," said the aunt, after nearly a quarter of an hour's
silence, "may I know what you have been thinking of all this time?"

"Thinking of, ma'am!" said Charles, starting from his reverie--"of a
great many things--of all you have done for me--of--of what I could
do--I don't mean now; for I know I am a child, and can do nothing--I
don't mean _nothing_.--I shall soon be a man, and then I can be a
physician, or a lawyer, or something.--Mr. Russell told me the other
day, that if I applied myself, I might be whatever I pleased. What would
_you_ wish me to be, ma'am?--because that's what I will be--if I can."

"Then I wish you to be what you are."

"O madam," said Charles, with a look of great mortification, "but that's
nothing. Won't you make me of some use to you?--But I beg your pardon,
I know you can't think about me just now. Good night," said he, and
hurried out of the room.

The news of the loss of the Lively Peggy, with all the particulars
mentioned in Alderman Holloway's letter, appeared in the next day's
newspapers, and in the succeeding paper appeared an advertisement of
Mrs. Howard's house in Portman-square, of her plate, china, furniture,
books, &c.--She had never in affluence disdained economy. She had no
debts; not a single tradesman was a sufferer by her loss. She had always
lived within her annual income; and though her generous disposition had
prevented her from hoarding money, she had a small sum in the funds,
which she had prudently reserved for any unforeseen exigence. She had
also a few diamonds, which had been her mother's, which Mr. Carat, the
jeweller, who had new set them, was very willing to purchase. He waited
upon Mrs. Howard, in Portman-square, to complete the bargain.

The want of sensibility which Charles showed when his aunt was parting
with her jewels to Mr. Carat, would have infallibly ruined him in the
opinion of most ladies. He took the trinkets up, one by one, without
ceremony, and examined them, asking his aunt and the jeweller questions
about the use and value of diamonds--about the working of the mines of
Golconda--about the shining of diamonds in the dark, observed by the
children of Cogi Hassan, the rope-maker, in the Arabian Tales--about the
experiment of Francis the First upon _melting_ of diamonds and rubies.
Mr. Carat was a Jew, and, though extremely cunning, profoundly ignorant.

"Dat king wash very grand fool, beg his majesty's pardon," said the Jew,
with a shrewd smile; "but kings know better nowadays. Heaven bless dere
majesties."

Charles had a great mind to vindicate the philosophic fame of Francis
the First, but a new idea suddenly started into his head.

"My dearest aunt," cried he, stopping her hand as she was giving her
diamond ear-rings to Mr. Carat--"stay, my dearest aunt, one instant,
till I have seen whether this is a good day for selling diamonds."

"O my dear young gentleman, no day in de Jewish calendar more proper for
de purchase," said the Jew.

"For the purchase! yes," said Charles; "but for the sale?"

"My love," said his aunt, "surely you are not so foolish as to think
there are lucky and unlucky days."

"No, I don't mean any thing about lucky and unlucky days," said Charles,
running up to consult the barometer; "but what I mean is not foolish
indeed: in some book I've read that the dealers in diamonds buy them
when the air is light, and sell them when it is heavy, if they can;
because their scales are so nice that they vary with the change in the
atmosphere. Perhaps I may not remember exactly the words, but that's the
sense, I know. I'll look for the words; I know whereabout to find them."
He jumped upon a chair, to get down the book.

"But, Master Charles," said the Jew, with a show of deference, "I will
not pretend to make a bargain with you--I see you know a great deal more
than I of these traffics."

To this flattery Charles made no answer, but continued looking for the
passage he wanted in his book. Whilst he was turning over the leaves,
a gentleman, a friend of Mrs. Howard, who had promised her to meet Mr.
Carat, came in. He was the gentleman formerly mentioned by the name of
_the traveller_: he was a good judge of diamonds, and, what is better,
he was a good judge of the human heart and understanding. He was much
pleased with Charles's ready recollection of the little knowledge he
possessed, with his eagerness to make that knowledge of use to his aunt,
and more with his perfect simplicity and integrity; for Charles, after a
moment's thought, turned to the Jew and said,--

"But the day that is good for my aunt must be bad for you. The buyers
and sellers should each have fair play. Mr. Carat, your weights should
be diamonds, and then the changes in the weight of the air would not
signify one way or the other.[3]"

[Footnote 3: This observation was literally made by a boy of ten years
of age.]

Mr. Carat smiled at this speech, but, suppressing his contempt for the
young gentleman, only observed, that he should most certainly follow Mr.
Charles's advice, whenever he _wash_ rich enough to have diamonds for
weights.

The traveller drew from his pocket a small book, took a pen, and wrote
in the title-page of it, _For one who will make a good use of it_; and,
with Mrs. Howard's permission, he gave the book to her nephew.

"I do not believe," said the gentleman, "that there is at present
another copy in England: I have just got this from France by a private
hand."

The sale of his aunt's books appeared to Charles a much more serious
affair than the parting with her diamonds. He understood something of
the value of books, and he took a sorrowful leave of many which he
had read, and of many more which he had intended to read. Mrs. Howard
selected a few for her own use, and she allowed her nephew to select as
many for himself as she had done. He observed that there was a beautiful
edition of Shakspeare, which he knew his aunt liked particularly,
but which she did not keep, reserving instead of it Smith's Wealth of
Nations, which would in a few years, she said, be very useful to him.
He immediately offered his favourite Etudes de la Nature to redeem the
Shakspeare; but Mrs. Howard would not accept of it, because she justly
observed, that she could read Shakspeare _almost_ as well without its
being in such a beautiful binding. Her readiness to part with all
the luxuries to which she had been for many years accustomed, and the
freedom and openness with which she spoke of all her affairs to her
nephew, made a great impression upon his mind.

Those are mistaken who think that young people cannot be interested in
such things: if no mystery be made of the technical parts of business,
young people easily learn them, and they early take an interest in the
affairs of their parents, instead of learning to separate their own
views from those of their friends. Charles, young as he was, at this
time, was employed by his aunt frequently to copy, and sometimes to
write, letters of business for her. He drew out a careful inventory of
all the furniture before it was disposed of; he took lists of all
the books and papers: and at this work, however tiresome, he was
indefatigable, because he was encouraged by the hope of being useful.
This ambition had been early excited in his mind.

When Mrs. Howard had settled her affairs, she took a small neat house
near Westminster school[4], for the purpose of a boarding-house for some
of the Westminster boys. This plan she preferred, because it secured an
independent means of support, and at the same time enabled her, in some
measure, to assist in her nephew's education, and to enjoy his company.
She was no longer able to afford a sufficient salary to a well-informed
private tutor; therefore she determined to send Charles to Westminster
school; and, as he would board with her, she hoped to unite by this
scheme, as much as possible, the advantages of a private and of a public
education. Mr. Russell desired still to have the care of Mrs. Howard's
nephew; he determined to offer himself as a tutor at Westminster school;
and, as his acquirements were well known to the literary world, he was
received with eagerness.

[Footnote 4: See the account of Mrs. C. Ponten, in Gibbon's Life.]

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, when he first went to
Westminster, "I shall not trouble you with a long chapter of advice: do
you remember that answer of the oracle, which seemed to strike you so
much the other day, when you were reading the life of Cicero?"

"Yes," said Charles, "I recollect it--I shall never forget it. When
Cicero asked how he should arrive at the height of glory, the oracle
answered, 'By making his own genius, and not the opinion of the people,
the guide of his life.'"

"Well," said Mrs. Howard, smiling, "if I were your oracle, and you were
to put the same question to me, I think I should make you nearly the
same answer; except that I should change the word genius into good
sense; and, instead of _the people_, I should say _the world_, which,
in general, I think, means all the _silly people_ of one's acquaintance.
Farewell: now go to the Westminster world."

Westminster was quite a new world to young Howard. The bustle and noise
at first astonished his senses, and almost confounded his understanding;
but he soon grew accustomed to the din, and familiarized to the sight
of numbers. At first, he thought himself much inferior to all his
companions, because practice had given them the power of doing many
things with ease, which to him appeared difficult, merely because he had
not been used to them. In all their games and plays, either of address
or force, he found himself foiled. In a readiness of repartee, and
a certain ease and volubility of conversation, he perceived his
deficiency; and though he frequently was conscious that his ideas were
more just, and his arguments better, than those of his companions, yet
he could not at first bring out his ideas to advantage, or manage his
arguments so as to stand his ground against the mixed raillery and
sophistry of his school fellows. He had not yet the tone of his new
society, and he was as much at a loss as a traveller in a foreign
country, before he understands the language of a people who are
vociferating round about him. As fast, however, as he learned to
translate the language of his companions into his own, he discovered
that there was not so much meaning in their expressions as he had been
inclined to imagine whilst they had remained unintelligible: but he was
good-humoured and good-natured, so that, upon the whole, he was much
liked; and even his inferiority, in many little trials of skill, was,
perhaps, in his favour. He laughed with those that laughed at him, let
them triumph in his awkwardness, but still persisted in new trials, till
at last, to the great surprise of the spectators, he succeeded.

The art of boxing cost him more than all the rest; but as he was neither
deficient in courage of mind nor activity of body, he did not despair
of acquiring the _necessary_ skill in this noble science--necessary, we
say, for Charles had not been a week at Westminster before he was made
sensible of the necessity of practising this art in his own defence. He
had yet a stronger motive; he found it necessary for the defence of one
who looked up to him for protection.

There was at this time at Westminster, a little boy of the name of
Oliver, a Creole, lively, intelligent, open-hearted, and affectionate
in the extreme, but rather passionate in his temper, and adverse to
application. His _literary_ education had been strangely neglected
before he came to school, so that his ignorance of the common
rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, and arithmetic, made him the
laughing-stock of the school. The poor boy felt inexpressible shame and
anguish; his cheek burned with blushes, when every day, in the public
class, he was ridiculed and disgraced; but his dark complexion, perhaps,
prevented those blushes from being noticed by his companions, otherwise
they certainly would have suppressed, or would have endeavoured to
repress, some of their insulting peals of laughter. He suffered no
complaint or tear to escape him in public; but his book was sometimes
blistered with the tears that fell when nobody saw them: what was worse
than all the rest he found insurmountable difficulties, at every step,
in his grammar. He was unwilling to apply to any of his more learned
companions for explanations or assistance. He began to sink into despair
of his own abilities, and to imagine that he must for ever remain, what
indeed he was every day called, a dunce. He was usually flogged three
times a week. Day after day brought no relief, either to his bodily or
mental sufferings: at length his honest pride yielded, and he applied
to one of the elder scholars for help. The boy to whom he applied was
Augustus Holloway, Alderman Holloway's son, who was acknowledged to be
one of the best Latin scholars at Westminster. He readily helped Oliver
in his exercises, but he made him pay most severely for this assistance,
by the most tyrannical usage; and, in all his tyranny, he thought
himself fully justifiable, because little Oliver, beside his other
misfortunes, had the misfortune to be a fag.

There may be--though many schoolboys will, perhaps, think it scarcely
possible--there may be, in the compass of the civilised world, some
persons so barbarously ignorant as not to know what is meant by the
term fag. To these it may be necessary to explain, that at some English
schools it is the custom, that all little boys, when they first go to
school, should be under the dominion of the elder boys. These little
boys are called fags, and are forced to wait upon and obey their
master-companions. Their duties vary in different schools. I have heard
of its being customary in some places, to make use of a fag regularly in
the depth of winter instead of a warming-pan, and to send the shivering
urchin through ten or twenty beds successively to take off the chill of
cold for their luxurious masters. They are expected, in most schools, to
run of all the elder boys' errands, to be ready at their call, and to
do all their high behests. They must never complain of being tired,
or their complaints will, at least, never be regarded, because, as the
etymology of the word implies, it is their business to be tired. The
substantive _fag_ is not to be found in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary; but
the verb to fag is there a verb neuter, from fatigo, Latin, and is there
explained to mean, "to grow weary, to faint with weariness." This is all
the satisfaction we can, after the most diligent research, afford the
curious and learned reader upon the subject of _fags_ in general.

In particular, Mr. Augustus Holloway took great delight in teasing his
fag, little Oliver. One day it happened that young Howard and Holloway
were playing at nine-pins together, and little Oliver was within a
few yards of them, sitting under a tree, with a book upon his knees,
anxiously trying to make out his lesson. Holloway, whenever the
nine-pins were thrown down, called to Oliver, and made him come from his
book and set them up again: this he repeatedly did, in spite of Howard's
remonstrances, who always offered to set up the nine-pins, and who said
it teased the poor little fellow to call him every minute from what he
was about.

"Yes," said Holloway, "I know it teases him--that I see plain enough,
by his running so fast back to his _form_, like a hare--there he is,
_squatting_ again: halloo! halloo! come, start again here," cried
Holloway; "you have not done yet: bring me the bowl, halloo!"

Howard did not at all enjoy the diversion of hunting the poor boy about
in this manner, and he said, with some indignation,

"How is it possible, Holloway, that the boy can get his lesson, if you
interrupt him every instant?"

"Pooh! what signifies his foolish lesson?"

"It signifies a great deal to him," replied Howard: "you know what he
suffered this morning because he had not learned it."

"Suffered! why, what did he suffer?" said Holloway, upon whose memory
the sufferings of others made no very deep impression. "Oh, ay,
true--you mean he was flogged: more shame for him!--why did not he mind
and get his lesson better?"

"I had not time to understand it rightly," said Oliver, with a deep
sigh; "and I don't think I shall have time to-day either."

"More shame for you," repeated Holloway: "I'll lay any bet on earth, I
get all you have to get in three minutes."

"Ah, you, to be sure," said Oliver, in a tone of great humiliation; "but
then you know what a difference there is between you and me."

Holloway misunderstood him; and, thinking he meant to allude to the
difference in their age, instead of the difference of their abilities,
answered sharply,

"When I was your age, do you think I was such a dunce as you are, pray?"

"No, that I am sure you never were," said Oliver; "but perhaps you had
some good father or mother, or somebody, who taught you a little before
you came to school."

"I don't remember any thing about that," replied Holloway; "I don't know
who was so good as to teach me, but I know I was so good as to learn
fast enough, which is a goodness, I've a notion, some folks will never
have to boast of--so trot, and fetch the bowl for me, do you hear, and
set up the nine-pins. You've sense enough to do that, have not you? and
as for your lesson, I'll drive that into your head by and by, if I can,"
added he, rapping with his knuckles upon the little boy's head.

"As to my lesson," said the boy, putting aside his head from the
insulting knuckles, "I had rather try and make it out by myself, if I
can."

"If you can!" repeated Holloway, sneering; "but we all know you can't."

"Why can't he, Holloway?" exclaimed Howard, with a raised voice, for he
was no longer master of his indignation.

"Why can't he?" repeated Holloway, looking round upon Howard, with
a mixture of surprise and insolence. "You must answer that question
yourself, Howard: I say he can't."

"And I say he can, and he shall," replied Howard; "and he _shall_ have
time to learn: he's willing, and, I'll answer for it, able to learn;
and he shall not be called a dunce; and he shall have time; and he shall
have justice."

"Shall! shall! shall!" retorted Holloway, vociferating with a passion of
a different sort from Howard's. "Pray, sir, who allowed you to say
shall to me? and how dare you to talk in this _here_ style to me about
justice?--and what business have you, I should be glad to know, to
interfere between me and my fag? What right have you to him, or his
time either? And if I choose to call him a dunce forty times a day, what
then? he is a dunce, and he will be a dunce to the end of his days, I
say, and who is there thinks proper to contradict me?"

"I," said Howard, firmly; "and I'll do more than contradict you--I'll
prove that you are mistaken. Oliver, bring your book to me."

"Oliver, stir at your peril!" cried Holloway, clinching his fist with
a menacing gesture: "nobody shall give any help to my fag but myself,
sir," added he to Howard.

"I am not going to help him, I am only going to prove to him that he may
do it without your help," said Howard.

The little boy sprang forward, at these words, for his book; but his
tormentor caught hold of him, and pulling him back, said, "He's my fag!
do you recollect, sir, he's my fag?"

"Fag or no fag," cried Howard, "you shall not make a slave of him."

"I will! I shall! I will!" cried Holloway, worked up to the height
of tyrannical fury: "I will make a slave of him, if I choose it-a
<DW64>-slave, if I please!"

At the sound of <DW64>-slave, the little Creole burst into tears. Howard
sprang forward to free him from his tyrant's grasp: Holloway struck
Howard a furious blow, which made him stagger backwards.

"Ay," said Holloway, "learn to stand your ground, and fight, before you
meddle with me, I advise you."

Holloway was an experienced pugilist, and he knew that Howard was not;
but before his defiance had escaped his lips, he felt his blow returned,
and a battle ensued. Howard fought with all his _soul_; but the _body_
has something to do, as well as the soul, in the art of boxing, and his
body was not yet a match for his adversary's. After receiving more blows
than Holloway, perhaps, could have borne, Howard was brought to the
ground.

"Beg my pardon, and promise never to interfere between me and my fag any
more," said Holloway, standing over him triumphant: "ask my pardon."

"Never," said the fallen hero: "I'll fight you again, in the same cause,
whenever you please; I can't have a better;" and he struggled to rise.

Several boys had, by this time, gathered round the combatants, and
many admired the fortitude and spirit of the vanquished, though it
is extremely difficult to boys, if not to men, to sympathize with the
beaten. Every body called out that Howard had had enough for that night;
and though he was willing to have renewed the battle, his adversary was
withheld by the omnipotence of public opinion. As to the cause of the
combat, some few inquired into its merits, but many more were content
with seeing the fray, and with hearing, vaguely, that it began about
Howard's having interfered with Holloway's fag in an impertinent manner.

Howard's face was so much disfigured, and his clothes were so much
stained with blood, that he did not wish to present himself such a
deplorable spectacle before his aunt; besides, no man likes to be seen,
especially by a woman, immediately after he has been beaten; therefore,
he went directly to bed as soon as he got home, but desired that one
of his companions, who boarded at Mrs. Howard's, would, if his aunt
inquired for him at supper, tell her "that he had been beaten in a
boxing match, but hoped to be more expert after another lesson or two."
This lady did not show her tenderness to her nephew by wailing over his
disaster: on the contrary, she was pleased to hear that he had fought in
so good a cause.

The next morning, as soon as Howard went to school, he saw little Oliver
watching eagerly for him.

"Mr. Howard--Charles," said he, catching hold of him, "I've one word to
say: let him call me dunce, or slave, or <DW64>, or what he will,
don't you mind any more about me--I can't bear to see it," said the
affectionate child: "I'd rather have the blows myself, only I know I
could not bear them as you did."

Oliver turned aside his head, and Howard, in a playful voice, said,
"Why, my little Oliver, I did not think you were such a coward: you must
not make a coward of me."

No sooner did the boys go out to play in the evening, than Howard called
to Oliver, in Holloway's hearing, and said, "If you want any assistance
from me, remember, I'm ready."

"You may be ready, but you are not able," cried Holloway, "to give him
any assistance--therefore, you'd better be quiet: remember last night."

"I do remember it perfectly," said Howard, calmly.

"And do you want any more?--Come, then, I'll tell you what, I'll box
with you every day, if you please, and when you have conquered me, you
shall have my fag all to yourself, if you please; but, till then, you
shall have nothing to do with him."

"I take you at your word," said Howard, and a second battle began. As
we do not delight in fields of battle, or hope to excel, like Homer, in
describing variety of wounds, we shall content ourselves with relating,
that after five pitched battles, in which Oliver's champion received
bruises of all shapes and sizes, and of every shade of black, blue,
green, and yellow, his unconquered spirit still maintained the justice
of his cause, and with as firm a voice as at first he challenged his
constantly victorious antagonist to a sixth combat.

"I thought you had learned by this time," said the successful pugilist,
"that Augustus Holloway is not to be conquered by one of _woman breed_."
To this taunt Howard made no reply; but whether it urged him to superior
exertion, or whether the dear-bought experience of the five preceding
days had taught him all the caution that experience only can teach, we
cannot determine; but, to the surprise of all the spectators, and to
the lively joy of Oliver, the redoubted Holloway was brought, after an
obstinate struggle, fairly to the ground. Every body sympathized with
the generous victor, who immediately assisted his fallen adversary
to rise, and offered his hand in token of reconciliation. Augustus
Holloway, stunned by his fall, and more by his defeat, returned from
the field of battle as fast as the crowd would let him, who stopped
him continually with their impertinent astonishment and curiosity; for
though the boasted unconquerable hero had pretty evidently received a
black eye, not one person would believe it without looking close in his
face; and many would not trust the information of their own senses,
but pressed to hear the news confirmed by the reluctant lips of the
unfortunate Augustus. In the meantime, little Oliver, a fag no longer,
exulting in his liberty, clapped his joyful hands, sang, and capered
round his deliverer.--"And now," said he, fixing his grateful,
affectionate eyes upon Howard, "you will suffer no more for me; and if
you'll let me, I'll be your fag. Do, will you? pray let me! I'll run of
your errands before you can say one, two, three, and away: only whistle
for me," said he, whistling, "and I'll hear you, wherever I am. If you
only hold up your finger when you want me, I'm sure I shall see it;
and I'll always set up your nine-pins, and fly for your ball, let me be
doing what I will. May I be your fag?"

"Be my _friend_!" said Howard, taking Oliver in his arms, with emotion
which prevented him from articulating any other words. The word friend
went to the little Creole's heart, and he clung to Howard in silence.
To complete his happiness, little Oliver this day obtained permission
to board at Mrs. Howard's, so that he was now constantly to be with his
protector. Howard's friendship was not merely the sudden enthusiasm of
a moment; it was the steady persevering choice of a manly mind, not the
caprice of a school-boy. Regularly, every evening, Oliver brought his
books to his friend, who never was too busy to attend to him. Oliver was
delighted to find that he understood Howard's manner of explaining: his
own opinion of himself rose with the opinion which he saw his instructor
had of his abilities. He was convinced that he was not doomed to be a
dunce for life; his ambition was rekindled; his industry was encouraged
by hope, and rewarded by success. He no longer expected daily
punishment, and that worst of all punishments, disgrace. His heart was
light, his spirits rose, his countenance brightened with intelligence,
and resumed its natural vivacity: to his masters and his companions
he appeared a new creature. "What has inspired you?" said one of his
masters to him one day, surprised at the rapid development of his
understanding--"what has inspired you?"

"My good genius," said the little boy, pointing to Howard. Howard had
some merit in giving up a good deal of his time to Oliver, because he
knew the value of time, and he had not quite so much as he wished
for himself. The day was always too short for him; every moment was
employed; his active mind went from one thing to another as if it did
not know the possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any
recreation but in a change of employment. Not that he was always poring
over books, but his mind was active, let him be about what he would;
and, as his exertions were always voluntary, there was not that
opposition in his opinion between the ideas of play and work, which
exists so strongly in the imaginations of those school-boys who
are driven to their tasks by fear, and who escape from them to that
delicious exercise of their free-will which they call play.

     "Constraint, that sweetens liberty,"

often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to its
nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a nameless train of
mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a young man's mind,
under the general head of _liberty_.

Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our notice, when
we want to personify an ill-educated young man, was, in the strictest
sense of the word, a school-boy--a clever school-boy--a good scholar--a
good historian: he wrote a good hand--read with fluency--declaimed at a
public exhibition of Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis,
and had always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. But
still he was but a school-boy. His father thought him a man, and more
than a man. Alderman Holloway prophesied to his friends that his son
Augustus would be one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry
to have him ready to enter college, and had a borough secure for him at
the proper age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed
to twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce his young
statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, perhaps a title,
in the distant perspective of his son's advancement.

Whilst this vision occupied the father's imagination, a vision of
another sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son--a vision of
a gig; for, though Augustus was but a school-boy, he had very manly
ideas--if those ideas be manly which most young men have. Lord Rawson,
the son of the Earl of Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in
a gig. The young Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westminster
like Augustus: he was now master of himself and three horses at College.
Alderman Holloway had lent the Earl of Marryborough certain monies, the
interest of which the earl scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman
valued himself upon being a shrewd man; he looked to one of the earl's
boroughs as a security for his principal, and, from long-sighted
political motives, encouraged an intimacy between the young nobleman and
his son. It was one of those useful friendships, one of those fortunate
connexions, which some parents consider as the peculiar advantage of a
public school. Lord Rawson's example already powerfully operated upon
his young friend's mind, and this intimacy was most likely to have a
decisive influence upon the future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was the
son of an alderman. Lord Rawson was two years older than Holloway--had
left school--had been at college--had driven both a curricle and a
barouche, and had gone through all the gradations of coachmanship--was a
man, and had _seen the world_. How many things to excite the ambition
of a schoolboy! Augustus was impatient for the moment when he might
"be what he admired." The drudgery of Westminster, the confinement,
the ignominious appellation of _a boy_, were all insupportable to this
_young man_. He had obtained from his father a promise, that he should
leave school in a few months; but these months appeared to him an age.
It was rather a misfortune to Holloway that he was so far advanced in
his Latin and Greek studies, for he had the less to do at school; his
school business quickly despatched, his time hung upon his hands. He
never thought of literature as an amusement for his leisure hours;
he had no idea of improving himself further in general science and
knowledge. He was told that his education was _nearly_ at an end; he
believed it was _quite_ finished, and he was glad of it, and glad it
was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his hands, during this
intermediate state at Westminster, he heartily regretted that he
could not commence his manly career by learning to _drive_--to drive
a curricle. Lord Rawson had carried him down to the country, the last
summer vacation, in his _dog-cart_, driven _randem-tandem_. The reins
had touched his fingers. The whip had been committed to his hand, and
he longed for a repetition of these pleasures. From the windows of the
house in Westminster, where he boarded, Holloway at every idle moment
lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of every coachman that
passed.

Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway's tutor, used, at these leisure moments, to
employ himself with practising upon the German flute, and was not sorry
to be relieved from his pupil's conversation. Sometimes it was provoking
to the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclamations of his
pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented
himself with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway's
raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand,
offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from nature and fashion,
indolent; the trouble of reproving or of guiding his pupil was too
much for him; besides, he was sensible that the task of watching,
contradicting, and thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway's time
of life, would have been productive of the most disagreeable scenes
of altercation, and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman's
character, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr.
and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improvements. Mr. Supine
was on the best terms imaginable with the whole family, and thought it
his business to keep himself _well_ with his pupil; especially as he had
some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway's interest with Lord Rawson,
and through Lord Rawson's influence with a young nobleman, who was just
going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour
upon the continent. His taste for music and painting had almost raised
him to the rank of a connoisseur: an amateur he modestly professed
himself, and he was frequently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa,
already in reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the
window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stagecoach
in the neighbourhood. Young Holloway was almost as familiar with this
coachman as with his father's groom, who, during his visits at home,
supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. The
stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the ambition of Augustus,
that his desire to learn _to drive_ became uncontrollable. The coachman,
partly by entreaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was
prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it without his
tutor's knowledge, he should ascend to the honours of the box, and at
least have the satisfaction of _seeing some good driving_.

Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which Mrs. Holloway
was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss Angelina Holloway, was
engaged to perform. Mr. Supine's judicious applause of this young lady's
execution was one of his greatest recommendations to the whole family,
at least to the female part of it; he could not, therefore, decline an
invitation to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and
desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, with his
usual politeness, that "music was the greatest bore in nature, and
especially Angelina's music." For the night of the concert Holloway had
arranged his plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine dressed, and
then practised upon the German flute, till towards nine o'clock in the
evening. Holloway heard the stage-coach rattling through the street,
whilst his tutor was yet in the middle of a long concerto: the coachman
was to stop at the public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels
and passengers, and there he was to wait for Holloway; but he had given
him notice that he could not wait many minutes.

"You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as you are going
to ---- street, _quite at your ease_, Mr. Supine," said Holloway to his
tutor.

"Faith, so I can, and I'll adopt your idea, for it's quite a novel
thing, and may take, if the fellows will only carry one steady. Good
night: I'll mention your sore throat _properly_ to Mrs. Holloway."

No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised upon the
chairmen's shoulders, than his pupil recovered from his sore throat,
ran down to the place where the stage was waiting, seized the
stage-coachman's down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself
triumphantly upon the coach-box.

"Never saw a cleverer fellow," said the coachman: "now we are off."

"Give me the reins, then," said Holloway.

"Not till we are out o'town," said the coachman: "when we get off the
stones, we'll see a little of your driving."

When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently seized the
reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman's praises of his
driving as ever he had been by the applauses he had received for his
Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a
young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar company, but
it puts him entirely in the power of his companions, whoever they may
happen to be. Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to
all intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and gloried in
catching, all his companion's slang, and with his language caught all
his ideas. The coachman talked with rapture of some young gentleman's
horses which he had lately seen; and said that, if he was a gentleman,
there was nothing he should pride himself so much upon as his horses.
Holloway, as he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses
that could be had for money, as soon as he should become his own master.

"And then," continued the coachman, "if I was a gentleman born, I'd
never be shabby in the matters of wages and perquisites to them that
be to look after my horses, seeing that horses can't be properly looked
after for nothing."

"Certainly not," agreed the young gentleman:--"my friend, lord Rawson, I
know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will I, all in good time."

"To be sure," said the coachman; "but it was not in regard to grooms I
was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, which, I take it, is
one of the first persons to be considered in a really grand family,
seeing how great a trust is placed in him--(mind, sir, if you please,
the turn at the corner, it's rather sharp)--seeing how great a trust is
placed in him, as I was observing, a good coachman is worth his weight
in gold."

Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this observation, for
the conversation was now interrupted by the sound of a postchaise, which
drove rapidly by.

"The job and four!" exclaimed the coachman, with as many oaths "as the
occasion required."

"Why did you let it pass us?" And with enthusiasm which forgot all
ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young companion, and, seizing
the reins, drove at a furious rate. One of the chaise postilions luckily
dropped his whip. They passed the job and four; and the coachman, having
redeemed his honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his
promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The postilions
were not without ambition: the men called to each other, and to their
horses; the horses caught some portion of their masters' spirit, and
began to gain upon the coach. The passengers in the coach put out their
heads, and female voices screamed in vain. All these terrors increased
the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the road, the rival
coachman and postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway
was desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted
to snatch the reins, but, missing his grasp, he shortened those of the
off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong way: the coach ran upon a bank,
and was overturned. Holloway was dismayed and silent; the coachman
poured forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe; the
complaints of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears
operated so much upon their imagination, that in the first moments of
confusion, each asserted that she had broken either an arm or a leg, or
fractured her skull.

The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the evening, was
now under a cloud, and the darkness increased the impatience of
the various complainers; at length a lantern was brought from the
turnpike-house, which was near the spot where the accident happened. As
soon as the light came, the ladies looked at each other, and after they
had satisfied themselves that no material injury had been done to their
clothes, and that their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to
recover from their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their
limbs were in good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in
declaring that their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at
all this, and joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion.
The coach was lifted up; the passengers got in; the coachman and
Holloway mounted the box, when, just as they were setting off, the
coachman heard a voice crying to him to stop. He listened, and the
voice, which seemed to be that of a person in great pain, again called
for assistance.

"It's the mulatto woman," said the coachman: "we forgot her in the
bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at the horses' heads,
whilst I see after her," added the coachman, addressing himself to the
man who had come from the turnpike-house.

"I shan't stir for a _mulatto_, I promise you," said Holloway, brutally:
"she was on the top of the coach, wasn't she? She must have had a fine
hoist!"

The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the
top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She
had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies'
loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any
assistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered
her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the
coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken
English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.

"You shall have an inside place, if you'll pluck up your heart; and
you'll find yourself better with the motion of the coach."

"What, is she hurt--the mulatto woman?--I say, coachy, make haste,"
cried Holloway; "I want to be off."

"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet:
here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and
won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."

Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so rich
as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of
silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting
woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good
woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The
coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left
her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for
her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or
back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest
of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the
poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the
accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----. He
had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the
job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his
friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won
the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the
coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway,
"I must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first
sleep."

Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto;
or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the
coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.

The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the
chaise-door, and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she
said, she talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out
where she wanted to be carried to."

"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and
don't let her keep us here all night."

"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor
acquaintance neither."

"Well, whom does she belong to, then?"

"She belongs to nobody--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and
doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only
knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she
says."

"What would she have us to do with her, then?" said Holloway. "Drive on,
for I shall be late."

The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, "No, master,
no!--it's a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she's no
Christian, as we are, poor copper- soul! I was once a stranger
myself in _Lon'on_, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what
it is, master."

The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. "Mistress,"
said he, "I'd fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the
t'other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because
there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your
Paul, as you don't know neither the name of his street--But I'll tell ye
now all the streets I'm acquainted with, and that's a many: do you stop
me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you're sadly bruised, and I
won't see ye left this ways on the road."

He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one
name, which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the
gardener lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard
the street in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he
had a large garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early
almost every morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she
advised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send
to ask the gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the
morning. The postilion promised to go to the gardener's "by the first
break of day." The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient
Holloway loudly called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he
would not give him one farthing for himself if he did not.

The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain;
but Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his
pains; therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish
calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a
coach-box for one hour.

It was two o'clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town,
when he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up,
walked home, got in at his bedchamber window--his bedchamber was upon
the ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed
in his successful _frolic_. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving
again, and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his
less manly dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school,
advancing towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in
his hand, which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into
the face of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of
his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into
the head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just
at the instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver's face
close to him, laughing heartily.

"Why," exclaimed Oliver, "you seized my head with both your hands when I
came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?"

"I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of
you," said Howard, laughing; "but I shall not get my medal by dreaming
about it. What o'clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second."

"Ay," said Oliver, "I wont tell you what o'clock it is till you're
dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I've got every
thing ready, and I've carried the little table, and all your books, and
the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines
upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you'll have a full hour to
work, for it's only half after five."

At the back of Mrs. Howard's house there was a little garden; at the end
of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out,
and which he dignified by the title of _the seat_. There were some pots
of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard's permission, by a
gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work
in her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead
leaves, whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been
prepared for him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on
which he was enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little
French book which the traveller had given to him; and he was writing _an
essay for a prize_. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in
writing essays for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give
a prize medal as the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of
critics, to be chosen from among the boys themselves, should pronounce
to be the best composition.

"I won't talk to you, I won't interrupt you," said Oliver to Howard;
"but only answer me one question: what is your essay about?"

Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.

"I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning
before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able
to write essays?"

"To be sure," said Howard; "why not?"

"Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know."

"But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great
many things that you thought you could not do?"

"Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things
which can be done without genius."

"And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done
without genius?"

"Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway
said so."

"But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we?
Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes,
or putting on your hat, for instance."

Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort
of things that can't be done without genius."

"What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the
pen in my hand, make a list of them."

"Take a longer bit of paper."

"No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What
shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry."

"Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius."

"Why?"

"Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write
something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it."

"What did you try to write?" said Howard.

"Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins,
desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never
can make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day
comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find
nothing to say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but
then, when I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines;
and if I stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and
what can I put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and
hope they are all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you
desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage
well enough, because there's duty and love to send to every body; and
about _the post is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your
dutiful and affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver,
"this is all nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad
letters. Now your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment
you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good
letter, whilst I am writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I
call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you
write good letters when you were of my age?"

"I never wrote any letters at your age," said Howard.

"Oh, how happy you must have been! But then, if you never learned, how
comes it that you can write them now? How can you always find something
to say?"

"I never write but when I have something to say; and you know, when you
had something to say last post about Easter holidays, your pen, Oliver,
went scratch, scratch, scratch, as fast as any body's."

"So it did," cried Oliver; "but then the thing is, I'm forced to write
when I've nothing about the holidays to say."

"Forced?"

"Yes, because I'm afraid my uncle and cousins should be angry if I
didn't write."

"I'm sure I'm much obliged," said Howard, "to my dear aunt, who never
forced me to write: she always said, 'Never write, Charles, but when
you like it;' and I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is,
any thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any subject, or any
questions to ask, which I very much wished to have answered, then, you
know, I could easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write
down just the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking."

"But I thought writing was quite a different thing from speaking,
because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long sentences, and
fine sentences, such as there are in books."

"In _some_ books," said Howard; "but not in all."

"Besides," continued Oliver, "one person's speaking is quite different
from another person's speaking. Now I believe I make use of a great
number of odd words, and vulgar expressions, and bad English, which I
learned from being with the servants, I believe, at home. You have never
talked to servants, Charles, I dare say, for you have not one of their
words."

"No," said Charles, "never; and my aunt took a great deal of pains to
prevent me from hearing any of their conversation; therefore it was
impossible that I should catch--"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of old Paul, the
gardener.

"So, Paul," cried little Oliver, "I've been doing your work for you this
morning; I've watered all the geraniums, and put the Indian corn in the
sun; what kept you so late in your bed this fine morning, Paul?--fie,
Paul!"

"You would not say fie, master," replied Paul, "if you knew how early I
had been out of my bed, this morning: I was abroad afore sunrise, so I
was, master."

"And why didn't you come to work then, Paul? You shall not have the
watering-pot till you tell me: don't look so grave about it; you know
you must smile when I please, Paul."

"I can't smile, just now, master," said old Paul; but he smiled, and
then told Oliver, that "the reason he could not smile was, that he was a
little sick at heart, with just coming from the sight of a poor soul who
had been sadly bruised by a fall from the top of the stage, which was
overturned last night. She was left all night at the _pike_, and as she
had no other friends, she sent for me by a return chay-boy, and I went
for her, and brought her home in my covered cart, to my good woman,
which she liked, with good reason, better ten to one than the stage.
And she's terribly black and blue, and does not seem quite right in her
head, to my fancy."

"I wish we could do something for her," said Howard. "As soon as Mr.
Russell is up, I'll ask him to go with us to see her. We will call as we
go by to school this morning."

"But, master," said the gardener, "I should warn ye beforehand, that
mayhap you mayn't pity her so much, for she's rather past her best days;
and bad must have been her best, for she's swarthy, and not like one of
this country: she comes from over the seas, and they call her a--a--not
quite a <DW64>."

"A mulatto!--I like her the better," cried Oliver; "for my nurse was a
mulatto. I'll go and waken Mr. Russell this instant, for I'm sure he'll
not be angry." He ran away to Mr. Russell, who was not angry at being
awakened, but dressed himself _almost_ as expeditiously as Oliver
wished, and set out immediately with his pupils, delighted to be the
companion of their benevolent schemes, instead of being the object of
their fear and hatred. Tutors may inspire affection, even though they
have the misfortune to be obliged to teach Greek and Latin.[5]

[Footnote 5: Vide Dr. Johnson's assertions to the contrary, in Mrs.
Piozzi's Anecdotes.]

When the boys arrived at the gardener's, they found the poor mulatto
woman lying upon a bed, in a small close room, which was so full of
smoke, when they came in, that they could hardly breathe: the little
window, that let in but a glimmering light, could not, without
difficulty, be opened. The poor woman made but few complaints; she
appeared to be most concerned at the thoughts of being a burden to the
good old gardener and his wife. She said that she had not been long in
England; that she came to London in hopes of finding a family who had
been very kind to her in her youth; but that, after inquiry at the house
where they formerly lived, she could hear nothing of them. After a great
deal of trouble, she discovered that a West India gentleman, who had
known her abroad, was now at Bath; but she had spent the last farthing
of her money, and she was, therefore, unable to undertake the journey.
She had brought over with her, she said, some foreign seeds of flowers,
which her young mistress used to be fond of when she was a child, which
she had kept till hunger obliged her to offer them to a gardener for a
loaf of bread. The gardener to whom she offered them was old Paul, who
took compassion upon her distress, lodged her for a week, and at last
paid for an outside place for her upon the Bath coach. There was such
an air of truth and simplicity in this woman, that Mr. Russell, more
experienced than his pupils, believed her story, at once, as implicitly
as they did. "Oh," exclaimed little Oliver, "I have but this half-crown
for her: I wish Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; I'll ask him
for it again to-day; and will you come with us here again, this evening,
Mr. Russell, that I may bring it then?"

Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fortnight in which the
mulatto woman was now lying, and paid old Paul, the gardener, for it,
promising, at the same time, to supply her with food. The gardener's
wife, at the poor woman's earnest request, promised that, as soon as she
was able to sit up, she would get her some coarse plain work to do.

"But," said Oliver, "how can she see to work in this smoke? I'm sure it
makes my eyes water so that I can hardly bear it, though I have been in
it scarcely ten minutes."

"I wish," exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, "that this chimney
could be cured of smoking."

"Oh, well-a-day," said the gardener, "we must put up with it as it is,
for I've had doctors to it, at one time or another, that have cost me
a power of money; but, after all, it's as bad as ever, and my good dame
never lights a fire in it this fine spring weather; howsomever, she
(pointing to the mulatto woman) is so chilly, coming from a country
that, by all accounts, is a hot-house, compared with ours, that she
can't sleep o' nights, or live o' days without a small matter of fire,
which she's welcome to, though, you see, it almost fills the house with
smoke."

Howard, during the gardener's speech, had been trying to recollect where
it was that he had lately seen some essay upon smoky chimneys; and he
suddenly exclaimed, "It was in Dr. Franklin's works--was it not, Mr.
Russell?"

"What?" said Mr. Russell, smiling.

"That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I would skip over, the
other day, because I had nothing to do with it, and I thought I should
not understand. Don't you remember telling me, sir, that I had better
not skip it, because it might, some time or other, be useful to me?
I wish I could get the book now; I would take pains to understand it,
because, perhaps, I might find out how this poor man's chimney might
be cured of smoking. As for his window, I know how that can be easily
mended, because I once watched a man who was hanging some windows for my
aunt--I'll get some sash line."

"Do you recollect what o'clock it is, my good friend?" said Mr. Russell,
holding out his watch to Howard. "We cannot wait till you are perfect
master of the theory of smoky chimneys, and the practice of hanging
windows; it is time that we should be gone." Mr. Russell spoke this with
an air of raillery, as he usually did, when he was particularly pleased.

As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated his request, that
Mr. Russell would come again in the evening, that he might have an
opportunity of giving the poor woman his half-guinea. Mr. Russell
promised him that he would; but he at the same time added, "All charity,
my dear Oliver, does not consist in giving money: it is easy for a man
to put his hand in his pocket, and take out a few shillings, to give any
person in distress."

"I wish," said Oliver, "I was able to do more! what can I do? I'll think
of something. Howard, will you think of something that I can do? But I
must see about my Latin lesson first, for I had not time to look it over
this morning, before I came out."

When they got back, the business of the day, for some hours, suspended
all thoughts of the mulatto woman; but, in the first interval of
leisure, Oliver went in search of Mr. Holloway, to ask for his
half-guinea. Holloway had a crowd of his companions round him, whom he
seemed to be entertaining with some very diverting story, for they were
laughing violently when little Oliver first came up to them; but they no
sooner perceived him than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Holloway
first lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing that Oliver
still stood his ground, he asked him, in his usual peremptory tone, what
might be his business? Oliver drew him aside, and asked him to pay him
_the_ half-guinea. "_The_ half-guinea?" repeated Holloway: "man, you
talk of _the_ half-guinea as if there was but one half-guinea in the
world: you shall have _the_ half-guinea, for I hate to be dunned--Stay,
I believe I have no _half_-a-guinea about me: you can't give me two
half-guineas for a guinea, can ye?"

"Me!"

"Well, then, you must wait till I can get change."

"Must I wait? but I really want it for a particular reason, this
evening: I wish you could give it me now--you know you promised; but I
don't like putting people in mind of their promises, and I would not ask
you about the money, only that I really want it."

"Want it!--nonsense: what can you want money for, such a little chap as
you? I'll lay you any wager, your _particular_ reason, if the truth was
told, is, that you can't resist the tart-woman."

"I _can_ resist the tart-woman," cried Oliver proudly; "I have a much
better use for my money: but I don't want to boast, neither; only,
Holloway, do give me the half-guinea: shall I run and ask somebody to
give you two half-guineas for a guinea?"

"No, no, I'll not be dunned into paying you. If you had not asked me for
it, I should have given it you to-night: but since you could not trust
to my honour, you'll please to wait till to-morrow morning."

"But I did trust to your honour for a whole month."

"A month!--a great while, indeed; then trust to it a day longer; and
if you ask me for the money to-morrow, you shan't have it till the next
day. I'll teach you not to be such a little dun: nobody, that has any
spirit, can bear to be dunned, particularly for such small sums. I
thought you had been above such meanness, or, I promise you, I should
never have borrowed your half-guinea," added Holloway; and he left his
unfortunate creditor to reflect upon the new ideas of _meanness_ and
_spirit_, which had been thus artfully thrown out.

Oliver was roused from his reflections by his friend Howard. "Mr.
Russell is ready to go with us to the gardener's again," said Howard:
"have you a mind to come?"

"A great mind; but I am ashamed, for I've not got my half-guinea which
I lent." Here his newly acquired fear of meanness checked Oliver, and
without complaining of his creditor's want of punctuality, he added,
"but I should like to see the poor woman though, for all that."

They set out, but stopped in their way at a bookseller's, where Howard
inquired for that essay of Dr. Franklin on smoky chimneys, which he was
impatient to see. This bookseller was well acquainted with Mr. Russell.
Howard had promised to give the bookseller the translation of the little
French book which we formerly mentioned; and the bookseller, on his
part, was very obliging in furnishing Howard with any books he wanted.

Howard was deep in the essay on smoky chimneys, and examining the
references in the print belonging to it, whilst Mr. Russell was looking
over the prints in the Encyclopedia, with little Oliver. They were all
so intent upon what they were about, that they did not perceive the
entrance of Holloway and Mr. Supine. Mr. Supine called in merely to
see what Mr. Russell could be looking at, with so much appearance of
interest. The indolent are always curious, though they will not always
exert themselves, even to gratify their curiosity.

"Only the Encyclopaedia prints," said Supine, looking over Mr. Russell's
shoulder: "I thought you had got something new."

"Only smoky chimneys," exclaimed Holloway, looking over Howard's
shoulder: "what upon earth, Howard, can you find so entertaining in
smoky chimneys? Are you turned chimney-doctor, or chimney-sweeper? This
will be an excellent thing for Lord Rawson, won't it, Mr. Supine? We'll
tell it to him on Thursday; it will be a good joke for us, for half
the day. Pray, doctor Charles Howard," continued the wit, with mock
solemnity, "do you go up the chimneys yourself?"

Howard took this raillery with so much good-humour, that Holloway looked
quite disappointed; and Mr. Supine, in a careless tone, cried, "I take
it, reading such things as these will scarcely improve your style,
sir--will they, think ye, Mr. Russell?"

"I am not sure," replied Mr. Russell, "that Mr. Howard's _first_ object
in reading is to improve his style; but," added he, turning to the
title-page, and pointing to Franklin's name, "you, perhaps, did not
know--"

"Oh, Dr. Franklin's works," interrupted Supine: "I did not see the name
before--to be sure I must bow down to _that_."

Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine's critical scruples by the
authority of a name, Mr. Russell rose to depart, as he perceived that
there was no chance of getting rid of the idlers.

"What are you going to do with yourself, Russell?" said Mr. Supine;
"we'll walk with you, if you are for walking, this fine evening; only
don't let's walk like penny postmen."

"But he's in a hurry," said Oliver; "he's going to see a poor woman."

"A _poor_ woman!" said Supine; "down this close lane too!"

"Oh, let's see all that's to be seen," whispered Holloway; "ten to one
we shall get some diversion out of it: Russell's a quiz worth studying,
and Howard's his ditto."

They came to the gardener's house. Holloway's high spirits suddenly
subsided when he beheld the figure of the mulatto woman.

"What's the matter?" said Oliver, observing that he started; "why did
you start so?"

"Tell Howard I want to speak one word with him, this instant, in the
street; bid him come out to me," whispered Holloway; and he hastily
retreated before the poor woman saw his face.

"Howard," cried Holloway, "I sent for you to tell you a great secret."

"I'm sorry for it," said Charles; "for I hate secrets."

"But you can keep a secret, man, can't you?"

"If it were necessary, I hope I could; but I'd rather not hear--"

"Pooh, nonsense," interrupted Holloway, "you must hear it; I'll trust to
your honour; and, besides, I have not a moment to stand shilly shally:
I've got a promise from my father to let me go down, this Easter, with
Lord Rawson, to Marryborough, in his dog-cart, _randem-tandem_, you
know."

"I did not know it, indeed," said Charles; "but what then?"

"Why, then, you see, I must be upon my good behaviour; and you would not
do such an ill-natured trick as to betray me?"

"Betray you! I don't know what you mean," said Howard, astonished.

Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach adventure, and concluded
by saying, he was afraid that the mulatto woman should recollect either
his face or voice, and should _blow him_.

"And what," said Howard, shocked at the selfishness which Holloway
showed--"and what do you want me to do? why do you tell me all this?"

"Because," said Holloway, "I thought if you heard what the woman said,
when she saw me, you would have got it all out of her to be sure;
therefore I thought it best to trust you with my secret, and so put
you upon honour with me. All I ask of you is, to hold your tongue about
my--my--my--frolic, and just make some excuse for my not going into the
room again where the mulatto woman is: you may tell Supine, if he asks
what's become of me, that I'm gone to the music-shop, to get some new
music for him: that will keep him quiet. Good by."

When Howard returned to the room where the mulatto woman lay, he
expected to be questioned by Mr. Supine about Holloway's sudden
departure; but this gentleman was not in the habit of paying great
attention to his pupil's motions. He took it for granted that Holloway
had escaped, because he did not wish to be called upon for a charitable
subscription. From the same fear, Mr. Supine affected unusual absence
of mind whilst Mr. Russell talked to the mulatto woman, and at length,
professing himself unable to endure any longer the smell of smoke, he
pushed his way into the street. "Mr. Holloway, I suppose," said he, "has
taken himself home, very wisely, and I shall follow him: we make it
a rule, I think, to miss one another; but to keep a young man in
leading-strings would be a great bore. We're upon the best footing in
the world together: as to the rest--"

New difficulties awaited Holloway. He got home some time before Mr.
Supine, and found his friend, the stage-coachman, waiting for him with a
rueful face.

"Master," said he, "here's a sad job: there was a parcel lost last
night, in the confusion of the overturn of the coach; and I must make it
good; for it's booked, and it's booked to the value of five guineas, for
it was a gold muslin gown that a lady was very particular about; and,
master, I won't peach if you'll pay: but as for losing my place, or
making up five guineas afore Saturday, it's what I can't take upon me to
do."

Holloway was much dismayed at this news; he now began to think he should
pay too dear for his frolic. The coachman persisted in his demand. Mr.
Supine appeared at the corner of the street; and his pupil was forced to
get rid immediately of the coachman, by a promise, that the money should
be ready on Saturday. When Holloway made this promise, he was not master
of two guineas in the world; how to procure the whole sum was now the
question. Alderman Holloway, with the hope of exciting in his son's mind
a love for literature, made it a practice to reward him with solid gold,
whenever he brought home any certificate of his scholarship. Holloway
had lately received five guineas from his father, for an approved copy
of Latin verses; and the alderman had promised to give him five guineas
more if he brought home the medal which was to be the reward for the
best essay in the periodical paper, which the Westminster boys were now
writing. Holloway, though he could write elegant Latin verses, had not
any great facility in English composition; he, consequently, according
to the usual practice of little minds, undervalued a talent which he did
not possess. He had ridiculed the scheme of writing an English essay,
and had loudly declared, that he did not think it worth his while
to write English. His opinion was, however, somewhat changed by his
father's promised reward; and the stage-coachman's impatience for his
money now impelled Holloway to exertion. He began to write his
essay late on Friday evening--the medal was to be given on Saturday
morning--so that there could not be much time for revisal and
corrections. Corrections he affected to disdain, and piqued himself upon
the rapidity with which he wrote. "Howard," said he, when they met to
deliver in their compositions, "you have been three weeks writing your
essay; I ran mine off in three hours and a quarter."

Mr. Holloway had not considered, that what is written with ease is
not always read with ease. His essay was written with such a careless
superfluity of words, and such a lack of ideas appeared in the
performance, that the judges unanimously threw it aside, as unworthy
of their notice. "Gentlemen," cried Dr. B., coming forward among the
anxious crowd of expectants, "which of you owns this motto?--

     "'Hear it, ye Senates, hear this truth sublime,
     He who allows oppression shares the crime[6].'"

[Footnote 6: Botanic Garden, vol. ii.]

"It's his!--it's his!--it's his!" exclaimed little Oliver, clapping his
hands--"it's Howard's, sir."

Dr. B., pleased with this grateful little boy's honest joy, put the
medal into his hands, without speaking, and Oliver ran with it to his
friend. "Only," said he, "only let me be by, when you show it to your
aunt."

How much the pleasure of success is increased by the sympathy of our
friends! The triumph of a school-boy over his competitors is sometimes
despicable; but Howard's joy was not of this selfish and puerile
sort. All the good passions had stimulated him to exertion, and he was
rewarded by his own generous feelings. He would not have exchanged the
delight which he saw in his little friend Oliver's face, the approving
smile of his aunt, and the proud satisfaction Mr. Russell expressed at
the sight of his medal, for all the solid gold which Alderman Holloway
deemed the highest reward of literature.

Alderman Holloway was filled with indignation when he heard from Mr.
Supine that his son's essay had been rejected with contempt. The young
gentleman was also much surprised at the decision of the judges; and his
tutor, by way of pleasing his pupil's friends, hesitated not to
hint, that there "certainly was great injustice done to Mr. Augustus
Holloway's talents." The subject was canvassed at a turtle dinner at the
alderman's. "There shall not be injustice done to my Augustus," said
the irritated father, wisely encouraging his Augustus in all his mean
feelings. "Never mind 'em all, my boy; you have a father, you may thank
Heaven, who _can_ judge for himself, and _will_: you shall not be the
loser by Dr. B.'s or doctor any body's injustice; I'll make it up to
you, my boy; in the meantime, join us in a bumper of port. Here's to
Dr. B.'s better judgment; wishing him health and happiness these Easter
holidays, and _a new pair of spectacles_,--hey, Mr. Supine?"

This well-chosen toast was drunk with much applause and laughter by the
company. The alderman insisted upon having his Augustus's essay produced
in the evening. Holloway had now ample satisfaction, for the whole
company were unanimous in their plaudits, after Mr. Supine had read two
or three sentences: the alderman, to confirm his own critical judgment,
drew out his purse, and counting out ten bright guineas, presented them,
with a look of high self-satisfaction, to his son. "Here, Augustus, my
boy," said he; "I promised you five guineas if you brought me home the
prize medal; but I now present you with ten, to make you the amends you
so richly deserve, for not having got their medal. Thank God, I am
able to afford it; and I hope," added the alderman, looking round, and
laughing, "I hope I'm as good a patron of the _belles lettres_ as the
head doctor of Westminster himself."

Holloway's eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of the glittering bribe.
He began some speech in reply, in which he compared his father to
Maecenas; but being entangled in a sentence, in which the nominative
case had been too long separated from the verb, he was compelled
to pause abruptly. Nevertheless, the alderman rubbed his hands with
exultation; and "Hear him! hear him!--hear your member!" was vociferated
by all the friends of the young orator. "Well, really," concluded
his mother to the ladies, who were complimenting her upon her son's
performance, "it was not a bad speech, considering he had nothing to
say!"

Lord Rawson, who was one of the company, now congratulated his friend
in a whisper--"You've made a good job of it to-day, Augustus," said he:
"solid pudding's better than empty praise. We're going," continued his
lordship to the alderman, "to try my new horses this evening;" and he
pulled Augustus with him out of the room.

"There they go," said the prudent father, delighted with his own son's
being the chosen friend of a nobleman--"there they go, arm in arm, a
couple of rare ones: we shall have fine work with them, I foresee, when
Augustus gets to college--but young men of spirit must not be
curbed like common boys--we must make allowances--I have been young
myself,--hey, Mr. Supine?"

"Certainly, sir," said the obsequious tutor; "and you still have all the
sprightliness of youth; and my ideas of education square completely with
yours."

According to Alderman Holloway's ideas of education, the holy days were
always to be made a season of complete idleness and dissipation, to
relieve his son from his school studies. It was his great delight to
contrast the pleasures of home with the hardships of school, and to
make his son compare the indulgence of a father with the severity of
a schoolmaster. How he could expect an education to succeed which
he sedulously endeavoured to counteract, it may be difficult for any
rational person to conceive.

After Lord Rawson and Holloway had enjoyed the pleasures of driving the
new horses, _tandem_, in a dog-cart, and had conversed about dogs and
horses till they had nothing left to say to each other, his lordship
proposed stepping in to Mr. Carat, the jeweller's shop, to look at some
new watches: his lordship said he was tired of his own, for he had had
it six months. Mr. Carat was not in the way when they first went in.
One of the young men who attended in the shop said, "that his master was
extremely busy, in settling some accounts with a captain of a ship, who
was to leave England in a few days."

"Don't tell me of settling accounts," cried Lord Ramon--"I hate the
sound of settling accounts: run and tell Mr. Carat that Lord Rawson is
here, and must speak to him this instant, for I'm in a desperate hurry."

A quarter of an hour elapsed before the impatient lord could be obeyed;
during this time, his lordship and Holloway rummaged over every thing
in the shop. A pretty bauble to hang to his watch caught his lordship's
fancy. His lordship happened to have no money in his pocket. "Holloway,"
said he, "my good fellow, you've ten guineas in your pocket, I know; do
lend me them here." Holloway, rather proud of his riches, lent his ten
guineas to his noble friend with alacrity; but a few minutes afterward
recollected that he should want five of them that very night, to pay
the poor stage-coachman. His recollection came too late, for after
Lord Rawson had paid three or four guineas for his trinket, he let the
remainder of the money down with an absent nonchalance, into his pocket.
"We'll settle--I'll pay you, Holloway, to-morrow morning, you know."

Holloway, from false shame, replied, "Oh, very well." And at this
instant Mr. Carat entered the shop, bowing and apologizing to his
lordship for having been busy.

"I'm always, to be sure, in a very great hurry," cried Lord Rawson; "I
never have a minute that I can call my own. All I wanted though,
just now, was to tell you, that I could not settle any thing--you
understand--till we come back from Marryborough. I go down there
to-morrow."

The Jew bowed with unlimited acquiescence, assuring his lordship that
he should ever wait his perfect convenience. As he spoke, he glanced an
inquiring eye upon Holloway.

"Mr. Holloway, the eldest, the only son of Alderman Holloway--rich as
a Jew! and he'll soon leave Westminster," whispered Lord Rawson to the
Jew. "Holloway," continued he, turning to his friend, "give me leave to
introduce Mr. Carat to you. You may," added his lordship, lowering his
voice, "find this Jew a useful friend some time or other, my lad. He's
my man in all money jobs."

The Jew and the school-boy seemed equally flattered and pleased by this
introduction; they were quickly upon familiar terms with one another;
and Mr. Carat, who was willing that such an acquaintance should begin in
the most advantageous and agreeable manner on his part, took the young
gentleman, with an air of mystery and confidence, into a little
room behind the shop; there he produced a box full of old-fashioned
secondhand trinkets, and, without giving Holloway time to examine them,
said that he was going to make a lottery of these things. "If I had any
young favourite friends," continued the wily Jew, "I should give them
a little whisper in the ear, and bid them try their fortune; they never
will have a finer opportunity." He then presented a hand-bill, drawn up
in a style which even Messrs. Goodluck and Co. need not have disdained
to admire. The youth was charmed with the composition. The Jew made him
a present of a couple of tickets for himself, and gave him a dozen more,
to distribute amongst his companions at Westminster. Holloway readily
undertook to distribute the tickets upon condition that he might have
a list of the prizes in the lottery. "If they don't see a list of the
prizes," said he, "not a soul will put in."

The Jew took a pen immediately, and drew up a captivating list of
prizes.

Holloway promised to copy it, because Mr. Carat said his hand must not
appear in the business, and it must be conducted with the strictest
secrecy; because "the law," added the Jew, "has a little jealousy of
these sort of things--government likes none but licensed lotteries,
young gentleman."

"The law! I don't care what the law likes," replied the school-boy; "if
I break the law, I hope I'm rich enough to pay the forfeit, or my father
will pay for me, which is better still."

To this doctrine the Jew readily assented, and they parted, mutually
satisfied with each other.

It was agreed that Lord Rawson should drive his friend to Marryborough
the next Tuesday, and that he should return on Wednesday, with Holloway,
to Westminster, on purpose that he might meet Mr. Carat there, who was
then to deliver the prizes.

"I'll lay you a bet," cried Lord Rawson, as he left the Jew's, "that
you'll have a prize yourself. Now are you not obliged to me for
introducing you to Carat?"

"Yes, that I am," replied Holloway; "it's easier to put into the lottery
than to write Latin verses and English essays. I'll puzzle and bore
myself no more with those things, I promise my father."

"Who does, after they've once left school, I want to know?" said his
noble friend. "I'm sure I've forgot all I ever learned from Latin and
Greek fellows; you know they tell just for nothing when one gets into
the world. I make it a principle never to talk of books, for nobody
does, you know, that has any thing else to talk of. None but quizzes and
quozzes ever came out with any thing of that sort. Now, how they'd stare
at Marryborough, Holloway, if you were to begin sporting some of your
Horace and Virgil!"

The dashing, yet bashful school-boy, with much emotion, swore that he
cared as little for Horace and Virgil as his lordship did. Holloway was
really an excellent scholar, but he began to be heartily ashamed of
it in his lordship's company, and prudently resolved to adopt the
principles he had just heard; to forget as fast as possible all he had
learned: never to talk of books; and to conceal both his knowledge and
his abilities, lest _they should stare at him at Maryborough_.

The lottery tickets were easily disposed of amongst the young gentlemen
at Westminster. As young men can seldom calculate, they are always ready
to trust to their individual good fortune, and they are, consequently,
ever ready to put into any species of lottery.

"Look here!" cried little Oliver, showing a lottery ticket to
Howard; "look what Holloway has just offered to give me, instead of
half-a-guinea, which he owes me. I told him I would just run and ask
your advice. Shall I accept of it?"

"I would advise you not," answered Howard; "you are sure of your
half-guinea, and you have only a chance of getting any thing in the
lottery."

"Oh, but then I've a chance of such a number of fine things! You have
not seen the list of prizes. Do you know there's a watch amongst them?
Now, suppose my ticket should come up a prize, and that I should get
a watch for my half-guinea!--a real watch!--a watch that would go!--a
watch that I should wind up myself every night! O Charles! would not
that be a good bargain for my half-guinea? I'm sure you have not read
the list of prizes, have you?"

"No, I have not," said Howard: "have you seen the list of blanks?"

"Of blanks! No," said Oliver, with a changed countenance; "I never
thought of the blanks."

"And yet in most lotteries there are many more blanks than prizes, you
know."

"Are there? Well, but I hope I shall not have a blank," said Oliver.

"So every body hopes, but some people must be disappointed."

"Yes," said the little boy, pausing--"but then some people must win, and
I have as good a chance as another, have not I?"

"And do you know what the chance against your winning is? Once I had a
great mind, as you have now, Oliver, to put into a lottery. It was just
after my aunt lost all her fortune, and I thought that if I were to get
the twenty thousand pound prize, I could give it to her."

"I'll give my watch (if I get it, I mean) to somebody. I'll give it to
the mulatto woman, because she is poor. No; I'll give it to you, because
you are the best, and I love you the best, and I am more obliged to you
than to any body in the world, for you have taught me more; and you
have taught me as I was never taught before, without laughing at, or
scolding, or frightening, or calling me blockhead or dunce; and you have
made me think a great deal better of myself; and I am always happy when
I'm with you; and I'm quite another creature since you came to school. I
hope you'll never leave school whilst I am here," cried Oliver.

"But you have quite forgot the lottery," said Howard, smiling, and much
touched by his little friend's simplicity and enthusiasm.

"Oh, the lottery! ay," said Oliver, "you were telling me something about
yourself; do go on."

"I once thought, as you do now, that it would be a charming thing to put
into a lottery."

"Well, and did you win?"

"No."

"Did you lose?"

"No."

"How then?"

"I did not put into the lottery, for I was convinced that it was a
foolish way of spending money."

"If you think it's foolish or wrong," said Oliver, "I'll have nothing to
do with this lottery."

"I don't want to govern you by my opinion," said Howard; "but if you
have patience to attend to all the reasons that convinced me, you will
be able to judge, and form an opinion for yourself. You know I must
leave school some time or other, and then--"

"Well, don't talk of that, but tell me all the reasons, quick."

"I can't tell them so very quickly," said Howard, laughing: "when we go
home this evening I'll ask my aunt to look for the passage in Smith's
Wealth of Nations, which she showed me."

"Oh!" interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, "_Smith's Wealth_ of what? That's
a book, I'm sure, I shall never be able to understand; is it not that
great large book that Mr. Russell reads?"

"Yes."

"But I shall never understand it."

"Because it's a large book?"

"No," said Oliver, smiling, "but because I suppose it's very difficult
to understand."

"Not what I've read of it: but I have only read passages here and there.
That passage about lotteries, I think, you would understand, because it
is so plainly written."

"I'll read it, then," said Oliver, "and try; and in the meantime I'll
go and tell Holloway that I had rather not put into the lottery, till I
know whether it's right or not."

Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver when he went
to return his lottery ticket. He abused and ridiculed Howard for his
interference, and succeeded so well in raising a popular cry, that the
moment Howard appeared on the playground, a general hiss, succeeded by
a deep groan, was heard.--Howard recollected the oracle's answer to
Cicero, and was not dismayed by the voice of the multitude. Holloway
threw down half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself, "I'll
make you remember this, Mr. Oliver."

"I'll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and that's much better
than putting it into a lottery, Charles," said the little boy; and,
as soon as the business of the day was done, Oliver, Howard, and Mr.
Russell, took their usual evening's walk towards the gardener's house.

"Ay, come in," cried old Paul, "come in! God bless you all! I don't know
which is the best of you. I've been looking out of my door this quarter
of an hour for ye," said he, as soon as he saw them; "and I don't know
when I've been idle a quarter of an hour afore. But I've put on my best
coat, though it's not Sunday, and wife has treated her to a dish of tea,
and she's up and dressed--the mulatto woman, I mean--and quite hearty
again. Walk in, walk in; it will do your hearts good to see her; she's
so grateful too, though she can't speak good English, which is her only
fault, poor soul; but we can't be born what we like, or she would have
been as good an Englishman as the best of us. Walk in, walk in.--And the
chimney does not smoke, master, no more than I do; and the window opens
too; and the paper's up, and looks beautiful. God bless ye, God bless
ye--walk in." Old Paul, whilst he spoke, had stopped the way into the
room; but at length he recollected that they could not walk in whilst he
stood in the door-way, and he let them pass.

The little room was no longer the smoky, dismal, miserable place which
it was formerly. It was neatly papered; it was swept clean; there was a
cheerful fire, which burnt quite clearly: the mulatto woman was cleanly
dressed, and, rising from her work, she clasped her hands together with
an emotion of joyful gratitude, which said more than any words could
have expressed.

This room was not papered, nor was the chimney cured of smoking, nor
was the woman clad in new clothes, by magic. It was all done by human
means--by the industry and abilities of a benevolent boy.

The translation of the little French book, which Howard had completed,
procured him the means of doing good. The book-seller to whom he offered
it was both an honest man, and a good judge of literary productions. Mr.
Russell's name also operated in his pupil's favour, and Howard received
ten guineas for his translation.

Oliver was impatient for an opportunity to give his half-guinea, which
he had held in his hand, till it was quite warm. "Let me look at that
pretty thimble of yours," said he, going up to the mulatto woman, who
had now taken up her work again; and, as he playfully pulled off the
thimble, he slipped his half-guinea into her hand; then he stopped her
thanks, by running on to a hundred questions about her thimble. "What
a strange thimble! How came you by such a thimble? Was it given to you?
Did you buy it? What's the use of this screw round the inside of the rim
of it? Do look at it, Charles!"

The thimble was, indeed, remarkable; and it seemed extraordinary that
such a one should belong to a poor woman, who had lately been in great
distress.

"It is gold," said Mr. Russell, examining it, "and very old gold."

The mulatto woman sighed; and as she put the thimble upon her finger
again, said, that she did not know whether it was gold or not; but she
had a great value for it; that she had had it a great many years; that
it had been given to her by the best friend she had ever had.

"Tell me about that best friend," said Oliver; "I like to hear about
best friends."

"She was a very good friend indeed; though she was but young, scarcely
bigger than yourself, at the time she gave me this thimble: she was my
young mistress; I came all the way from Jamaica on purpose to find her
out, and in hopes to live with her in my elder days."

"Jamaica!" cried Howard; "Jamaica!" cried Oliver, in the same breath;
"what was her name?"

"Frances Howard."

"My aunt," exclaimed Howard.

"I'll run and tell her; I'll run and bring her here, this instant!" said
Oliver. But Mr. Russell caught hold of him, and detained him, whilst
they further questioned the woman. Her answers were perfectly consistent
and satisfactory. She said, that her mistress's estate in Jamaica had
been sold just before she left the island; that some of the old slaves
had been set at liberty, by orders, which came, she understood, in her
mistress's last letter; and that, amongst the rest, she had been freed:
that she had heard say that her good mistress had desired the agent to
give her also some little _provision ground_, upon the plantation, but
that this had never been done; and that she had sold all the clothes and
little things she possessed, to raise money to pay for her passage to
England, hoping to find her mistress in London. She added, that the
agent had given her a direction to her mistress; but that she had, in
vain, applied at at the house, and at every house in the same street.
"Show us the direction, if you have it," said Mr. Russell. The woman
said she had kept it very carefully; but now it was almost worn out. The
direction was, however, still legible upon the ragged bit of paper which
she produced--_To Mrs. Frances Howard, Portman Square, London_. The
instant Mr. Russell was satisfied, he was as expeditious as Oliver
himself; they all three went home immediately to Mrs. Howard: she had,
some time before, been confined to her room by a severe toothache.

"You promised me, aunt," said her nephew, "that as soon as you were well
enough, you would go to old Paul's with us, to see our poor woman; can
you go this evening?"

"Oh do! do, pray; I'm sure you won't catch cold," said Oliver; "for we
have a very particular reason for wishing you to go."

"There is a sedan chair at the door," said Mr. Russell, "if you are
afraid, madam, of catching cold."

"I am not rich enough to go out in sedan chairs," interrupted Mrs.
Howard, "nor prudent enough, I am afraid, to stay at home."

"Oh! thank you," said Oliver, who had her clogs ready in his hands; "now
you'll see something that will surprise you."

"Then take care you don't tell me what it is, before I see it," said
Mrs. Howard.

Oliver, with some difficulty, held his tongue during the walk, and
contented himself with working off his superfluous animation, by jumping
over every obstacle in his way.

The meeting between the poor mulatto woman and her mistress was as full
of joy and surprise as little Oliver had expected; and this is saying
a great deal, for where much is expected, there is usually much
disappointment; and very sympathetic people are often angry with others,
for not being as much astonished, or as much delighted, as they think
the occasion requires.

The day which Mr. Augustus Holloway imagined would bring him such
complete felicity--the day on which Lord Rawson had promised to call
for him in his dog-cart, and to drive him down _randem-tandem_, to
Marryborough--was now arrived. His lordship, in his dog-cart, was at
the door; and Holloway, in high spirits, was just going to get into the
carriage, when some one pulled his coat, and begged to speak a few words
with him. It was the stage-coachman, who was absolutely in distress for
the value of the lost parcel, which Holloway had promised him should be
punctually paid: but Holloway, now that his excursion to Marryborough
was perfectly secure, thought but very little of the poor coachman's
difficulties; and though he had the money, which he had raised by the
lottery tickets, in his pocket, he determined to keep that for his
amusements during the Easter holidays. "You must wait till I come back
from Marryborough; I can't possibly speak to you now; I can't possibly,
you see, keep Lord Rawson waiting. Why didn't you call sooner? I am not
at all convinced that any parcel was lost."

"I'll show you the books--it's book'd, sir," said the man, eagerly.

"Well, well, this is not a time to talk of booking. I'll be with you
in an instant, my lord," cried Holloway to Lord Rawson, who was all
impatience to _be off_. But the coachman would not quit his hold. "I'm
sorry to come to that, master," said he: "as long as we were both upon
honour together, it was very well; but, if you break squares with me,
being a gentleman, and rich, you can't take it ill, I being a poor man
and my place and all at stake, if I take the shortest way to get my
own: I must go to Dr. B. for justice, if you won't give it me without my
peaching," said the coachman.

"I'll see you again to-morrow morning," said Holloway, alarmed: "we come
up to town again to-morrow."

"To-morrow won't do," said the coachman; "I shall lose my place and my
bread to-day. I know how to trust to young gentlemen's to-morrows."

A volley of oaths from Lord Rawson again summoned his companion. At
this instant, Mr. Russell, young Howard, and little Oliver, came up
the street, and were passing on to Mrs. Howard's, when Holloway stopped
Howard, who was the last of the party. "For Heaven's sake," said he, in
a whisper, "do settle for me with this confounded coachman! I know you
are rich; your bookseller told me so; pay five guineas for me to him,
and you shall have them again to-morrow, there's a good fellow. Lord
Rawson's waiting; good by."

"Stay, stay," said Howard, who was not so easily to be drawn into
difficulties by a moment's weakness, or by the want of a moment's
presence of mind: "I know nothing of this business; I have other uses
for my money; I cannot pay five guineas for you, Holloway."

"Then let it alone," cried Holloway, with a brutal execration; and
he forcibly broke from the coachman, shook hands with his tutor, Mr.
Supine, who was talking to Lord Rawson about the varnish of his gig,
jumped into the carriage, and was whirled away from all reflection in a
moment, by his noble companion.

The poor coachman entreated Howard to stay one instant, to hear him. He
explained the business to him, and reproached himself bitterly for
his folly. "I'm sure I thought," said he, "I was sure of a gentleman's
honour; and young gentlemen ought to be above not paying handsome for
their frolics, if they must have frolics; and a frolic's one thing, and
cheating a poor man like me is another; and he had liked to have killed
a poor mulatto woman, too, by the overturn of the coach, which was all
his doings."

"The woman is got very well, and is very well off now," interrupted
Howard; "you need say nothing about that."

"Well, but my money, I must say about _that_," said the coachman. Here
Howard observed, that Mr. Supine had remained at the door in a lounging
attitude, and was quite near enough to overhear their conversation.
Howard, therefore, to avoid exciting his attention by any mysterious
whispers, walked away from the coachman; but in vain; he followed: "I'll
peach," said he; "I must in my own defence."

"Stay till to-morrow morning," said Howard: "perhaps you'll be paid
then."

The coachman, who was a good-natured fellow, said, "Well, I don't like
making mischief among young gentlemen; I will wait till to-morrow, but
not a day more, master, if you'd go down on your knees to me."

Mr. Supine, whose curiosity was fully awake, called to the coachman the
moment Howard was out of hearing, and tried, by various questions, to
draw the secret from him. The words, "_overturn of the coach--mulatto
woman_," and the sentence, which the irritated coachman had pronounced
in a raised voice, that "_young gentlemen should be above not paying
handsome for their frolics_," had reached Mr. Supine's attentive ear,
before Howard had been aware that the tutor was a listener. Nothing more
could Mr. Supine draw, however, from the coachman, who now felt himself
_upon honour_, having promised Howard not to _peach_ till the next
morning. Difficulties stimulated Mr. Supine's curiosity; but he remained
for the present satisfied in the persuasion that he had discovered _a
fine frolic_ of the immaculate Mr. Charles Howard; his own pupil he did
not suspect upon this occasion. Holloway's whisperings with the coachman
had ended the moment Mr. Supine appeared at the door, and the tutor had
in the same moment been so struck with the beautiful varnish of Lord
Rawson's dog-cart, that his pupil might have whispered longer, without
rousing his attention. Mr. Supine was further confirmed in his mistake
about Howard, from the recollection of the mulatto woman, whom he had
seen at the gardener's: he knew that she had been hurt by a fall from a
stage-coach. He saw Howard much interested about her. All this he joined
with what he had just overheard about _a frolic_, and he was rejoiced at
the idea of implicating in this business Mr. Russell, whom he disliked.

Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went immediately to Alderman
Holloway's, where he had a general invitation to dinner. Mrs. Holloway
approved of her son's tutor, full as much for his love of gossiping, as
for his musical talents: Mr. Supine constantly supplied her with news
and anecdotes; upon the present occasion, he thought that his story,
however imperfect, would be eagerly received, because it concerned
Howard.

Since the affair of the prize essay, and the medal, Mrs. Holloway had
taken a dislike to young Howard, whom she considered as the enemy of
her dear Augustus. No sooner had she heard Mr. Supine's blundering
information, than, without any farther examination, she took the whole
for granted: eager to repeat the anecdote to Mrs. Howard, she instantly
wrote a note to her, saying that she would drink tea with her that
evening.

When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr. Supine, went, in the evening, to
Mrs. Howard's, they found with her Mrs. B., the lady of Dr. B., the
master of Westminster School.

"Is not this an odd rencontre?" whispered Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Supine,
as she drew him to a recessed window, commodious for gossiping: "I shall
be called a tell-tale, I know, at Westminster; but I shall tell our
story, notwithstanding. I would keep any other boy's secret; but Howard
is such a saint: and I hate saints."

A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway; she looked out of the
window. "Oh, here he comes, up the steps," continued she, "after his
sober evening promenade, and _his_ Mr. Russell with--and, I declare, the
mulatto woman with him. Now for it!"

Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a low
voice,--

"Ma'am, poor Cuba is come; she is rather tired with walking, and she is
gone to rest herself in the front parlour."

"Her lameness, though," pursued little Oliver, who followed Howard into
the room, "is almost well. I just asked her how high she thought the
coach was from which she was--"

A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for though he did not
understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed to silence
him. Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway's secret to Mr. Supine or
to Mrs. Holloway: his aunt sent him out of the room with some message to
Cuba, which gave Mrs. Holloway an opportunity of opening her business.

"Pray," said she, "might I presume to ask--for I perceive the young
gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which he may have good
reasons for--may I, just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether,
as her name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto
woman?"

Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly replied,
"Yes, madam--a mulatto woman."

"And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?" persisted the curious
lady, turning to little Oliver.

"Yes, she's a little lame still; but she will soon be quite well."

"Oh! then, her lameness came, I presume, from an accident, sir, and not
from her birth?"

"From an accident, ma'am."

"Oh! an accident--a fall--a fall from a coach--from a stage-coach,
perhaps," continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly at Mr.
Supine: "you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, I see by your
astonishment," continued she to Oliver; "but a little bird told me the
whole story; and I see Mrs. Howard knows how to keep a secret as well as
myself."

Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation.

"Nay," said Mrs. Holloway, "you know best, Mrs. Howard; but as we're
all _out of school_ now, I shall not be afraid to mention such a little
affair, even before the doctor's lady; for, to be sure, she would never
let it reach the doctor's ears."

"Really, ma'am," said Mrs. Howard, "you puzzle me a little; I wish you
would explain yourself: I don't know what it is that you would not have
reach the doctor's ears."

"You don't?--well, then, your nephew must have been very clever, to have
kept you in the dark; mustn't he, Mr. Supine?"

"I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very _clever_, ma'am,"
said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis.

Mrs. Howard's colour now rose, and with a mixture of indignation and
anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. "I
hate mysteries!" said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it
was a tender point; and hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and
confidence in one most dear to her, to hear the whole truth.

"Do you mean Howard, ma'am?" exclaimed little Oliver: "oh, speak! speak!
it's impossible Charles Howard can have done any thing wrong."

"Go for him, my dear," said Mrs. Howard, resuming her composure; "let
him be present. I hate mysteries."

"But, my dear Mrs. Howard," whispered Mrs. Holloway, "you don't
consider; you'll get your nephew into a shocking scrape; the story will
infallibly go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You are warm, and don't consider
consequences."

"Charles," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the moment he appeared, "from
the time you were five years old, till this instant, I have never known
you tell a falsehood; I should, therefore, be very absurd, as well as
very unjust, if I were to doubt your integrity. Tell me--have you got
into any difficulties? I would rather hear of them from yourself,
than from any body else. Is there any mystery about overturning a
stage-coach, that you know of, and that you have concealed from me?"

"There is a mystery, ma'am, about overturning a stage-coach," replied
Howard, in a firm tone of voice; "but when I assure you that it is no
mystery of mine--nothing in which I have myself any concern--I am sure
that you will believe me, my dear aunt, and that you will press me no
further."

"Not a word further, not a frown further," said his aunt, with a smile
of entire confidence; in which Mr. Russell joined, but which appeared
incomprehensible to Mr. Supine.

"Very satisfactory indeed!" said that gentleman, leaning back in the
chair; "I never heard any thing more satisfactory to my mind!"

"Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word!" echoed Mrs. Holloway; but
no looks, no inuendoes, could now disturb Mrs. Howard's security,
or disconcert the resolute simplicity which appeared in her nephew's
countenance. Mrs. Holloway, internally devoured by curiosity, was
compelled to submit in silence. This restraint soon became so irksome to
her, that she shortened her visit as much as she decently could.

In crossing the passage, to go to her carriage, she caught a glimpse
of the mulatto woman, who was going into a parlour. Resolute, at all
hazards, to satisfy herself, Mrs. Holloway called to the retreating
Cuba--began by asking some civil questions about her health; then spoke
of the accident she had lately met with; and, in short, by a skilful
cross-examination, drew her whole story from her. The gratitude with
which the poor woman spoke of Howard's humanity was by no means pleasing
to Mr. Supine.

"Then it was not he who overturned the coach?" said Mrs. Holloway.

The woman eagerly replied, "Oh no, madam!" and proceeded to draw, as
well as she could, a description of the youth who had been mounted
upon the coach-box: she had seen him only by the light of the moon, and
afterwards by the light of a lantern; but she recollected his figure so
well, and described him so accurately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture
instantly, and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, "Can it be Augustus?"

"Mr. Holloway!--Impossible!--I suppose--"

But the woman interrupted him by saying that she recollected to have
heard the young gentleman called by that name by the coachman.

The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confounded by this discovery.
Mrs. Holloway got into her carriage, and, in their way home, Mr. Supine
represented, that he should be ruined for ever with the alderman, if
this transaction came to his knowledge; that, in fact, it was a mere
boyish frolic; but that the alderman might not consider it in
that light, and would, perhaps, make Mr. Augustus feel his serious
displeasure. The foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length
promised to be silent upon the subject. But, before he slept, Alderman
Holloway heard the whole story. The footman, who had attended the
carriage, was at the door when Mrs. Holloway was speaking to the mulatto
woman, and had listened to every word that was said. This footman was in
the habit of telling his master, when he attended him at night, all the
news which he had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no
favourite of his; because, whenever the tutor came to the house, he gave
a great deal of trouble, being too indolent to do any thing for himself,
and yet not sufficiently rich, or sufficiently generous, to pay the
usual premiums for the active civility of servants. This footman was not
sorry to have an opportunity of repeating any story that might injure
Mr. Supine with his master. Alderman Holloway heard it under the promise
of concealing the name of the person who had given him the information,
and resolved to discover the truth of the affair the next day, when he
was to visit his son at Westminster.

But we must now return to Mrs. Howard's. We mentioned that Mrs. B. spent
the evening with her. Dr. B., soon after Mrs. Holloway went away, called
to take his lady home: he had been engaged to spend the evening at a
card assembly; but, as he was a man who liked agreeable conversation
better than cards, he had made his escape from a rout, to spend half an
hour with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was a man of various
literature; able to appreciate others, he was not insensible to the
pleasure of seeing himself appreciated. Half an hour passes quickly in
agreeable conversation: the doctor got into an argument, concerning the
propriety of the distinction made by some late metaphysical writers,
between imagination and fancy. Thence he was led to some critical
remarks upon Warton's beautiful Ode to Fancy; then to the never-ending
debate upon original genius; including also the doctrine of hereditary
temper and dispositions, which the doctor warmly supported, and which
Mrs. Howard coolly questioned.

In the midst of their conversation, they were suddenly interrupted by a
groan. They all looked round to see whence it came. It came from little
Oliver: he was sitting at a little table at the farther end of the room,
reading so intently in a large book that he saw nothing else: a long
unsnuffed candle, with a perilous fiery summit to its black wick, stood
before him, and his left arm embraced a thick china jar, against which
he leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a general silence
in the room, whilst every one looked at Oliver, as at a picture. Mrs.
Howard moved gently round behind his chair, to see what he was reading:
the doctor followed her. It was the account of the execution of two
rebel Koromantyn <DW64>s, related in Edwards's History of the West
Indies[7]. To try whether it would interrupt Oliver's deep attention,
Mrs. Howard leaned over him, and snuffed his dim candle; but the light
was lost upon him--he did not feel the obligation. Dr. B. then put his
hand upon the jar, which he pulled from Oliver's embrace. "Be quiet! I
must finish this!" cried Oliver, still holding fast the jar, and keeping
his eyes upon the book. The doctor gave a second pull at the jar, and
the little boy made an impatient push with his elbow; then casting his
eye upon the large hand which pulled the jar, he looked up, surprised,
in the doctor's face.

[Footnote 7: Vol. ii. p. 57, second edition.]

The nice china jar, which Oliver had held so sturdily, was very
precious to him. His uncle had just sent him two jars of fine West India
sweetmeats. One of these he had shared with his companions: the other
he had kept, to give to Mrs. Howard, who had once said, in his hearing,
that she was fond of West India sweetmeats. She accepted Oliver's
little present. Children sometimes feel as much pleasure in giving away
sweetmeats as in eating them; and Mrs. Howard too well understood the
art of education, even in trifles, to deny to grateful and generous
feelings their natural and necessary exercise. A child can show
gratitude and generosity only in trifles.

"Are these all the sweetmeats that you have left, Oliver?" said Mrs.
Howard.

"Yes--all."

"Was not Rousseau wrong, Dr. B.," said Mrs. Howard, "when he asserted,
that no child ever gives away _his last mouthful_ of any thing good?"

"Of any thing _good_!" said the doctor, laughing; "when I have tasted
these sweetmeats, I shall be a better judge."

"You shall taste them this minute, then," said Mrs. Howard; and she
rang for a plate, whilst the doctor, to little Oliver's great amusement,
exhibited various pretended signs of impatience, as Mrs. Howard
deliberately untied the cover of the jar. One cover after another she
slowly took off; at length the last transparent cover was lifted up: the
doctor peeped in; but lo! instead of sweetmeats there appeared nothing
but paper. One crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard pulled
out; still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely stuffed with paper, to
the very bottom. Oliver was silent with amazement.

"The sides of the jar are quite clean," said Howard.

"But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with
sweetmeats," said Dr. B.

"There must have been sweetmeats in it lately," said Mrs. Howard,
"because the jar smells so strongly of them."

Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled out of the
jar, Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some writing: he looked
it over.

"Humph! What have we here? What's this? What can this he about a
lottery?--tickets, price half a guinea--prizes-gold watch!--silver
ditto--chased tooth-pick case--buckles--knee-buckles. What is all
this?--April 10th, 1797--the drawing to begin--prizes to be delivered
at Westminster school, by Aaron Carat, jeweller? Hey, young gentlemen,"
cried Dr. B., looking at Oliver and Charles, "do you know any thing of
this lottery?"

"I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you," said Howard.

"Nor I, thank goodness--I mean, thank you, Charles," exclaimed Oliver;
"for you hindered me from putting into the lottery: how very lucky I was
to take your advice!"

"How very wise, you should say, Oliver," said Dr. B. "I must inquire
into this business; I must find out who ordered these things from Mr.
Aaron Carat. There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster
school, whilst I have power to prevent it. To-morrow morning I'll
inquire into this affair; and to-morrow morning we shall also know, my
little fellow, what became of your sweetmeats."

"Oh, never mind _that_," cried the good-natured Oliver; "don't say any
thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don't mind about them; I know
already--I guess now, who took them; therefore you need not ask; I dare
say it was only meant for a joke."

Dr. B. made no reply; but folded up the paper which he had been reading,
put it into his pocket, and soon after took his leave.

Lord Rawson was one of those young men who measure their own merit and
felicity by the number of miles which their horses can go in a day; he
undertook to drive his friend up from Marryborough to Westminster, a
distance of forty miles, in five hours. The arrival of his lordship's
gig was a signal, for which several people were in waiting at
Westminster school. The stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand
his money from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, was arrived, and eager
to settle with Mr. Holloway about the lottery: he had brought the prizes
in a small case, to be delivered, upon receiving from Holloway the money
for all the tickets of which he had disposed. Dr. B. was waiting for the
arrival of Mr. Holloway, as he had determined to collect all his pupils
together, and to examine into the lottery business. Little Oliver was
also watching for Holloway, to prevent mischief, and to assure him of
forgiveness about the sweetmeats.

Lord Rawson's dog-cart arrived. Holloway saw the stage-coachman as
he alighted, and, abruptly turning from him, shook hands with little
Oliver, saying, "You look as if you had been waiting for me."

"Yes," said Oliver: "but I can't say what I want to say before every
body."

"I'll wait upon you presently," said Holloway, escaping from the
coachman. As he crossed the hall, he descried Mr. Carat, and a crowd
of boys surrounding him, crying, "Mr. Carat's come--he has brought
the prizes!--he has brought the prizes! he'll show them all as soon as
you've settled with him." Holloway called to the Jew; but little Oliver
insisted upon being heard first.

"You must hear me: I have something to say to you about the
prizes--about the lottery."

The words arrested Holloway's attention: he followed Oliver; heard with
surprise and consternation the history of the paper which had been found
in the jar, by Dr. B. "I've done for myself, now, faith!" he exclaimed;
"I suppose the doctor knows all about the hand _I_ have in the lottery."

"No," replied Oliver, "he does not."

"Why, _you_ must have known it; and did not he question you and Howard?"

"Yes; but when we told him that we had nothing to do with it, he did not
press us farther."

"You are really a noble little fellow," exclaimed Holloway, "to bear me
no malice for the many ill turns I have done you: this last has
fallen upon myself, as ill-luck would have it: but before we go any
farther--your sweetmeats are safe in the press, in my room; I didn't
mean to steal them; only to plague you, child:--but you have your
revenge now."

"I don't want any revenge, indeed," said Oliver, "for I'm never happy
when I've quarrelled with any body: and even when people quarrel with
me, I don't feel quite sure that I'm in the right, which makes me
uncomfortable; and, besides, I don't want to find out that they are
quite in the wrong; and that makes me uncomfortable the other way.
After all, quarrelling and bearing malice are very disagreeable things,
somehow or other. Don't you, when you have made it up with people, and
shaken hands, Holloway--don't you feel quite light, and ready to jump
again? So shake hands, if you are not above shaking hands with such a
little boy as I am; and I shall never think again about the sweetmeats,
or old _fag_ times."

Holloway could not help feeling touched. "Here's my hand," cried he,
"I'm sorry I've tormented you so often; I'll never plague you any more.
But now--I don't know what upon earth to do. Where's Charles Howard? If
he can't help me, I'm undone. I have got into more scrapes than I can
get out of, I know. I wish I could see Howard."

"I'll run and bring him to you; he's the best person at knowing what
should be done--at least for me, I know--that ever I saw."

Holloway abruptly began, as soon as Howard came up to him: "Howard,"
said he, "you know this plaguy lottery business--but you don't know
half yet: here's Carat come to be paid for his tickets; and here's that
dunning stage-coachman sticks close to me for his five guineas; and not
one farthing have I upon earth."

"Not a farthing! but you don't mean that you have not the money for Mr.
Carat?"

"But I _do_ though."

"Why, you cannot have spent it since yesterday morning?"

"No; but I have lost half and lent half; and the half that I have lent
is gone for ever, I am afraid, as much as that which I lost."

"Whom did you lend the money to? How did you lose it?"

"I lost part to Sir John O'Shannon, last night, at billiards--more fool
I to play, only because I wanted to cut a figure amongst those fine
people at Marryborough. I wonder my father lets me go there; I know
I sha'n't go back there this Easter, unless Lord Rawson makes me an
apology, I can tell him. I've as good a right to be upon my high horse
as he has; for though his father's an earl, my father's a great deal
richer, I know; and has lent him a great deal of money, too, and that's
the only reason he's civil to us; but I can tell him--"

Here Howard brought the angry Holloway from his high horse, by asking
what all this had to do with Mr. Carat, who was waiting to be paid?

"Why, don't I explain to you," said Holloway, "that I lent _him_--Lord
Rawson, I mean--all the money I had left yesterday, and I couldn't
get it out of him again, though I told him my distress about the
stage-coachman? Did you ever know any thing so selfish? Did you ever
know any thing so shabby, so shameful? And then to make me his butt,
as he did last night at supper, because there were two or three dashing
young men by; I think more of _that_ than all the rest. Do you know, he
asked me to eat custard with my apple-pie, just to point me out for
an alderman's son; and when I only differed from him about Captain
Shouldham's puppy's ears, Lord Rawson said, to be sure, I must know
about dog's ears, just to put me in mind that I was a school-boy; but
I'll never go to Marryborough any more, unless he begs my pardon. I've
no notion of being a humble friend; but it does not signify being in a
passion about it now," continued Holloway. "What I want you, Howard, to
do for me is, just to think; for I can't think at present, I'm in such a
hurry, with all these things coming across me at once. What can I do to
find money for the stage-coachman and for Mr. Carat? Why both together
come to fifteen guineas. And what can I do about Dr. B.? And, do you
know, my father is coming here this very morning. How shall I manage?
He'd never forgive me: at least he'd not give me any money for I don't
know how long, if these things were to come out. What would you advise
me to do?"

Howard, with his usual honest policy, advised Holloway at once to tell
all the circumstances to his father. Holloway was at first much alarmed
at this proposal, and insisted upon it that this method would not _do at
all_ with the alderman, though it might do very well with such a woman
as Mrs. Howard. At length, however, overcome, partly by the arguments,
and partly by the persuasion of his new adviser, Holloway determined
upon his confession.

Alderman Holloway arrived, and was beginning to talk to Dr. B. of his
son's proficiency in his studies, when the young gentleman made his
appearance, with a countenance extremely embarrassed and agitated. The
sight of Dr. B. deprived Holloway of courage to speak. The doctor fixed
his penetrating eye upon the pale culprit, who immediately stopped short
in the middle of the room, stammering out, "I came to speak, sir--I had
something to say to my father, sir--I came, if you please, to speak to
my father, sir." To Holloway's utter astonishment, Dr. B.'s countenance
and manner suddenly changed at these words; all his severity vanished;
and, with a look and voice the most encouraging, he led the abashed
youth towards his father.

"You came to speak to your father, sir? Speak to him then without fear,
without reserve: you will certainly find in a father your most indulgent
friend. I'll leave you together."

This opening of the case by Dr. B. was of equal advantage both to the
father and to the son. Alderman Holloway, though without literature, was
not without understanding: his affection for his son made him quickly
comprehend the good sense of the doctor's hint. The alderman was not
_surprised_ by the story of the overturn of the stage-coach, because he
had heard it before from his footman. But the lottery transaction with
the Jew--and, above all, with the loss and loan of so much money to his
friend, Lord Rawson--struck him with some astonishment; yet he commanded
his temper, which was naturally violent; and, after a constrained
silence, he begged his son to summon Mr. Supine. "At least," cried the
alderman, "I've a right to be in a passion with that careless, indolent,
dilettanti puppy, whom I've been paying all this while for taking such
care of you. I wish I had hold of his German flute at this instant.
You are very right, Augustus, to come like a man, and tell me all
these things; and now I must tell you, that some of them I had heard of
before. I wish I had that Jew, that Mr. Carat of yours, here! and that
stage-coachman, who had the impertinence to take you out with him at
night. But it's all Mr. Supine's fault--and mine, for not choosing a
better tutor for you. As to Lord Rawson, I can't blame you either much
for that, for I encouraged the connexion, I must own. I'm glad you have
quarrelled with him, however; and pray look out for a better friend as
fast as possible. You were very right to tell me all these things; on
that consideration, and that only, I'll lend my hand to getting you out
of these scrapes."

"For that," cried Holloway, "I may thank Howard, then; for he advised
and urged me to tell you all this at once."

"Call him; let me thank him," said the alderman; "he's an excellent
young man then--call him."

Dr. B. now entered the room with little Oliver.

When Holloway returned with Howard, he beheld the stage-coachman
standing silent on one side of his father; Mr. Carat, the Jew, on the
other side, jabbering an unintelligible vindication of himself; whilst
Dr. B. was contemplating the box of lottery prizes, which lay open upon
the table. Mr. Supine, leaning against the chimney-piece, appeared in
the attitude of an Antinous in despair.

"Come, my little friend," said Dr. B. to Oliver, "you did not put into
the lottery, I understand. Choose from amongst these things whatever
you please. It is better to trust to prudence than fortune, you see. Mr.
Howard, I know that I am rewarding you, at this instant, in the manner
you best like, and best deserve."

There was a large old-fashioned chased gold toothpick-case, on which
Oliver immediately fixed his eye. After examining it very carefully,
he drew the doctor aside, and, after some consultation, Oliver left the
room hastily; whilst the alderman, with all the eloquence of which he
was master, expressed his gratitude to Howard for the advice which he
had given his son. "Cultivate this young gentleman's friendship," added
he, turning to Holloway: "he has not a title; but even _I_, Augustus,
am now ready to acknowledge he is worth twenty Lord Rawsons. Had he a
title, he would grace it; and that's as much as I can say for any man."

The Jew, all this time, stood in the greatest trepidation; he trembled
lest the alderman should have him taken up and committed to gaol for his
illegal, unlicensed lottery. He poured forth as many protestations as
his knowledge of the English language could afford of the purity of his
intentions; and, to demonstrate his disinterestedness, began to display
the trinkets in his prize-box, with a panegyric upon each. Dr. B.
interrupted him, by paying for the toothpick-case, which he had bought
for Oliver.

"Now, Mr. Carat," said the doctor, "you will please to return, in the
first place, the money you have received for your _illegal_ lottery
tickets."

The word _illegal_, pronounced in a tremendous tone, operated
instantaneously upon the Jew; his hand, which had closed upon Holloway's
guineas, opened; he laid the money down upon the table, but mechanically
seized his box of trinkets, which he seemed to fear would be the next
seized, as forfeits. No persons are so apprehensive of injustice
and fraud as those who are themselves dishonest. Mr. Carat, bowing
repeatedly to Alderman Holloway, shuffled toward the door, asking if he
might now depart; when the door opened with such a force, as almost to
push the retreating Jew upon his face.

Little Oliver, out of breath, burst into the room, whispered a few words
to Dr. B. and Alderman Holloway, who answered, "He may come in;" and
a tall, stout man, an officer from Bow-street, immediately entered.
"There's your man, sir," said the alderman, pointing to the Jew; "there
is Mr. Carat." The man instantly seized Mr. Carat, producing a warrant
from Justice--for apprehending the Jew upon suspicion of his having in
his possession certain valuable jewels, the property of Mrs. Frances
Howard.

Oliver was eager to explain. "Do you know, Howard," said he, "how all
this came about? Do you know your aunt's gone to Bow-street, and has
taken the mulatto woman with her, and Mr. Russell is gone with her?
and she thinks--and _I_ think--she'll certainly have her jewels, her
grandmother's jewels, that were left in Jamaica."

"How? but how?" exclaimed Howard.

"Why," said Oliver, "by the toothpick-case. The reason I chose that
toothpick-case out of the Jew's box was, because it came into my head,
the minute I saw it, that the mulatto woman's curious thimble--you
remember her thimble, Howard--would just fit one end of it. I ran home
and tried it, and the thimble screwed on as nicely as possible; and
the chasing, as Mr. Russell said, and the colour of the gold, matched
exactly. Oh! Mrs. Howard was so surprised when we showed it to her--so
astonished to see this toothpick-case in England; for it had been left,
she said, with all her grandmother's diamonds and _things_, in Jamaica."

"Yes," interrupted Howard; "I remember my aunt told us, when you asked
her about Cuba's thimble, that she gave it to Cuba when she was a child,
and that it belonged to some old trinket.--Go on."

"Well, where was I?--Oh, then, as soon as she saw the toothpick-case,
she asked how it had been found; and I told her all about the lottery
and Mr. Carat; then she and Mr. Russell consulted, and away they went,
with Cuba, in a coach; and all the rest you know; and I wish I could
hear the end of it!"

"And so you shall, my good little fellow; we'll all go together to hear
the Jew's examination: you shall go with me in my coach to Bow-street,"
said Alderman Holloway.

In the midst of their bustle, the poor stage-coachman, who had waited
with uncommon patience in the hope that Alderman Holloway would at
last recollect him, pressed forward, and petitioned to be paid his five
guineas for the lost parcel.--"I have lost my place already," said he,
"and the little goods I have will be seized this day, for the value of
that unlucky parcel, master."

The alderman put his hand slowly into his purse; but just when he had
pulled out five guineas, a servant came into the room, to inform Dr. B.
that a sailor was waiting in the hall, who desired to speak, directly,
about something of consequence, to the stage-coachman.

Dr. B., who imagined that the sailor might have something to do with the
business in question, ordered that he might be shown into the room.

"I wants one Gregory Giles, a stage-coachman, if such a one be here
amongst ye, gentlefolks, and nobody else," cried the sailor, producing a
parcel, wrapped up in brown paper.

"It's my very parcel!" exclaimed the stage-coachman. "I am Gregory
Giles! God bless your honest heart!--Where did ye find it?--Give it me!"

The sailor said he had found it in a dry ditch on the Bath road,
a little beyond the first turnpike, going out of town; that he had
inquired at the turnpike-house; had heard that the stage had been
overturned a few days before, and that a parcel had been lost, about
which the coachman had been in great trouble; that he had gone directly
to the inn where the coach put up; had traced the coachman from place to
place; and was heartily glad he had found him at last.

"Thank'ee, with all my heart," said the coachman, "for all the trouble
you've been at; and here's the crown reward that I offered for it, and
my thanks into the bargain."

"No, no," said the honest sailor, pushing back the money; "I won't take
any thing from a poor fellow like myself: put your silver into your
pocket: I hear you lost your place already by that parcel. There was
a great talk at the turnpike-house about your losing your place, for
giving some young gentleman a lift.--Put up your money."

All present were eager in rewarding the honest sailor.

A hackney-coach was now come to the door for Mr. Carat, and every body
hurried off as fast as possible.

"Where are they all steering to?" said the sailor. The stage-coachman
told him all that he had heard of the matter. "I'll be in their
wake, then," cried the sailor; "I shall like to see the Jew upon his
court-martial; I was choused once by a Jew myself." He got to Bow-street
as soon as they did.

The first thing Howard learned was, that the jewels, which had been all
found at Mr. Carat's, precisely answered the description which his aunt
had given of them. The Jew was in the utmost consternation: finding that
the jewels were positively sworn to, he declared, upon his examination,
that he had bought them from a captain of a ship; that he had paid the
full value for them; and that, at the time he purchased them, he had
no suspicion of their having been fraudulently obtained. This defence
appearing evidently evasive, the magistrates who examined Mr. Carat
informed him, that, unless he could produce the person from whom he had
bought the jewels, he must be committed to Newgate for receiving stolen
goods. Terrified at this sentence, the Jew, though he had at first
asserted that he knew nothing of the captain from whom he had received
the diamonds, now acknowledged that he actually lodged at his house.

"Hah!" exclaimed Holloway: "I remember, the day that I and Lord Rawson
called at your house, you were settling accounts, your foreman told us,
with a captain of a ship, who was to leave England in a few days: it's
well he's not off."

An officer was immediately sent to Mr. Carat's in quest of this captain;
but there were great apprehensions that he might have escaped at the
first alarm of the search for the jewels. Fortunately, however, he had
not been able to get off, as two constables had been stationed at
Mr. Carat's house. The officer from Bow-street found him in his own
bed-chamber, rummaging a portmanteau for some papers, which he wanted
to burn. His papers were seized, and carried along with him before the
magistrate.

Alderman Holloway knew the captain the moment he was brought into the
room, though his dress and whole appearance were very different from
what they had been when he had waited upon the alderman some months
before this time, with a dismal, plausible story of his own poverty
and misfortunes. He had then told him that his mate and he had had
a quarrel, upon the voyage from Jamaica; that the mate knew what a
valuable cargo he had on board; that just when they got in sight of
land, the crew rose upon him; the mate seized him, and by force put him
into a boat, and set him ashore.

The discovery of the jewels at Mr. Carat's at once overturned the
captain's whole story: cunning people often insert something in their
narration to make it better, which ultimately tends to convict them
of falsehood. The captain having now no other resource, and having the
horrors of imprisonment, and the certainty of condemnation upon a public
trial, full before him, threw himself, as the only chance that remained
for him, upon Mrs. Howard's mercy; confessed that all that he had told
her before was false; that his mate and he had acted in concert; that
the rising of the crew against him had been contrived between them; that
he had received the jewels, when he was set ashore, for his immediate
share of the booty; and that the mate had run the ship off to
Charlestown, to sell her cargo. According to agreement, the captain
added, he was to have had a share in the cargo; but the mate had
_cheated him_ of that; he had never heard from him, or of him, he would
take his oath, from the day he was set ashore, and knew nothing of him
or the cargo.

"Avast, friend, by your leave," cried the honest sailor who had found
the stage-coachman's parcel--"avast, friend, by your leave," said he,
elbowing his way between Alderman Holloway and his next neighbour,
and getting clear into the middle of the circle--"I know more of this
matter, _my lord_, or please your worship, which is much the same thing,
than any body here; and I'm glad on't, mistress," continued the tar,
pulling a quid of tobacco out of his mouth, and addressing himself to
Mrs. Howard: then turning to the captain, "Wasn't _she_ the _Lively
Peggy_, pray?--it's no use tacking. Wasn't your mate one John Matthews,
pray? Captain, your face tells truth, in spite of your teeth."

The captain instantly grew pale, and trembled: on which the sailor
turned abruptly from him, and went on with his story. "Mistress," said
he, "though I'm a loser by it, no matter. The Lively Peggy and her cargo
are safe and sound in Plymouth, at this very time being, and we have her
mate in limbo, curse him. We made a prize of him, coming from America,
for he was under French colours, and a fine prize we thought we'd made.
But her cargo belongs to a British subject; and there's an end to our
prize money: no matter for that. There was an ugly look with Matthews
from the first; and I found, the day we took her, something odd in the
look of her stern. The rascals had done their best to paint over her
name; but _I_, though no great scholar, made a shift to spell the Lively
Peggy through it all. We have the mate in limbo at Plymouth: but it's
all come out, without any more to do; and, mistress, I'll get you her
bill of lading in a trice, and I give ye joy with all my heart."

Alderman Holloway, a man used to business, would not indulge himself in
a single compliment upon this occasion, till he had cautiously searched
the captain's papers. The bill of lading which had been sent with the
Lively Peggy from Jamaica, was found amongst them; it was an exact list,
corresponding precisely with that which Mrs. Howard's agent had sent her
by post, of the consignment shipped after the sale of her plantation.
The alderman, satisfied, after counting the puncheons of rum and
hogsheads of sugar, turned to Mrs. Howard, and shook hands with her,
with a face of mercantile congratulation, declaring that "she was now as
good a woman as ever she had been, and need never desire to be better."

"My dear Oliver," cried Howard, "this is all owing to you: _you_
discovered--"

"No, no, no!" interrupted Oliver, precipitately: "all that I did was
accident; all that you did was not accident. You first made me love you,
by teaching me that I was not a blockhead, and by freeing me from--"

"_A tyrant_, you were going to say," cried Holloway, colouring deeply;
"and, if you had, you'd have said the truth. I thought; Howard,
_afterwards_, that you were a brave fellow for taking his part, I
confess. But, Oliver, I thought you had forgiven me for all these
things."

"Forgiven! Oh yes, to be sure," cried little Oliver; "I wasn't thinking
of myself, or you either; I was only thinking of Howard's good nature;
and then," continued he, "Howard was just as good to the mulatto woman
as he was to me--wasn't he, Cuba?"

"That he was!" replied the poor woman; and, looking at Mrs. Howard,
added, "Massa's _heart_ as good as hers."

"And his _head's_ as good as his heart, which makes it all better
still," continued Oliver, with enthusiasm. "Mr. Russell, you know how
hard he worked at that translation, to earn money to support poor
Cuba, and to paper the room, and to pay the bricklayer _for_ the smoky
chimney: these things were not done by accident, were they? though it
was by accident that I happened to observe Cuba's curious thimble."

"There are some people," interrupted Mr. Russell, "who, by accident,
never observe any thing. We will not allow you, Oliver, to call your
quick habit of observation accident; your excellent capacity will--"

"_My_ excellent capacity," repeated Oliver, with unfeigned surprise:
"why, you know, I get by rote slower than any body in the world."

"You may," said Dr. B., "notwithstanding, have an excellent capacity:
much may be learned without books; much more with books, Oliver; but,
for your comfort, you need not learn them by rote."

"I'm glad of it, heartily," cried Oliver; "but this put something out
of my head that I was in a great hurry to say--O, one other thing
about _accident_. It was not _accident_, but it was Howard's sense, in
persuading me not to put into the lottery, that was the very cause of
Dr. B.'s giving me the choice of all the things in the Jew's box--was it
not?"

"Well, Oliver, we are ready to allow all you want us to perceive, in one
word, that your friend Howard _has not been educated by accident_," said
Dr. B., looking at Mrs. Howard.

The Jew and the captain of the Lively Peggy were now left in the hands
of the law. The sailor was properly rewarded. Mr. Russell was engaged to
superintend the education of Holloway. He succeeded, and was presented
by the alderman with a living in Surrey. Mr. Supine never visited Italy,
and did not meet with any consolation but in his German flute. Howard
continued eager to improve himself; nor did he imagine that, the moment
he left school, and parted from his tutor, his education was finished,
and that his books were, "like past misfortunes," good for nothing
but to be forgotten. His love for literature he found one of the first
pleasures of his life; nor did he, after he came into the possession of
a large fortune, find that his habits of constant occupation lessened
his enjoyments, for he was never known to yawn at a window upon a rainy
morning!

Little Oliver's understanding rapidly improved; his affection for his
friend Howard increased as he grew up, for he always remembered that
Howard was the first person who discovered that he was not a dunce. Mrs.
Howard had the calm satisfaction of seeing an education well finished,
which she had well begun; and she enjoyed, in her nephew's friendship,
esteem, and unconstrained gratitude, all the rewards which her good
sense, firmness, and benevolence had so well deserved.






ANGELINA; OR, L'AMIE INCONNUE.


CHAPTER I.

"But, my dear Lady Di., indeed you should not let this affair prey so
continually upon your spirits," said Miss Burrage, in the condoling tone
of a humble companion--"you really have almost fretted yourself into a
nervous fever. I was in hopes that change of air, and change of scene,
would have done every thing for you, or I never would have consented
to your leaving London; for you know your ladyship's always better in
London than any where else. And I'm sure your ladyship has thought and
talked of nothing but this sad affair since you came to Clifton."

"I confess," said Lady Diana Chillingworth, "I deserve the reproaches
of my friends for giving way to my sensibility, as I do, upon this
occasion: but I own I cannot help it.--Oh, what will the world say! What
will the world say!--The world will lay all the blame upon _me_; yet I'm
sure I'm the last, the very last person that ought to be blamed."

"Assuredly," replied Miss Burrage, "nobody can blame your ladyship;
and nobody will, I am persuaded. The blame will all be thrown, where it
ought to be, upon the young lady herself."

"If I could but be convinced of that," said her ladyship, in a tone of
great feeling; "such a young creature, scarcely sixteen, to take such
a step!--I am sure I wish to Heaven her father had never made me her
guardian. I confess, I was most exceedingly imprudent, out of regard
to her family, to take under my protection such a self-willed,
unaccountable, romantic girl. Indeed, my dear," continued Lady Diana
Chillingworth, turning to her sister, Lady Frances Somerset, "it was you
that misled me. You remember you used to tell me, that Anne Warwick had
such great abilities!"--

"That I thought it a pity they had not been well directed," said Lady
Frances.

"And such generosity of temper, and such warm affections!" said Lady
Di.--

"That I regretted their not having been properly cultivated."

"I confess, Miss Warwick was never a great favourite of mine," said Miss
Barrage; "but now that she has lost her best friend--"

"She is likely to find a great number of enemies," said Lady Frances.

"She has been her own enemy, poor girl! I am sure I pity her," replied
Miss Burrage; "but, at the same time, I must say, that ever since she
came to my Lady Di. Chillingworth's, she has had good advice enough."

"Too much, perhaps; which is worse than too little," thought Lady
Frances.

"Advice!" repeated Lady Di. Chillingworth: "why, as to that, my
conscience, I own, acquits me there; for, to be sure, no young person,
of her age, or of any age, had ever more advice, or more good advice,
than Miss Warwick had from me; I thought it my duty to advise her, and
advise her I did from morning till night, as Miss Burrage very well
knows, and will do me the justice, I hope, to say in all companies."

"_That_ I shall certainly make it a principle to do," said Miss Burrage.
"I am sure it would surprise and grieve you, Lady Frances, to hear
the sort of foolish, imprudent things that Miss. Warwick, with all her
abilities, used to say. I recollect--"

"Very possibly," replied Lady Frances; "but why should we trouble
ourselves to recollect all the foolish, imprudent things which this poor
girl may have said?--This unfortunate elopement is a sufficient proof of
her folly and imprudence. With whom did she go off?"

"With nobody," cried Lady Diana--"there's the wonder."

"With nobody!--Incredible.--She had certainly some admirer, some lover,
and she was afraid, I suppose, to mention the business to you."

"No such thing, my dear: there is no love at all in the case: indeed,
for my part, I cannot in the least comprehend Miss Warwick, nor ever
could. She used, every now and then, to begin and talk to me some
nonsense about her hatred of the forms of the world, and her love
of liberty, and I know not what; and then she had some female
correspondent, to whom she used to write folio sheets, twice a week, I
believe; but I could never see any of these letters. Indeed, in town,
you know, I could not possibly have leisure for such things; but Miss
Burrage, I fancy, has one of the letters, if you have any curiosity
to see it. Miss Burrage can tell you a great deal more of the whole
business than I can; for you know, in London, engaged as I always was,
with scarcely a moment ever to myself, how could I attend to all Anne
Warwick's oddities? I protest I know nothing of the matter, but that,
one morning, Miss Warwick was nowhere to be found, and my maid brought
me a letter, of one word of which I could not make sense: the letter was
found on the young lady's dressing-table, according to the usual custom
of eloping heroines. Miss Burrage, do show Lady Frances the letters--you
have them somewhere; and tell my sister all you know of the matter,
for I declare, I'm quite tired of it; besides, I shall be wanted at the
card-table."

Lady Diana Chillingworth went to calm her sensibility at the card-table;
and Lady Frances turned to Miss Burrage, for further information.

"All I know," said Miss Burrage, "is, that one night I saw Miss Warwick
putting a lock of frightful hair into a locket, and I asked her whose it
was.--'My amiable Araminta's,' said Miss Warwick, 'Is she pretty?' said
I. 'I have never seen her,' said Miss Warwick; 'but I will show you a
charming picture of her mind!'--and she put this long letter into my
hand. I'll leave it with your ladyship, if you please; it is a good, or
rather a bad hour's work to read it."

"_Araminta!_" exclaimed Lady Frances, looking at the signature of the
letter--"this is only a nom de guerre, I suppose."

"Heaven knows!" answered Miss Burrage; "but Miss Warwick always signed
her epistles Angelina, and her _unknown friend's_ were always signed
Araminta. I do suspect that Araminta, whoever she is, was the instigator
of this elopement."

"I wish," said Lady Frances, examining the post-mark of the letter,
"I wish that we could find out where Araminta lives; we might then,
perhaps, recover this poor Miss Warwick, before the affair is talked of
in the world--before her reputation is injured."

"It would certainly be a most desirable thing," said Miss Burrage; "but
Miss Warwick has such odd notions, that I question whether she will ever
behave like other people; and, for my part, I cannot blame Lady Diana
Chillingworth for giving her up. She is one of those young ladies whom
it is scarcely possible to manage by common sense."

"It is certainly true," said Lady Frances, "that young women of Miss
Warwick's superior abilities require something more than _common_ sense
to direct them properly. Young ladies who think of nothing but dress,
public amusements, and forming what they call high connexions, are
undoubtedly most easily managed, by the fear of what the world will
say of them; but Miss Warwick appeared to me to have higher ideas of
excellence; and I therefore regret that she should be totally given up
by her friends."

"It is Miss Warwick who has given up her friends," said Miss Burrage,
with a mixture of embarrassment and sarcasm in her manner; "it is Miss
Warwick who has given up her friends; not Miss Warwick's friends who
have given up Miss Warwick."

The letter from the "amiable Araminta," which Miss Burrage left for
the pervsal of Lady Frances Somerset, contained three folio sheets, of
which, it is hoped, the following abridgment will be sufficiently ample
to satisfy the curiosity even of those who are lovers of long letters:--

"Yes, my Angelina! our hearts are formed for that higher species of
friendship, of which common souls are inadequate to form an idea,
however their fashionable puerile lips may, in the intellectual inanity
of their conversation, profane the term. Yes, my Angelina, you are
right--every fibre of my frame, every energy of my intellect, tells
me so. I read your letter by moonlight! The air balmy and pure as my
Angelina's thoughts! The river silently meandering!--The rocks!--The
woods!--Nature in all her majesty. Sublime confidante! Sympathizing with
my supreme felicity. And shall I confess to you, friend of my soul! that
I could not refuse myself the pleasure of reading to my Orlando some of
those passages in your last, which evince so powerfully the superiority
of that understanding, which, if I mistake not strangely, is formed to
combat, in all its Proteus forms, the system of social slavery? With
what soul-rending eloquence does my Angelina describe the solitariness,
the _isolation_ of the heart she experiences in a crowded metropolis!
With what emphatic energy of inborn independence does she
exclaim against the family phalanx of her aristocratic
persecutors!-Surely--surely she will not be intimidated from
'the settled purpose of her soul' by the phantom-fear of worldly
censure!--The garnish-tinselled wand of fashion has waved in vain in
the illuminated halls of folly-painted pleasure; my Angelina's eyes have
withstood, yes, without a blink, the dazzling enchantment.--And will
she--no, I cannot, I will not think so for an instant--will she now
submit her understanding, spell-bound, to the soporific charm of
nonsensical words, uttered in an awful tone by that potent enchantress,
_Prejudice_?--The declamation, the remonstrances of self-elected judges
of right and wrong, should be treated with deserved contempt by superior
minds, who claim the privilege of thinking and acting for themselves.
The words _ward_ and _guardian_ appal my Angelina! but what are legal
technical formalities, what are human institutions, to the view of
shackle-scorning Reason! Oppressed, degraded, enslaved, must our
unfortunate sex for ever submit to sacrifice their rights, their
pleasures, their _will_, at the altar of public opinion; whilst the
shouts of interested priests, and idle spectators, raise the senseless
enthusiasm of the self-devoted victim, or drown her cries in the
truth-extorting moment of agonizing nature!--You will not perfectly
understand, perhaps, to what these last exclamations of your Araminta
allude:--But, chosen friend of my heart!--when we meet--and oh, let
that be quickly!--my cottage longs for the arrival of my unsophisticated
Angelina!--when we meet you shall know all--your Araminta, too, has had
her sorrows--Enough of this!--But her Orlando has a heart, pure as the
infantine god of love could, in his most perfect mood, delight at once
to wound, and own--joined to an understanding--shall I say it?--worthy
to judge of your Araminta's--And will not my sober-minded Angelina
prefer, to all that palaces can afford, such society in a cottage?--I
shall reserve for my next the description of a cottage, which I have in
my eye, within view of--; but I will not anticipate.--Adieu, my
amiable Angelina.--I enclose, as you desire, a lock of my hair.--Ever,
unalterably, your affectionate, though almost heart-broken,

"ARAMINTA.

"April, 1800.--_Angelina Bower!_

"So let me christen my cottage!"

What effect this letter may have on _sober-minded_ readers in general
can easily be guessed; but Miss Warwick, who was little deserving of
this epithet, was so charmed with the sound of it, that it made her
totally to forget to judge of her amiable Araminta's mode of reasoning.
"Garnish-tinselled wands"--"shackle-scorning Reason"--"isolation of
the heart"--"soul-rending eloquence"--with "rocks and woods, and a
meandering river--balmy air--moonlight--Orlando--energy of intellect--a
cottage--and a heart-broken friend," made, when all mixed together,
strange confusion in Angelina's imagination. She neglected to
observe, that her Araminta was in the course of two pages--"almost
heart-broken"--and in the possession of--"supreme felicity."--Yet Miss
Warwick, though she judged so like a simpleton, was a young woman of
considerable abilities: her want of what the world calls common sense
arose from certain mistakes in her education.--She had passed her
childhood with a father and mother, who cultivated her literary taste,
but who neglected to cultivate her judgment: her reading was confined
to works of imagination; and the conversation which she heard was not
calculated to give her any knowledge of realities. Her parents died
when she was about fourteen, and she then went to reside with Lady Diana
Chillingworth, a lady who placed her whole happiness in living in a
certain circle of high company in London. Miss Warwick saw the follies
of the society with which she now mixed; she felt insupportable ennui
from the want of books and conversation suited to her taste; she heard
with impatience Lady Diana's dogmatical advice; observed, with disgust,
the meanness of her companion, Miss Burrage, and felt with triumph the
superiority of her own abilities. It was in this situation of her mind
that Miss Warwick happened, at a circulating library, to meet with a
new novel, called "The Woman of Genius."--The character of Araminta, the
heroine, charmed her beyond measure; and having been informed, by
the preface, that the story was founded on facts in the life of the
authoress herself, she longed to become acquainted with her; and
addressed a letter to "The Woman of Genius," at her publisher's. The
letter was answered in a highly flattering, and consequently, very
agreeable style, and the correspondence continued for nearly two years;
till, at length, Miss W. formed a strong desire to see her _unknown
friend_. The ridicule with which Miss Burrage treated every thing, and
every idea, that was not sanctioned by fashion, and her total want of
any taste for literature, were continually contrasted in Miss Warwick's
mind, with the picture she had formed of her Araminta.--Miss Burrage,
who dreaded, though certainly without reason, that she might be
supplanted in the good graces of Lady Diana, endeavoured by every petty
means in her power, to disgust her young rival with the situation in
which she was placed. She succeeded beyond her hopes. Miss Warwick
determined to accept of her _unknown friend's_ invitation to Angelina
Bower--a charming romantic cottage in South Wales, where, according to
Araminta's description, she might pass her halcyon days in tranquil,
elegant retirement. It was not difficult for our heroine, though unused
to deception, to conceal her project from Lady Diana Chillingworth, who
was much more observant of the appearance of her protegee in public,
than interested about what passed in her mind in private. Miss Warwick
quitted her ladyship's house without the least difficulty, and the
following is the letter which our heroine left upon her dressing-table.
Under all the emphatic words, according to the custom of some
letter-writers, were drawn emphatic lines.

"Averse as I am to every thing that may have the appearance of a
clandestine transaction, I have, however, found myself under the
necessity of leaving your ladyship's house, without imparting to you my
intentions. Confidence and sympathy go hand in hand, nor can either
be _commanded_ by the voice of authority. Your ladyship's opinions and
mine, upon _all_ subjects, differ so _essentially_, that I could never
hope for your approbation, either of my _sentiments_ or my conduct.
It is my _unalterable determination_ to _act_ and _think_ upon every
occasion for myself; though I am well aware, that they who start out of
the common track, either in words or action, are exposed to the ridicule
and persecution of vulgar or illiberal minds. They who venture to carry
the _first_ torch into _unexplored_ or _unfrequented_ passages in the
mine of truth are exposed to the most imminent danger. Rich, however,
are the treasures of the place, and cowardly the soul that hesitates!
But I forget myself.

"It may be necessary to inform your ladyship, that, disgusted with the
frivolity of what is called fashionable life, and _unable_ to _live_
without the higher pleasures of friendship, I have chosen for my asylum
the humble, tranquil cottage of a female friend, whose tastes, whose
principles have long been known to me: whose _genius_ I admire! whose
_virtues_ I revere! Whose example I _emulate!_

"Though I do not condescend to use the fulsome language of _a mean
dependant_, I am not forgetful of the kindness I have received from
your ladyship. It has not been without a _painful_ struggle that I have
broken my bonds asunder--the bonds of what is _falsely_ called _duty:
spontaneous_ gratitude ever will have full, _indisputable, undisputed_
power over the _heart_ and _understanding_ of

"ANNE-ANGELINA WARWICK.

"P.S. It will be in vain to attempt to discover the place of my retreat.
All I ask is to be left in peace, to enjoy, in my retirement, _perfect
felicity_."



CHAPTER II.


Full of her hopes of finding "perfect felicity" in her retreat at
Angelina Bower, exulting in the idea of the courage and magnanimity with
which she had escaped from her "aristocratic persecutors," our heroine
pursued her journey to South Wales.

She had the misfortune--and it is a great misfortune to a young lady of
her way of thinking--to meet with no difficulties or adventures, nothing
interesting upon her journey. She arrived, with inglorious safety, at
Cardiffe. The inn at Cardiffe was kept by a landlady of the name of
Hoel. "Not high-born Hoel. Alas!" said Angelina to herself, when the
name was screamed in her hearing by a waiter, as she walked into the
inn. "Vocal no more to high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellynn's lay!"
A harper was sitting in the passage, and he tuned his harp to catch her
attention as she passed. "A harp!--O play for me some plaintive air!"
The harper followed her into a small parlour.

"How delightful!" said Miss Warwick, who, in common with other heroines,
had the habit of talking to herself; or, to use more dignified terms,
who had the habit of indulging in soliloquy:--"how delightful to taste
at last the air of Wales. But 'tis a pity 'tis not North instead of
South Wales, and Conway instead of Cardiffe Castle."

The harper, after he had finished playing a melancholy air, exclaimed,
"That was but a melancholy ditty, miss--we'll try a merrier." And he
began--

"Of a noble race was Shenkin."

"No more," cried Angelina, stopping her ears; "no more, barbarous
man!--you break the illusion."

"Break the what?" said the harper to himself; "I thought, miss, that
tune would surely please you; for it is a favourite one in these parts."

"A favourite with Welsh squires, perhaps," said our heroine; "but,
unfortunately, _I_ am not a Welsh squire, and have no taste for your
'Bumper Squire Jones.'"

The man tuned his harp sullenly. "I'm sorry for it, miss," said he:
"more's the pity, I can't please you better!"

Angelina cast upon him a look of contempt. "He no way fills my idea of a
bard!--an ancient and immortal bard!--He has no soul--fingers without a
soul!--No 'master's hand, 'or 'prophet's fire!'--No 'deep sorrows!'--No
'sable garb of woe!'--No loose beard, or hoary hair, 'streaming like a
meteor to the troubled air!'--'No haggard eyes!'--Heigho!"--"It is time
for me to be going," said the harper, who began to think, by the young
lady's looks and manners, that she was not in her right understanding.
"It is time for me to be going; the gentlemen above in the Dolphin will
be ready for me."

"A mere modern harper! He is not even blind," Angelina said to herself,
as he examined the shilling which she gave him. "Begone, for Heaven's
sake!" added she, aloud, as he left the room;--and "leave me, leave
me to repose." She threw up the sash, to taste the evening air; but
scarcely had she begun to repeat a sonnet to her Araminta--scarcely had
she repeated the first two lines--

     "Hail, far-famed, fairest, unknown friend,
     Our sacred silent sympathy of soul,"

when a little ragged Welsh boy, who was playing with his companions, in
a field at the back of Cardifie Inn, espied her, gave the signal to his
playfellows, and immediately they all came running up to the window at
which Angelina was standing, and with one loud shrill chorus of "Gi'
me ha'penny!--Gi' me ha'penny!--Gi' me one ha'penny!" interrupted
the sonnet, Angelina threw out some money to the boys, though she was
provoked by their interruption: her donation was, in the true spirit of
a heroine, much greater than the occasion required and the consequence
was, that these urchins, by spreading the fame of her generosity through
the town of Cardiffe, collected a Lilliputian mob of petitioners, who
assailed Angelina with fresh vehemence. Not a moment's peace, not a
moment for poetry or reverie would they allow her: so that she was
impatient for her chaise to come to the door. Her Araminta's cottage
was but six miles distant from Cardiffe; and to speak in due sentimental
language, every moment that delayed her long-expected interview with her
beloved unknown friend, appeared to her an age.

"And what would you be pleased to have for supper, ma'am?" said the
landlady. "We have fine Tenby oysters, ma'am; and, if you'd like a Welsh
rabbit--"

"Tenby oysters!--Welsh rabbits!" repeated Angelina, in a disdainful
tone. "Oh, detain me not in this cruel manner!--I want no Tenby oysters,
I want no Welsh rabbits; only let me be gone--I am all impatience to
see a dear friend. Oh, if you have any feeling, any humanity, detain me
not!" cried she, clasping her hands.

Miss Warwick had an ungovernable propensity to make a display of
sensibility; a fine theatrical scene upon every occasion; a propensity
which she had acquired from novel-reading. It was never more unluckily
displayed than in the present instance; for her audience and spectators,
consisting of the landlady, a waiter, and a Welsh boy, who just entered
the room with a knife-tray in his hand, were all more inclined to burst
into rude laughter than to join in gentle sympathy. The chaise did not
come to the door one moment sooner than it would have done without this
pathetic wringing of the hands. As soon as Angelina drove from the door,
the landlady's curiosity broke forth--

"Pray tell me, Hugh Humphries," said Mrs. Hoel, turning to the
postilion, who drove Angelina from Newport, "pray, now, does not this
seem strange, that such a young lady as this should be travelling about
in such wonderful haste? I believe, by her flighty airs, she is upon no
good errand--and I would have her to know, at any rate, that she might
have done better than to sneer, in that way, at Mrs. Hoel of Cardiffe,
and her Tenby oysters, and her Welsh rabbit. Oh, I'll make her repent
her _pe_haviour to Mrs. Hoel, of Cardiffe. 'Not high-born Hoel,'
forsooth! How does she know that, I should be glad to hear? The Hoels
are as high born, I'll venture to say, as my young miss herself, I've a
notion! and would scorn, moreover, to have a runaway lady for a relation
of theirs. Oh, she shall learn to repent her disrespects to Mrs. Hoel,
of Cardiffe. I _pe_lieve she shall soon meet herself in the public
newspapers--her eyes, and her nose, and her hair, and her inches, and
her description at full length she shall see--and her friends shall
see it too--and maybe they shall thank, and maybe they shall reward
handsomely Mrs. Hoel, of Cardiffe."

Whilst the angry Welsh landlady was thus forming projects of revenge for
the contempt with which she imagined that her high birth and her Tenby
oysters had been treated, Angelina pursued her journey towards the
cottage of her unknown friend, forming charming pictures, in her
imagination, of the manner in which her amiable Araminta would start,
and weep, and faint, perhaps with joy and surprise, at the sight of her
Angelina. It was a fine moonlight night--an unlucky circumstance; for
the by-road which led to Angelina Bower was so narrow and bad, that
if the night had been dark, our heroine must infallibly have been
overturned, and this overturn would have been a delightful incident in
the history of her journey; but Fate ordered it otherwise. Miss Warwick
had nothing to lament, but that her delicious reveries were interrupted,
for several miles, by the Welsh postilion's expostulations with his
horses.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed she, "cannot the man hold his tongue? His
uncouth vociferations distract me! So fine a scene, so placid the
moonlight--but there is always something that is not in perfect unison
with one's feelings."

"Miss, if you please, you must light here, and walk for a matter of a
quarter of a mile, for I can't drive up to the house door, because there
is no carriage-road down the lane; but if you be pleased, I'll go on
before you--my horses will stand quite quiet here--and I'll knock the
folks up for you, miss."

"Folks!--Oh, don't talk to me of knocking folks up," cried Angelina,
springing out of the carriage "stay with your horses, man, I beseech
you. You shall be summoned when you are wanted--I choose to walk up to
the cottage alone."

"As you please, miss," said the postilion; "only _hur_ had better take
care of the dogs."

This last piece of sage counsel was lost upon our heroine; she heard it
not--she was "rapt into future times."

"By moonlight will be our first interview--just as I had pictured to
myself--but can this be the cottage?--It does not look quite so romantic
as I expected--but 'tis the dwelling of my Araminta--Happy, thrice
happy moment!--Now for our secret signal--I am to sing the first, and my
unknown friend the second part of the same air."

Angelina then began to sing the following stanza--

     "O waly waly up the bank,
     And waly waly down the brae,
     And waly waly yon burn side,
     Where I and my love were wont to gae."

She sung and paused, in expectation of hearing the second part from her
amiable Araminta--but no voice was heard.

"All is hushed," said Angelina--"ever tranquil be her slumbers! Yet
I must waken her--her surprise and joy at seeing me thus will be so
great!--by moonlight too!"

She knocked at the cottage window--still no answer.

"All silent as night!" said she--

"'When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts
the solemn scene.'"

Angelina, as she repeated these lines, stood with her back to the
cottage window: the window opened, and a Welsh servant girl put out her
head; her night-cap, if cap it might be called which shape had none, was
half off, her black hair streamed over her shoulders, and her face was
the face of vulgar, superstitious amazement.

"Oh, 'tis our old ghost of Nelly Gwynn, all in white, walking and saying
her prayers backwards--I heard 'em quite plain, as I hope to breathe,"
said the terrified girl to herself; and, shutting the window with a
trembling hand, she hastened to waken an old woman, who slept in
the same room with her.--Angelina, whose patience was by this time
exhausted, went to the door of the cottage, and shook it with all her
force.--It rattled loud, and a shrill scream was heard from within.

"A scream!" cried Angelina; "Oh, my Araminta!--All is hushed
again."--Then raising her voice, she called as loudly as she could at
the window--"My Araminta! my unknown friend! be not alarmed, 'tis your
Angelina."

The door opened slowly and softly, and a slip-shod beldam peeped out,
leaning upon a stick; the head of Betty Williams appeared over the
shoulder of this sibyl; Angelina was standing, in a pensive attitude,
listening at the cottage window. At this instant the postilion, who was
tired of waiting, came whistling up the lane; he carried a trunk on his
back, and a bag in his hand. As soon as the old woman saw him, she held
up her stick, exclaiming--

"A man! a man!--a ropper and murterer!--Cot suve us! and keep the door
fast polted."--They shut the door instantly.

"What is all this?" said Angelina, with dignified composure.

"A couple of fools, I take it, miss, who are afraid and in tred of
roppers," said the postilion; "put I'll make 'em come out, I'll be
pound, plockheads."--So saying, he went to the door of Angelina Bower,
and thundered and kicked at it, speaking all the time very volubly
in Welsh. In about a quarter of an hour he made them comprehend that
Angelina was a young lady come to visit their mistress: then they came
forth curtsying.

"My name's Betty Williams," said the girl, who was tying a clean cap
under her chin. "Welcome to Llanwaetur, miss!--pe pleased to excuse our
keeping hur waiting, and polting the toor, and taking hur for a ghost
and a ropper--put we know who you are now--the young lady from London,
that we have been told to expect."

"Oh, then, I have been expected; all's right--and my Araminta, where is
she? where is she?"

"Welcome to Llanwaetur, welcome to Llanwaetur, and Cot pless hur pretty
face," said the old woman, who followed Betty Williams out of the
cottage.

"Hur's my grandmother, miss," said Betty.

"Very likely--but let me see my Araminta," cried Angelina: "cruel woman!
where is she, I say?"

"Cot pless hur!--Cot pless hur pretty face," repeated the old woman,
curtsying.

"My grandmother's as deaf as a post, miss--don't mind her; she can't
tell Inglis well, put I can:--who would you pe pleased to have?"

"In plain English, then--the lady who lives in this cottage."

"Our Miss Hodges?"

This odious name of Hodges provoked Angelina, who was so used to call
her friend Araminta, that she had almost forgotten her real name.

"Oh, miss," continued Betty Williams, "Miss Hodges has gone to Pristol
for a few days."

"Gone! how unlucky! my Araminta gone!"

"Put Miss Hodges will pe pack on Tuesday--Miss Hodges did not expect hur
till Thursday--put her ped is very well aired--pe pleased to walk in,
and light hur a candle, and get hur a nightcap."

"Heigho! must I sleep again without seeing my Araminta!--Well, but I
shall sleep in a cottage for the first time in my life--

"'The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed.'"

At this moment, Angelina, forgetting to stoop, hit herself a violent
blow as she was entering Angelina Bower--the roof of which, indeed, "was
too low for so lofty a head."--A headache came on, which kept her awake
the greatest part of the night. In the morning she set about to explore
the cottage; it was nothing like the species of elegant retirement,
of which she had drawn such a charming picture in her imagination. It
consisted of three small bedchambers, which were more like what she had
been used to call closets; a parlour, the walls of which were, in many
places, stained with damp; and a kitchen which smoked. The scanty,
moth-eaten furniture of the rooms was very different from the luxury and
elegance to which Angelina had been accustomed in the apartments of Lady
Diana Chillingworth. Coarse and ill-dressed was the food which Betty
Williams with great bustle and awkwardness served up to her guest;
but Angelina was no epicure. The first dinner which she ate on wooden
trenchers delighted her; the second, third, fourth, and fifth, appeared
less and less delectable; so that by the time she had boarded one week
at her cottage, she was completely convinced that

     "A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied,
     And water from the spring,"

though delightful to Goldsmith's Hermit, are not quite so satisfactory
in actual practice as in poetic theory; at least to a young lady who had
been habituated to all the luxuries of fashionable life. It was in vain
that our heroine repeated

     "Man wants but little here below:"

She found that even the want of double refined sugar, of green tea, and
Mocha coffee, was sensibly felt. Hour after hour, and day after day,
passed with Angelina, in anxious expectation of her Araminta's return
home. Her time hung heavy upon her hands, for she had no companion with
whom she could converse; and one odd volume of Rousseau's Eloise, and a
few well-thumbed German plays, were the only books which she could find
in the house. There was, according to Betty Williams's report, "a vast
sight of books in a press, along with some table-cloths," but Miss
Hodges had the key of this press in her pocket. Deprived of the
pleasures both of reading and conversation, Angelina endeavoured to
amuse herself by contemplating the beauties of nature. There were some
wild, solitary walks in the neighbourhood of Angelina Bower; but though
our heroine was delighted with these, she wanted, in her rambles,
some kindred soul, to whom she might exclaim--"How charming is
solitude[1]!"--The day after her arrival in Wales, she wrote a long
letter to Araminta, which Betty Williams undertook to send by a careful
lad, a particular friend of her own, who would deliver it, without fail,
into Miss Hodges's own hands, and who would engage to bring an answer
by three o'clock the next day. The careful lad did not return till four
days afterward, and he then could give no account of his mission, except
that he had left the letter at Bristol, with a particular friend of his
own, who would deliver it, without fail, into Miss Hodges's own hands,
if he could meet with her. The post seems to be the last expedient which
a heroine ever thinks of for the conveyance of her letters; so that,
if we were to judge from the annals of romance, we should infallibly
conclude there was no such thing as a post-office in England. On the
sixth day of her abode at this comfortless cottage, the possibility of
sending a letter to her friend by the post occurred to Angelina, and she
actually discovered that there was a post-office at Cardiffe. Before she
could receive an answer to this epistle, a circumstance happened, which
made her determine to abandon her present retreat. One evening she
rambled out to a considerable distance from the cottage, and it was long
after sunset ere she recollected that it would be necessary to return
homewards before it grew dark. She mistook her way at last, and
following a sheep-path, down the steep side of a mountain, she came to
a point, at which she, apparently, could neither advance nor recede. A
stout Welsh farmer who was counting his sheep in a field, at the top of
the mountain, happened to look down its steep side in search of one of
his flock that was missing: the farmer saw something white at a distance
below him, but there was a mist--it was dusk in the evening--and whether
it were a woman, or a sheep, he could not he certain. In the hope that
Angelina was his lost sheep, he went to her assistance, and though, upon
a nearer view, he was disappointed, in finding that she was a woman, yet
he had the humanity to hold out his stick to her, and he helped her
up by it, with some difficulty. One of her slippers fell off as she
scrambled up the hill--there was no recovering it; her other slipper,
which was of the thinnest kid leather, was cut through by the stones;
her silk stockings were soon stained with the blood of her tender feet;
and it was with real gratitude that she accepted the farmer's offer, to
let her pass the night at his farmhouse, which was within view. Angelina
Bower was, according to his computation, about four miles distant,
as well, he said, as he could judge of the place she meant by her
description: she had unluckily forgotten that the common name of it
was Llanwaetur. At the farmer's house, she was, at first, hospitably
received, by a tight-looking woman; but she had not been many minutes
seated, before she found herself the object of much curiosity and
suspicion. In one corner of the room, at a small round table, with a
jug of ale before him, sat a man, who looked like the picture of a Welsh
squire: a candle had just been lighted for his worship, for he was
a magistrate, and a great man, in those parts, for he could read the
newspaper, and his company was, therefore, always welcome to the farmer,
who loved to hear the news, and the reader was paid for his trouble with
good ale, which he loved even better than literature.

[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]

"What news, Mr. Evans?" said the farmer.

"What news?" repeated Mr. Evans, looking up from his paper, with a
sarcastic smile. "Why, news that might not be altogether so agreeable to
the whole of this good company; so 'tis best to keep it to ourselves."

"Every thing's agreeable to me, I'm sure," said the farmer--"every
thing's agreeable to me in the way of news."

"And to me, not excepting politics, which you gentlemen always think
so polite," said the farmer's wife, "to keep to yourselves; but,
you recollect, I was used to politics when I lived with my uncle at
Cardiffe; not having, though a farmer's wife, always lived in the
country, as you see, ma'am--nor being quite illiterate.--Well, Mr.
Evans, let us have it. What news of the fleets?"

Mr. Evans made no reply, but pointed out a passage in the newspaper to
the farmer, who leant over his shoulder, in vain endeavouring to spell
and put it together: his smart wife, whose curiosity was at least equal
to her husband's, ran immediately to peep at the wonderful paragraph,
and she read aloud the beginning of an advertisement:--

"Suspected to have strayed, or eloped, from her friends or relations,
a young lady, seemingly not more than sixteen years of age, dressed in
white, with a straw hat: blue eyes, light hair."

Angelina  so deeply whilst this was reading, and the description
so exactly suited with her appearance, that the farmer's wife stopped
short; the farmer fixed his eyes upon her; and Mr. Evans cleared his
throat several times with much significance.--A general silence ensued;
at last the three heads nodded to one another across the round table;
the farmer whistled and walked out of the room; his wife fidgeted at a
buffet, in which she began to arrange some cups and saucers; and, after
a few minutes, she followed her husband. Angelina took up the newspaper,
to read the remainder of the advertisement. She could not doubt that it
was meant for her, when she saw that it was dated the very day of her
arrival at the inn at Cardiffe, and signed by the landlady of the
inn, Mrs. Hoel. Mr. Evans swallowed the remainder of his ale, and then
addressed Angelina in these words:--

"Young lady, it is plain to see you know when the cap fits: now, if
you'll take my advice, you'll not make the match you have in your eye;
for, though a lord's son, he is a great gambler. I dined with one that
has dined with him not long ago. My son, who has a living near Bristol,
knows a great deal--more about you than you'd think; and 'tis my advice
to you, which I wouldn't be at the trouble of giving, if you were not as
pretty as you are, to go back to your relations; for he'll never marry
you, and marriage to be sure is your object. I have no more to say,
but only this--I shall think it my duty, as a magistrate, to let
your friends know as soon as possible where you are, coming under
my cognizance as you do; for a vagabond, in the eye of the law, is a
person--"

Angelina had not patience to listen to any more of this speech; she
interrupted Mr. Evans with a look of indignation, assured him that he
was perfectly unintelligible to her, and walked out of the room with
great dignity. Her dignity made no impression upon the farmer or his
wife, who now repented having offered her a night's lodging in their
house: in the morning they were as eager to get rid of her as she was
impatient to depart. Mr. Evans insisted upon seeing her safe home,
evidently for the purpose of discovering precisely where she lived.
Angelina saw that she could no longer remain undisturbed in her retreat,
and determined to set out immediately in quest of her unknown friend
at Bristol.--Betty Williams, who had a strong desire to have a jaunt to
Bristol, a town which she had never seen but once in her life, offered
to attend Miss Warwick, assuring her that she perfectly well knew the
house where Miss Hodges always lodged. Her offer was accepted; and what
adventures our heroine met with in Bristol, and what difficulties she
encountered before she discovered her Araminta, will be seen in the next
chapter.



CHAPTER III.


Angelina went by water from Cardiffe to Bristol; the water was rather
rough, and, as she was unused to the motion of a vessel, she was both
frightened and sick. She spent some hours very disagreeably, and without
even the sense of acting like a heroine, to support her spirits. It was
late in the evening before she arrived at the end of her voyage: she was
landed on the quay at Bristol. No hackney-coach was to be had, and
she was obliged to walk to the Bush. To find herself in the midst of a
bustling, vulgar crowd, by whom she was unknown, but not unnoticed, was
new to Miss Warwick. Whilst she was with Lady Diana Chillingworth,
she had always been used to see crowds make way for her; she was now
surprised to feel herself jostled in the streets by passengers, who were
all full of their own affairs, hurrying different ways, in pursuit of
objects which probably seemed to them as important as the search for an
unknown friend appeared to Angelina.

Betty Williams's friend's friend, the careful lad, who was to deliver
the letter to Miss Hodges, was a waiter at the Bush. Upon inquiry, it
was found that he had totally forgotten his promise: Angelina's letter
was, after much search, found in a bottle-drainer, so much stained
with port wine, that it was illegible. The man answered with the
most provoking nonchalance, when Angelina reproached him for his
carelessness--"That, indeed, no such person as Miss Hodges was to be
found: that nobody he could meet with had ever heard the name." They
who are extremely enthusiastic suffer continually from the total
indifference of others to their feelings; and young people can scarcely
conceive the extent of this indifference until they have seen something
of the world. Seeing the world does not _always_ mean seeing a certain
set of company in London.

Angelina, the morning after her arrival at the Bush, took a
hackney-coach, and left the care of directing the coachman to Betty
Williams, who professed to have a perfect knowledge of Bristol. Betty
desired the man to drive to the drawbridge; and, at the sound of the
word drawbridge, various associations of ideas with the drawbridges
of ancient times were called up in Miss Warwick's imagination. How
different was the reality from her castles in the air! She was roused
from her reverie by the voices of Betty Williams and the coachman.

"Where _will_ I drive ye to, I ask you?" said the coachman, who was
an Irishman: "_Will_ I stand all day upon the drawbridge stopping the
passage?"

"Trive on a step, and I will get out and see apout me," said Betty: "I
know the look of the house, as well as I know any thing."

Betty got out of the coach, and walked up and down the street, looking
at the houses like one bewildered.

"Bad luck to you! for a Welsh woman as you are," exclaimed the coachman,
jumping down from the box, "will I lave the young lady standing in
the streets all day alone for you to be making a fool this way of us
both?--Sorrow take me now! If I do--"

"Pless us, pe not in a pet or a pucker, or how shall I recollect any
body or any thing.--Cood! Cood!--Stand you there while I just say over
my alphabet: a, p, c, t, e, f, g, h, i, k, l, m, n, o, b.--It was some
name which begins with _p_, and ends with a _t_, I pelieve."

"Here's a pretty direction, upon my troth; some name which begins with a
_p_, and ends with a _t_," cried the coachman; and after he had uttered
half a score of Hibernian execrations upon the Welsh woman's folly,
he with much good nature went along with her to read the names on the
street doors.--"Here's a name now that's the very thing for you--here's
Pushit now.-Was the name Pushit?--Ricollict yourself, my good girl, was
that your name?"

"Pushit!--Oh, yes, I am sure, and pelieve it was Pushit--Mrs. Pushit's
house, Pristol, where our Miss Hodges lodges alway."

"Mrs. Pushit--but this is quite another man; I tell you this is Sir
John--Faith now we are in luck," continued the coachman--"here's another
p just at hand; here's Mrs. Puffit; sure she begins with a p, and ends
with a t, and is a milliner into the bargain? so sure enough I'll engage
the young lady lodges here.--Puffit--Hey?--Ricollict now, and don't be
looking as if you'd just been pulled out of your sleep, and had never
been in a Christian town before now."

"Pless us, Cot pless us!" said the Welsh girl, who was quite overpowered
by the Irishman's flow of words--and she was on the point of having
recourse, in her own defence, to her native tongue, in which she could
have matched either male or female in fluency; but, to Angelina's great
relief, the dialogue between the coachman and Betty Williams ceased. The
coachman drew up to Mrs. Puffit's; but, as there was a handsome carriage
at the door, Miss Warwick was obliged to wait in her hackney-coach
some time longer. The handsome carriage belonged to Lady Frances
Somerset.--By one of those extraordinary coincidences which sometimes
occur in real life, but which are scarcely believed to be natural when
they are related in books, Miss Warwick happened to come to this shop
at the very moment when the persons she most wished to avoid were there.
Whilst the dialogue between Betty Williams and the hackney-coachman was
passing, Lady Diana Chillingworth and Miss Burrage were seated in
Mrs. Puffit's shop: Lady Diana was extremely busy bargaining with the
milliner; for, though rich, and a woman of quality, her ladyship piqued
herself upon making the cheapest bargains in the world.

"Your la'ship did not look at this eight and twenty shilling lace," said
Mrs. Puffit; "'tis positively the cheapest thing your la'ship ever
saw. Jessie! the laces in the little blue band-box. Quick! for my Ladi
Di.--Quick!"

"But it is out of my power to stay to look at any thing more now," said
Lady Diana; "and yet," whispered she to Miss Burrage, "when one does go
out a shopping, one certainly likes to bring home a bargain."

"Certainly; but Bristol's not the place for bargains," said Miss
Burrage; "you will find nothing tolerable, I assure you, my dear Lady
Di., at Bristol."

"Why, my dear," said her ladyship, "were you ever at Bristol before? How
comes it that I never heard that you were at Bristol before? Where were
you, child?"

"At the Wells, at the Wells, ma'am," replied Miss Burrage, and she
turned pale and red in the space of a few seconds; but Lady Diana,
who was very near-sighted, was holding her head so close to the blue
band-box full of lace, that she could not see the changes in her
companion's countenance. The fact was, that Miss Burrage was born and
bred in Bristol, where she had several relations, who were not in high
life, and by whom she consequently dreaded to be claimed. When she first
met Lady Diana Chillingworth at Buxton, she had passed herself upon
her for one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, and she knew that, if her
ladyship was to discover the truth, she would cast her off with horror.
For this reason, she had done every thing in her power to prevent Lady
Di. from coming to Clifton; and for this reason she now endeavoured to
persuade her that nothing tolerable could be met with at Bristol.

"I am afraid, Lady Di., you will be late at Lady Mary's," said she.

"Look at this lace, child, and give me your opinion--eight and twenty
shillings, Mrs. Puffit, did you say?"

"Eight and twenty, my lady--and I lose by every yard I sell at that
price. Ma'am, you see," said Mrs. Puffit, appealing to Miss Burrage,
"'tis real Valenciennes, you see."

"I see 'tis horrid dear," said Miss Burrage: then in a whisper to Lady
Di. she added, "at Miss Trentham's at the Wells, your ladyship will meet
with such bargains!"

Mrs. Puffit put her lace upon the alabaster neck of the large doll which
stood in the middle of her shop. "Only look, my lady--only see, ma'am,
how beautiful becoming 'tis to the neck, and sets off a dress too, you
know, ma'am. And (turning to Miss Burrage) eight and twenty, you know,
ma'am, is really nothing for any lace you'd wear; but more particularly
for real Valenciennes, which can scarce be had _real_, for love or
money, since the French Revolution. Real Valenciennes!--and will wear
and wash, and wash and wear--not that your ladyship minds that--for
ever and ever,--and is such a bargain, and so becoming to the neck,
especially to ladies of your la'ship's complexion."

"Well, I protest, I believe, Burrage, I don't know what to say, my
dear--hey?"

"I'm told," whispered Miss Burrage, "that Miss Trentham's to have a lace
raffle at the Wells next week."

"A raffle?" cried Lady Di., turning her back immediately upon the doll
and the lace.

"Well," cried Mrs. Puffit, "instead of eight say seven and twenty
shillings, Miss Burrage, for old acquaintance sake."

"Old acquaintance!" exclaimed Miss Burrage: "la! Mrs. Puffit, I don't
remember ever being twice in your shop all the time I was at the Wells
before."

"No, ma'am," replied Mrs. Puffit, with a malicious smile--"but when you
_was_ living on Saint Augustin's Back."

"Saint Augustin's Back, my dear!" exclaimed Lady Diana Chillingworth,
with a look of horror and amazement.

Miss Burrage, laying down a bank-note on the counter, made a quick and
expressive sign to the milliner to hold her tongue.

"Dear Mrs. Puffit," cried she, "you certainly mistake me for some other
strange person. Lady Di., now I look at it with my glass, this lace _is_
very fine, I must agree with you, and not dear, by any means, for real
Valenciennes: cut me off three yards of this lace--I protest there's no
withstanding it, Lady Di."

"Three yards at eight and twenty--here, Jesse," said Mrs. Puffit. "I beg
your pardon, ma'am, for my mistake; I supposed it was some other lady
of the same name; there are so many Burrages. _Only_ three yards did you
say, ma'am?"

"Nay, I don't care if you give me four. I'm of the Burrages of
Dorsetshire."

"A very good family, those Burrages of Dorsetshire, as any in England,"
said Lady Di.--"and put up twelve yards of this for me, Mrs. Puffit."

"Twelve at eight and twenty--yes, my lady--very much obliged to your
ladyship--much obliged to you, Miss Burrage. Here, Jesse, this to my
Lady Di. Chillingworth's carriage." Jesse called at the shop-door, in a
shrill voice, to a black servant of Lady Frances Somerset--"Mr. Hector,
Mr. Hector! Sir, pray put this parcel into the carriage for Lady Diana
Chillingworth."

Angelina, who was waiting in her hackney-coach, started; she could
scarcely believe that she heard the name rightly:--but, an instant
afterwards, the voice of Lady Diana struck her ear, and she sunk back
in great agitation. However, neither Miss Burrage nor Lady Di. saw her;
they got into their carriage, and drove away.

Angelina was so much alarmed, that she could scarcely believe that the
danger was past when she saw the carriage at the furthest end of the
street.

"Wouldn't you be pleased to 'light, ma'am?" said Jesse.

"We don't bring things to the door."

"Who have we here?" cried Mrs. Puffit; "who have we here?"

"Only some folks out of a hack, that was kept waiting, and couldn't draw
up whilst my Lady Di.'s carriage was at the door," said Jesse.

"A good pretty girl, the foremost," said Mrs. Puffit. "But, in the name
of wonder, what's that odd fish coming behind her?"

"A queer-looking pair, in good truth!" said Jesse.

Angelina seated herself, and gave a deep sigh. "Ribands, if you please,
ma'am," said she to Mrs. Puffit. "I must," thought she, "ask for
something before I ask for my Araminta."

"Ribands--yes, ma'am--what sort? Keep an eye upon the glass," whispered
the milliner to her shop girl, as she stooped behind the counter for a
drawer of ribands--"keep an eye on the glass, Jesse--a girl of the town,
I take it. What colour, ma'am?"

"Blue--'cerulean blue.' Here, child," said Angelina, turning to Betty
Williams, "here's a riband for you."

Betty Williams did not hear, for Betty was fascinated by the eyes of the
great doll, opposite to which she stood fixed.

"Lord, what a fine lady! and how hur stares at Betty Williams!" thought
she: "I wish hur would take her eyes off me."

"Betty! Betty Williams!--a riband for you," cried Angelina, in a louder
tone.

Betty started--"Miss!--a riband!" She ran forward, and, in pushing by
the doll, threw it backward: Mrs. Puffit caught it in her arms, and
Betty, stopping short, curtsied, and said to the doll--"Peg pardon,
miss--peg pardon, miss--tit I hurt you?--peg pardon. Pless us! 'tis a
toll, and no woman, I teclare."

The milliner and Jesse now burst into uncontrollable, and, as Angelina
feared, "unextinguishable laughter." Nothing is so distressing to a
sentimental heroine as ridicule: Miss Warwick perceived that she had her
share of that which Betty Williams excited; and she who imagined herself
to be capable of "combating, in all its Proteus forms, the system of
social slavery," was unable to withstand the laughter of a milliner and
her 'prentice.

"Do you please to want any thing else, ma'am?" said Mrs. Puffit, in a
saucy tone--"Rouge, perhaps?"

"I wish to know, madam," said Angelina, "whether a lady of the name of
Hodges does not lodge here?"

"A lady of the name of Hodges!--no, ma'am--I'm very particular
about lodgers--no such lady ever lodged with me.--Jesse! to the
door--quick!--Lady Mary Tasselton's carriage."

Angelina hastily rose and departed. Whilst Jesse ran to the door, and
whilst Mrs. Puffit's attention was fixed upon Lady Mary Tasselton's
carriage, Betty Williams twitched from off the doll's shoulders the
remainder of the piece of Valenciennes lace which had been left there.
"Since hur's only wood, I'll make free," said she to herself, and she
carried off the lace unobserved.

Angelina's impatience to find her Araminta was increased, by the dread
of meeting Lady Di. Chillingworth in every carriage that passed, and in
every shop where she might call. At the next house at which the coachman
stopped, the words, _Dinah Plait, relict of Jonas Plait, cheesemonger_,
were written in large letters over the shop-door. Angelina thought she
was in no danger of meeting her ladyship here, and she alighted. There
was no one in the shop but a child of seven years old; he could not
understand well what Angelina or Betty said, but he ran to call his
aunt. Dinah Plait was at dinner; and when the child opened the door of
the parlour, there came forth such a savoury smell, that Betty Williams,
who was extremely hungry, could not forbear putting her head in, to see
what was upon the table.

"Pless hur! heggs and pacon and toasted cheese--Cot pless hur!"
exclaimed Betty.

"Aunt Dinah," said the child, "here are two women in some great
distress, they told me--and astray and hungry."

"In some great distress, and astray and hungry?--then let them in here,
child, this minute."

There was seated at a small table, in a perfectly neat parlour, a
quaker, whose benevolent countenance charmed Angelina the moment she
entered the room.

"Pardon this intrusion," said she.

"Friend, thou art welcome," said Dinah Plait, and her looks said so
more expressively than her words. An elderly man rose, and leaving the
cork-screw in the half-drawn cork of a bottle of cider, he set a chair
for Angelina, and withdrew to the window.

"Be seated, and eat, for verily thou seemest to be hungry," said Mrs.
Plait to Betty Williams, who instantly obeyed, and began to eat like one
that had been half famished.

"And now, friend, thy business, thy distress--what is it?" said Dinah,
turning to Angelina: "so young to have sorrows."

"I had best take myself away," said the elderly gentleman, who stood at
the window--"I had best take myself away, for miss may not like to speak
before me--though she might, for that matter."

"Where is the gentleman going?" said Miss Warwick; "I have but one short
question to ask, and I have nothing to say that need--"

"I dare say, young lady, you can have nothing to say that you need be
ashamed of, only people in distress don't like so well to speak before
third folks, I _guess_--though, to say the truth, I have never known, by
my own experience, what it was to be in much distress since I came into
the world--but I hope I am not the more hard-hearted for that--for I can
guess, I say, pretty well, how those in distress feel when they come
to speak. Do as you would be done by is my maxim till I can find a
better--so I take myself away, leaving my better part behind me, if it
will be of any service to you, madam."

As he passed by Miss Warwick, he dropped his purse into her lap, and he
was gone before she could recover from her surprise.

"Sir!--madam!" cried she, rising hastily, "here has been some strange
mistake--I am not a beggar--I am much, very much obliged to you, but--"

"Nay, keep it, friend, keep it," said Dinah Plait, pressing the purse
upon Angelina; "John Barker is as rich as a Jew, and as generous as
a prince. Keep it, friend, and you'll oblige both him and me--'tis
dangerous in this world for one so young and so pretty as you are to be
in _great distress_; so be not proud."

"I am not proud," said Miss Warwick, drawing her purse from her pocket;
"but my distress is not of a pecuniary nature--Convince yourself--I am
in distress only for a friend, _an unknown_ friend."

"Touched in her brain, I doubt," thought Dinah.

"Coot ale!" exclaimed Betty Williams--"Coot heggs and pacon."

"Does a lady of the name of Araminta--Miss Hodges, I mean--lodge here?"
said Miss Warwick.

"Friend, I do not let lodgings; and I know of no such person as Miss
Hodges."

"Well, I swear hur name, the coachman told me, did begin with a p, and
end with a t," cried Betty Williams, "or I would never have let him
knock at hur toor."

"Oh, my Araminta! my Araminta!" exclaimed Angelina, turning up her
eyes towards heaven--"when, oh when shall I find thee? I am the most
unfortunate person upon earth."

"Had not hur petter eat a hegg, and a pit of pacon? here's one pit
left," said Betty: "hur must be hungry, for 'tis two o'clock past, and
we preakfasted at nine--hur must be hungry;" and Betty pressed her
_to try the pacon_; but Angelina put it away, or, in the proper style,
motioned the bacon from her.

"I am in no want of food," cried she, rising: "happy they who have no
conception of any but corporeal sufferings. Farewell, madam!--may the
sensibility, of which your countenance is so strongly expressive, never
be a source of misery to you!"--and with that depth of sigh which suited
the close of such a speech, Angelina withdrew.

"If I could but have felt her pulse," said Dinah Plait to herself, "I
could have prescribed something that, maybe, would have done her good,
poor distracted thing! Now it was well done of John Barker to leave this
purse for her--but how is this?--poor thing! she's not fit to be trusted
with money--here she has left her own purse full of guineas."

Dinah ran immediately to the house-door, in hopes of being able to catch
Angelina; but the coach had turned down into another street, and was out
of sight. Mrs. Plait sent for her constant counsellor, John Barker, to
deliberate on the means of returning the purse. It should be mentioned,
to the credit of Dinah's benevolence, that, at the moment when she was
interrupted by the entrance of Betty Williams and Angelina, she
was hearing the most flattering things from a person who was not
disagreeable to her: her friend, John Barker, was a rich hosier, who
had retired from business; and who, without any ostentation, had a great
deal of real feeling and generosity. But the fastidious taste of _fine_,
or sentimental readers, will probably be disgusted by our talking of
the feelings and generosity of a hosier and a cheesemonger's widow.
It belongs to a certain class of people to indulge in the luxury of
sentiment: we shall follow our heroine, therefore, who, both from
her birth and education, is properly qualified to have--"exquisite
feelings."

The next house at which Angelina stopped, to search for her amiable
Araminta, was at Mrs. Porett's academy for young ladies.

"Yes, ma'am, Miss Hodges is here--Pray walk into this room, and you
shall see the young lady immediately." Angelina burst into the room
instantly, exclaiming--

"Oh, my Araminta! have I found you at last?"

She stopped short, a little confounded at finding herself in a large
room full of young ladies, who were dancing reels, and who all stood
still at one and the same instant, and fixed their eyes upon her, struck
with astonishment at her theatrical entree and exclamation.

"Miss Hodges!" said Mrs. Porett--and a little girl of seven years old
came forward:--"Here, ma'am," said Mrs. Porett to Angelina, "here is
Miss Hodges."

"Not _my_ Miss Hodges! not my Araminta! alas!"

"No, ma'am," said the little girl; "I am only Letty Hodges."

Several of her companions now began to titter.

"These girls," said Angelina to herself, "take me for a fool;" and,
turning to Mrs. Porett, she apologized for the trouble she had given, in
language as little romantic as she could condescend to use.

"Tid you bid me, miss, wait in the coach, or the passage?" cried Betty
Williams, forcing her way in at the door, so as almost to push down the
dancing-master, who stood with his back to it. Betty stared round,
and dropped curtsy after curtsy, whilst the young ladies laughed
and whispered, and whispered and laughed; and the words,
odd--vulgar--strange--who is she?--what is she?--reached Miss Warwick.

"This Welsh girl," thought she, "is my torment. Wherever I go she makes
me share the ridicule of her folly."

Clara Hope, one of the young ladies, saw and pitied Angelina's
confusion.

"Gif over, an ye have any gude nature--gif over your whispering and
laughing," said Clara to her companions: "ken ye not ye make her so
bashful, she'd fain hide her face wi' her twa hands."

But it was in vain that the good-natured Clara Hope remonstrated: her
companions could not forbear tittering, as Betty Williams, upon Miss
Warwick's laying the blame of the mistake on her, replied in a strong
Welsh accent--"I will swear almost the name was Porett or Plait, where
our Miss Hodges tid always lodge in Pristol. Porett, or Plait, or
Puffit, or some of her names that pekin with a p and ent with at."

Angelina, quite _overpowered_, shrunk back, as Betty bawled out her
vindication, and she was yet more confused, when Monsieur Richelet, the
dancing-master, at this unlucky instant, came up to her, and with
an elegant bow, said, "It is not difficult to see by her air, that
mademoiselle dances superiorly. Mademoiselle vould she do me de
plaisir--de honneur to dance one minuet?"

"Oh, if she would but dance!" whispered some of the group of young
ladies.

"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Warwick.

"Not a minuet?--den a minuet de la cour, a cotillon, or contredanse, or
reel; vatever mademoiselle please vill do us honneur."

Angelina, with a mixture of impatience and confusion, repeated, "Excuse
me, sir--I am going--I interrupt--I beg I may not interrupt."

"A coot morrow to you all, creat and small," said Betty Williams,
curtsying awkwardly at the door as she went out before Miss Warwick.

The young ladies were now diverted so much beyond the bounds of decorum,
that Mrs. Porett was obliged to call them to order.

"Oh, my Araminta, what scenes have I gone through! to what derision have
I exposed myself for your sake!" said our heroine to herself.

Just as she was leaving the dancing-room, she was stopped short by Betty
Williams, who, with a face of terror, exclaimed, "'Tis a poy in the
hall, that I tare not pass for my lifes; he has a pasket full of pees
in his hand, and I cannot apide pees, ever since one tay when I was a
chilt, and was stung on the nose by a pee. The poy in the hall has a
pasketful of pees, ma'am," said Betty, with an imploring accent, to Mrs.
Porett.

"A basketful of bees!" said Mrs. Porett, laughing: "Oh, you are
mistaken: I know what the boy has in his basket--they are only flowers;
they are not bees: you may safely go by them."

"Put I saw pees with my own eyes," persisted Betty.

"Only a basketful of the bee orchis, which I commissioned a little boy
to bring from St. Vincent's rocks for my young botanists," said Mrs.
Porett to Angelina: "you know the flower is so like a bee, that at
first sight you might easily mistake it." Mrs. Porett, to convince Betty
Williams that she had no cause for fear, went on before her into the
hall; but Betty still hung back, crying--

"It is a pasket full of pees! I saw the pees with my own eyes."

The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young ladies in the
dancing-room: they looked out to see what was the matter.

"Oh, 'tis the wee-wee French prisoner boy, with the bee orchises for
us--there, I see him standing in the hall," cried Clara Hope, and
instantly she ran, followed by several of her companions, into the hall.

"You see that they are not bees," said Mrs. Porett to Betty Williams, as
she took several of the flowers in her hand. Betty, half convinced, yet
half afraid, moved a few steps into the hall.

"You have no cause for dread," said Clara Hope; "poor boy, he has nought
in his basket that can hurt any body."

Betty Williams's heavy foot was now set upon the train of Clara's gown,
and, as the young lady sprang forwards, her gown, which was of thin
muslin, was torn so as to excite the commiseration of all her young
companions.

"What a terrible rent! and her best gown!" said they. "Poor Clara Hope!"

"Pless us! peg pardon, miss!" cried the awkward, terrified Betty; "peg
pardon, miss!"

"Pardon's granted," said Clara; and whilst her companions stretched out
her train, deploring the length and breadth of her misfortune, she went
on speaking to the little French boy. "Poor wee boy! 'tis a sad thing
to be in a strange country, far away from one's ane ane kin and happy
hame--poor wee thing," said she, slipping some money into his hand.

"What a heavenly countenance!" thought Angelina, as she looked at Clara
Hope: "Oh, that my Araminta may resemble her!"

"Plait il--take vat you vant--tank you," said the little boy, offering
to Clara Hope his basket of flowers, and a small box of trinkets, which
he held in his hand.

"Here's a many pretty toys--who'll buy?" cried Clara, turning to her
companions.

The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket.

"Is he in distress?" said Angelina; "perhaps I can be of some use to
him!" and she put her hand into her pocket, to feel for her purse.

"He's a very honest, industrious little boy," said Mrs. Porett, "and he
supports his parents by his active ingenuity."

"And, Louis, is your father sick still?" continued Clara Hope to the
poor boy.

"Bien malade! bien malade! very sick! very sick!" said he. The
unaffected language of real feeling and benevolence is easily
understood, and is never ridiculous; even in the broken English
of little Louis, and the broad Scotch tone of Clara, it was both
intelligible and agreeable.

Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her pocket for her
purse.

"'Tis gone--certainly gone!" she exclaimed: "I've lost it! lost
my purse! Betty, do you know any thing of it? I had it at Mrs.
Plait's!--What shall I do for this poor little fellow?--This trinket
is of gold!" said she, taking from her neck a locket--"Here, my little
fellow, I have no money to give you, take this--nay, you must, indeed."

"Tanks! tanks! bread for my poor fader! joy! joy!--too much joy! too
much!"

"You see you were wrong to laugh at her," whispered Clara Hope to her
companions: "I liked her lukes from the first."

Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied and satisfied
Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for her unknown friend; and it
was not till one of the children observed the lock of hair in her locket
that she recollected her accustomed cant of--"_Oh, my Araminta! my
amiable Araminta!_ could I part with that hair, more precious than
gold?"

"Pless us!" said Betty; "put, if she has lost her purse, who shall pay
for the coach, and what will become of our tinners?"

Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory dignity.

Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and who had been
interested for our heroine, by her good-nature to the little French boy,
followed Miss Warwick as she left the room. "Let me detain you but for
a few minutes," said she, opening the door of a little study. "You have
nothing to fear from any impertinent curiosity on my part; but, perhaps,
I may be of some assistance to you."--Miss Warwick could not refuse to
be detained a few minutes by so friendly a voice.

"Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta several times since you
came into this house," said Mrs. Porett, with something of embarrassment
in her manner, for she was afraid of appearing impertinent. "I know, or
at least I knew, a lady who writes under that name, and whose real name
is Hodges."

"Oh, a thousand, thousand thanks!" cried Angelina: "tell me, where can I
find her?"

"Are you acquainted with her? You seem to be a stranger, young lady, in
Bristol. Are you acquainted with Miss Hodges's _whole_ history?"

"Yes, her _whole_ history; every feeling of her soul; every thought of
her mind!" cried Angelina, with enthusiasm. "We have corresponded for
two years past."

Mrs. Porett smiled. "It is not always possible," said she, "to judge of
ladies by their letters. I am not inclined to believe _above half_
what the world says, according to Lord Chesterfield's allowance for
scandalous stories; but it may be necessary to warn you, as you seem
very young, that--"

"Madam," cried Angelina, "young as I am, I know that superior genius and
virtue are the inevitable objects of scandal. It is in vain to detain me
further."

"I am truly sorry for it," said Mrs. Porett; "but, perhaps, you will
allow me to tell you, that--"

"No, not a word; not a word more will I hear," cried our heroine; and
she hurried out of the house, and threw herself into the coach. Mrs.
Porett contrived, however, to make Betty Williams hear, that the most
probable means of gaining any intelligence of Miss Hodges, would be to
inquire for her at the shop of Mr. Beatson, who was her printer. To Mr.
Beatson's they drove--though Betty professed that she was half unwilling
to inquire for Miss Hodges from any one whose name did not begin with a
p, and end with a t.

"What a pity it is," said Mrs. Porett, when she returned to her
pupils--"what a pity it is that this young lady's friends should permit
her to go about in a hackney-coach, with such a strange, vulgar servant
girl as that! She is too young to know how quickly, and often how
severely, the world judges by appearances. Miss Hope, now we talk of
appearances, you forget that your gown is torn, and you do not know,
perhaps, that your friend, Lady Frances Somerset--"

"Lady Frances Somerset!" cried Clara Hope--"I love to hear her very
name."

"For which reason you interrupt me the moment I mention it--I have a
great mind not to tell you--that Lady Frances Somerset has invited you
to go to the play with her to-night:--'The Merchant of Venice, and the
Adopted Child.'"

"Gude-natured Lady Frances Somerset, I'm sure an' if Clara Hope had been
your adopted child twenty times over, you could not have been more kind
to her _nor_ you have been.--No, not had she been your are countrywoman,
and of your are clan--and all for the same reasons that make some
neglect and look down upon her--because Clara is not meikle rich, and
is far away from her ane ane friends.--Gude Lady Frances Somerset! Clara
Hope luves you in her heart, and she's as blythe wi' the thought o'
ganging to see you as if she were going to dear Inverary."

It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did not stay
a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett's, that she might have heard this
eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might have, a second time in
one day, discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting with the
persons she most dreaded to see; but, however temptingly romantic such
an incident would have been, we must, according to our duty as faithful
historians, deliver a plain unvarnished tale.

Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson's, and as soon as she had pronounced
the name of Hodges, the printer called to his devil for a parcel of
advertisements, which he put into her hand; they were proposals for
printing by subscription a new novel--"The Sorrows of Araminta."

"Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! have I found you at last?--_The
Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in nine volumes_--Oh, charming!--_together
with a tragedy on the same plan_--Delightful!--_Subscriptions
received at Joseph Beatson's, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael
Hodges_--Odious name!--_at Mrs. Bertrand's_."

"_Bartrand!_--There now _you_, do ye hear that? the lady lives at Mrs.
Bartrand's: how will you make out now that Bartrand begins with a p,
and ends with a t, now?" said the hackney-coachman to Betty, who was
standing at the door.

"Pertrant! why," cried Betty, "what would you have?"

"Silence! O silence!" said Miss Warwick; and she continued
reading--"_Subscriptions received at Mrs. Bertrand's_."

"Pertrant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman!" cried Betty Williams.

"Bartrand--you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!" retorted Terence
O'Grady.

"Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta," continued
our heroine; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams and the
hackney-coachman making menacing faces and gestures at one another.

"Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven's sake!" said Angelina; "if you
must fight, fight out of my sight."

"For shame, before the young lady!" said Mr. Beatson, holding the
hackney-coachman: "have done disputing so loud."

"I've done, but she is wrong," cried Terence.

"I've done, put he is wrong," said Betty.

Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he declared he
would not carry her a step further in his coach--that his _beasts_ were
tired, and that he must be paid his fare, for that he neither could nor
would wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by Angelina to pay
him. She hesitated; but after being assured by Miss Warwick that the
debt should be punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged
that she had silver enough "in a little box at the bottom of her
pocket;" and, after much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, which,
she said, had been given to her by her "creat crandmother."--Whilst she
was paying the coachman, the printer's devil observed one end of a piece
of lace hanging out of her pocket; she had, by accident, pulled it out
along with the snuff-box.

"And was this your great grandmother's too?" said the printer's devil,
taking hold of the lace.

Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from the printer, and
she did not see or hear what was passing close to her: the coachman
was intent upon the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great
assurance, reproved the printer's devil for touching such lace with his
plack fingers.

"'Twas not my Grandmother's--'tis the young lady's," said she: "let
it pe, pray--look how you have placked it, and marked it, with plack
fingers."

She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and immediately went
out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another coach.

Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand's, we must beg leave to
go, and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, to Lady Frances
Somerset's house, at Clifton.



CHAPTER IV.


"Well, how I am to get up this hill again, Heaven knows!" said Lady
Diana Chillingworth, who had been prevailed upon to walk down Clifton
Hill to the Wells. "Heigho! that sister of mine, Lady Frances, walks,
and talks, and laughs, and admires the beauties of nature till I'm half
dead."

"Why, indeed, Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow," said Miss Burrage,
"is not the fittest companion in the world for a person of your
ladyship's nerves; but then it is to be hoped that the glass of water
which you have just taken fresh at the pump will be of service, provided
the racketing to Bristol to the play don't counteract it, and undo all
again."

"How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!" said Miss Burrage to
herself--"some of my precious relations may be there to claim me. My
aunt Dinah--God bless her for a starched quaker--wouldn't be seen at a
play, I'm sure--so she's safe;--but the odious sugar-baker's daughters
might be there, dizened out; and between the acts, their great tall
figures might rise in judgment against me--spy me out--stare and
curtsy--pop--pop--pop at me without mercy, or bawl out across the
benches, 'Cousin Burrage! Cousin Burrage!' And Lady Diana Chillingworth
to hear it!--oh, I should sink into the earth."

"What amusement," continued Miss Burrage, addressing herself to Lady
Di., "what amusement Lady Frances Somerset can find at a Bristol
playhouse, and at this time of the year too, is to me really
unaccountable."

"I do suppose," replied Lady Diana, "that my sister goes only to please
that child--(Clara Hope, I think they call her)--not to please me, I'm
sure;--but what is she doing all this time in the pump-room? does she
know we are waiting for her?--oh, here she comes.--Frances, I am half
dead."

"Half dead, my dear! well, here is something to bring you to life
again," said Lady Frances: "I do believe I have found out Miss Warwick."

"I am sure, my dear, _that_ does not revive me--I've been almost plagued
to death with her already," said Lady Diana.

"There's no living in this world without plagues of some sort or
other--but the pleasure of doing good makes one forget them all: here,
look at this advertisement, my dear," said Lady Frances: "a gentleman,
whom I have just met with in the pump-room, was reading it in the
newspaper when I came in, and a whole knot of scandal-mongers were
settling who it could possibly be. One snug little man, a Welsh curate,
I believe, was certain it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath, who is
said to have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left the
Welshman in the midst of a long story, about his father and a young
lady, who lost her shoe on the Welsh mountains, and I ran away with the
paper to bring it to you."

Lady Diana received the paper with an air of reluctance.

"Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?" said Lady Frances.

"I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from beginning to
end."

"Ah, because you are not come to the end yet--look--'tis from Mrs. Hoel,
of the inn at Cardiffe, and by the date, she must have been there last
week."

"Who--Mrs. Hoel?"

"Miss Warwick, my dear--I beg pardon for my pronoun--but do read
this--eyes--hair--complexion--age--size--it certainly must be Miss
Warwick."

"And what then?" said Lady Di, with provoking coldness, walking on
towards home.

"Why, then, my dear, you know we can go to Cardiffe to-morrow morning,
find the poor girl, and, before any body knows any thing of the matter,
before her reputation is hurt, or you blamed, before any harm can
happen, convince the girl of her folly and imprudence, and bring her
back to you and common sense."

"To common sense, and welcome, if you can; but not to me."

"Not to you!--Nay; but, my dear, what will become of her?"

"Nay; but, my dear Frances, what will the world say?"

"Of her?"

"Of me."

"My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say?"

"No, Lady Frances, I'll tell _you_ what the world would say--that Lady
Diana Chillingworth's house was an asylum for runaways."

"An asylum for nonsense!--I beg your pardon, sister--but it always
provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they think right, because,
truly, 'the world will say it is wrong.' What signifies the uneasiness
we may suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, compared
with the happiness of a young girl's whole life, which is at stake?"

"Oh, Lady Frances, that is spoken like yourself--I love you in my
heart--that's right! that's right!" thought Clara Hope.

Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might consult one whose
advice she always found agreeable to her own opinions.

"In my opinion," whispered Miss Burrage to Lady Diana, "you are right,
quite right, to have nothing more to do with the _happiness_ of a young
lady who has taken such a step."

They were just leaving St. Vincent's parade, when they heard the sound
of music upon the walk by the river side, and they saw a little
boy there, seated at the foot of a tree, playing on the guitar, and
singing--

"J'ai quitte mon pays et mes amis, Pour jouer de la guitare, Qui va
clin, clin, qui va clin, clin, Qui va clin, clin, clin, clin."

"Ha! my wee wee friend," said Clara Hope, "are you here?--I was just
thinking of you, just wishing for you. By gude luck, have you the weeny
locket about you that the young lady gave you this morning?--the weeny
locket, my bonny boy?"

"Plait-il?" said little Louis.

"He _don't_ understand one word," said Miss Burrage, laughing
sarcastically, "he don't understand one word of all your _bonnys_, and
_wee wees_ and _weenies_, Miss Hope; he, unfortunately, don't understand
broad Scotch, and maybe he mayn't be so great a proficient as you are
in _boarding-school_ French; but I'll try if he can understand _me_, if
you'll tell me what you want."

"Such a trinket as this," said Clara, showing a locket which hung from
her neck.

"Ah oui--yes, I comprehend now," cried the boy, taking from his
coat-pocket a small case of trinkets--"la voila!--here is vat de young
lady did give me--good young lady!" said Louis, and he produced the
locket.

"I declare," exclaimed Miss Burrage, catching hold of it, "'tis Miss
Warwick's locket! I'm sure of it--here's the motto--I've read it, and
laughed at it twenty times--L'Amie Inconnue."

"When I heard you all talking just now about that description of the
young lady in the newspaper, I cude not but fancy," said Clara Hope,
"that the lady whom I saw this morning must be Miss Warwick."

"Saw--where?" cried Lady Frances, eagerly.

"At Bristol--at our academy--at Mrs. Porett's," said Clara; "but mark
me, she is not there now--I do not ken where she may be now."

"Moi je sais!--I do know de demoiselle did stop in a coach at one house;
I was in de street--I can show you de house."

"Can you so, my good little fellow? then let us begone directly," said
Lady Frances.

"You'll excuse me, sister," said Lady Di.

"Excuse you!--_I_ will, but _the world_ will not. You'll be abused,
sister, shockingly abused."

This assertion made more impression upon Lady Di. Chillingworth than
could have been made either by argument or entreaty.

"One really does not know how to act--people take so much notice of
every thing that is said and done by persons of a certain rank: if you
think that I shall be so much abused--I absolutely do not know what to
say."

"But I thought," interposed Miss Burrage, "that Lady Frances was going
to take you to the play to-night, Miss Hope?"

"Oh, never heed the play--never heed the play, or Clara Hope--never heed
taking me to the play: Lady Frances is going to do a better thing.--Come
on, my bonny boy," said she to the little French boy, who was following
them.

We must now return to our heroine, whom we left on her way to Mrs.
Bertrand's. Mrs. Bertrand kept a large confectionary and fruit shop in
Bristol.

"Please to walk through this way, ma'am--Miss Hodges is above
stairs--she shall be apprized directly--Jenny! run up stairs," said
Mrs. Bertrand to her maid--"run up stairs, and tell Miss Hodges here's
a young lady wants to see her in a great hurry--You'd best sit down,
ma'am," continued Mrs. Bertrand to Angelina, "till the girl has been up
with the message."

"Oh, my Araminta! how my heart beats!" exclaimed Miss Warwick.

"How my mouth waters!" cried Betty Williams, looking round at the fruit
and confectionaries.

"Would you, ma'am, be pleased," said Mrs. Bertrand, "to take a glass
of ice this warm evening? cream-ice, or water-ice, ma'am? pine-apple or
strawberry ice?" As she spoke, Mrs. Bertrand held a salver, covered with
ices, toward Miss Warwick: but, apparently, she thought that it was
not consistent with the delicacy of friendship to think of eating or
drinking when she was thus upon the eve of her first interview with
her Araminta. Betty Williams, who was of a different _nature_ from our
heroine, saw the salver recede with excessive surprise and regret; she
stretched out her hand after it, and seized a glass of raspberry-ice;
but no sooner had she tasted it than she made a frightful face, and let
the glass fall, exclaiming--

"Pless us! 'tis not as good as cooseherry fool."

Mrs. Bertrand next offered her a cheesecake, which Betty ate
voraciously.

"She's actually a female Sancho Panza!" thought Angelina: her own
more striking resemblance to the female Quixote never occurred to our
heroine--so blind are we to our own failings.

"Who is the young lady?" whispered the mistress of the fruit shop
to Betty Williams, whilst Miss Warwick was walking--we should say
_pacing_--up and down the room, in _anxious solicitude, and evident
agitation_.

"Hur's a young lady," replied Betty, stopping to take a mouthful of
cheesecake between every member of her sentence, "a young lady--that
has--lost hur--"

"Her heart--so I thought."

"Hur purse!" said Betty, with an accent, which showed that she thought
this the more serious loss of the two.

"Her purse!--that's bad indeed:--you pay for your own cheesecake and
raspberry-ice, and for the glass that you broke," said Mrs. Bertrand.

"Put hur has a great deal of money in hur trunk, I pelieve, at
Llanwaetur," said Betty.

"Surely Miss Hodges does not know I am here," cried Miss Warwick--"her
Angelina!"

"Ma'am, she'll be down immediately, I do suppose," said Mrs. Bertrand.
"What was it you pleased called for--angelica, ma'am, did you say? At
present we are quite out, I'm ashamed to say, of angelica, ma'am--Well,
child," continued Mrs. Bertrand to her maid, who was at this moment seen
passing by the back door of the shop in great haste.

"Ma'am--anan," said the maid, turning back her cap from off her ear.

"Anan! deaf doll! didn't you hear me tell you to tell Miss Hodges a lady
wanted to speak to her in a great hurry?"

"No, mam," replied the girl, who spoke in the broad Somersetshire
dialect: "I heard you zay, _up to Miss Hodges_; zoo I thought it was the
bottle o'brandy, and zoo I took alung with the tea-kettle--but I'll go
up again now, and zay miss bes in a hurry, az she zays."

"Brandy!" repeated Miss Warwick, on whom the word seemed to make a great
impression.

"Pranty, ay, pranty," repeated Betty Williams--"our Miss Hodges always
takes pranty in her teas at Llanwaetur."

"Brandy!--then she can't be my Araminta."

"Oh, the very same, and no other; you are quite right, ma'am," said
Mrs. Bertrand, "if you mean the same that is publishing the novel,
ma'am,--'The Sorrows of Araminta'--for the reason I know so much
about it is, that I take in the subscriptions, and distributed the
_pur_posals."

Angelina had scarcely time to believe or disbelieve what she heard,
before the maid returned, with "Mam, Mizz Hodges haz hur best love to
you, mizz--and please to walk up--There be two steps; please to have a
care, or you'll break your neck."

Before we introduce Angelina to her "unknown friend," we must relate the
conversation which was actually passing between the amiable Araminta
and her Orlando, whilst Miss Warwick was waiting in the fruit shop. Our
readers will be so good as to picture to themselves a woman, with a face
and figure which seemed to have been intended for a man, with a
voice and gesture capable of setting even man, "imperial man," at
defiance--such was Araminta. She was, at this time, sitting cross-legged
in an arm-chair at a tea-table, on which, beside the tea equipage, was
a medley of things of which no prudent tongue or pen would undertake to
give a correct inventory. At the feet of this fair lady, kneeling on
one knee, was a thin, subdued, simple-looking quaker, of the name of
Nathaniel Gazabo.

"But now, Natty," said Miss Hodges, in a voice more masculine than her
looks, "you understand the conditions--If I give you my hand, and make
you my husband, it is upon condition that you never contradict any of my
opinions: do you promise me that?"

"Yea, verily," replied Nat.

"And you promise to leave me entirely at liberty to act, as well as to
think, in all things as my own independent understanding shall suggest?"

"Yea, verily," was the man's response.

"And you will be guided by me in all things?"

"Yea, verily."

"And you will love and admire me all your life, as much as you do now?"

"Yea, verily."

"Swear," said the unconscionable woman.

"Nay, verily," replied the meekest of men, "I cannot swear, my Rachel,
being a quaker; but I will affirm."

"Swear, swear," cried the lady, in an imperious tone, "or I will never
be your Araminta."

"I swear," said Nat Gazabo, in a timid voice.

"Then, Natty, I consent to be Mrs. Hodges Gazabo. Only remember always
to call me your dear Araminta."

"My dear Araminta! thus," said he, embracing her, "thus let me thank
thee, my dear Araminta!"

It was in the midst of these thanks that the maid interrupted the
well-matched pair, with the news that a young lady was below, who was in
a great hurry to see Miss Hodges.

"Let her come," said Miss Hodges; "I suppose it is only one of the
Miss Carvers--Don't stir, Nat; it will vex her to see you kneeling to
me--don't stir, I say--"

"Where is she? Where is my Araminta?" cried Miss Warwick, as the maid
was trying to open the outer passage-door for her, which had a bad lock.

"Get up, get up, Natty; and get some fresh water in the
tea-kettle--quick!" cried Miss Hodges, and she began to clear away some
of the varieties of literature, &c., which lay scattered about the room.
Nat, in obedience to her commands, was making his exit with all possible
speed, when Angelina entered, exclaiming--

"My amiable Araminta!--My unknown friend!"

"My Angelina!--My charming Angelina!" cried Miss Hodges.

Miss Hodges was not the sort of person our heroine expected to see;--and
to conceal the panic, with which the first sight of her unknown friend
struck her disappointed imagination, she turned back to listen to the
apologies which Nat Gazabo was pouring forth about his awkwardness and
the tea-kettle.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear!" cried Miss Hodges, with the tone and action
of a bad actress who is rehearsing an embrace--"Turn, Angelina, ever
dear!--thus, thus let us meet, to part no more."

"But her voice is so loud," said Angelina to herself, "and her looks
so vulgar, and there is such a smell of brandy!--How unlike the
elegant delicacy I had expected in my unknown friend!" Miss Warwick
involuntarily shrunk from the stifling embrace.

"You are overpowered, my Angelina--lean on me," said her Araminta.

Nat Gazabo re-entered with the tea-kettle--

"Here's _boiling_ water, and we'll have fresh tea in a trice--the young
lady's over-tired, seemingly--Here's a chair, miss, here's a chair,"
cried Nat. Miss Warwick _sunk_ upon the chair: Miss Hodges seated
herself beside her, continuing to address her in a theatrical tone.

"This moment is bliss unutterable! my kind, my noble-minded Angelina,
thus to leave all your friends for your Araminta!"--Suddenly changing
her voice--"Set the tea-kettle, Nat!"

"Who is this Nat, I wonder?" thought Miss Warwick.

"Well, and tell me," said Miss Hodges, whose attention was awkwardly
divided between the ceremonies of making tea and making speeches--"and
tell me, my Angelina--That's water enough, Nat--and tell me, my
Angelina, how did you find me out?"

"With some difficulty, indeed, _my Araminta_." Miss Warwick could hardly
pronounce the words.

"So kind, so noble-minded," continued Miss Hodges--"and did you receive
my last letter--three sheets?--And how did you contrive--Stoop the
kettle, _do_, Nat."

"Oh, this odious Nat! how I wish she would send him away!" thought Miss
Warwick.

"And tell me, my Araminta--my Angelina I mean--how did you contrive
your elopement--and how did you escape from the eye of your aristocratic
Argus--how did you escape from all your unfeeling persecutors?--Tell me,
tell me all your adventures, my Angelina!--Butter the toast, Nat," said
Miss Hodges who was cutting bread and butter, which she did not do with
the celebrated grace of Charlotte, in the Sorrows of Werter.

"I'll tell you all, my Araminta," whispered Miss Warwick, "when we are
by ourselves."

"Oh, never mind Nat," whispered Miss Hodges.

"Couldn't you tell him," rejoined Miss Warwick, "that he need not wait
any longer?"

"_Wait_, my dear! why, what do you take him for?"

"Why, is not he your footman?" whispered Angelina.

"My footman!--Nat!" exclaimed Miss Hodges, bursting out a laughing, "my
Angelina took you for my footman."

"Good heavens! what is he?" said Angelina, in a low voice.

"Verily," said Nat Gazabo, with a sort of bashful simple laugh, "verily,
I am the humblest of her servants."

"And does my Angelina--spare my delicacy," said Miss Hodges--"does
my Angelina not remember, in any of my long letters, the name
of--Orlando!--There he stands."

"Orlando!--Is this gentleman your Orlando, of whom I have heard so
much?"

"He! he! he!" simpered Nat. "I am Orlando, of whom you have heard so
much; and she--(pointing to Miss Hodges)--she is, to-morrow morning, God
willing, to be Mistress Hodges Gazabo."

"Mrs. Hodges Gazabo, my Araminta!" said Angelina, with astonishment,
which she could not suppress.

"Yes, my Angelina: so end 'The Sorrows of Araminta'--Another cup?--do I
make the tea too sweet?" said Miss Hodges, whilst Nat handed the bread
and butter to the ladies officiously.

"The man looks like a fool," thought Miss Warwick.

"Set down the bread and butter, and be quiet, Nat--Then, as soon as
the wedding is over, we fly, my Angelina, to our charming cottage in
Wales:--there may we bid defiance to the storms of fate--

"'The world forgetting, by the world forgot.'"

"That," said Angelina, "'is the blameless vestal's lot:'--but you forget
that you are to be married, my Araminta; and you forget that, in your
letter of three folio sheets, you said not one word to me of this
intended marriage."

"Nay, my dear, blame me not for a want of confidence, that my heart
disclaims," said Miss Hodges: "from the context of my letters, you must
have suspected the progress my Orlando had made in my affections;
but, indeed, I should not have brought myself to decide apparently so
precipitately, had it not been for the opposition, the persecution of my
friends--I was determined to show them that I know, and can assert, my
right to think and act, upon all occasions, for myself."

Longer, much longer, Miss Hodges, spoke in the most peremptory voice;
but whilst she was declaiming on her favourite topic, her Angelina was
"revolving in her altered mind" the strange things which she had seen
and heard in the course of the last half-hour; every thing appeared to
her in a new light; when she compared the conversation and conduct
of Miss Hodges with the sentimental letters of her Araminta; when
she compared Orlando in description to Orlando in reality, she could
scarcely believe her senses: accustomed as she had been to elegance
of manners, the vulgarity and awkwardness of Miss Hodges shocked and
disgusted her beyond measure. The disorder, and--for the words must be
said--slatternly dirty appearance of her Araminta's dress, and of every
thing in her apartment, were such as would have made a hell of heaven;
and the idea of spending her life in a cottage with Mrs. Hodges Gazabo
and Nat overwhelmed our heroine with the double fear of wretchedness and
ridicule.

"Another cup of tea, my Angelina?" said Miss Hodges, when she had
finished her tirade against her persecutors, that is to say, her
friends, "another cup, my Angelina?--do, after your journey and fatigue,
take another cup."

"No more, I thank you."

"Then reach me that tragedy, Nat--you know--"

"Your own tragedy, is it, my dear?" said he.

"Ah, Nat, now! you never can keep a secret," said Miss Hodges. "I wanted
to have surprised my Angelina."

"I am surprised!" thought Angelina--"oh, how much surprised!"

"I have a motto for our cottage here somewhere," said Miss Hodges,
turning over the leaves of her tragedy--"but I'll keep that till
to-morrow--since to-morrow's the day sacred to love and friendship."

Nat, by way of showing his joy in a becoming manner, rubbed his hands,
and hummed a tune. His mistress frowned, and bit her lips; but the
signals were lost upon him, and he sung out, in an exulting tone--

"When the lads of the village so merrily, ah! Sound their tabours, I'll
hand thee along."

"Fool! Dolt! Idiot!" cried his Araminta, rising furious--"out of my
sight!" Then, sinking down upon the chair, she burst into tears, and
threw herself into the arms of her pale, astonished Angelina. "Oh, my
Angelina!" she exclaimed, "I am the most ill-matched! most unfortunate!
most wretched of women!"

"Don't be _frighted_, miss," said Nat; "she'll come _to_ again
presently--'tis only _her way_." As he spoke, he poured out a bumper of
brandy, and kneeling, presented it to his mistress. "'Tis the only thing
in life does her good," continued he, "in this sort of fits."

"Heavens, what a scene!" said Miss Warwick to herself--"and the woman
so heavy, I can scarce support her weight--and is this _my unknown
friend?_"

How long Miss Hodges would willingly have continued to sob upon Miss
Warwick's shoulder, or how long that shoulder could possibly have
sustained her weight, is a mixed problem in physics and metaphysics,
which must for ever remain unsolved: but suddenly a loud scream was
heard. Miss Hodges started up--the door was thrown open, and Betty
Williams rushed in, crying loudly--"Oh, shave me! shave me! for the
love of Cot, shave me, miss!" and, pushing by the swain, who held the
unfinished glass of brandy in his hand, she threw herself on her knees
at the feet of Angelina.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Nat, "whatever you are, you need not push one
so."

"What now, Betty Williams? is the wench mad or drunk?" cried Miss
Hodges.

"We are to have a mad scene next, I suppose," said Miss Warwick,
calmly--"I am prepared for every thing, after what I have seen."

Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wringing her hands--"Oh,
shave me this once, miss! 'tis the first thing of the kind I ever tid,
inteet, inteet! Oh, shave me this once--I tid not know it was worth so
much as a shilling, and that I could be hanged, inteet--and I--"

Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Puffit, the milliner,
the printer's devil, and a stern-looking man, to whom Mrs. Puffit, as
she came in, said, pointing to Betty Williams and Miss Warwick, "There
they are--do your duty, Mr. Constable: I'll swear to my lace."

"And I'll swear to my black thumbs," said the printer's devil.

"I saw the lace hanging out of her pocket, and there's the marks of my
fingers upon it, Mr. Constable."

"Fellow!" cried Miss Hodges, taking the constable by the arm, "this is
my apartment, into which no minion of the law has a right to enter; for,
in England, every man's house is his castle."

"I know that as well as you do, _madam!_" said the constable; "but I
make it a principle to do nothing without a warrant: here's my warrant."

"Oh, shave me! the lace is hers inteet!" cried Betty Williams, pointing
to Miss Warwick. "Oh, miss is my mistress inteet--"

"Come, mistress or miss, then, you'll be pleased to come along with
me," said the constable, seizing hold of Angelina--"like mistress, like
maid."

"Villain! unfeeling villain! oh, unhand my Angelina, or I shall die! I
shall die!" exclaimed Araminta, falling into the arms of Nat Gazabo, who
immediately held the replenished glass of brandy to her lips--"Oh, my
Angelina, my Angelina!"

Struck with horror at her situation, Miss Warwick shrunk from the grasp
of the constable, and leaned motionless on the back of a chair.

"Come, my angel, as they call you, I think--the lady there has brandy
enough, if you want spirits--all the fits and faintings in Christendom
won't serve you now. I'm used to the tricks o' the trade.--The law must
take its course; and if you can't walk, I must carry you."

"Touch me at your peril! I am innocent," said Angelina.

"Innocent--innocence itself! pure, spotless, injured innocence!"
cried Miss Hodges. "I shall die! I shall die! I shall die on the spot!
barbarous, barbarous villain!"

Whilst Miss Hodges spoke, the ready Nat poured out a fresh glass of that
restorative, which he always had ready for cases of life and death; and
she screamed and sipped, and sipped and screamed, as the constable took
up Angelina in his arms, and carried her towards the door.

"Mrs. Innocence," said the man, "you shall see whom you shall see."

Mrs. Puffit opened the door; and, to the utter astonishment of every
body present, Lady Diana Chillingworth entered the room, followed
by Lady Frances Somerset and Mrs. Bertrand. The constable set down
Angelina. Miss Hodges set down the glass of brandy. Mrs. Puffit
curtsied. Betty Williams stretched out her arms to Lady Diana, crying,
"Shave me! shave me this once!" Miss Warwick hid her face with her
hands.

"Only my Valenciennes lace, that has been found in that girl's pocket,
and--" said Mrs. Puffit.

Lady Diana Chillingworth turned away with indescribable haughtiness,
and, addressing herself to her sister, said, "Lady Frances Somerset, you
would not, I presume, have Lady Diana Chillingworth lend her countenance
to such a scene as this--I hope, sister, that you are satisfied now." As
she said these words, her ladyship walked out of the room.

"Never was further from being satisfied in my life," said Lady Frances.

"If you look at this, my lady," said the constable, holding out the
lace, "you'll soon be satisfied as to what sort of a young lady _that_
is."

"Oh, you mistake the young lady," said Mrs. Bertrand, and she whispered
to the constable. "Come away: you may be sure you'll be satisfied--we
shall all be satisfied, handsomely, all in good time. Don't let the
_delinquency_ there on her knees," added she aloud, pointing to Betty
Williams--"don't let the _delinquency_ there on her knees escape."

"Come along, mistress," said the constable, pulling up Betty Williams
from her knees. "But I say the law must have its course, if I am not
satisfied."

"Oh, I am confident," said Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, "we shall all be
satisfied, no doubt; but Lady Di. Chillingworth knows my Valenciennes
lace, and Miss Burrage too, for they did me this morning the honour--"

"Will you do me the favour," interrupted Lady Frances Somerset, "to
leave us, good Mrs. Puffit, for the present? Here is some mistake--the
less noise we make about it the better. You shall be satisfied."

"Oh, your ladyship--I'm sure, I'm confident--I shan't utter another
syllable--nor never would have articulated a syllable about the lace
(though Valenciennes, and worth thirty guineas, if it is worth a
farthing), had I had the least intimacy or suspicion the young lady was
your la'ship's protegee. I shan't, at any rate, utter another syllable."

Mrs. Puffit, having glibly run off this speech, left the room, and
carried in her train the constable and Betty Williams, the printer's
devil, and Mrs. Bertrand, the woman of the house.

Miss Warwick, whose confusion during this whole scene was excessive,
stood without power to speak or move.

"Thank God, they are gone!" said Lady Frances; and she went to Angelina,
and taking her hands gently from before her face, said, in a soothing
tone, "Miss Warwick, your friend, Lady Frances Somerset, you cannot
think that she suspects--"

"La, dear, no!" cried Nat Gazabo, who had now sufficiently recovered
from his fright and amazement to be able to speak: "Dear heart! who
could go for to suspect such a thing? but they made such a bustle and
noise, they quite flabbergasted me, so _many_ on them in this small
room. Please to sit down, my lady.--Is there any thing I can do?"

"If you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a few minutes,"
said Lady Frances, in a polite, persuasive manner--"you could have the
goodness, sir, to leave us for a few minutes."

Nat, who was not _always_ spoken to by so gentle a voice, smiled, bowed,
and was retiring, when Miss Hodges came forward with an air of defiance:
"Aristocratic insolence!" exclaimed she: "Stop, Nat--stir not a foot, at
your peril, at the word of command of any of the privileged orders upon
earth--stir not a foot, at your peril, at the behest of any titled _She_
in the universe!--Madam, or my lady--or by whatever other name more
high, more low, you choose to be addressed--this is my husband."

"Very probably, madam," said Lady Frances, with an easy calmness, which
provoked Miss Hodges to a louder tone of indignation.

"Stir not a foot, at your peril, Nat," cried she. "I will defend him,
I say, madam, against every shadow, every penumbra of aristocratic
insolence."

"As you and he think proper, madam," replied Lady Frances. "'Tis easy to
defend the gentleman against shadows."

Miss Hodges marched up and down the room with her arms folded. Nat stood
stock still.

"The woman," whispered Lady Frances to Miss Warwick, "is either mad or
drunk--or both; at all events we shall be better in another room." As
she spoke, she drew Miss Warwick's arm within hers.--"Will you allow
aristocratic insolence to pass by you, sir?" said she to Nat Gazabo, who
stood like a statue in the doorway--he edged himself aside.

"And is this your independence of soul, my Angelina?" cried Araminta,
setting her back to the door, so as effectually to prevent her from
passing--"and is this your independence of soul, my Angelina--thus, thus
tamely to submit, to resign yourself again to your unfeeling, proud,
prejudiced, intellect-lacking persecutors?"

"This lady is my _friend_, madam," said Angelina, in as firm and
tranquil a tone as she could command, for she was quite terrified by her
Araminta's violence.

"Take your choice, my dear; stay or follow me, as you think best," said
Lady Frances.

"Your friend!" pursued the oratorical lady, detaining Miss Warwick with
a heavy hand: "Do you feel the force of the word? _Can_ you feel it, as
I once thought you could? Your friend! am not _I_ your friend, your
best friend, my Angelina? your own Araminta, your amiable Araminta, your
_unknown friend?_"

"My _unknown_ friend, indeed!" said Angelina. Miss Hodges let go her
struggling hand, and Miss Warwick that instant followed Lady Frances,
who, having effected her retreat, had by this time gained the staircase.

"Gone!" cried Miss Hodges; "then never will I see or speak to her more.
Thus I whistle her off, and let her down the wind to prey at fortune."

"Gracious heart! what quarrels," said Nat, "and doings, the night before
our wedding-day!"

We leave this well-matched pair to their happy prospects of conjugal
union and equality.

Lady Frances, who perceived that Miss Warwick was scarcely able to
support herself, led her to a sofa, which she luckily saw through the
half-open door of a drawing-room, at the head of the staircase.

"To be taken for a thief!--Oh, to what have I exposed myself!" said Miss
Warwick.

"Sit down, my dear, now we are in a room where we need not fear
interruption--sit down, and don't tremble like an aspen leaf," said Lady
Frances Somerset, who saw that at this moment, reproaches would have
been equally unnecessary and cruel.

Unused to be treated with judicious kindness, Angelina's heart was
deeply touched by it, and she opened her whole mind to Lady Frances,
with the frankness of a young person conscious of her own folly, not
desirous to apologize or extenuate, but anxious to regain the esteem of
a friend.

"To be sure, my dear, it was, as you say, rather foolish to set out in
quest of an _unknown friend_," said Lady Frances, after listening to the
confessions of Angelina. "And why, after all, was it necessary to have
an elopement?"

"Oh, madam, I am sensible of my folly--I had long formed a project of
living in a cottage in Wales--and Miss Burrage described Wales to me as
a terrestrial paradise."

"Miss Burrage! then why did she not go to paradise along with you?" said
Lady Frances.

"I don't know--she was was so much attached to Lady Di. Chillingworth,
she said, she could never think of leaving her: she charged me never
to mention the cottage scheme to Lady Di., who would only laugh at it.
Indeed, Lady Di. was almost always out whilst we were in London, or
dressing, or at cards, and I could seldom speak to her, especially
about cottages; and I wished for a friend, to whom I could open my whole
heart, and whom I could love and esteem, and who should have the same
tastes and notions with myself."

"I am sorry that last condition is part of your definition of a friend,"
said Lady Frances, smiling; "for I will not swear that my notions are
the same as yours, but yet I think you would have found me as good a
friend as this Araminta of yours. Was it necessary to perfect felicity
to have an _unknown friend_?"

"Ah! there was my mistake," said Miss Warwick. "I had read Araminta's
writings, and they speak so charmingly of friendship and felicity, that
I thought

     'Those best can paint them who can feel them most.'"

"No uncommon mistake," said Lady Frances.

"But I am fully sensible of my folly," said Angelina.

"Then there is no occasion to say any more about it at
present--to-morrow, as you like romances, we'll read Arabella, or the
Female Quixote; and you shall tell me which, of all your acquaintance,
the heroine resembles most. And in the mean time, as you seem to have
satisfied your curiosity about your _unknown friend_, will you come home
with me?"

"Oh, madam," said Angelina, with emotion, "your goodness--"

"But we have not time to talk of my goodness yet--stay--let me see--yes,
it will be best that it should be known that you are with us as soon as
possible--for there is a thing, my dear, of which, perhaps, you are not
fully sensible--of which you are too young to be fully sensible--that,
to people who have nothing to do or to say, scandal is a necessary
luxury of life; and that, by such a step as you have taken, you have
given room enough for scandal-mongers to make you and your friends
completely miserable."

Angelina burst into tears--though a sentimental lady, she had not yet
acquired the art of _bursting into tears_ upon every trifling occasion.
Hers were tears of real feeling. Lady Frances was glad to see that she
had made a sufficient impression upon her mind; but she assured Angelina
that she did not intend to torment her with useless lectures and
reproaches. Lady Frances Somerset understood the art of giving advice
rather better than Lady Diana Chillingworth.

"_I_ do not mean, my dear," said Lady Frances, "to make you miserable
for life--but I mean to make an impression upon you that may make you
prudent and happy for life. So don't cry till you make your eyes so
red as not to be fit to be seen at the play to-night, where they
must--positively--be seen."

"But Lady Diana is below," said Miss Warwick: "I am ashamed and afraid
to see her again."

"It will be difficult, but I hope not impossible, to convince my
sister," said Lady Frances, "that you clearly understand that you have
been a simpleton; but that a simpleton of sixteen is more an object
of mercy than a simpleton of sixty--so my verdict is--Guilty;--but
recommended to mercy."

By this mercy Angelina was more touched than she could have been by the
most severe reproaches.



CHAPTER V.


Whilst the preceding conversation was passing, Lady Diana Chillingworth
was in Mrs. Bertrand's fruit-shop, occupied with her smelling-bottle and
Miss Burrage. Clara Hope was there also, and Mrs. Puffit, the milliner,
and Mrs. Bertrand, who was assuring her ladyship that not a word of the
affair about the young lady and the lace should go out of her house.

"Your la'ship need not be in the least uneasy," said Mrs. Bertrand,
"for I have satisfied the constable, and satisfied every body; and the
constable allows Miss Warwick's name was not mentioned in the warrant;
and as to the servant girl, she's gone before the magistrate, who, of
course, will send her to the house of correction; but that will no ways
implicate the young lady, and nothing shall transpire from this house
detrimental to the young lady, who is under your la'ship's protection.
And I'll tell your la'ship how Mrs. Puffit and I have settled to tell
the story: with your ladyship's approbation, I shall say--"

"Nothing, if you please," said her ladyship, with more than her usual
haughtiness. "The young lady to whom you allude is under Lady Frances
Somerset's protection, not mine; and whatever you do or say, I beg that
in this affair the name of Lady Diana Chillingworth may not be used."

She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as she finished this
speech, and walked to the furthest end of the long room, followed by the
constant flatterer of all her humours, Miss Burrage.

The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console themselves for the
mortification they had received from her ladyship's pride, and for the
insolent forgetfulness of her companion, by abusing them both in a low
voice. Mrs. Bertrand began with, "Her ladyship's so touchy and so proud;
she's as high as the moon, and higher."

"Oh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so," said Mrs. Puffit;
"but then, to be sure, they have a right to be so if any body has, for
they certainly are real high-horn people. But I can't tolerate to
see some people, that aren't no ways born nor entitled to it, give
themselves such airs as some people do. Now, there's that Miss Burrage,
that pretends not to know me, ma'am."

"And me, ma'am,--just the same: such provoking assurance--I that knew
her from this high."

"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," said Mrs. Puffit.

"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," echoed Mrs. Bertrand.

"So I told her this morning, ma'am," said Mrs. Puffit.

"And so I told her this evening, ma'am, when the three Miss Herrings
came in to give me a call in their way to the play; girls that she used
to walk with, ma'am, for ever and ever in the green, you know."

"Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea with, ma'am, when asked,
you know," said Mrs. Puffit.

"Well, ma'am," pursued Mrs. Bertrand, "here she had the impudence to
pretend not to know them. She takes up her glass--my Lady Di. herself
couldn't have done it better, and squeezes up her ugly face this way,
pretending to be near-sighted, though she can see as well as you or I
can."

"Such airs! _she_ near-sighted!" said Mrs. Puffit: "what will the world
come to!"

"Oh, I wish her pride may have a fall," resumed the provoked milliner,
as soon as she had breath. "I dare to say now she wouldn't know her
own relations if she was to meet them; I'd lay any wager she would
not vouchsafe a curtsy to that good old John Barker, the friend of her
father, you know, who gave up to this Miss Burrage I don't know how many
hundreds of pounds, that were due to him, or else miss wouldn't have had
a farthing in the world; yet now, I'll be bound, she'd forget this as
well as St. Augustin's Back, and wouldn't know John Barker from Abraham;
and I don't doubt that she'd pull out her glass at her aunt Dinah,
because she is a cheesemonger's widow."

"Oh no," said Mrs. Bertrand, "she couldn't have the baseness to be
near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred her up, and was all in all
to her."

Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit-shop walked the
very persons of whom she had been talking--Dinah Plait and Mr. Barker.

"Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand.

"I never was so glad to see you, Mrs. Plait and Mr. Barker, in all my
days," said Mrs. Puffit.

"Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, Mrs. Puffit, I don't
know," said Mr. Barker, laughing; "but I'm not surprised Dinah Plait
should be a welcome guest wherever she goes, especially with a purse
full of guineas in her hand."

"Friend Bertrand," said Dinah Plait, producing a purse which she held
under her cloak, "I am come to restore this purse to its rightful
owner: after a great deal of trouble, John Barker (who never thinks it a
trouble to do good) hath traced her to your house."

"There is a young lady here, to be sure," said Mrs. Bertrand, "but
you can't see her just at present, for she is talking on _petticlar_
business with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs."

"Tis well," said Dinah Plait: "I would willingly restore this purse, not
to the young creature herself, but to some of her friends,--for I fear
she is not quite in a right state of mind. If I could see any of the
young lady's friends."

"Miss Burrage," cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so loud that
she could not avoid hearing it, "are not you one of the young lady's
friends?"

"What young lady's friend?" replied Miss Burrage, without stirring from
her seat.

"Miss Burrage, here's a purse for a young lady," said Mrs. Puffit.

"A purse for whom? Where?" said Miss Burrage, at last deigning to rise,
and come out of her recess.

"There, ma'am," said the milliner. "Now for her glass!" whispered Mrs.
Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it had been predicted, Miss
Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through her glass, pretending not to know
her. "The purse is not mine," said she, coolly: "I know nothing of
it--nothing."

"Hetty!" exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still eyed her through
her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, Dinah thought that, however
strong the resemblance, she was mistaken. "No, it can't be Hetty. I beg
pardon, madam," said she, "but I took you for--Did not I hear you say
the name of Burrage, friend Puffit?"

"Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire," said the milliner,
with malicious archness.

"One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire: I beg pardon. But did you ever see
such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor niece, Hetty Burrage?"

Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned her back
upon her aunt. "A grotesque statue of starch,--one of your quakers, I
think, they call themselves: Bristol is full of such primitive figures,"
said Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the recess and
to Lady Di.

"So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester," said Dinah Plait, and she
wiped the tears from her eyes. "Though Hetty has neglected me so of
late, I have a tenderness for her; we cannot but have some for our own
relations."

"Grotesque or not, 'tis a statue that seems to have a heart, and a gude
one," said Clara Hope.

"I wish we could say the same of every body," said Mrs. Bertrand.

All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had been silent:
"Burrage of Dorsetshire!" said he; "I'll soon see whether she be or no;
for Hetty has a wart on her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget
whom and what she pleases."

Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, followed the young
lady to the recess; and, after looking her full in the face, exclaimed
in a loud voice, "Here's the wart!--'tis Hetty!"

"Sir!--wart!--man!--Lady Di.!" cried Miss Burrage, in accents of the
utmost distress and vexation.

Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by no means
relinquish her hand; but leading, or rather pulling her forwards, he
went on with barbarous steadiness: "Dinah," said he, "'tis your
own niece. Hetty, 'tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What,
struggle--Burrage of Dorsetshire!"

"There certainly," said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a solemn tone, "is
a conspiracy, this night, against my poor nerves. These people, amongst
them, will infallibly surprise me to death. What is the matter now?--why
do you drag the young lady, sir? She came here with _me_, sir,--with
Lady Diana Chillingworth; and, consequently, she is not a person to be
insulted."

"Insult her!" said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was not to be
baffled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss Burrage, or by the
imposing manner and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. "Insult her!
why, 'tis she insults us; she won't know us."

"How should Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any body here?" said Lady
Diana, looking round, as if upon beings of a species different from her
own.

"How should she know her own aunt that bred her up?" said the invincible
John Barker, "and me who have had her on my knee a hundred times, giving
her barley-sugar till she was sick?"

"Sick! I am sure you make me sick," said Lady Diana. "Sir, that young
lady is one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, as good a family as any in
England."

"Madam," said John Barker, replying in a solemnity of tone equal to
her ladyship's, "that young lady is one of the Burrages of Bristol,
drysalters; niece to Dinah Plait, who is widow to a man, who was, in his
time, as honest a cheesemonger as any in England."

"Miss Burrage!--My God!--don't you speak!" cried Lady Diana, in a voice
of terror.

"The young lady is bashful, my lady, among strangers," said Mrs.
Bertrand.

"Oh, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee?" said Dinah Plait, with in
accent of mixed sorrow and affection; "but thou art my niece, and I
forgive thee."

"A cheesemonger's niece!" cried Lady Diana, with horror; "how have I
been deceived! But this is the consequence of making acquaintance at
Buxton, and those watering-places: I've done with her, however. Lord
bless me! here comes my sister, Lady Frances! Good heavens! my dear,"
continued her ladyship, going to meet her sister, and drawing her
into the recess at the farthest end of the room, "here are more
misfortunes--misfortunes without end. What will the world say? Here's
this Miss Burrage,--take no more notice of her, sister; she's an
impostor; who do you think she turns out to be? Daughter to a drysalter,
niece to a cheesemonger! Only conceive!-a person that has been going
about with _me_ every where!--What will the world say?"

"That it is very imprudent to have _unknown friends_, my dear," replied
Lady Frances. "The best thing you can possibly do is to say nothing
about the matter, and to receive this penitent ward of yours without
reproaches; for if you talk of her _unknown friends_, the world will
certainly talk of yours."

Lady Diana drew back with haughtiness when her sister offered to put
Miss Warwick's hands into hers; but she condescended to say, after an
apparent struggle with herself, "I am happy to hear, Miss Warwick,
that you have returned to your senses. Lady Frances takes you under her
protection, I understand; at which, for all our sakes, I rejoice; and I
have only one piece of advice, Miss Warwick, to give you--"

"Keep it till after the play, my dear Diana," whispered Lady Frances;
"it will have more effect."

"The play!--Bless me!" said Lady Diana, "why, you have contrived to
make Miss Warwick fit to be seen, I protest. But, after all I have
gone through to-night, how can I appear in public? My dear, this Miss
Burrage's business has given me such a shock,--such nervous affections!"

"Nervous affections!--Some people, I do believe, have none but nervous
affections," thought Lady Frances.

"Permit me," said Mrs. Dinah Plait, coming up to Lady Frances, and
presenting Miss Warwick's purse--"permit me, as thou seemest to be a
friend to this young lady, to restore to thee her purse, which she left
by mistake at my house this forenoon. I hope she is better, poor thing!"

"She _is_ better, and I thank you for her, madam," said Lady Frances,
who was struck with the obliging manner and benevolent countenance of
Dinah Plait, and who did not think herself contaminated by standing in
the same room with the widow of a cheesemonger.

"Let me thank you myself, madam," said Angelina; "I am perfectly in my
senses _now_, I can assure you; and I shall never forget the kindness
which you and this benevolent gentleman showed me when you thought I was
in real distress."

"Some people are more grateful than other people," said Mrs. Puffit,
looking at Miss Burrage, who in mortified, sullen silence, followed the
aunt and the benefactor of whom she was ashamed, and who had reason to
be ashamed of her.

We do not imagine that our readers can be much interested for a young
lady who was such a compound of pride and meanness; we shall therefore
only add, that her future life was spent on St. Augustin's Back, where
she made herself at once as ridiculous and as unhappy as she deserved to
be.

As for our heroine, under the friendly and judicious care of Lady
Frances Somerset, she acquired that which is more useful to the
possessor than genius--good sense. Instead of rambling over the world
in search of an _unknown friend_, she attached herself to those of whose
worth she received proofs more convincing than a letter of three folio
sheets, stuffed with sentimental nonsense. In short, we have now, in the
name of Angelina Warwick, the pleasure to assure all those whom it may
concern, that it is possible for a young lady of sixteen to cure herself
of the affectation of sensibility, and the folly of romance.






THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS


Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robespierre, was Mad. de
Rosier, a lady of good family, excellent understanding, and most amiable
character. Her husband, and her only son, a promising young man of about
fourteen, were dragged to the horrid prison of the Conciergerie, and
their names, soon afterward, appeared in the list of those who fell
a sacrifice to the tyrant's cruelty. By the assistance of a faithful
domestic, Mad. de Rosier, who was destined to be the next victim,
escaped from France, and took refuge in England--England!--that generous
country, which, in favour of the unfortunate, forgets her national
prejudices, and to whom, in their utmost need, even her "_natural
enemies_" fly for protection. English travellers have sometimes been
accused of forgetting the civilities which they receive in foreign
countries; but their conduct towards the French emigrants has
sufficiently demonstrated the injustice of this reproach.

Mad. de Rosier had reason to be pleased by the delicacy of several
families of distinction in London, who offered her their services under
the name of gratitude; but she was incapable of encroaching upon the
kindness of her friends. Misfortune had not extinguished the energy
of her mind, and she still possessed the power of maintaining herself
honourably by her own exertions. Her character and her abilities being
well known, she easily procured recommendations as a preceptress. Many
ladies anxiously desired to engage such a governess for their children,
but Mrs. Harcourt had the good fortune to obtain the preference.

Mrs. Harcourt was a widow, who had been a very fine woman, and continued
to be a very fine lady; she had good abilities, but, as she lived in
a constant round of dissipation, she had not time to cultivate her
understanding, or to attend to the education of her family; and she had
satisfied her conscience by procuring for her daughters a fashionable
governess and expensive masters. The governess whose place Mad. de
Rosier was now to supply, had quitted her pupils, to go abroad with a
lady of quality, and Mrs. Harcourt knew enough of the world to bear her
loss without emotion;--she, however, stayed at home one whole evening,
to receive Mad. de Rosier, and to introduce her to her pupils. Mrs.
Harcourt had three daughters and a son--Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta,
and Herbert. Isabella was about fourteen; her countenance was
intelligent, but rather too expressive of confidence in her own
capacity, for she had, from her infancy, been taught to believe that she
was a genius. Her memory had been too much cultivated; she had learned
languages with facility, and had been taught to set a very high value
upon her knowledge of history and chronology. Her temper had been hurt
by flattery, yet she was capable of feeling all the generous passions.

Matilda was a year younger than Isabella; she was handsome, but her
countenance, at first view, gave the idea of hopeless indolence; she
did not learn the French and Italian irregular verbs by rote as
expeditiously as her sister, and her impatient preceptress pronounced,
with an irrevocable nod, that Miss Matilda was _no_ genius. The phrase
was quickly caught by her masters, so that Matilda, undervalued even
by her sister, lost all confidence in herself, and with the hope of
success, lost the wish for exertion. Her attention gradually turned to
dress and personal accomplishments; not that she was vain of her beauty,
but she had more hopes of pleasing by the graces of her person than of
her mind. The timid, anxious blush, which Mad. De Rosier observed to
vary in Matilda's countenance, when she spoke to those for whom she felt
affection, convinced this lady that, if Matilda were _no_ genius, it
must have been the fault of her education. On sensibility, all that is
called genius, perhaps, originally depends: those who are capable of
feeling a strong degree of pain and pleasure may surely be excited
to great and persevering exertion, by calling the proper motives into
action.

Favoretta, the youngest daughter, was about six years old. At this
age, the habits that constitute character are not formed, and it is,
therefore, absurd to speak of the character of a child six years old.
Favoretta had been, from her birth, the plaything of her mother and of
her mother's waiting-maid. She was always produced, when Mrs. Harcourt
had company, to be admired and caressed by the fashionable circle;
her ringlets and her lively nonsense were the never-failing means of
attracting attention from visitors. In the drawing-room, Favoretta,
consequently, was happy, always in high spirits, and the picture of good
humour; but, change the scene, and Favoretta no longer appeared the same
person: when alone, she was idle and spiritless; when with her maid
or with her brother and sisters, pettish and capricious. Her
usual play-fellow was Herbert, but their plays regularly ended in
quarrels--quarrels in which both parties were commonly in the wrong,
though the whole of the blame necessarily fell upon Herbert, for Herbert
was neither caressing nor caressed. Mrs. Grace, the waiting-maid,
pronounced him to be the plague of her life, and prophesied evil of him,
because, as she averred, if she combed his hair a hundred times a day,
it would never be fit to be seen; besides this, she declared "there was
no managing to keep him out of mischief," and he was so "thick-headed
at his book," that Mrs. Grace, on whom the task of teaching him
his alphabet had, during the negligent reign of the late governess,
devolved, affirmed that he never would learn to read like any other
young gentleman. Whether the zeal of Mrs. Grace for his literary
progress were of service to his understanding, may be doubted; there
could be no doubt of its effect upon his temper; a sullen gloom
overspread Herbert's countenance, whenever the shrill call of "Come and
say your task, Master Herbert!" was heard; and the continual use of the
imperative mood--"Let that alone, _do_, Master Herbert!"--"Don't make a
racket, Master Herbert!"--"Do hold your tongue and sit still where I bid
you, Master Herbert!" operated so powerfully upon this young gentleman,
that, at eight years old, he partly fulfilled his tormentor's
prophecies, for he became a little surly rebel, who took pleasure in
doing exactly the contrary to every thing that he was desired to do,
and who took pride in opposing his powers of endurance to the force
of punishment. His situation was scarcely more agreeable in the
drawing-room than in the nursery, for his mother usually announced
him to the company by the appropriate appellation of _Roughhead_; and
Herbert _Roughhead_ being assailed, at his entrance into the room, by
a variety of petty reproaches and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth
appearance, became bashful and awkward, averse from _polite_ society,
and prone to the less fastidious company of servants in the stable and
the kitchen. Mrs. Harcourt absolutely forbade his intercourse with the
postilions, though she did not think it necessary to be so strict in her
injunctions as to the butler and footman; because, argued she, "children
will get to the servants when one's from home, and it is best that they
should be with such of them as one can trust. Now Stephen is quite a
person one can entirely depend upon, and he has been so long in the
family, the children are quite used to him, and safe with him."

How many mothers have a Stephen, on whom they can entirely depend!

Mrs. Harcourt, with politeness, which in this instance supplied the
place of good sense, invested Mad. de Rosier with full powers, as the
preceptress of her children, except as to their religious education; she
stipulated that Catholic tenets should not be instilled into them. To
this Mad. de Rosier replied--"that children usually follow the religion
of their parents, and that proselytes seldom do honour to their
conversion; that were she, on the other hand, to attempt to promote her
pupils' belief in the religion of their country, her utmost powers could
add nothing to the force of public religious instruction, and to the
arguments of those books which are necessarily put into the hands of
every well-educated person."

With these opinions, Mad. de Rosier readily promised to abstain from
all direct or indirect interference in the religious instruction of her
pupils. Mrs. Harcourt then introduced her to them as "a friend, in whom
she had entire confidence, and whom she hoped and believed they would
make it their study to please."

Whilst the ceremonies of the introduction were going on, Herbert kept
himself aloof, and, with his whip suspended over the stick on which he
was riding, eyed Mad. de Rosier with no friendly aspect: however, when
she held out her hand to him, and when he heard the encouraging tone of
her voice, he approached, held his whip fast in his right hand, but very
cordially gave the lady his left to shake.

"Are you to be my governess?" said he: "you won't give me very long
tasks, will you?"

"Favoretta, my dear, what has detained you so long?" cried Mrs.
Harcourt, as the door opened, and as Favoretta, with her hair in nice
order, was ushered into the room by Mrs. Grace. The little girl ran up
to Mad. de Rosier, and, with the most caressing freedom, cried,--

"Will you love me? I have not my red shoes on to-day!"

Whilst Mad. de Rosier assured Favoretta that the want of the red shoes
would not diminish her merit, Matilda whispered to Isabella--"Mourning
is very becoming to her, though she is not fair;" and Isabella, with a
look of absence, replied--"But she speaks English amazingly well for a
French woman."

Mad. de Rosier did speak English remarkably well; she had spent some
years in England, in her early youth, and, perhaps, the effect of her
conversation was heightened by an air of foreign novelty. As she was
not hackneyed in the common language of conversation, her ideas were
expressed in select and accurate terms, so that her thoughts appeared
original, as well as just.

Isabella, who was fond of talents, and yet fonder of novelty, was
charmed, the first evening, with her new friend, more especially as
she perceived that her abilities had not escaped Mad. de Rosier. She
displayed all her little treasures of literature, but was surprised to
observe that, though every shining thing she said was taken notice of,
nothing dazzled the eyes of her judge; gradually her desire to talk
subsided, and she felt some curiosity to hear. She experienced the
new pleasure of conversing with a person whom she perceived to be her
superior in understanding, and whose superiority she could admire,
without any mixture of envy.

"Then," said she, pausing, one day, after having successfully enumerated
the dates of the reigns of all the English kings, "I suppose you have
something in French, like our Gray's Memoria Technica, or else you never
could have such a prodigious quantity of dates in your head. Had you
as much knowledge of chronology and history, when you were of my age,
as--as--"

"As you have?" said Mad. de Rosier: "I do not know whether I had at your
age, but I can assure you that I have not now."

"Nay," replied Isabella, with an incredulous smile, "but you only say
that from modesty."

"From vanity, more likely."

"Vanity! impossible--you don't understand me."

"Pardon me, but you do not understand _me_."

"A person," cried Isabella, "can't, surely, be vain--what we, in
English, call vain--of _not_ remembering any thing."

"Is it, then, impossible that a person should be what you, in English,
call vain, of _not_ remembering what is useless? I dare say you can tell
me the name of that wise man who prayed for the art of forgetting."

"No, indeed, I don't know his name; I never heard of him before: was he
a Grecian, or a Roman, or an Englishman? can't you recollect his name?
what does it begin with?"

"I do not wish either for your sake or my own, to remember the name;
let us content ourselves with the wise man's sense, whether he were a
Grecian, a Roman, or an Englishman: even the first letter of his name
might be left among the useless things--might it not?"

"But," replied Isabella, a little piqued, "I do not know what you call
useless."

"Those of which you can make no use," said Mad. de Rosier, with
simplicity.

"You don't mean, though, all the names, and dates, and kings, and Roman
emperors, and all the remarkable events that I have learned by heart?"

"It is useful, I allow," replied Mad. de Rosier, "to know by heart the
names of the English kings and Roman emperors, and to remember the dates
of their reigns, otherwise we should be obliged, whenever we wanted
them, to search in the books in which they are to be found, and that
wastes time."

"Wastes time--yes; but what's worse," said Isabella, "a person looks so
awkward and foolish in company, who does not know these things--things
that every body knows."

"And that every body is supposed to know," added Mad. de Rosier.

"_That_ never struck me before," said Isabella, ingenuously; "I only
remembered these things to repeat in conversation."

Here Mad. de Rosier, pleased to observe that her pupil had caught an
idea that was new to her, dropped the conversation, and left Isabella
to apply what had passed. Active and ingenious young people should have
much left to their own intelligent exertions, and to their own candour.

Matilda, the second daughter, was at first pleased with Mad. de
Rosier, because she looked well in mourning; and afterwards she became
interested for her, from hearing the history of her misfortunes, of
which Mad. de Rosier, one evening, gave her a simple, pathetic account.
Matilda was particularly touched by the account of the early death of
this lady's beautiful and accomplished daughter; she dwelt upon every
circumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions.

"I think I can form a perfect idea of her now," said Matilda, after
she had inquired concerning the colour of her hair, of her eyes, her
complexion, her height, her voice, her manners, and her dress--"I think
I have a perfect idea of her now!"

"Oh no!" said Mad. de Rosier, with a sigh, "you cannot form a perfect
idea of my Rosalie from any of these things; she was handsome and
graceful; but it was not her person--it was her mind," said the mother,
with a faltering voice: her voice had, till this instant, been steady
and composed.

"I beg your pardon--I will ask you no more questions," said Matilda.

"My love," said Mad. de Rosier, "ask me as many as you please--I like
to think of _her_--I may now speak of her without vanity--her character
would have pleased you."

"I am sure it would," said Matilda: "do you think she would have liked
me or Isabella the best?"

"She would have liked each of you for your different good qualities, I
think: she would not have made her love an object of competition, or
the cause of jealousy between two sisters; she could make herself
sufficiently beloved, without stooping to any such mean arts. She had
two friends who loved her tenderly; they knew that she was perfectly
sincere, and that she would not flatter either of them--you know _that_
is only childish affection which is without esteem. Rosalie was esteemed
_autant qu'aimee_."

"How I should have liked such a friend! but I am afraid she would have
been so much my superior, she would have despised me--Isabella would
have had all her conversation, because she knows so much, and I know
nothing!"

"If you know that you know nothing," said Mad. de Rosier, with an
encouraging smile, "you know as much as the wisest of men. When the
oracle pronounced Socrates to be the wisest of men, he explained it by
observing, 'that he knew himself to be ignorant, whilst other men,' said
he, 'believing that they know every thing, are not likely to improve.'"

"Then you think I am likely to improve?" said Matilda, with a look of
doubtful hope.

"Certainly," said Mad. de Rosier: "if you exert yourself, you may be any
thing you please."

"Not any thing I please, for I should please to be as clever, and as
good, and as amiable, and as estimable, too, as your Rosalie--but that's
impossible. Tell me, however, what she was at my age--and what sort
of things she used to do and say--and what books she read--and how she
employed herself from morning till night."

"That must be for to-morrow," said Mad. de Rosier; "I must now show
Herbert the book of prints that he wanted to see."

It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to look into a book.
Mad. de Rosier had taken him entirely out of the hands of Mrs. Grace,
and finding that his painful associations with the sight of the
syllables in his dog's-eared spelling-book could not immediately be
conquered, she prudently resolved to cultivate his powers of attention
upon other subjects, and not to return to syllabic difficulties, until
the young gentleman should have forgotten his literary misfortunes, and
acquired sufficient energy and patience to ensure success.

"It is of little consequence," said she, "whether the boy read a year
sooner or later; but it is of great consequence that he should love
literature."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Harcourt, to whom this observation was addressed;
"I am sure you will manage all those things properly--I leave him
entirely to you--Grace quite gives him up: if he read by the time we
must think of sending him to school I shall be satisfied--only keep him
out of my way," added she, laughing, "when he is stammering over that
unfortunate spelling-book, for I don't pretend to be gifted with the
patience of Job."

"Have you any objection," said Mad. de Rosier, "to my buying for him
some new toys?"

"None in the world--buy any thing you will--do any thing you please--I
give you carte blanche," said Mrs. Harcourt.

After Mad. de Rosier had been some time at Mrs. Harcourt's, and had
carefully studied the characters, or, more properly speaking, the
habits of all her pupils, she took them with her one morning to a large
toy-shop, or rather warehouse for toys, which had been lately opened,
under the direction of an ingenious gentleman, who had employed proper
workmen to execute rational toys for the rising generation.

When Herbert entered "the rational toy-shop," he looked all around, and,
with an air of disappointment, exclaimed, "Why, I see neither whips
nor horses! nor phaetons, nor coaches!"--"Nor dressed dolls!" said
Favoretta, in a reproachful tone--"nor baby houses!"--"Nor soldiers--nor
a drum!" continued Herbert.--"I am sure I never saw such a toy-shop,"
said Favoretta; "I expected the finest things that ever were seen,
because it was such a new _great_ shop, and here are nothing but
vulgar-looking things--great carts and wheel-barrows, and things fit for
orange-women's daughters, I think."

This sally of wit was not admired as much as it would have been by
Favoretta's flatterers in her mother's drawing-room:--her brother seized
upon the very cart which she had abused, and dragging it about the room,
with noisy joy, declared he had found out that it was better than a
coach and six that would hold nothing; and he was even satisfied without
horses, because he reflected that he could be the best horse himself;
and that wooden horses, after all, cannot gallop, and they never mind
if you whip them ever so much: "you must drag them along all the time,
though you make _believe_," said Herbert, "that they draw the coach of
themselves; if one gives them the least push, they tumble down on their
sides, and one must turn back, for ever and ever, to set them up upon
their wooden legs again. I don't like make-believe horses; I had rather
be both man and horse for myself." Then, whipping himself, he galloped
away, pleased with his centaur character.

When the little boy in Sacontala is offered for a plaything "_a peacock
of earthenware, painted with rich colours_," he answers, "_I shall
like the peacock if it can run and fly--not else_." The Indian drama of
Sacontala was written many centuries ago. Notwithstanding it has so long
been observed, that children dislike useless, motionless playthings,
it is but of late that more rational toys have been devised for their
amusements.

Whilst Herbert's cart rolled on, Favoretta viewed it with scornful eyes;
but at length, cured by the neglect of the spectators of this fit of
disdain, she condescended to be pleased, and spied a few things
worthy of her notice. Bilboquets, battledores, and shuttlecocks, she
acknowledged were no bad things--"And pray," said she, "what are those
pretty little baskets, Mad. de Rosier? And those others, which look as
if they were but just begun? And what are those strings, that look like
mamma's bell cords?--and is that a thing for making laces, such as Grace
laces me with? And what are those cabinets with little drawers for?"

Mad. de Rosier had taken notice of these little cabinets--they were for
young mineralogists; she was also tempted by a botanical apparatus; but
as her pupils were not immediately going into the country, where flowers
could be procured, she was forced to content herself with such things
as could afford them employment in town. The making of baskets, of
bell-ropes, and of cords for window-curtains, were occupations in which,
she thought, they might successfully employ themselves. The materials
for these little manufactures were here ready prepared; and only such
difficulties were left as children love to conquer. The materials for
the baskets, and a little magnifying glass, which Favoretta wished to
have, were just packed up in a basket, which was to serve for a model,
when Herbert's voice was heard at the other end of the shop: he was
exclaiming in an impatient tone, "I must and I will eat them, I say." He
had crept under the counter, and, unperceived by the busy shopman, had
dragged out of a pigeon-hole, near the ground, a parcel, wrapped up in
brown paper: he had seated himself upon the ground, with his back to the
company, and, with patience worthy of a better object, at length untied
the difficult knot, pulled off the string, and opened the parcel. Within
the brown paper there appeared a number of little packets, curiously
folded in paper of a light brown. Herbert opened one of these, and
finding that it contained a number of little round things which looked
like comfits, he raised the paper to his mouth, which opened wide to
receive them. The shopman stopping his arm, assured him that they were
"_not good to eat_;" but Herbert replied in the angry tone, which caught
Mad. de Rosier's ear. "They are the seeds of radishes, my dear," said
she: "if they be sown in the ground, they will become radishes; then
they will be fit to eat, but not till then. Taste them now, and try." He
willingly obeyed; but put the seeds very quickly out of his mouth, when
he found that they were not sweet. He then said "that he wished he
might have them, that he might sow them in the little garden behind his
mother's house, that they might be fit to eat some time or other."

Mad. de Rosier bought the radish-seeds, and ordered a little spade,
a hoe, and a watering-pot, to be sent home for him. Herbert's face
brightened with joy: he was surprised to find that any of his requests
were granted, because Grace had regularly reproved him for being
troublesome whenever he asked for any thing; hence he had learned to
have recourse to force or fraud to obtain his objects. He ventured now
to hold Mad. De Rosier by the gown: "Stay a little longer," said he; "I
want to look at every thing:" his curiosity dilated with his hopes. When
Mad. de Rosier complied with his request to "stay a little longer,"
he had even the politeness to push a stool towards her, saying, "You'd
better sit down; you will be tired of standing, as some people say they
are;--but I'm not one of them. Tell 'em to give me down that wonderful
thing, that I may see what it is, will you?"

The wonderful thing which had caught Herbert's attention was a dry
printing press. Mad. de Rosier was glad to procure this little machine
for Herbert, for she hoped that the new associations of pleasure which
he would form with the types in the little compositor's stick, would
efface the painful remembrance of his early difficulties with the
syllables in the spelling-book. She also purchased a box of models
of common furniture, which were made to take to pieces, and to be put
together again, and on which the names of all the parts were printed.
A number of other useful toys tempted her, but she determined not to be
too profuse: she did not wish to purchase the love of her little
pupils by presents; her object was to provide them with independent
occupations; to create a taste for industry, without the dangerous
excitation of continual variety.

Isabella was delighted with the idea of filling up a small biographical
chart, which resembled Priestley's; she was impatient also to draw the
map of the world upon a small silk balloon, which could be filled with
common air, or folded up flat at pleasure.

Matilda, after much hesitation, said she had decided in her mind, just
as they were going out of the shop. She chose a small loom for weaving
riband and tape, which Isabella admired, because she remembered to have
seen it described in "Townsend's Travels:" but, before the man could put
up the loom for Matilda, she begged to have a little machine for drawing
in perspective, because the person who showed it assured her that it
required _no sort of genius_ to draw perfectly well in perspective with
this instrument.

In their way home, Mad. de Rosier stopped the carriage at a circulating
library. "Are you going to ask for the novel we were talking of
yesterday?" cried Matilda.

"A novel!" said Isabella, contemptuously: "no, I dare say Mad. de Rosier
is not a novel-reader."

"Zeluco, sir, if you please," said Mad. de Rosier. "You see, Isabella,
notwithstanding the danger of forfeiting your good opinion, I have dared
to ask for a novel."

"Well, I always understood, I am sure," replied Isabella, disdainfully,
"that none but trifling, silly people were novel-readers."

"Were readers of trifling, silly novels, perhaps you mean," answered
Mad. de Rosier, with temper; "but I flatter myself you will not find
Zeluco either trifling or silly."

"No, not Zeluco, to be sure," said Isabella, recollecting herself; "for
now I remember Mr. Gibbon, the great historian, mentions Zeluco in one
of his letters; he says it is the best philosophical romance of the age.
I particularly remember _that_, because somebody had been talking of
Zeluco the very day I was reading that letter; and I asked my governess
to get it for me, but she said it was a novel--however, Mr. Gibbon calls
it a philosophical romance."

"The name," said Mad. de Rosier, "will not make such difference to _us_;
but I agree with you in thinking, that as people who cannot judge for
themselves are apt to be misled by names, it would be advantageous to
invent some new name for philosophical novels, that they may no longer
be contraband goods--that they may not be confounded with the trifling,
silly productions, for which you have so just a disdain."

"Now, ma'am, will you ask," cried Herbert, as the carriage stopped at
his mother's door--"will you ask whether the man has brought home my
spade and the watering-pot? I know you don't like that I should go to
the servants for what I want; but I'm in a great hurry for the spade,
because I want to dig the bed for my radishes before night: I've got my
seeds safe in my hand."

Mad. de Rosier, much pleased by this instance of obedience in her
impatient pupil, instantly inquired for what he wanted, to convince him
that it was possible he could have his wishes gratified by a person who
was not an inhabitant of the stable or the kitchen. Isabella might have
registered it in her list of remarkable events, that Herbert, this day,
was not seen with the butler, the footman, or the coachman. Mad. de
Rosier, who was aware of the force of habit, and who thought that no
evil could be greater than that of hazarding the integrity of her little
pupils, did not exact from them any promise of abstaining from the
company of the servants, with whom they had been accustomed to converse;
but she had provided the children with occupations, that they might
not be tempted, by idleness, to seek for improper companions; and, by
interesting herself with unaffected good-nature in their amusements, she
endeavoured to give them a taste for the sympathy of their superiors
in knowledge, instead of a desire for the flattery of inferiors. She
arranged their occupations in such a manner, that, without watching them
every instant, she might know what they were doing, and where they were;
and she showed so much readiness to procure for them any thing that
was reasonable, that they found it the shortest method to address
their petitions to her in the first instance. Children will necessarily
delight in the company of those who make them happy; Mad. de Rosier knew
how to make her pupils contented, by exciting them to employments in
which they felt that they were successful.

"Mamma! mamma! dear mamma!" cried Favoretta, running into the hall, and
stopping Mrs. Harcourt, who was dressed, and going out to dinner, "do
come into the parlour, to look at my basket, my beautiful basket, that I
am making _all_ myself."

"And _do_, mother, or some of ye, come out into the garden, and see the
bed that I've dug, with my own hands, for my radishes--I'm as hot as
fire, I know," said Herbert, pushing his hat back from his forehead.

"Oh! don't come near me with the watering-pot in your hand," said Mrs.
Harcourt, shrinking back, and looking at Herbert's hands, which were not
as white as her own.

"The carriage is but just come to the door, ma'am," said Isabella, who
next appeared in the hall; "I only want you for one instant, to show you
something that is to hang up in your dressing-room, when I have finished
it, mamma; it is really beautiful."

"Well, don't keep me long," said Mrs. Harcourt, "for, indeed, I am too
late already."

"Oh, no! indeed you will not be too late, mamma--only look at my
basket," said Favoretta, gently pulling her mother by the hand into the
parlour.--Isabella pointed to her silk globe, which was suspended in the
window, and, taking up her camel-hair pencil, cried, "Only look, ma'am,
how nicely I have traced the Rhine, the Po, the Elbe, and the Danube;
you see I have not finished Europe; it will be quite another looking
thing, when Asia, Africa, and America are done, and when the colours are
quite dry."

"Now, Isabella, pray let her look at my basket," cried the eager
Favoretta, holding up the scarcely begun basket--"I will do a row, to
show you how it is done;" and the little girl, with busy fingers, began
to weave. The ingenious and delicate appearance of the work, and the
happy countenance of the little workwoman, fixed the mother's pleased
attention, and she, for a moment, forgot that her carriage was waiting.

"The carriage is at the door, ma'am," said the footman.

"I must be gone!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, starting from her reverie. "What
am I doing here? I ought to have been away this half-hour--Matilda!--why
is not she amongst you?"

Matilda, apart from the busy company, was reading with so much
earnestness, that her mother called twice before she looked up.

"How happy you all look," continued Mrs. Harcourt; "and I am going to
one of those terrible _great_ dinners--I shan't eat one morsel; then
cards all night, which I hate as much as you do, Isabella--pity me, Mad.
de Rosier!--Good bye, happy creatures!"--and with some real and some
affected reluctance, Mrs. Harcourt departed.

It is easy to make children happy, for one evening, with new toys and
new employments; but the difficulty is to continue the pleasure of
occupation after it has lost its novelty: the power of habit may
well supply the place of the charm of novelty. Mad. de Rosier exerted
herself, for some weeks, to invent occupations for her pupils, that
she might induce in their minds a love for industry; and when they had
tasted the pleasure, and formed the habit of doing _something_, she now
and then suffered them to experience the misery of having nothing to do.
The state of _ennui_, when contrasted with that of pleasurable mental or
bodily activity, becomes odious and insupportable to children.

Our readers must have remarked that Herbert, when he seized upon the
radish-seeds in the rational toy-shop, had not then learned just notions
of the nature of property. Mad. de Rosier did not, like Mrs. Grace,
repeat ineffectually, fifty times a day--"Master Herbert, don't touch
that!" "Master Herbert, for shame!" "Let that alone, sir!" "Master
Herbert, how dare you, sir!" but she prudently began by putting
forbidden goods entirely out of his reach: thus she, at least, prevented
the necessity for perpetual, irritating prohibitions, and diminished
with the temptation the desire to disobey; she gave him some things
for his _own_ use, and scrupulously refrained from encroaching upon his
property: Isabella and Matilda followed her example, in this respect,
and thus practically explained to Herbert the meaning of the words
_mine_ and _yours_. He was extremely desirous of going with Mad. de
Rosier to different shops, but she coolly answered his entreaties by
observing, "that she could not venture to take him into any one's house,
till she was sure that he would not meddle with what was not his own."
Herbert now felt the inconvenience of his lawless habits: to enjoy the
pleasures, he perceived that it was necessary to submit to the duties
of society; and he began to respect "_the rights of things and
persons_[1]." When his new sense of right and wrong had been
sufficiently exercised at home, Mad. de Rosier ventured to expose him
to more dangerous trials abroad; she took him to a carpenter's workshop,
and though the saw, the hammer, the chisel, the plane, and the vice,
assailed him in various forms of temptation, his powers of forbearance
came off victorious.

[Footnote 1: Blackstone]

"To _bear_ and _forbear_" has been said to be the sum of manly virtue:
the virtue of forbearance in childhood must always be measured by
the pupil's disposition to activity: a vivacious boy must often have
occasion to forbear more, in a quarter of an hour, than a dull, indolent
child in a quarter of a year.

"May I touch this?"--"May I meddle with that?" were questions which our
prudent hero now failed not to ask, before he meddled with the property
of others, and he found his advantage in this mode of proceeding. He
observed that his governess was, in this respect, as scrupulous as she
required that he should be, and he consequently believed in the truth
and _general_ utility of her precepts.

The coachmaker's, the cooper's, the turner's, the cabinet-maker's, even
the black ironmonger's and noisy tinman's shop, afforded entertainment
for many a morning; a trifling gratuity often purchased much
instruction, and Mad. de Rosier always examined the countenance of
the workman before she suffered her little pupils to attack him with
questions. The eager curiosity of children is generally rather agreeable
than tormenting to tradesmen, who are not too busy to be benevolent; and
the care which Herbert took not to be troublesome pleased those to whom
he addressed himself. He was delighted, at the upholsterer's, to observe
that his little models of furniture had taught him how several things
were _put together_, and he soon learned the workmen's names for his
ideas. He readily understood the use of all that he saw, when he went to
a bookbinder's, and to a printing-office, because, in his own printing
and bookbinder's press, he had seen similar contrivances in miniature.

Prints, as well as models, were used to enlarge his ideas of visible
objects. Mad. de Rosier borrowed the Dictionnaire des Arts et des
Metiers, Buffon, and several books, which contained good prints of
animals, machines, and architecture; these provided amusement on rainy
days. At first she found it difficult to fix the attention of the
boisterous Herbert and the capricious Favoretta. Before they had half
examined one print, they wanted to turn over the leaf to see another;
but this desultory, impatient curiosity she endeavoured to cure by
steadily showing only one or two prints for each day's amusement.
Herbert, who could but just spell words of one syllable, could not
read what was written at the bottom of the prints, and he was sometimes
ashamed of applying to Favoretta for assistance;--the names that were
printed upon his little models of furniture he at length learned to
make out. The _press was obliged to stand still_ when Favoretta, or his
friend, Mad. de Rosier, were not at hand, to tell him, letter by letter,
how to spell the words that he wanted to print. He, one evening, went
up to Mad. de Rosier, and, with a resolute face, said, "I must learn to
read."

"If any body will be so good as to teach you, I suppose you mean," said
she, smiling[2].

[Footnote 2: Vide Rousseau.]

"Will _you_ be so good?" said he: "perhaps you could teach me, though
Grace says 'tis very difficult; I'll do my best."

"Then I'll do _my_ best too," said Mad. de Rosier.

The consequences of these good resolutions were surprising to Mrs.
Grace. Master Herbert was quite changed, she observed; and she wondered
why he would never read when she took so much pains with him for an hour
every day to hear him his task. "Madame de What d'ye call her,"
added Mrs. Grace, "need not boast much of the hand she has had in the
business: for I've been by at odd times, and watched her ways, whilst
I have been dressing Miss Favoretta, and she has been hearing you your
task, Master Herbert."

"She doesn't call it my task--I hate that word."

"Well, I don't know what she calls it; for I don't pretend to be a
French governess, for my part; but I can read English, Master Herbert,
as well as another; and it's strange if I could not teach my mother
tongue better than an emigrant. What I say is, that she never takes
much pains one way or the other; for by the clock in mistress's
dressing-room, I minuted her twice, and she was five minutes at one
time, and not above seven the other. Easy earning money for
governesses, nowadays. No tasks!--no, not she!--Nothing all day long but
play--play--play, laughing and running, and walking, and going to see
all the shops and sights, and going out in the coach to bring home
radishes and tongue-grass, to be sure--and every thing in the house is
to be as she pleases, to be sure. I am sure my mistress is too good
to her, only because she was born a lady, they say. Do, pray, Master
Herbert, stand still, whilst I comb your hair, unless that's against
your new governess's commandments."

"I'll comb my own hair, Grace," said Herbert, manfully. "I don't like
one word you have been saying; though I don't mind any thing you, or any
body else, can say against _my friend_. She is my friend--and she has
taught me to read, I say, without bouncing me about, and shaking me, and
Master Herbert_ing_ me for ever. And what harm did it do the coach to
bring home my radishes? My radishes are come up, and she shall have some
of them. And I like the sights and shops she shows me;--but she does not
like that I should talk to you; therefore, I'll say no more; but good
morning to you, Grace."

Herbert, red with generous passion, rushed out of the room, and Grace,
pale with malicious rage, turned towards the other door that opened
into Mrs. Harcourt's bedchamber, for Mad. de Rosier, at this moment,
appeared.--"I thought I heard a great noise?"--"It was only Master
Herbert, ma'am, that _won't never_ stand still to have his hair
combed--and says he'll comb it for himself--I am sure I wish he would."

Mad. de Rosier saw, by the embarrassed manner and stifled choler of Mrs.
Grace, that the whole truth of the business had not been told, and she
repented her indiscretion in having left Herbert with her even for a
few minutes. She forbore, however, to question Herbert, who maintained
a _dignified_ silence upon the subject; and the same species of
silence would also become the historian upon this occasion, were it not
necessary that the character of an intriguing lady's maid should, for
the sake both of parents and children, be fully delineated.

Mrs. Grace, offended by Mad. de Rosier's success in teaching her former
pupil to read; jealous of this lady's favour with her mistress and
with the young ladies; irritated by the bold defiance of the indignant
champion who had stood forth in his _friend's_ defence, formed a
_secret_ resolution to obtain revenge. This she imparted, the very same
day, to her confidant, Mrs. Rebecca. Mrs. Rebecca was the favourite maid
of Mrs. Fanshaw, an acquaintance of Mrs. Harcourt. Grace invited Mrs.
Rebecca to drink tea with her. As soon as the preliminary ceremonies of
the tea-table had been adjusted, she proceeded to state her grievances.

"In former times, as nobody knows better than you, Mrs. Rebecca, I had
my mistress's ear, and was all in all in the house, with her and the
young ladies, and the old governess; and it was I that was to teach
Master Herbert to read; and Miss Favoretta was almost constantly from
morning to night, except when she was called for by company, with me,
and a sweet little well-dressed creature always, you know, she was."

"A sweet little creature, indeed, ma'am, and I was wondering, before you
spoke, not to see her in your room, as usual, to-night," replied Mrs.
Rebecca.

"Dear Mrs. Rebecca, you need not wonder at that, or any thing else
that's wonderful, in our present government above stairs, I'll assure
you; for we have a new French governess, and new measures. Do you know,
ma'am, the coach is ordered to go about at all hours, whenever she
pleases _for to_ take the young ladies out, and she is quite like my
mistress. But no one can bear two mistresses, you know, Mrs. Rebecca;
wherefore, I'm come to a resolution, in short, that either she or I
shall quit the house, and we shall presently see which of us it must be.
Mrs. Harcourt, at the upshot of all things, must be conscious, at the
bottom of her heart, that, if she is the elegantest dresser about town,
it's not all her own merit."

"Very true indeed, Mrs. Grace," replied her complaisant friend; "and
what sums of money her millinery might cost her, if she had no one
clever at making up things at home! You are blamed by many, let me tell
you, for doing so much as you do. Mrs. Private, the milliner, I know
from the best authority, is not your friend: now, for my part, I
think it is no bad thing to have friends _abroad_, if one comes to any
difficulties at home. Indeed, my dear, your attachment to Mrs. Harcourt
quite blinds you--but, to be sure, you know your own affairs best."

"Why, I am not for changing when I am well," replied Grace: "Mrs.
Harcourt is abroad a great deal, and hers is, all things considered,
a very eligible house. Now, what I build my hopes upon, my dear Mrs.
Rebecca, is this--that ladies, like some people who have been beauties,
and come to _make themselves up_, and wear pearl powder, and false
auburn hair, and twenty things that are not to be advertised, you know,
don't like quarrelling with those that are in the secret--and ladies who
have never made a _rout_ about governesses and _edication_, till lately,
and now, perhaps, only for fashion's sake, would upon a pinch--don't you
think--rather part with a French governess, when there are so many,
than with a favourite maid who knows her ways, _and has_ a good taste in
dress, which so few can boast?"

"Oh, surely! surely!" said Mrs. Rebecca; and having tasted Mrs. Grace's
creme-de-noyau, it was decided that war should be declared against _the
governess_.

Mad. de Rosier, happily unconscious of the machinations of her enemies,
and even unsuspicious of having any, was, during this important
conference, employed in reading Marmontel's Silvain, with Isabella and
Matilda. They were extremely interested in this little play; and Mrs.
Harcourt, who came into the room whilst they were reading, actually
sat down on the sofa beside Isabella, and, putting her arm round her
daughter's waist, said--"Go on, love; let me have a share in some of
your pleasures--lately, whenever I see you, you all look the picture of
happiness--Go on, pray, Mad. de Rosier."

"It was I who was reading, mamma," said Isabella, pointing to the place
over Mad. de Rosier's shoulder--

     Une femme douce et sage
     A toujours tant d'avantage!
     Elle a pour elle en partage
     L'agrement, et la raison.'"

"Isabella," said Mrs. Harcourt, from whom a scarcely audible sigh
had escaped--"Isabella really reads French almost as well as she does
English."

"I am improved very much since I have heard Mad. de Rosier read," said
Isabella.

"I don't doubt _that_, in the least; you are, all of you, much improved,
I think, in every thing;--I am sure I feel very much obliged to Mad. de
Rosier."

Matilda looked pleased by this speech of her mother, and affectionately
said, "I am glad, mamma, you like her as well as we do--Oh, I forgot
that Mad, de Rosier was by--but it is not flattery, however."

"You see you have won all their hearts"--_from me_, Mrs. Harcourt was
near saying, but she paused, and, with a faint laugh, added--"yet you
see I am not jealous. Matilda! read those lines that your sister has
just read; I want to hear them again."

Mrs. Harcourt sent for her work, and spent the evening at home. Mad. de
Rosier, without effort or affectation, dissipated the slight feeling of
jealousy which she observed in the mother's mind, and directed towards
her the attention of her children, without disclaiming, however,
the praise that was justly her due. She was aware that she could not
increase her pupils' real affection for their mother, by urging them to
sentimental hypocrisy.

Whether Mrs. Harcourt understood her conduct this evening, she could not
discover--for politeness does not always speak the unqualified language
of the heart--hut she trusted to the effect of time, on which persons
of integrity may always securely rely for their reward. Mrs. Harcourt
gradually discovered that, as she became more interested in the
occupations and amusements of her children, they became more and more
grateful for her sympathy; she consequently grew fonder of domestic
life, and of the person who had introduced its pleasures into her
family.

That we may not be accused of attributing any miraculous power to
our French governess, we shall explain the natural means by which she
improved her pupils.

We have already pointed out how she discouraged, in Isabella, the vain
desire to load her memory with historical and chronological facts,
merely for the purpose of ostentation. She gradually excited her to
read books of reasoning, and began with those in which reasoning and
amusement are mixed. She also endeavoured to cultivate her imagination,
by giving her a few well-chosen passages to read, from the best English,
French, and Italian poets. It was an easier task to direct the activity
of Isabella's mind, than to excite Matilda's dormant powers. Mad. de
Rosier patiently waited till she discovered something which seemed to
please Matilda more than usual. The first book that she appeared to like
particularly was, "Les Conversations d'Emilie:" one passage she read
with great delight aloud; and Mad. de Rosier, who perceived by the
manner of reading it that she completely understood the elegance of the
French, begged her to try if she could translate it into English: it was
not more than half a page. Matilda was not terrified at the length of
such an undertaking: she succeeded, and the praises that were bestowed
upon her translation excited in her mind some portion of ambition.

Mad. de Rosier took the greatest care in conversing with Matilda, to
make her feel her own powers: whenever she used good arguments,
they were immediately attended to; and when Matilda perceived that a
prodigious memory was not essential to success, she was inspired with
courage to converse unreservedly.

An accident pointed out to Mad. de Rosier another resource in Matilda's
education. One day Herbert called his sister Matilda to look at an ant,
which was trying to crawl up a stick; he seemed scarcely able to carry
his large white load in his little forceps, and he frequently fell back,
when he had just reached the top of the stick. Mad. de Rosier, who
knew how much of the art of instruction depends upon seizing the proper
moments to introduce new ideas, asked Herbert whether he had ever heard
of the poor snail, who, like this ant, slipped back continually, as he
was endeavouring to climb a wall twenty feet high.

"I never heard of that snail; pray tell me the story," cried Herbert.

"It is not a story--it is a question in arithmetic," replied Mad. de
Rosier. "This snail was to crawl up a wall twenty feet high; he crawled
up five feet every day, and slipped hack again four feet every night: in
how many days did he reach the top of the wall?"

"I love questions in arithmetic," exclaimed Matilda, "when they are
not too difficult!" and immediately she whispered to Mad. de Rosier the
answer to this easy question.

Her exclamation was not lost;--Mad. de Rosier determined to cultivate
her talents for arithmetic. Without fatiguing Matilda's attention by
long exercises in the common rules, she gave her questions which obliged
her to _think_, and which excited her to reason and to invent; she
gradually explained to her pupil the relations of numbers, and gave her
rather more clear ideas of the nature and use of the common rules of
arithmetic than she had acquired from her writing-master, who had taught
them only in a technical manner. Matilda's confidence in herself was
thus increased. When she had answered a difficult question, she could
not doubt that she had succeeded; this was not a matter that admitted
of the uncertainty which alarms timid tempers. Mad. de Rosier began
by asking her young arithmetician questions only when they were by
themselves--but by and by she appealed to her before the rest of the
family. Matilda  at first, and looked as if she knew nothing of
the business; but a distinct answer was given at last, and Isabella's
opinions of her sister's abilities rose with amazing rapidity, when she
heard that Matilda understood decimal fractions.

"Now, my dear Matilda," said Mad. de Rosier, "since you understand
what even Isabella thinks difficult, you will, I hope, have sufficient
confidence in yourself to attempt things which Isabella does not think
difficult."

Matilda shook her head--"I am not Isabella yet," said she.

"No!" cried Isabella, with generous, sincere warmth; "but you are
much superior to Isabella: I am certain that I could not answer those
difficult questions, though you think me so quick--and, when once
you have learned any thing, you never forget it; the ideas are not
superficial," continued Isabella, turning to Mad. de Rosier; "they have
depth, like the pins in mosaic work."

Mad. de Rosier smiled at this allusion, and, encouraged by her smile,
Isabella's active imagination immediately produced another simile.

"I did not know my sister's abilities till lately--till you drew them
out, Mad. de Rosier, like your drawing upon the screen in sympathetic
inks;--when you first produced it, I looked, and said there was nothing;
and when I looked again, after you had held it to the fire for a few
moments, beautiful colours and figures appeared."

Mad. de Rosier, without using any artifice, succeeded in making Isabella
and Matilda friends, instead of rivals, by placing them, as much as
possible, in situations in which they could mutually sympathize, and by
discouraging all painful competition.

With Herbert and Favoretta she pursued a similar plan. She scarcely ever
left them alone together, that she might not run the hazard of their
quarrelling in her absence. At this age children have not sufficient
command of their tempers--they do not understand the nature of society
and of justice: the less they are left together, when they are of
unequal strength, and _when they have not any employments in which they
are mutually interested_, the better. Favoretta and Herbert's petty, but
loud and violent disputes, had nearly ceased since these precautions had
been regularly attended to. As they had a great deal of amusement in
the few hours which they spent together, they grew fond of each other's
company: when Herbert was out in his little garden, he was impatient for
the time when Favoretta was to come to visit his works; and
Favoretta had equal pleasure in exhibiting to her brother her various
manufactures.

Mad. de Rosier used to hear them read in Mrs. Barbauld's excellent
little books, and in "Evenings at Home;" she generally told them some
interesting story when they had finished reading, and they regularly
seated themselves, side by side, on the carpet, opposite to her.

One day Herbert established himself in what he called his "_happy
corner_," Favoretta placed herself close beside him, and Mad. de Rosier
read to them that part of Sandford and Merton in which Squire Chace is
represented beating Harry Sandford unmercifully because he refused to
tell which way the hare was gone. Mad. de Rosier observed that this
story made a great impression upon Herbert, and she thought it a good
opportunity, whilst his mind was warm, to point out the difference
between resolution and obstinacy. Herbert had been formerly disposed to
obstinacy; but this defect in his temper never broke out towards Mad. de
Rosier, because she carefully avoided urging him to do those things to
which she knew him to be adverse; and she frequently desired him to do
what she knew would be agreeable to him: she thought it best to suffer
him gradually to forget his former bad habits and false associations,
before she made any trial of his obedience; then she endeavoured to give
him new habits, by placing him in new situations. She now resolved to
address herself to his understanding, which she perceived had opened to
reason.

He exclaimed with admiration, upon hearing the account of Harry
Sandford's fortitude, "That's right!--that's right!--I am glad Harry
did not tell that cruel Squire Chace which way the hare was gone. I like
Harry for bearing to be beaten, _rather than speak a word when he did
not choose it_. I love Harry, don't you?" said he, appealing to Mad. de
Rosier.

"Yes, I like him very much," said Mad. de Rosier: "but not for the
reason that you have just given."

"No!" said Herbert, starting up: "why, ma'am, don't you like Harry for
saving the poor hare? don't you admire him for bearing all the hard
blows, and for saying, when the man asked him afterward why he didn't
tell which way the hare was gone, 'Because I don't choose to betray the
unfortunate?'"

"Oh! don't you love him for that?" said Favoretta, rising from her seat;
"I think Herbert himself would have given just such an answer, only
not in such good words. I wonder, Mad. de Rosier, you don't like that
answer!"

"I have never said that I did not like that answer," said Mad. de
Rosier, as soon as she was permitted to speak.

"Then you _do_ like it? then you do like Harry?" exclaimed Herbert and
Favoretta, both at once.

"Yes, I like that answer, Herbert; I like your friend Harry for saying
that he did not choose to betray the unfortunate. You did not do _him_
justice or yourself, when you said just now that you liked Harry because
he bore to be beaten rather than speak a word when he did not _choose
it_."

Herbert looked puzzled.

"I mean," continued Mad. de Rosier, "that, before I can determine
whether I like and admire any body for persisting in doing or in not
doing any thing, I must hear their reasons for their resolution. 'I
don't choose it,' is no reason; I must hear their reasons for choosing
or not choosing it before I can judge."

"And I have told you the reason Harry gave for not choosing to speak
when he was asked, and you said it was a good one; and you like him for
his courage, don't you?" said Herbert.

"Yes," said Mad. de Rosier; "those who are resolute, when they have good
reasons for their resolution, I admire; those who persist merely because
_they choose it_, and who cannot, or will not, tell why they choose it,
I despise."

"Oh, so do I!" said Favoretta: "you know, brother, whenever you say you
don't choose it, I am always angry, and ask you why."

"And if you were not _always_ angry," said Mad. de Rosier, "perhaps
_sometimes_ your brother would tell you why."

"Yes, that I should," said Herbert; "I always have a good reason to give
Favoretta, though I don't always choose to give it."

"Then," said Mad. de Rosier, "you cannot always expect your sister to
admire the justice of your decisions."

"No," replied Herbert; "but when I don't give her a reason, 'tis
generally because it is not worth while. There can be no great wisdom,
you know, in resolutions about trifles: such as, whether she should be
my horse or I her horse, or whether I should water my radishes before
breakfast or after."

"Certainly, you are right: there can be no great wisdom in resolutions
about such trifles, therefore wise people never are obstinate about
trifles."

"Do you know," cried Herbert, after a pause, "they used, before you
came, to say that I was obstinate; but with you I have never been so,
because you know how to manage me; you manage me a great deal more
_cunningly_ than Grace used to do."

"I would not manage you more _cunningly_ than Grace used to do, if I
could," replied Mad. de Rosier; "for then I should manage you worse than
she did. It is no pleasure to me to govern you; I had much rather that
you should use your reason to govern yourself."

Herbert pulled down his waistcoat, and, drawing up his head, looked with
conscious dignity at Favoretta.

"You know," continued Mad. de Rosier, "that there are two ways of
governing people--by reason and by force. Those who have no reason, or
who do not use it, must be governed by force."

"I am not one of those," said Herbert; "for I hate force."

"But you must also love reason," said Mad. de Rosier, "if you would not
be _one of those_."

"Well, so I do, when I hear it from _you_," replied Herbert, bluntly;
"for you give me reasons that I can understand, when you ask me to do or
not to do any thing: I wish people would always do so."

"But, Herbert," said Mad. de Rosier, "you must sometimes be contented to
do as you are desired, even when I do not think it proper to give you my
reasons;--you will, hereafter, find that I have good ones."

"I have found that already in a great many things," said Herbert;
"especially about the caterpillar."

"What about the caterpillar?" said Favoretta.

"Don't you remember," said Herbert, "the day that I was going to tread
upon what I thought was a little bit of black stick, and _she_ desired
me not to do it, and I did not, and afterwards I found out that it was
a caterpillar;--ever since that day I have been more ready, you know,"
continued he, turning to Mad. de Rosier, "to believe that you might be
in the right, and to do as you bid me--you don't think me obstinate, do
you?"

"No," said Mad. de Rosier.

"No! no!--do you hear that, Favoretta?" cried Herbert joyfully: "Grace
used to say I was as obstinate as a mule, and she used to call me an
ass, too: but even poor asses are not obstinate when they are well
treated. Where is the ass, in the Cabinet of Quadrupeds, Favoretta,
which we were looking at the other day? Oh, let me read the account to
you, Mad. de Rosier. It is towards the middle of the book, Favoretta;
let me look, I can find it in a minute. It is not long--may I read it to
you?"

Mad. de Rosier consented, and Herbert read as follows:--"Much has been
said of the stupid and stubborn disposition of the ass, but we are
greatly inclined to suspect that the aspersion is ill-founded: whatever
bad qualities of this kind he may sometimes possess, they do not appear
to be the consequences of any natural defect in his constitution or
temper, but arise from the manner used in training him, and the bad
treatment he receives. We are the rather led to this assertion, from
having lately seen one which experiences a very different kind of
treatment from his master than is the fate of the generality of asses.
The humane owner of this individual is an old man, whose employment is
the selling of vegetables, which he conveys from door to door on
the back of his ass. He is constantly baiting the poor creature with
handfuls of hay, pieces of bread, or greens, which he procures in his
progress. It is with pleasure we relate, for we have often curiously
observed the old man's demeanour towards his ass, that he seldom carries
any instrument of incitement with him, nor did we ever see him lift his
hand to drive it on.

"Upon our observing to him that he seemed to be very kind to his ass,
and inquiring whether he were apt to be stubborn, how long he had had
him, &c., he replied, 'Ah, master, it is no use to be cruel, and as for
stubbornness, I cannot complain, for he is ready to do any thing, and
will go any where; I bred him myself, and have had him these two years:
he is sometimes skittish and playful, and once ran away from me: you
will hardly believe it, but there were more than fifty people after him
to stop him, and they were not able to effect it, yet he turned back of
himself, and never stopped till he run his head kindly into my breast.'

"The countenance of this individual is open, lively, and cheerful;
his pace nimble and regular; and the only inducement used to make him
increase his speed is that of calling him by name, which he readily
obeys."

"I am not an ass," said Herbert, laughing, as he finished this
sentence, "but I think Mad. de Rosier is very like the good old man, and
I always obey whenever she speaks to me. By the by," continued Herbert,
who now seemed eager to recollect something by which he could show his
readiness to obey--"by the by, Grace told me that my mother desired I
should go to her, and have my hair combed every day; now I don't like
it, but I will do it, because mamma desires it, and I will go this
instant; will you come and see how still I can stand? I will show you
that I am not obstinate."

Mad. de Rosier followed the little hero, to witness his triumph _over
himself_. Grace happened to be with her mistress who was dressing.

"Mamma, I am come to do as you bid me," cried Herbert, walking stoutly
into the room: "Grace, here's the comb;" and he turned to her the
tangled locks at the back of his head. She pulled unmercifully, but he
stood without moving a muscle of his countenance.

Mrs. Harcourt, who saw in her looking-glass what was passing, turned
round, and said, "Gently, gently, Grace; indeed, Grace, you do pull that
poor boy's hair as if you thought that his head had no feeling; I am
sure, if you were to pull my hair in that manner, I could not bear it so
well."

"Your hair!--Oh, dear ma'am, that's quite another thing--but Master
Herbert's is always in such a tangle, there's no such thing as managing
it." Again Mrs. Grace gave a desperate pull: Herbert bore it, looked up
at Mad. de Rosier, and said, "Now, that was resolution, not obstinacy,
you know."

"Here is your little obedient and patient boy," said Mad. de Rosier,
leading Herbert to his mother, "who deserves to be rewarded with a kiss
from you."

"That he shall have," said Mrs. Harcourt; "but why does Grace pull your
hair so hard? and are not you almost able to comb your own hair?"

"Able! that I am. Oh, mother, I wish I might do it for myself."

"And has Mad. de Rosier any objection to it?" said Mrs. Harcourt.

"None in the least," said Mad. de Rosier; "on the contrary, I wish that
he should do every thing that he can do for himself; but he told me that
it was your desire that he should apply to Mrs. Grace, and I was pleased
to see his ready obedience to your wishes: you may be very certain that,
even in the slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, it
is _our_ wish, as much as it is our duty, to do exactly as you desire."

"My dear madame," said Mrs. Harcourt, laying her hand upon Mad. de
Rosier's, with an expression of real kindness, mixed with her habitual
politeness, "I am sensible of your goodness, but you know that in the
slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, I leave every
thing implicitly to your better judgment: as to this business between
Herbert and Grace, I don't understand it."

"Mother--" said Herbert.

"Madam," said Grace, pushing forward, but not very well knowing what
she intended to say, "if you recollect, you desired me to comb Master
Herbert's hair, ma'am, and I told Master Herbert so, ma'am, that's all."

"I do not recollect any thing about it, indeed, Grace."

"Oh dear, ma'am! don't you recollect the last day there was company, and
Master Herbert came to the top of the stairs, and you was looking at
the _organ's_ lamp, I said, 'Dear! Master Herbert's hair's as rough as
a porcupine's;' and you said directly, ma'am, if you recollect, 'I wish
you would make that boy's hair fit to be seen;' those _was_ your very
words, ma'am, and I thought you meant always, ma'am."

"You mistook me, Grace," said Mrs. Harcourt, smiling at her maid's eager
volubility: "in future, you understand, that Herbert is to be entire
master of his own hair."

"Thank you, mother," said Herbert.

"Nay, my dear Herbert, thank Mad. de Rosier: I only speak in her name.
You understand, _I am sure_, Grace, now," said Mrs. Harcourt, calling
to her maid, who seemed to be in haste to quit the room--"you, I hope,
understand, Grace, that Mad. de Rosier and I are always of one mind
about the children; therefore you need never be puzzled by contradictory
orders--hers are to be obeyed."

Mrs. Harcourt was so much pleased when she looked at Herbert, as she
concluded this sentence, to see an expression of great affection and
gratitude, that she stooped instantly to kiss him.

"Another kiss! two kisses to-day from my mother, and one of her own
accord!" exclaimed Herbert joyfully, running out of the room to tell the
news to Favoretta.

"That boy has a heart," said Mrs. Harcourt, with some emotion; "you have
found it out for me, Mad. de Rosier, and I thank you."

Mad. de Rosier seized the propitious moment to present a card of
invitation, which Herbert, with much labour, had printed with his little
printing-press.

"What have we here?" said Mrs. Harcourt, and she read aloud--

'Mr. Herbert Harcourt's love to his dear mother, and, if she be not
engaged this evening, he should be exceedingly glad of her company, to
meet Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, and Mad. de Rosier, who have promised
to sup with him upon his own radishes to-night. They are all very
impatient for _your_ answer.'"

"My answer they shall have in an instant," said Mrs. Harcourt:--"why,
Mad. de Rosier, this is the boy who could neither read nor spell six
months ago. Will you be my messenger?" added she, putting a card into
Mad. de Rosier's hand, which she had written with rapidity:--

"Mrs. Harcourt's love to her dear little Herbert; if she had a hundred
other invitations, she would accept of his."

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Grace, when she found the feathers, which she had
placed with so much skill in her mistress's hair, lying upon the table
half an hour afterward--"why, I thought my mistress was going out!"

Grace's surprise deprived her even of the power of exclamation, when she
learned that her mistress stayed at home to sup with Master Herbert upon
radishes. At night she listened with malignant curiosity, as she sat
at work in her mistress's dressing-room, to the frequent bursts of
laughter, and to the happy little voices of the festive company who were
at supper in an adjoining apartment.

"This will never do!" thought Grace; but presently the laughter ceased,
and listening attentively, she heard the voice of one of _the young
ladies_ reading. "Oh ho!" thought Grace, "if it comes to reading, Master
Herbert will soon be asleep."--But though it had _come to reading_,
Herbert was, at this instant, broad awake.

At supper, when the radishes were distributed, Favoretta was very
impatient to taste them; the first which she tasted was _hot_, she said,
and she did not quite like it.

"_Hot_!" cried Herbert, who criticized her language, in return for
her criticism upon his radishes, "I don't think you can call a radish
_hot_--it is cold, I think: I know what is meant by tasting sweet, or
sour, or bitter."

"Well," interrupted Favoretta, "what is the name for the taste of this
radish which bites my tongue?"

"_Pungent_," said Isabella, and she eagerly produced a quotation in
support of her epithet--

"'And _pungent_ radish biting infant's tongue.'"

"I know for once," said Matilda, smiling, "where you met with that line,
I believe: is it not in Shenstone's Schoolmistress, in the description
of the old woman's neat little garden?"

"Oh! I should like to hear about that old woman's neat little garden,"
cried Herbert.

"And so should I," said Mrs. Harcourt and Mad. de Rosier. Isabella
quickly produced the book after supper, and read the poem.

Herbert and Favoretta liked the old woman and her garden, and they were
much interested for the little boy, who was whipped for having been
gazing at the pictures on the horn-book, instead of learning his lesson;
but, to Isabella's great mortification, they did not understand above
half of what she read--the old English expressions puzzled them.

"You would not be surprised at this, my dear Isabella," said Mad. de
Rosier, "if you had made as many experiments upon children as I have. It
is quite a new language to them; and what you have just been reading is
scarcely intelligible to me, though you compliment me so much upon my
knowledge of the English language." Mad. de Rosier took the book,
and pointed to several words which she had not understood--such as
"eftsoons," "_Dan_ Phoebus," and "_ne_ and _y_," which had made many
lines incomprehensible.

Herbert, when he heard Mad. de Rosier confess her ignorance, began to
take courage, and came forward with his confessions.

"_Gingerbread y rare_," he thought, was some particular kind of
gingerbread; and "_Apples with cabbage net y covered o'er_" presented no
delightful image to his mind, because, as he said, he did not know what
the word _netycovered_ could mean.

These mistakes occasioned some laughter; but as Herbert perceived that
he was no longer thought stupid, he took all the laughter with good
humour, and he determined to follow, in future, Mad. de Rosier's
example, in pointing out the words which were puzzling.

Grace was astonished, at the conclusion of the evening, to find Master
Herbert in such high spirits. The next day she heard sounds of woe,
sounds agreeable to her wishes--Favoretta crying upon the stairs. It had
been a rainy morning: Favoretta and Herbert had been disappointed in
not being able to walk out; and after having been amused the preceding
evening, they were less disposed to bear disappointment, and less
inclined to employ themselves than usual. Favoretta had finished her
little basket, and her mother had promised that it should appear at the
dessert; but it wanted some hours of dinner-time; and between the
making and the performance of a promise, how long the time appears to an
impatient child! how many events happen which may change the mind of the
promiser!

Mad. de Rosier had lent Favoretta and Herbert, for their amusement,
the first number of "The Cabinet of Quadrupeds," in which there are
beautiful prints; but, unfortunately, some dispute arose between
the children. Favoretta thought her brother looked too long at the
hunchbacked camel; he accused her of turning over leaves before she had
half seen the prints; but she listened not to his just reproaches, for
she had caught a glimpse of the royal tiger springing upon Mr. Munro,
and she could no longer restrain her impatience. Each party began
to pull at the book; and the camel and the royal tiger were both in
imminent danger of being torn in pieces, when Mad. de Rosier interfered,
parted the combatants, and sent them into separate rooms, as it was her
custom to do, whenever they could not agree together.

Grace, the moment she heard Favoretta crying, went up to the room where
she was, and made her tiptoe approaches, addressing Favoretta in a
tone of compassion, which, to a child's unpractised ear, might appear,
perhaps, the natural voice of sympathy. The sobbing child hid her face
in Grace's lap; and when she had told her complaint against Mad. de
Rosier, Grace comforted her for the loss of the royal tiger by the
present of a queen-cake. Grace did not dare to stay long in the room,
lest Mad. de Rosier should detect her; she therefore left the little
girl, with a strict charge "not to say a word of the queen-cake to her
governess."

Favoretta kept the queen-cake, that she might divide it with Herbert;
for she now recollected that she had been most to blame in the dispute
about the prints. Herbert absolutely refused, however, to have any share
of the cake, and he strongly urged his sister to return it to Grace.

Herbert had, _formerly_, to use his own expression, been accused of
being fond of eating, and so, perhaps, he was; but since he had acquired
other pleasures, those of affection and employment, his love of eating
had diminished so much, that he had eaten only one of his own radishes,
because he felt more pleasure in distributing the rest to his mother and
sisters.

It was with some difficulty that he prevailed upon Favoretta to restore
the queen-cake: the arguments that he used we shall not detail, but he
concluded with promising, that, if Favoretta would return the cake, he
would ask Mad. de Rosier, the next time they passed by the pastrycook's
shop, to give them some queen-cakes--"and I dare say she will give us
some, for she is much more _really_ good-natured than Grace."

Favoretta, with this hope of a future queen-cake, in addition to all
her brother's arguments, at last determined to return Grace's
present--"Herbert says I had better give it you back again," said she,
"because Mad. de Rosier does not know it."

Grace was somewhat surprised by the effect of Herbert's oratory, and
she saw that she must change her ground. The next day, when the children
were walking with Mad. de Rosier by a pastrycook's shop, Herbert, with
an honest countenance, asked Mad. de Rosier to give Favoretta and him a
queen-cake. She complied, for she was glad to find that he always asked
frankly for what he wanted; and yet that he bore refusals with good
humour.

Just as Herbert was going to eat his queen-cake, he heard the sound of
music in the street; he went to the door, and saw a poor man who was
playing on the dulcimer--a little boy was with him, who looked extremely
thin and hungry--he asked Herbert for some halfpence.

"I have no money of my own," said Herbert, "but I can give you this,
which is my own."

Mad. de Rosier held his hand back, which he had just stretched out to
offer his queen-cake; she advised him to exchange it for something
more substantial; she told him that he might have two buns for one
queen-cake. He immediately changed it for two buns, and gave them to
the little boy, who thanked him heartily. The man who was playing on the
dulcimer asked where Herbert lived, and promised to stop at his door to
play a tune for him, which he seemed to like particularly.

Convinced by the affair of the queen-cake that Herbert's influence was
a matter of some consequence in the family, Mrs. Grace began to repent
that she had made him her enemy, and she resolved, upon the first
convenient occasion, to make him overtures of peace--overtures which,
she had no doubt, would be readily accepted.

One morning she heard him sighing and groaning, as she thought, over
some difficult sum, which Mad. de Rosier had set for him; he cast up one
row aloud several times, but could not bring the total twice to the same
thing. When he took his sum to Mad. de Rosier, who was dressing, he
was kept waiting a few minutes at the door, because Favoretta was not
dressed. The young gentleman became a little impatient, and when he
gained admittance his sum was wrong.

"Then I cannot make it right," said Herbert, passionately.

"Try," said Mad. de Rosier; "go into that closet by yourself, and try
once more, and perhaps you will find that you _can_ make it right."

Herbert knelt down in the closet, though rather unwillingly, to this
provoking sum.

"Master Herbert, my dear," said Mrs. Grace, following him, "will you be
so good as to go for Miss Favoretta's scissors, if you please, which she
lent you yesterday?--she wants 'em, my dear."

Herbert, surprised by the unusually good-natured tone of this request,
ran for the scissors, and at his return, found that his difficult sum
had been cast up in his absence; the total was written at the bottom
of it, and he read these words, which he knew to be Mrs. Grace's
writing--"Rub out my _figurs_, and write them in your own." Herbert
immediately rubbed out Mrs. Grace's figures with indignation, and
determined to do the sum for himself. He carried it to Mad. de
Rosier--it was wrong: Grace stared, and when she saw Herbert patiently
stand beside Mad. de Rosier and repeat his efforts, she gave up all idea
of obtaining any influence over him.

"Mad. de Rosier," said she to herself, "has bewitched 'em all; I think
it's odd one can't find out her art!"

Mrs. Grace seemed to think that she could catch the knack of educating
children, as she had surreptitiously learnt, from a fashionable
hairdresser, the art of dressing hair. Ever since Mrs. Harcourt had
spoken in such a decided manner respecting Mad. de Rosier, her maid had
artfully maintained the greatest appearance of respect for that lady, in
her mistress's presence, and had even been scrupulous, to a troublesome
extreme, in obeying _the governess's orders_; and by a studied show of
attachment to Mrs. Harcourt, and much alacrity at her toilette, she had,
as she flattered herself, secured a fresh portion of favour.

One morning Mrs. Harcourt found, when she awoke, that she had a
headache, and a slight feverish complaint. She had caught cold the night
before in coming out of a warm assembly-room. Mrs. Grace affected to
be much alarmed at her mistress's indisposition, and urged her to send
immediately for Dr. X----. To this Mrs. Harcourt half consented, and a
messenger was sent for him. In the meantime Mrs. Harcourt, who had been
used to be much attended to in her slight indispositions, expressed some
surprise that Mad. de Rosier, or some of her children, when they heard
that she was ill, had not come to see her.

"Where is Isabella? where is Matilda? or Favoretta? what is become of
them all? do they know I am ill, Grace?"

"Oh dear! yes, ma'am; but they're all gone out in the coach, with Mad.
de Rosier."

"All?" said Mrs. Harcourt.

"All, I believe, ma'am," said Grace; "though, indeed, I can't pretend to
be sure, since I make it my business not to scrutinize, and to know as
little as possible of what's going on in the house, lest I should seem
to be too particular."

"Did Mad. de Rosier leave any message for me before she went out?"

"Not with me, ma'am."

Here the prevaricating waiting-maid told barely the truth in words: Mad.
de Rosier had left a message with the footman in Grace's hearing.

"I hope, ma'am," continued Grace, "you weren't disturbed with the noise
in the house early this morning?"

"What noise?--I heard no noise," said Mrs. Harcourt.

"No noise! dear ma'am, I'm as glad as can possibly be of that, at any
rate; but to be sure there was a great racket. I was really afraid,
ma'am, it would do no good to your poor head."

"What was the matter?" said Mrs. Harcourt, drawing back the curtain.

"Oh! nothing, ma'am, that need alarm you--only music and dancing."

"Music and dancing so early in the morning!--Do, Grace, say all you have
to say at once, for you keep me in suspense, which, I am sure, is not
good for my head."

"La, ma'am, I was so afraid it would make you angry, ma'am--that was
what made me so backward in mentioning it; but, to be sure, Mad. de
Rosier, and the young ladies, and Master Herbert, I suppose, thought you
couldn't hear, because it was in the back parlour, ma'am."

"Hear what? what was in the back parlour?"

"Only a dulcimer man, ma'am, playing for the young ladies."

"Did you tell them I was ill, Grace?"

It was the second time Mrs. Harcourt had asked this question. Grace was
gratified by this symptom.

"Indeed, ma'am," she replied, "I did make bold to tell Master Herbert,
that I was afraid you would hear him jumping and making such an uproar
up and down the stairs; but to be sure, I did not say a word to the
young ladies--as Mad. de Rosier was by, I thought she knew best."

A gentle knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Grace's charitable
animadversions.

"Bless me, if it isn't the young ladies! I'm sure I thought they were
gone out in the coach."

As Isabella and Matilda came up to the side of their mother's bed, she
said, in a languid voice--

"I hope, Matilda, my dear, you did not stay at home on my account--Is
Isabella there? What book has she in her hand?"

"Zeluco, mamma--I thought, perhaps, you would like to hear some more of
it--you liked what I read to you the other day."

"But you forget that I have a terrible headache--Pray don't let me
detain either of you, if you have any thing to do for Mad. de Rosier."

"Nothing in the world, mamma," said Matilda; "she is gone to take
Herbert and Favoretta to Exeter Change."

No farther explanation could take place, for, at this instant,
Mrs. Grace introduced Dr. X----. Now Dr. X---- was not one of those
complaisant physicians who flatter ladies that they are very ill when
they have any desire to excite tender alarm.

After satisfying himself that his patient was not quite so ill as Mrs.
Grace had affected to believe, Dr. X---- insensibly led from medical
inquiries to general conversation: he had much playful wit and knowledge
of the human heart, mixed with a variety of information, so that he
could with happy facility amuse and interest nervous patients, who were
beyond the power of the solemn apothecary.

The doctor drew the young ladies into conversation by rallying Isabella
upon her simplicity in reading a novel openly in her mother's presence;
he observed that she did not follow the example of the famous Serena, in
"The Triumphs of Temper." "Zeluco!" he exclaimed, in an ironical tone
of disdain: "why not the charming 'Sorrows of Werter,' or some of our
fashionable hobgoblin romances?"

Isabella undertook the defence of her book with much enthusiasm--and
either her cause, or her defence, was so much to Dr. X.----'s taste,
that he gradually gave up his feigned attack.

After the argument was over, and every body, not excepting Mrs.
Harcourt, who had almost forgotten her headache, was pleased with the
vanquished doctor, he drew from his pocket-book three or four small
cards; they were tickets of admittance to Lady N----'s French reading
parties.

Lady N---- was an elderly lady, whose rank made literature fashionable
amongst many, who aspired to the honour of being noticed by her. She was
esteemed such an excellent judge of manners, abilities, and character,
that her approbation was anxiously courted, more especially by mothers
who were just introducing their daughters into the world. She was
fond of encouraging youthful merit; but she was nice, some thought
fastidious, in the choice of her young acquaintance.

Mrs. Harcourt had been very desirous that Isabella and Matilda should
be early distinguished by a person, whose approving voice was of so much
consequence in fashionable as well as in literary society; and she was
highly flattered by Dr. X----'s prophecy, that Isabella would be a great
favourite of this "nice judging" lady--"Provided," added he, turning to
Isabella, "you have the prudence not to be always, as you have been this
morning, victorious in argument."

"I think," said Mrs. Harcourt--after the doctor had taken his leave--"I
think I am much better--ring for Grace, and I will get up."

"Mamma," said Matilda, "if you will give me leave, I will give my ticket
for the reading party to Mad. de Rosier, because, I am sure, it is an
entertainment she will like particularly--and, you know, she confines
herself so much with us--"

"I do not wish her to confine herself _so_ much, my dear, I am
sure," said Mrs. Harcourt, coldly, for, at this instant, Grace's
representations of the morning's music and dancing, and some remains of
her former jealousy of Mad. de Rosier's influence over her children's
affections, operated upon her mind. Pride prevented her from explaining
herself further to Isabella or Matilda--and though they saw that she was
displeased, they had no idea of the reason. As she was dressing, Mrs.
Harcourt conversed with them about the books they were reading. Matilda
was reading Hogarth's Analysis of Beauty; and she gave a distinct
account of his theory.

Mrs. Harcourt, when she perceived her daughter's rapid improvement, felt
a mixture of joy and sorrow.

"My dears," said she, "you will all of you be much superior to your
mother--but girls were educated, in my days, quite in a different style
from what they are now."

"Ah! there were no Mad. de Rosiers then," said Matilda, innocently.

"What sort of a woman was your mother, mamma?" said Isabella, "my
grandmother, mamma?"

"She--she was a very good woman."

"Was she sensible?" said Isabella.

"Matilda, my dear," said Mrs. Harcourt, "I wish you would see if Mad.
de Rosier has returned--I should be very glad to speak with her, for one
moment, if she be not engaged."

Under the veil of politeness, Mrs. Harcourt concealed her real feelings,
and declaring to Mad. de Rosier that she did not feel in spirits, or
sufficiently well, to go out that evening, she requested that Mad. de
Rosier would go, in her stead, to a dinner, where she knew her company
would be particularly acceptable.--"You will trust me, will you, with
your pupils for one evening?" added Mrs. Harcourt.

The tone and manner in which she pronounced these words revealed the
real state of her mind to Mad. de Rosier, who immediately complied with
her wishes.

Conscious of this lady's quick penetration, Mrs. Harcourt was abashed
by this ready compliance, and she blamed herself for feelings which she
could not suppress.

"I am sorry that you were not at home this morning," she continued, in a
hurried manner--"you would have been delighted with Dr. X----; he is one
of the most entertaining men I am acquainted with--and you would have
been vastly proud of your pupil there," pointing to Isabella; "I assure
you, she pleased me extremely."

In the evening, after Mad. de Rosier's departure, Mrs. Harcourt was not
quite so happy as she had expected. They who have only seen children
in picturesque situations, are not aware how much the duration of this
domestic happiness depends upon those who have the care of them. People
who, with the greatest abilities and the most anxious affection, are
unexperienced in education, should not be surprised or mortified if
their first attempts be not attended with success. Mrs. Harcourt thought
that she was doing what was very useful in hearing Herbert read; he
read with tolerable fluency, but he stopped at the end of almost every
sentence to weigh the exact sense of the words. In this habit he had
been indulged, or rather encouraged, by his preceptress; but his simple
questions, and his desire to have every word precisely explained, were
far from amusing to one who was little accustomed to the difficulties
and misapprehensions of a young reader.

Herbert was reading a passage, which Mad. de Rosier had marked for him,
in Xenophon's Cyropaedia. With her explanations, it might have been
intelligible to him. Herbert read the account of Cyrus's judgment upon
the two boys, who had quarrelled about their great and little coats,
much to his mother's satisfaction, because he had understood every word
of it, except the word _constituted_.

"_Constituted judge_--what does that mean, mamma?"

"Made a judge, my dear: go on."

"I saw a judge once, mamma, in a great wig--had Cyrus a wig, when he was
con--const!--made a judge?"

Isabella and Mrs. Harcourt laughed at this question; and they
endeavoured to explain the difference between a Persian and an English
judge.

Herbert with some difficulty separated the ideas, which he had so firmly
associated, of a judge and a great wig; and when he had, or thought
he had, an abstract notion of a judge, he obeyed his mother's repeated
injunctions of "Go on--go on." He went on, after observing that what
came next was not marked by Mad. de Rosier for him to read.

Cyrus's mother says to him: _"Child, the same things are not accounted
just with your grandfather here, and yonder in Persia."_ At this
sentence Herbert made a dead stop; and, after pondering for some time,
said, "I don't understand what Cyrus's mother meant--what does she mean
by _accounted just_?--_Accounted_, Matilda, I thought meant only about
casting up sums?"

"It has another meaning, my dear," Matilda mildly began.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, spare me!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt; "do not
let me hear all the meanings of all the words in the English language.
Herbert may look for the words that he does not understand, in the
dictionary, when he has done reading. Go on, now, pray; for," added she,
looking at her watch, "you have been half an hour reading half a page:
this would tire the patience of Job."

Herbert, perceiving that his mother was displeased, began in the same
instant to be frightened; he hurried on as fast as he could, without
understanding one word more of what he was reading; his precipitation
was worse than his slowness: he stumbled over the words, missed
syllables, missed lines, made the most incomprehensible nonsense of the
whole; till, at length, Mrs. Harcourt shut the book in despair, and soon
afterward despatched Herbert, who was also in despair, to bed. At this
catastrophe, Favoretta looked very grave, and a general gloom seemed to
overspread the company.

Mrs. Harcourt was mortified at the silence that prevailed, and made
several ineffectual attempts to revive the freedom and gaiety of
conversation:--"Ah!" said she to herself, "I knew it would be so;--they
cannot be happy without Mad. de Rosier."

Isabella had taken up a book. "Cannot you read for our entertainment,
Isabella, my dear, as well as for your own?" said her mother: "I assure
you, I am as much interested always in what you read to me, as Mad. de
Rosier herself can be."

"I was just looking, mamma, for some lines, that we read the other day,
which Mad. de Rosier said she was sure you would like. Can you find
them, Matilda? You know Mad. de Rosier said that mamma would like them,
because she has been at the opera."

"I have been at a great many operas," said Mrs. Harcourt, dryly; "but I
like other things as well as operas--and I cannot precisely guess what
you mean by _the_ opera--has it no name?"

"Medea and Jason, ma'am."

"The _ballet_ of Medea and Jason. It's a very fine thing, certainly; but
one has seen it so often. Read on, my dear."

Isabella then read a passage, which, notwithstanding Mrs. Harcourt's
inclination to be displeased, captivated her ear, and seized her
imagination.

     "Slow out of earth, before the festive crowds,
     On wheels of fire, amid a night of clouds,
     Drawn by fierce fiends, arose a magic car,
     Received the queen, and, hov'ring, flamed in air.
     As with raised hands the suppliant traitors kneel,
     And fear the vengeance they deserved to feel;

     "Thrice, with parch'd lips, her guiltless babes she press'd,
     And thrice she clasp'd them to her tortured breast.
     Awhile with white uplifted eyes she stood,
     Then plunged her trembling poniards in their blood.
     Go, kiss your sire! go, share the bridal mirth!
     She cried, and hurl'd their quiv'ring limbs on earth.
     Rebellowing thunders rock the marble tow'rs,
     And red-tongucd lightnings shoot their arrowy show'rs:
     Earth yawns!--the crashing ruin sinks!--o'er all
     Death with black hands extends his mighty pall."

"They are admirable lines, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt.

"I knew, mamma, you would like them," said Isabella; "and I'm sure I
wish I had seen the ballet too."

"You were never at an opera," said Mrs. Harcourt, after Isabella had
finished reading; "should you, either of you, or both, like to go with
me to-night to the opera?"

"To-night, ma'am!" cried Isabella, in a voice of joy.

"To-night, mamma!" cried Matilda, timidly; "but you were not well this
morning."

"But I am very well, now, my love; at least quite well enough to go
out with you--let me give you some pleasure. Ring for Grace, my dear
Matilda," added Mrs. Harcourt, looking at her watch, "and do not let us
be sentimental, for we have not a moment to lose--we must prevail upon
Grace to be as quick as lightning in her operations."

Grace was well disposed to be quick--she was delighted with what she
called _the change of measures_;--she repeated continually, in the midst
of their hurried toilette--

"Well, I am so glad, young ladies, you're going out with your _mamma_,
at last--I never saw my mistress look so well as she does to-night."

Triumphant, and feeling herself to be a person of consequence, Grace was
indefatigably busy, and Mrs. Harcourt thought that her talkative zeal
was the overflowing of an honest heart.

After Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, were gone to the opera,
Favoretta, who had been sent to bed by her mother, because she was in
the way when they were dressing, called to Grace to beg that she would
close the shutters in her room, for the moon shone upon her bed, and she
could not go to sleep.

"I wish mamma would have let me sit up a little longer," said Favoretta,
"for I am not at all sleepy."

"You always go to bed a great deal earlier, you know, miss," said Grace,
"when your governess is at home; I would let you get up, and come down
to tea with me, for I'm just going to take my late dish of tea, to rest
myself, only I dare not let you, because--"

"Because what?"

"Because, miss, you remember how you served me about the queen-cake."

"But I do not want you to give me any queen-cake; I only want to get up
for a little while," said Favoretta.

"Then get up," said Grace: "but don't make a noise, to waken Master
Herbert."

"Do you think," said Favoretta, "that Herbert would think it wrong?"

"Indeed, I don't think at all about what he thinks," said Mrs. Grace,
tossing back her head, as she adjusted her dress at the glass; "and, if
you think so much about it, you'd better lie down again."

"Oh! I can't lie down again," said Favoretta; "I have got my shoes
on--stay for me, Grace--I'm just ready."

Grace, who was pleased with an opportunity of indulging this little
girl, and who flattered herself that she should regain her former
power over Favoretta's undistinguishing affections, waited for her
most willingly. Grace drank her _late_ dish of tea in her mistress's
dressing-room, and did every thing in her power to humour "her sweet
Favoretta."

Mrs. Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw's maid, was summoned; she lived in the next
street. She was quite overjoyed, she said, at entering the room, to see
Miss Favoretta--it was an age since she had a sight or a glimpse of her.

We pass over the edifying conversation of those two ladies--Miss
Favoretta was kept awake, and in such high spirits by flattery, that she
did not perceive how late it was--she begged to stay up a little longer,
and a little longer.

Mrs. Rebecca joined in these entreaties, and Mrs. Grace could not refuse
them; especially as she knew that the coach would not go for Mad. de
Rosier till after her mistress's return from the opera.

The coachman had made this arrangement for his own convenience, and had
placed it entirely to the account of his horses.

Mrs. Grace depended, rather imprudently, upon the coachman's
arrangement; for Mad. de Rosier, finding that the coach did not call for
her at the hour she had appointed, sent for a chair, and returned home,
whilst Grace, Mrs. Rebecca, and Favoretta, were yet in Mrs. Harcourt's
dressing-room.

Favoretta was making a great noise, so that they did not hear the knock
at the door.

One of the housemaids apprised Mrs. Grace of Mad. de Rosier's arrival.
"She's getting out of her chair, Mrs. Grace, in the hall."

Grace started up, put Favoretta into a little closet, and charged her
not to make the least noise _for her life_.--Then, with a candle in her
hand, and a treacherous smile upon her countenance, she sallied forth
to the head of the stairs, to light Mad. de Rosier.--"Dear ma'am! my
mistress will be _so_ sorry the coach didn't go for you in time;--she
found herself better after you went--and the two young ladies are gone
with her to the opera."

"And where are Herbert and Favoretta?"

"In bed, ma'am, and asleep, hours ago.--Shall I light you, ma'am, this
way, to your room?"

"No," said Mad. de Rosier; "I have a letter to write: and I'll wait in
Mrs. Harcourt's dressing-room till she comes home."

"Very well, ma'am. Mrs. Rebecca, it's only Mad. de Rosier.--Mad. de
Rosier, it's only Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw's maid, ma'am, who's here very
often when my mistress is at home, and just stepped out to look at the
young ladies' drawings, which my mistress gave me leave to show her the
first time she drank tea with me, ma'am."

Mad. de Rosier, who thought all this did not concern her in the least,
listened to it with cold indifference, and sat down to write her letter.

Grace fidgeted about the room, as long as she could find any pretence
for moving any thing into or out of its place; and, at length, in no
small degree of anxiety for the prisoner she had left in the closet,
quitted the dressing-room.

As Mad. de Rosier was writing, she once or twice thought that she heard
some noise in the closet; she listened, but all was silent; and she
continued to write, till Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda, came
home.

Isabella was in high spirits, and began to talk, with considerable
volubility, to Mad. de Rosier about the opera.

Mrs. Harcourt was full of apologies about the coach; and Matilda rather
anxious to discover what it was that had made a change in her mother's
manner towards Mad. de Rosier.

Grace, glad to see that they were all intent upon their own affairs,
lighted their candles expeditiously, and stood waiting, in hopes that
they would immediately leave the room, and that she should be able to
release her prisoner.

Favoretta usually slept in a little closet within Mrs. Grace's room, so
that she foresaw no difficulty in getting her to bed.

"I heard!--did not _you_ hear a noise, Isabella?" said Matilda.

"A noise!--No; where?" said Isabella, and went on talking alternately
to her mother and Mad. de Rosier, whom she held fast, though they seemed
somewhat inclined to retire to rest.

"Indeed," said Matilda, "I did hear a noise in that closet."

"Oh dear, Miss Matilda," cried Grace, getting between Matilda and the
closet, "it's nothing in life but a mouse."

"A mouse, where?" said Mrs. Harcourt.

"Nowhere, ma'am," said Grace; "only Miss Matilda was hearing noises, and
I said they must be mice."

"There, mamma! there! that was not a mouse, surely!" said Matilda. "It
was a noise louder, certainly, than any mouse could make."

"Grace is frightened," said Isabella, laughing.

Grace, indeed, looked pale and terribly frightened.

Mad. de Rosier took a candle, and walked directly to the closet.

"Ring for the men," said Mrs. Harcourt.

Matilda held back Mad. de Rosier; and Isabella, whose head was now just
recovered from the opera, rang the bell with considerable energy.

"Dear Miss Isabella, don't ring so;--dear ma'am, don't be frightened,
and I'll tell you the whole truth, ma'am," said Grace to her mistress;
"it's nothing in the world to frighten any body--it's only Miss
Favoretta, ma'am."

"Favoretta!" exclaimed every body at once, except Mad. de Rosier, who
instantly opened the closet door, but no Favoretta appeared.

"Favoretta is not here," said Mad. de Rosier.

"Then I'm undone!" exclaimed Grace; "she must have got out upon the
leads." The leads were, at this place, narrow, and very dangerous.

"Don't scream, or the child is lost," said Mad. de Rosier.

Mrs. Harcourt sank down into an arm-chair. Mad. de Rosier stopped
Isabella, who pressed into the closet.

"Don't speak, Isabella--Grace, go into the closet--call Favoretta--hear
me, quietly," said Mad. de Rosier, steadily, for Mrs. Grace was in such
confusion of mind, that she was going to call upon the child, without
waiting to hear what was said to her.--"Hear me," said Mad. de Rosier,
"or _you are_ undone--go into the closet without making any bustle--call
Favoretta, gently; she will not be frightened, when she hears only your
voice."

Grace did as she was ordered, and returned from the closet in a few
instants, with Favoretta. Grace instantly began an exculpatory speech,
but Mrs. Harcourt, though still trembling, had sufficient firmness to
say, "Leave us, Grace, and let me hear the truth from the child."

Grace left the room. Favoretta related exactly what had happened, and
said that when she heard all their voices in the dressing-room, and
when she heard Matilda say there's a noise, she was afraid of being
discovered in the closet, and had crept out through a little door, with
which she was well acquainted, that opened upon the leads.

Mrs. Harcourt now broke forth into indignant exclamations against Grace.
Mad. de Rosier gently pacified her, and hinted that it would be but just
to give her a fair hearing in the morning.

"You are always yourself! always excellent!" cried Mrs. Harcourt;
"you have saved my child--we none of us had any presence of mind, but
yourself."

"Indeed, mamma, I _did_ ring the bell, however," said Isabella.

With much difficulty those who had so much to say, submitted to Mad. de
Rosier's entreaty of "Let us talk of it in the morning." She was afraid
that Favoretta, who was present, would not draw any salutary moral from
what might be said in the first emotions of joy for her safety. Mad. de
Rosier undressed the little girl herself, and took care that she should
not be treated as a heroine just escaped from imminent danger.

The morning came, and Mrs. Grace listened, with anxious ear, for the
first sound of her mistress's bell--but no bell rang; and, when she
heard Mrs. Harcourt walking in her bedchamber, Grace augured ill of her
own fate, and foreboded the decline and fall of her empire.

"If my mistress can get up and dress herself without me, it's all over
with me," said Grace; "but I'll make one trial." Then she knocked with
her most obliging knock at her mistress's door, and presented herself
with a Magdalen face--"Can I do any thing for you, ma'am?"

"Nothing, I thank you, Grace. Send Isabella and Matilda."

Isabella and Matilda came, but Mrs. Harcourt finished dressing herself
in silence, and then said--

"Come with me, my dear girls, to Mad. de Rosier's room. I believe I had
better ask her the question that I was going to ask you. Is she up?"

"Yes, but not dressed," said Matilda; "for we have been reading to her."

"And talking to her," added Isabella; "which, you know, hinders people
very much, mamma, when they are dressing."

At Mad. de Rosier's door they found Herbert, with his slate in his hand,
and his sum ready cast up.

"May I bring this little man in with me?" said Mrs. Harcourt to Mad. de
Rosier--"Herbert, shake hands with me," continued his mother: "I believe
I was a little impatient with you and your Cyrus last night; but you
must not expect that every body should be as good to you as this lady
has been;" leading him up to Mad. de Rosier.

"Set this gentleman's heart at ease, will you?" continued she,
presenting the slate, upon which his sum was written, to Mad. de Rosier.
"He looks the picture, or rather the reality, of honesty and good humour
this morning, I think. I am sure that he has not done any thing that he
is ashamed of."

Little Herbert's countenance glowed with pleasure at receiving such
praise from his mother; but he soon checked his pride, for he discovered
Favoretta, upon whom every eye had turned, as Mrs. Harcourt concluded
her speech.

Favoretta was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, and she turned
her face to the wall when Herbert looked at her; but Herbert saw that
she was in disgrace. "Your sum is quite right, Herbert," said Mad. de
Rosier.

"Herbert, take your slate," said Matilda; and the young gentleman had at
length the politeness to relieve her outstretched arm.

"Send him out of the way," whispered Mrs. Harcourt.

"Go out of the room, Herbert, my dear," said Mad. de Rosier, who never
made use of artifices upon any occasion to get rid of children--"go out
of the room, Herbert, my dear: for we want to talk about something which
we do not wish that you should hear."

Herbert, though he was anxious to know what could be the matter with
Favoretta, instantly withdrew, saying, "Will you call me again when
you've done talking?"

"We can speak French," added Mad. de Rosier, looking at Favoretta,
"since we cannot trust that little girl in a room by herself; we must
speak in a language which she does not understand, when we have any
thing to say that we do not choose she should hear."

"After all this preparation," said Mrs. Harcourt, in French, "my
little mouse will make you laugh; it will not surprise or frighten you,
Matilda, quite so much as the mouse of last night. You must know that I
have been much disturbed by certain noises."

"More noises!" said Matilda, drawing closer, to listen.

"More noises!" said Mrs. Harcourt, laughing; "but the noises which
disturbed my repose were not heard in the dead of the night, just as the
clock struck twelve--the charming hour for being frightened out of one's
wits, Matilda: my noises were heard in broad daylight, about the time

     'When lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake.'

Was not there music and dancing here, early yesterday morning, when I
had the headache, Isabella?"

"Yes, mamma," said Isabella: "Herbert's dulcimer-boy was here! We call
him Herbert's dulcimer-boy, because Herbert gave him two buns the other
day;--the boy and his father came from gratitude, to play a tune for
Herbert, and we all ran and asked Mad. de Rosier to let him in."

"We did not know you had the headache, mamma," said Matilda, "till after
they had played several tunes, and we heard Grace saying something to
Herbert about racketing upon the stairs--he only ran up stairs once for
my music-book; and the moment Grace spoke to him, he came to us, and
said that you were not well; then Mad. de Rosier stopped the dulcimer,
and we all left off dancing, and we were very sorry Grace had not told
us sooner that you were ill: at that time it was ten--nearly eleven
o'clock."

"Grace strangely misrepresented all this," said Mrs. Harcourt: "as she
gave her advice so late, I am sorry she gave it at all; she prevented
you and Isabella from the pleasure of going out with Mad. de Rosier."

"We prevented ourselves--Grace did not prevent us, I assure you, mamma,"
said Isabella, eagerly: "we wished to stay at home with you--Herbert and
Favoretta were only going to see the royal tiger."

"Then you did not stay at home by Mad. de Rosier's desire."

"No, indeed, madam," said Mad. de Rosier, who had not appeared in any
haste to justify herself; "your children always show you affection
by their own desire, never by mine: your penetration would certainly
discover the difference between attentions prompted by a governess, and
those which are shown by artless affection."

"My dear madam, say no more," said Mrs. Harcourt, holding out her hand:
"you are a real friend."

Mad. de Rosier now went to call Herbert, but on opening the door, Mrs.
Grace fell forward upon her face into the room; she had been kneeling
with her head close to the key-hole of the door; and, probably, the
sound of her own name, and a few sentences now and then spoken in
English, had so fixed her attention, that she did not prepare in time
for her retreat.

"Get up, Grace, and walk in, if you please," said Mrs. Harcourt, with
much calmness; "we have not the least objection to your hearing our
conversation."

"Indeed, ma'am," said Grace, as soon as she had recovered her feet, "I'm
above listening to any body's conversations, except that when one hears
one's own name, and knows that one has enemies, it is but natural to
listen in one's own defence."

"And is that all you can do, Grace, in your own defence?" said Mrs.
Harcourt.

"It's not all I can _say_, ma'am," replied Grace, pushed to extremities;
and still with a secret hope that her mistress, _upon a pinch, would not
part with a favourite maid_: "I see I'm of no further use in the family,
neither to young or old--and new comers have put me quite out of favour,
and have your ear to themselves--so, if you please, ma'am, I had better
look out for another situation."

"If you please, Grace," said Mrs. Harcourt.

"I will leave the house this instant, if you think proper, ma'am."

"If you think proper, Grace," said her mistress, with immovable
philosophy.

Grace burst into tears: "I never thought it would come to this, Mrs.
Harcourt--_I_, that have lived so long such a favourite!--but I don't
blame you, madam; you have been the best and kindest of mistresses to
me; and, whatever becomes of me, to my dying words, I shall always give
you and the dear young ladies the best of characters."

"The character we may give _you_, Grace, is of rather more consequence."

"Every thing that I say and do," interrupted the sobbing Grace, "is
_vilified_ and misinterpreted by those who wish me ill. I--"

"You have desired to leave me, Grace; and my desire is that you should
leave me," said Mrs. Harcourt, with firmness. "Mad. de Rosier and
I strictly forbade you to interfere with any of the children in our
absence; you have thought proper to disregard these orders; and were you
to stay longer in my house, I perceive that you would teach my children
first to disobey, and afterward to deceive me."

Grace, little prepared for this calm decision, now in a frightened,
humble tone, began to make promises of reformation; but her promises
and apologies were vain; she was compelled to depart, and every body was
glad to have done with her.

Favoretta, young as she was, had already learned from this cunning
waiting-maid habits of deceit which could not be suddenly changed. Mad.
de Rosier attempted her cure, by making her feel, in the first place,
the inconveniences and the disgrace of not being trusted. Favoretta was
ashamed to perceive that she was the only person in the house who
was watched: and she was heartily glad when, by degrees, she had
opportunities allowed her of obtaining a character for truth, and all
the pleasures and all the advantages of confidence.

Things went on much better after the gnome-like influence of Mrs Grace
had ceased; but we must now hasten to introduce our readers to Mrs.
Fanshaw. Mrs. Fanshaw was a card-playing lady, who had been educated
at a time when it was not thought necessary for women to have any
knowledge, or any taste for literature. As she advanced in life, she
continually recurred to the maxims as well as to the fashions of her
youth; and the improvements in modern female education she treated as
dangerous innovations. She had placed her daughter at a boarding-school
in London, the expense of which was its chief recommendation; and she
saw her regularly at the Christmas and Midsummer holidays. At length,
when Miss Fanshaw was about sixteen, her prudent mother began to think
that it was time to take her from school, and to introduce her into
the world. Miss Fanshaw had learned to speak French passably, to read
a _little_ Italian, to draw _a little_, to play tolerably well upon the
piano-forte, and to dance as well as many other young ladies. She had
been sedulously taught a sovereign contempt of whatever was called
_vulgar_ at the school where she was educated; but, as she was
profoundly ignorant of every thing but the routine of that school, she
had no precise idea of propriety; she only knew what was thought vulgar
or genteel at Suxberry House; and the authority of Mrs. Suxberry (for
that was the name of her schoolmistress) she quoted as incontrovertible
upon all occasions. Without reflecting upon what was wrong or right, she
decided with pert vivacity on all subjects; and firmly believed that
no one could know or could learn any thing who had not been educated
precisely as she had been. She considered her mother as an inferior
personage, destitute of genteel accomplishments: her mother considered
her as a model of perfection, that could only have been rendered thus
thoroughly accomplished by _the most expensive masters_--her only fear
was, that her dear Jane should be rather too _learned_.

Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, paid Mrs. Fanshaw a visit, as
soon as they heard that her daughter was come home.

Miss Fanshaw, an erect stiffened figure, made her entree; and it was
impossible not to perceive that her whole soul was intent upon her
manner of holding her head and placing her elbows, as she came into
the room. Her person had undergone all the ordinary and extraordinary
tortures of back-boards, collars, stocks, dumbbells, &c. She looked at
Isabella and Matilda with some surprise and contempt during the first
ten minutes after her entrance; for they were neither of them seated
in the exact posture which she had been instructed to think the only
position in which a _young lady_ should sit in company. Isabella got
up to look at a drawing; Miss Fanshaw watched every step she took, and
settled it in her own mind that Miss Harcourt did not walk as if she had
ever been at Suxberry House. Matilda endeavoured to engage the figure
that sat beside her in conversation; but the figure had no conversation,
and the utmost that Matilda could obtain was a few monosyllables
pronounced with affected gravity; for at Suxberry House this young
lady had been taught to maintain an invincible silence when produced to
strangers; but she made herself amends for this constraint, the moment
she was with her companions, by a tittering, gossiping species of
communication, which scarcely deserves the name of conversation.

Whilst the silent Miss Fanshaw sat so as to do her dancing-master strict
justice, Mrs. Fanshaw was stating to Mrs. Harcourt the enormous expense
to which she had gone in her daughter's education. Though firm to her
original doctrine, that women had no occasion for learning--in which
word of reproach she included all literature--she nevertheless had been
convinced, by the unanimous voice of fashion, that accomplishments were
_most desirable for young ladies_--desirable, merely because they were
fashionable; she did not, in the least, consider them as sources of
independent occupation.

Isabella was struck with sudden admiration at the sight of a head of
Jupiter which Miss Fanshaw had just finished, and Mrs. Harcourt borrowed
it for her to copy; though Miss Fanshaw was secretly but decidedly of
opinion, that no one who had not learned from the drawing-master at
Suxberry House could copy this head of Jupiter with any chance of
success.

There was a pretty little netting-box upon the table which caught
Matilda's eye, and she asked the silent figure what it was made of.
The silent figure turned its head mechanically, but could give no
information upon the subject. Mrs. Fanshaw, however, said that she
had bought the box at the Repository for ingenious works, and that the
reason she chose it was because Lady N---- had recommended it to her.

"It is some kind of new manufacture, her ladyship tells me, invented by
some poor little boy that she patronizes; her ladyship can tell you more
of the matter, Miss Matilda, than I can," concluded Mrs. Fanshaw; and,
producing her netting, she asked Mrs. Harcourt, "if she had not been
vastly notable to have got forward so fast with her work."

The remainder of the visit was spent in recounting her losses at the
card-table, and in exhortation to Mrs. Harcourt to send Miss Isabella
and Matilda to finish their education at Suxberry House.

Mrs. Harcourt was somewhat alarmed by the idea that her daughters would
not be equal to Miss Fanshaw in accomplishments but, fortunately for
Mad. de Rosier and herself, she was soon induced to change her opinion
by farther opportunities of comparison.

In a few days her visit was returned. Mrs. Harcourt happened to mention
the globe that Isabella was painting: Miss Fanshaw begged to see it, and
she went into Mrs. Harcourt's dressing-room, where it hung. The moment
she found herself with Isabella and Matilda, _out of company_, the
silent figure became talkative. The charm seemed to be broken, or rather
reversed, and she began to chatter with pert incessant rapidity.

"Dear me," said she, casting a scornful glance at Matilda's globe, "this
is vastly pretty, but we've no such thing at Suxberry House. I wonder
Mrs. Harcourt didn't send both of you to Suxberry House--every body
sends their daughters, who can afford it, now, to Suxberry House; but,
to be sure, it's very expensive--we had all silver forks, and every
thing in the highest style, and Mrs. Suxberry keeps a coach. I assure
you she's not at all like a schoolmistress, and she thinks it very rude
and vulgar of any body to call her a schoolmistress. Won't you ask your
mamma to send you, if it's only for the name of it, for one year, to
Suxberry House?"

"No," said Matilda; "we are so happy under the care of Mad. de Rosier."

"Ah, dear me! I forgot--mamma told me _you'd got_ a new French governess
lately--our French teacher, at Suxberry House, was so strict, and so
cross, if one made a mistake in the tenses: it's very well for you your
governess is not cross--does she give you very hard exercises?--let me
look at your exercise book, and I'll tell you whether it's the right
one--I mean _that_ we used to have at Suxberry House."

Miss Fanshaw snatched up a book, in which she saw a paper, which she
took for a French exercise.

"Come, show it me, and I'll correct the faults for you, before your
governess sees it, and she'll be so surprised!"

"Mad. de Rosier has seen it," said Matilda;--but Miss Fanshaw, in
a romping manner, pulled the paper out of her hands. It was the
translation of a part of "Les Conversations d'Emilie," which we formerly
mentioned.

"La!" said Miss Fanshaw, "we had no such book as this at Suxberry
House."

Matilda's translation she was surprised to find correct.

"And do you write themes?" said she--"We always wrote themes once every
week, at Suxberry House, which I used to hate of all things, for I
never could find any thing to say--it made me hate writing, I know;--but
that's all over now; thank goodness, I've done with themes, and French
letters, and exercises, and translations, and all those plaguing things;
and now I've left school for ever, I may do just as I please--that's the
best of going to school; it's over some time or other, and there's an
end of it; but you that have a governess and masters at home, you go
on for ever and ever, and you have no holidays either; and you have no
out-of-school hours; you are kept _hard at it_ from morning till night:
now I should hate that of all things. At Suxberry House, when we had
got our task done, and finished with the writing-master and the
drawing-master, and when we had practised for the music-master, and _all
that_, we might be as idle as we pleased, and do what we liked out of
school-hours--you know that was very pleasant: I assure you, you'd like
being at Suxberry House amazingly."

Isabella and Matilda, to whom it did not appear the most delightful of
all things to be idle, nor the most desirable thing in the world to have
their education finished, and then to lay aside all thoughts of farther
improvement, could not assent to Miss Fanshaw's concluding assertion.
They declared that they did not feel any want of holidays; at which Miss
Fanshaw stared: they said that they had no tasks, and that they liked
to be employed rather better than to be idle; at which Miss Fanshaw
laughed, and sarcastically said, "You need not talk to me as if your
governess were by, for I'm not a tell-tale--I shan't repeat what you
say."

Isabella and Matilda, who had not two methods of talking, looked rather
displeased at this ill-bred speech.

"Nay," said Miss Fanshaw, "I hope you aren't affronted _now_ at what I
said; when we are by ourselves, you know, one says just what comes
into one's head. Whose handsome coach is this, pray, with a coronet?"
continued she, looking out of the window: "I declare it is stopping at
your door; do let us go down. I'm never afraid of going into the room
when there's company, for we were taught to go into a room at Suxberry
House; and Mrs. Suxberry says it's very vulgar to be ashamed, and I
assure you it's all custom. I used to colour, as Miss Matilda does,
every minute; but I got over it before I had been long at Suxberry
House."

Isabella, who had just been reading "A Father's Legacy to his
Daughters," recollected at this instant Dr. Gregory's opinion, "that
when a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm
of beauty." She had not, however, time to _quote_ this in Matilda's
defence; for Miss Fanshaw ran down stairs, and Isabella recollected,
before she overtook her, that it would not be polite to remind her of
her early loss of charms.

Lady N---- was in the coach which had excited Miss Fanshaw's admiration;
and this young lady had a glorious opportunity of showing the graces
that she had been taught at so much expense, for the room was full of
company. Several morning visitors had called upon Mrs. Harcourt, and
they formed a pretty large circle, which Miss Fanshaw viewed upon her
entrance with a sort of studied assurance.

Mrs. Fanshaw watched Lady N----'s eye as her daughter came into
the room; but Lady N---- did not appear to be much struck with the
second-hand graces of Suxberry House; her eye passed over Miss Fanshaw,
in search of something less affected and more interesting.

Miss Fanshaw had now resumed her _company face_ and attitude; she sat
in prudent silence, whilst Lady N---- addressed her conversation
to Isabella and Matilda, whose thoughts did not seem to be totally
engrossed by their own persons.

Dr. X---- had prepared this lady to think favourably of Mad. de Rosier's
pupils, by the account which he had given her of Isabella's remarks upon
Zeluco.

A person of good sense, who has an encouraging countenance, can easily
draw out the abilities of young people, and from their manner of
listening, as well as from their manner of speaking, can soon form a
judgment of their temper and understanding.

Miss Fanshaw, instead of attending with a desire to improve herself from
sensible conversation, sat with a look as absent as that of an unskilful
actress, whilst the other performers are engaged in their parts.

There was a small book-case, in a recess, at the farthest end of the
room, and upon a little table there were some books, which Isabella
and Matilda had been reading with Mad. de Rosier. Mrs. Fanshaw looked
towards the table, with a sarcastic smile, and said--

"You are great readers, young ladies, I see: may we know what are your
studies?"

Miss Fanshaw, to show how well she could walk, crossed the room, and
took up one of the books.

"'Alison upon Taste'--that's a pretty book, I dare say--but la! what's
this, Miss Isabella? 'A Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments'--dear me!
that must be a curious performance--by a smith! a common smith!"

Isabella, good-naturedly, stopped her from farther absurd exclamations
by turning to the title-page of the book and showing her the words
_"Adam Smith."_

"Ah! _A_ stands for _Adam!_ very true--I thought it was _a_ smith," said
Miss Fanshaw.

"Well, my dear," said her mother, who had quickness enough to perceive
that her daughter had made some mistake, by the countenances of the
company, but who had not sufficient erudition to know what the mistake
could be--"well, my dear, and suppose it was _a_ smith, there's nothing
extraordinary in that--nothing extraordinary in a smith's writing a
book nowadays,--why not a common blacksmith, as well as a common
ploughman?--I was asked, I know, not long ago, to subscribe _to_ the
poems of a common ploughman."

"The Ayrshire ploughman?" said Lady N----.

"Yes, they called him so, as I recollect, and I really had a mind to
put my name down, for I think I saw your ladyship's amongst the
subscribers."

"Yes, they are beautiful poems," said Lady N----.

"So I understand--there are some vastly pretty things in his
collection--but one hears of so many good things coming out every day,"
said Mrs. Fanshaw, in a plaintive voice. "In these days, I think, every
body writes--"

"And reads," said Lady N----.

"And reads," said Mrs. Fanshaw. "We have learned ladies now, wherever
one goes, who tell one they never play at cards--I am sure they are very
bad company. Jane," said she, turning to her daughter, "I hope you won't
take it into your head to turn out a reading lady!"

"Oh dear, no!" said Miss Fanshaw: "we had not much time for reading at
Suxberry House, we were so busy with our masters;--we had a charming
English master though, to teach us elocution, because it's so
fashionable now to read loud well. Mrs. Harcourt, _isn't it odd_ to read
English books to a French governess?" continued this young lady, whose
constrained taciturnity now gave way to a strong desire to show herself
off before Lady N----. She had observed that Isabella and Matilda had
been listened to with approbation, and she imagined that, when she
spoke, she should certainly eclipse them. Mrs. Harcourt replied to
her observation, that Mad. de Rosier not only read and spoke English
remarkably well, but that she had also a general knowledge of English
literature.

"Oh! here are some French books," said Miss Fanshaw, taking down one out
of the book-case--"'Journal Etranger'--dear me! are you translating _of_
this, Miss Isabella?"

"No," said Mrs. Harcourt; "Madame de Rosier brought it down stairs
yesterday, to show us an essay of Hume's on the study of history, which
is particularly addressed to women; and Mad. de Rosier says that it is
not to be found in several of the late editions of Hume's Essays--she
thought it singular that it should be preserved in a French
translation."

"There is," said Isabella, "an entertaining account in that essay of
a lady who asked Hume to lend her some novels! He lent her Plutarch's
Lives, which she thought very amusing, till she found out that they
were true. As soon as she came to the names of Caesar and Alexander, she
returned the books."

Mrs. Fanshaw was surprised that Lady N---- begged to look at this essay;
and was much disappointed to observe that the graceful manner in which
Miss Fanshaw presented the book to her ladyship escaped notice.

"Pray, Miss Matilda, is that a drawing?" said Mrs. Fanshaw, in hopes of
leading to a more favourable subject.

"Oh, dear me! do pray favour us with a sight of it!" cried Miss Fanshaw,
and she eagerly unrolled the paper, though Matilda assured her that it
was not a drawing.

It was Hogarth's print of a country dance, which was prefixed to his
"Analysis of Beauty."

"It is the _oddest_ thing!" exclaimed Miss Fanshaw, who thought every
thing _odd_ or _strange_ which she had not seen at Suxberry house.
Without staying to observe the innumerable strokes of humour and of
original genius in the print, she ran on--"La! its hardly worth any
one's while, surely, to draw such a set of vulgar figures--one hates low
humour." Then, in a hurry to show her taste for dress, she observed
that "people, formerly, must have had no taste at all;--one can hardly
believe such things were ever worn."

Mrs. Fanshaw, touched by this reflection upon the taste of former times,
though she seldom presumed to oppose any of her daughter's opinions,
could not here refrain from saying a few words in defence of sacks, long
waists, and whalebone stays, and she pointed to a row of stays in the
margin of one of these prints of Hogarth.

Miss Fanshaw, who did not consider that, with those who have a taste for
propriety in manners, she could not gain any thing by a triumph over her
mother, laughed in a disdainful manner at her mother's "_partiality for
stays_," and _wondered_ how any body could think long waists becoming.

"Surely, any body who knows any thing of drawing, or has any taste
for an antique figure, must acknowledge the present fashion to be most
graceful." She appealed to Isabella and Matilda.

They were so much struck with the impropriety of her manner towards her
mother, that they did not immediately answer; Matilda at length said,
"It is natural to like what we have been early used to;" and, from
unaffected gentleness, eager to prevent Miss Fanshaw from further
exposing her ignorance, she rolled up the print; and Lady N----, smiling
at Mrs. Harcourt, said, "I never saw a print more _gracefully_ rolled up
in my life." Miss Fanshaw immediately rolled up another of the prints,
but no applause ensued.

At the next pause in the conversation, Mrs. Fanshaw and her daughter
took their leave, seemingly dissatisfied with their visit.

Matilda, just after Mrs. Fanshaw left the room, recollected her pretty
netting-box, and asked Lady N---- whether she knew any thing of the
little boy by whom it was made.

Her ladyship gave such an interesting account of him, that Matilda
determined to have her share in relieving his distress.

Matilda's benevolence was formerly rather passive than active; but from
Mad. de Rosier she had learned that sensibility should not be suffered
to evaporate in sighs, or in sentimental speeches. She had also learnt
that economy is necessary to generosity; and she consequently sometimes
denied herself the gratification of her own tastes, that she might be
able to assist those who were in distress.

She had lately seen a beautiful print[3] of the king of France taking
leave of his family; and, as Mad. de Rosier was struck with it, she
wished to have bought it for her; but she now considered that a guinea,
which was the price of the print, might be better bestowed on this poor,
little, ingenious, industrious boy; so she begged her mother to send
to the repository for one of his boxes. The servants were all busy, and
Matilda did not receive her box till the next morning.

[Footnote 3: By Egginton.]

Herbert was reading to Mad. de Rosier when the servant brought the box
into the room. Favoretta got up to look at it, and immediately Herbert's
eye glanced from his book: in spite of all his endeavours to command his
attention, he heard the exclamations of "Beautiful!--How smooth!--like
tortoise-shell!--What can it be made of?"

"My dear Herbert, shut the book," said Mad. de Rosier, "if your head be
in that box. Never read one moment after you have ceased to attend."

"It is my fault," said Matilda; "I will put the box out of the way till
he has finished reading."

When Herbert had recalled his wandering thoughts, and had fixed his mind
upon what he was about, Mad. de Rosier put her hand upon the book--he
started--"Now let us see the _beautiful_ box," said she.

After it had passed through Favoretta and Herbert's impatient hands,
Matilda, who had scarcely looked at it herself, took it to the window,
to give it a sober examination. "It is not made of paper, or pasteboard,
and it is not the colour of tortoise-shell," said Matilda: "I never saw
any thing like it before; I wonder what it can be made of?"

Herbert, at this question, unperceived by Matilda, who was examining the
box very earnestly, seized the lid, which was lying upon the table, and
ran out of the room; he returned in a few minutes, and presented the
lid to Matilda. "I can tell you one thing, Matilda," said he, with an
important face--"it is an animal--an animal substance, I mean."

"Oh, Herbert," cried Matilda, "what have you been doing?--you have
blackened the corner of the box."

"Only the least bit in the world," said Herbert, "to try an experiment.
I only put one corner to the candle that Isabella had lighted to seal
her letter."

"My dear Herbert, how could you burn your sister's box?" expostulated
Madame de Rosier: "I thought you did not love mischief."

"Mischief!--no, indeed; I thought you would be pleased that I remembered
how to distinguish animal from vegetable substances. You know, the day
that my hair was on fire, you told me how to do that; and Matilda wanted
to know what the box was made of; so I tried."

"Well," said Matilda, good-naturedly, "you have not done me much harm."

"But another time," said Mad. de Rosier, "don't burn a box that costs
a guinea to try an experiment; and, above all things, never, upon any
account, take what is not your own."

The corner of the lid that had been held to the candle was a little
warped, so that the lid did not slide into its groove as easily as it
did before. Herbert was disposed to use force upon the occasion; but
Matilda with difficulty rescued her box by an argument which fortunately
reached his understanding in time enough to stop his hand.

"It was the heat of the candle that warped it," said she: "let us dip
it into boiling water, which cannot be made _too_ hot, and that will,
perhaps, bring it back to its shape."

The lid of the box was dipped into boiling-water, and restored to its
shape. Matilda, as she was wiping it dry, observed that some yellow
paint, or varnish, came off, and in one spot, on the inside of the lid,
she discovered something like writing.

"Who will lend me a magnifying glass?"

Favoretta produced hers.

"I have kept it," said she, "a great, _great_ while, ever since we were
at the Rational Toy-shop."

"Mad. de Rosier, do look at this!" exclaimed Matilda--"here are letters
quite plain!--I have found the name, I do believe, of the boy who made
the box!" and she spelled, letter by letter, as she looked through the
magnifying glass, the words Henri-Montmorenci.

Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at her sudden emotion,
put the box and magnifying glass into her hand. Madame de Rosier's hand
trembled so much that she could not fix the glass.

"Je ne vois rien--lisez--vite!--ma chere amie--un mot de plus!" said
she, putting the glass again into Matilda's hand, and leaning over her
shoulder with a look of agonizing expectation.

The word _de_ was all Matilda could make out--Isabella tried--it was in
vain--no other letters were visible.

"_De_ what?--_de_ Rosier!--it must be! my son is alive!" said the
mother.

Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier's son; but when she
reflected for an instant that this might also be the name of some other
person, her transport of joy was checked, and seemed to be converted
into despair.

Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind returned.
She sent directly to the repository--no news of the boy could there
be obtained. Lady N---- was gone, for a few days, to Windsor; so no
intelligence could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out--no carriage
at home--but Mad. de Rosier set out immediately, and walked to
Golden-square, near which place she knew that a number of French
emigrants resided. She stopped first at a bookseller's shop; she
described the person of her son, and inquired if any such person had
been seen in that neighbourhood.

The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his customers, but
struck with Mad. de Rosier's anxiety, and perceiving that she was a
foreigner by her accent, he put down his pen, and begged her to repeat,
once more, the description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he
had seen such a person--but he had not. He, however, with true English
good-nature, told her that she had an excellent chance of finding him
in this part of the town, if he were in London--he was sorry that his
shopman was from home, or he would have sent him with her through the
streets near the square, where he knew the emigrants chiefly lodged;--he
gave her in writing a list of the names of these streets, and stood at
his door to watch and speed her on her way.

She called at the neighbouring shops--she walked down several narrow
streets, inquiring at every house, where she thought that there was any
chance of success, in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to
the door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who was so
bewildered, that she could not, for some time, answer any questions; at
another house the master was out; at another, the master was at dinner.
As it got towards four o'clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult
to obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the tradesmen
were at dinner, and when they came to the door, looked out of humour, at
being interrupted, and disappointed at not meeting with a customer.
She walked on, her mind still indefatigable:--she heard a clock in the
neighbourhood strike five--her strength was not equal to the energy of
her mind--and the repeated answers of, "We know of no such person"--"No
such boy lives here, ma'am," made her at length despair of success.

One street upon her list remained unsearched--it was narrow, dark, and
dirty;--she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily
laden, with a sudden "By your leave, ma'am!" pushed forwards, and she
was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger's shop. The master of
the shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and,
after a look of surprise, said--

"You've lost your way, madam, I presume--be pleased to rest yourself--it
is but a dark place;" and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been
lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue,
to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling
his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on
weighing his iron and whistling.

The woman, as soon as Mad. de Rosier had drunk the water, inquired if
she should send for a coach for her, or could do any thing to serve her.

The extreme good-nature of the tone in which this was spoken seemed to
revive Mad. de Rosier; she told her that she was searching for an only
son, whom she had for nearly two years believed to be dead: she showed
the paper on which his name was written: the woman could not read--her
husband read the name, but he shook his head--"he knew of no lad who
answered to the description."

Whilst they were speaking, a little boy came into the shop with a bit
of small iron wire in his hand, and, twitching the skirt of the
ironmonger's coat to attract his attention, asked if he had any such
wire as that in his shop. When the ironmonger went to get down a roll of
wire, the little boy had a full view of Mad. de Rosier. Though she was
naturally disposed to take notice of children, yet now she was so intent
upon her own thoughts that she did not observe him till he had bowed
several times just opposite to her.

"Are you bowing to me, my good boy?" said she--"you mistake me for
somebody else; I don't know you;" and she looked down again upon the
paper, on which she had written the name of her son.

"But, indeed, ma'am, I know _you_," said the little boy: "aren't you the
lady that was with the good-natured young gentleman, who met me going
out of the pastry-cook's shop, and gave me the two buns?"

Mad. de Rosier now looked in his face; the shop was so dark that she
could not distinguish his features, but she recollected his voice, and
knew him to be the little boy belonging to the dulcimer man.

"Father would have come again to your house," said the boy, who did not
perceive her inattention--"Father would have come to your house again,
to play the tune the young gentleman fancied so much, but our dulcimer
is broken."

"Is it? I am sorry for it," said Mad. de Rosier. "But can you tell me,"
continued she to the ironmonger, "whether any emigrants lodge in the
street to the left of your house?" The master of the shop tried to
recollect: she again repeated the name and description of her son.

"I know a young French lad of that make," said the little dulcimer boy.

"Do you?--Where is he? Where does he lodge?" cried Mad. de Rosier.

"I am not speaking as to his name, for I never heard his name," said the
little boy; "but I'll tell you how I came to know him. One day lately--"

Mad. de Rosier interrupted him with questions concerning the figure,
height, age, eyes, of the French lad.

The little dulcimer boy, by his answers, sometimes made her doubt, and
sometimes made her certain, that he was her son.

"Tell me," said she, "where he lodges; I must see him immediately."

"I am just come from him, and I'm going back to him with the wire; I'll
show the way with pleasure; he is the best-natured lad in the world;
he is mending my dulcimer; he deserves to be a great gentleman, and
I thought he was not what he seemed," continued the little boy, as he
walked on, scarcely able to keep before Mad. de Rosier.

"This way, ma'am--this way--he lives in the corner house, turning into
Golden-square." It was a stationer's.

"I have called at this house already," said Mad. de Rosier; but she
recollected that it was when the family were at dinner, and that a
stupid maid had not understood her questions. She was unable to speak,
through extreme agitation, when she came to the shop: the little
dulcimer boy walked straight forward, and gently drew back the short
curtain that hung before a glass door, opening into a back parlour. Mad.
de Rosier sprang forward to the door, looked through the glass, and was
alarmed to see a young man taller than her son; he was at work; his back
was towards her.

When he heard the noise of some one trying to open the door, he turned
and saw his mother's face! The tools dropped from his hands, and the
dulcimer boy was the only person present who had strength enough to open
the door.

How sudden! how powerful is the effect of joy! The mother, restored to
her son, in a moment felt herself invigorated--and, forgetful of her
fatigue, she felt herself another being. When she was left alone with
her son, she looked round his little workshop with a mixture of pain and
pleasure. She saw one of his unfinished boxes on the window-seat, which
served him for a work-bench; his tools were upon the floor. "These have
been my support," said her son, taking them up: "how much am I obliged
to my dear father for teaching me early how to use them!"

"Your father!" said Mad. de Rosier--"I wish he could have lived to be
rewarded as I am! But tell me your history, from the moment you were
taken from me to prison: it is nearly two years ago,--how did you
escape? how have you supported yourself since? Sit down, and speak
again, that I may be sure that I hear your voice."

"You shall hear my voice, then, my dear mother," said her son, "for at
least half an hour, if that will not tire you. I have a long story to
tell you. In the first place, you know that I was taken to prison; three
months I spent in the Conciergerie, expecting every day to be ordered
out to the guillotine. The gaoler's son, a boy about my own age, who
was sometimes employed to bring me food, seemed to look upon me with
compassion; I had several opportunities of obliging him: his father
often gave him long returns of the names of the prisoners, and various
accounts, to copy into a large book; the young gentleman did not like
this work; he was much fonder of exercising as a soldier with some
boys in the neighbourhood, who were learning the national exercise; he
frequently employed me to copy his lists for him, and this I performed
to his satisfaction: but what completely won his heart was my mending
the lock of his fusil. One evening he came to me in a new uniform, and
in high spirits; he was just made a captain, by the unanimous voice of
his corps; and he talked of _his_ men, and _his_ orders, with prodigious
fluency; he then played _his_ march upon his drum, and insisted upon
teaching it to me; he was much pleased with my performance, and,
suddenly embracing me, he exclaimed, 'I have thought of an excellent
thing for you; stay till I have arranged the plan in my head, and you
shall see if I am not a great general.' The next evening he did not come
to me till it was nearly dusk; he was in his new uniform; but out of a
bag which he brought in his hand, in which he used to carry his father's
papers, he produced his old uniform, rolled up into a surprisingly
small compass. 'I have arranged every thing,' said he; 'put on this
old uniform of mine--we are just of a size--by this light, nobody
will perceive any difference: take my drum and march out of the prison
slowly; beat my march on the drum as you go out; turn to the left, down
to the Place de ----, where I exercise my men. You'll meet with one of
my soldiers there, ready to forward your escape.' I hesitated; for I
feared that I should endanger my young general; but he assured me that
he had taken his precautions so '_admirably_,' that even after my escape
should be discovered, no suspicion would fall upon him. 'But, if you
delay,' cried he, 'we are both of us undone.' I hesitated not a moment
longer, and never did I change my clothes so expeditiously in my life:
I obeyed my little captain exactly, marched out of the prison slowly,
playing deliberately the march which I had been taught; turned to the
left, according to orders, and saw my punctual guide waiting for me on
the Place de ----, just by the broken statue of Henry the Fourth.

"'Follow me, fellow-citizen,' said he, in a low voice; 'we are not all
Robespierres.'"

Most joyfully I followed him. We walked on, in silence, till at length
we came to a narrow street, where the crowd was so great that I thought
we should both of us have been squeezed to death. I saw the guillotine
at a distance, and I felt sick.

"'Come on,' said my guide, who kept fast hold of me; and he turned
sharp into a yard, where I heard the noise of carts, and the voices of
muleteers. 'This man,' said he, leading me up to a muleteer, who seemed
to be just ready to depart, 'is my father; trust yourself to him.'

"I had nobody else to trust myself to. I got into the muleteer's covered
cart; he began a loud song; we proceeded through the square where the
crowd were assembled. The enthusiasm of the moment occupied them so
entirely, that we were fortunately disregarded. We got out of Paris
safely: I will not tire you with all my terrors and escapes. I, at
length, got on board a neutral vessel, and landed at Bristol. Escaped
from prison, and the fear of the guillotine, I thought myself happy; but
my happiness was not very lasting. I began to apprehend that I should be
starved to death; I had not eaten for many hours. I wandered through the
bustling streets of Bristol, where every body I met seemed to be full of
their own business, and brushed by me without seeing me. I was weak, and
I sat down upon a stone by the door of a public-house.

"A woman was twirling a mop at the door. I wiped away the drops with
which I was sprinkled by this operation. I was too weak to be angry;
but a hairdresser, who was passing by, and who had a nicely powdered wig
poised upon his hand, was furiously enraged, because a few drops of the
shower which had sprinkled me reached the wig. He expressed his anger
half in French and half in English; but at last I observed to him in
French, that the wig was still '_bien poudree_'--this calmed his rage;
and he remarked that I also had been _horribly_ drenched by the shower.
I assured him that this was a trifle in comparison with my other
sufferings.

"He begged to hear my misfortunes, because I spoke French; and as I
followed him to the place where he was going with the wig, I told him
that I had not eaten for many hours; that I was a stranger in Bristol,
and had no means of earning any food. He advised me to go to a tavern,
which he pointed out to me--'The Rummer;'--he told me a circumstance,
which convinced me of the humanity of the master of the house.[4]

[Footnote 4: During Christmas week it is the custom in Bristol to keep a
cheap ordinary in taverns: the master of the Rummer observed a stranger,
meanly dressed, who constantly frequented the public table. It was
suspected that he carried away some of the provision, and a waiter
at length communicated his suspicions to the master of the house.
He watched the stranger, and actually detected him putting a large
mince-pie into his pocket. Instead of publicly exposing him, the
landlord, who judged from the stranger's manner that he was not an
ordinary pilferer, called the man aside as he was going away, and
charged him with the fact, demanding of him what could tempt him to such
meanness. The poor man immediately acknowledged that he had for several
days carried off precisely what he would have eaten himself for his
starving wife, but he had eaten nothing. The humane, considerate
landlord gently reproved him for his conduct, and soon found means to
have him usefully and profitably employed.]

"I resolved to apply to this benevolent man. When I first went into his
kitchen, I saw his cook, a man with a very important face, serving out
a large turtle. Several people were waiting with covered dishes, for
turtle soup and turtle, which had been bespoken in different parts of
the city. The dishes, as fast as they were filled, continually passed by
me, tantalizing me by their savoury odours. I sat down upon a stool near
the fire--I saw food within my reach that honesty forbade me to touch,
though I was starving: how easy is it to the rich to be honest! I was
at this time so weak, that my ideas began to be confused--my head grew
dizzy--I felt the heat of the kitchen fire extremely disagreeable to
me. I do not know what happened afterward; but when I came to myself, I
found that I was leaning against some one who supported me near an open
window: it was the master of the house. I do not know why I was ashamed
to ask him for food; his humanity, however, prevented me. He first
gave me a small basin of broth, and afterwards a little bit of bread,
assuring me, with infinite good nature, that he gave me food in such
small quantities, because he was afraid that it would hurt me to satisfy
my hunger at once--a worthy, humane physician, he said, had told him,
that persons in my situation should be treated in this manner. I thanked
him for his kindness, adding, that I did not mean to encroach upon his
hospitality. He pressed me to stay at his house for some days, but I
could not think of being a burden to him, when I had strength enough to
maintain myself.

"In the window of the little parlour, where I ate my broth, I saw a
novel, which had been left there by the landlord's daughter, and in the
beginning of this book was pasted a direction to the circulating library
in Bristol. I was in hopes that I might earn my bread as a scribe. The
landlord of the Rummer told me that he was acquainted with the master
of the library, and that I might easily procure employment from him on
reasonable terms.

"Mr. S----, for that was the name of the master of the library, received
me with an air of encouraging benevolence, and finding that I could read
and write English tolerably well, he gave me a manuscript to copy, which
he was preparing for the press. I worked hard, and made, as I fancied,
a beautiful copy; but the printers complained of my upright French hand,
which they could not easily decipher:--I began to new-model my writing,
to please the taste of my employers; and as I had sufficient motives to
make me take pains, I at last succeeded. I found it a great advantage
to be able to read and write the English language fluently; and when my
employers perceived my education had not been neglected, and that I
had some knowledge of literature, their confidence in my abilities
increased. I hope you will not think me vain if I add, that I could
perceive my manners were advantageous to me. I was known to be a
gentleman's son; and even those who set but little value upon _manners_
seemed to be influenced by them, without perceiving it. But, without
pronouncing my own eulogium, let me content myself with telling you my
history.

"I used often, in carrying my day's work to the printer's, to pass
through a part of the town of Bristol which has been allotted to poor
emigrants, and there I saw a variety of little ingenious toys, which
were sold at a high price, or at a price which appeared to me to be
high. I began to consider that I might earn money by invention, as well
as by mere manual labour; but before I gave up any part of my time to
my new schemes, I regularly wrote as much each day as was sufficient to
maintain me. Now it was that I felt the advantage of having been taught,
when I was a boy, the use of carpenters' tools, and some degree of
mechanical dexterity. I made several clumsy toys, and I tried various
unsuccessful experiments, but I was not discouraged. One day I heard a
dispute near me about some trinket--a toothpick-case, I believe--which
was thought by the purchaser to be too highly priced; the man who made
it repeatedly said, in recommendation of the toy--'Why, sir, you could
not know it from tortoise-shell.'

"I, at this instant, recollected to have seen, at the Rummer, a great
heap of broken shells, which the cook had thrown aside, as if they were
of no value. Upon inquiry, I found that there was part of the inside
shell which was thought to be useless--it occurred to me that I might
possibly make it useful. The good-natured landlord ordered that all
this part of the shells should be carefully collected and given to me.
I tried to polish it for many hours in vain. I was often tempted to
abandon my project--there was a want of _finish_, as the workmen call
it, in my manufacture, which made me despair of its being saleable. I
will not weary you with a history of all my unsuccessful processes;
it was fortunate for me, my dear mother, that I remembered one of
the principles which you taught me when I was a child, that it is
not _genius_, but perseverance, which brings things to perfection. I
persevered, and though I did not bring my manufacture to _perfection_,
I actually succeeded so far as to make a very neat-looking box out of my
refuse shells. I offered it for sale--it was liked: I made several
more, and they were quickly sold for me, most advantageously, by my
good friend, Mr. S----. He advised me to make them in the shape of
netting-boxes; I did so, and their sale extended rapidly.

"Some benevolent lady, about this time, raised a subscription for me;
but as I had now an easy means of supporting myself, and as I every day
beheld numbers of my countrymen, nearly in the condition in which I was
when I first went to the Rummer, I thought it was not fit to accept of
the charitable assistance, which could be so much better bestowed upon
others. Mr. S---- told me, that the lady who raised the contribution,
so far from being offended, was pleased by my conduct in declining her
bounty, and she undertook to dispose of as many of my netting-boxes as I
could finish. She was one of the patronesses of a repository in London,
which has lately been opened, called the 'Repository for Ingenious
Works.' When she left Bristol, she desired Mr. S---- to send my boxes
thither.

"My little manufacture continued to prosper--by practice I grew more and
more expert, and I had no longer any fears that I should not be able
to maintain myself. It was fortunate for me that I was obliged to be
constantly employed: whenever I was not actually at hard work, whenever
I had leisure for reflection, I was unhappy.

"A friend of Mr. S----, who was going to London, offered to take me with
him--I had some curiosity to see this celebrated metropolis, and I had
hopes of meeting with some of my friends amongst the emigrants in this
city--amongst all the emigrants at Bristol there was not one person with
whom I had been acquainted in France.

"Impelled by these hopes, I quitted Bristol, and arrived a few weeks ago
in London. Mr. S---- gave me a direction to a cabinet-maker in Leicester
Fields, and I was able to pay for a decent lodging, for I was now master
of what appeared to me a large sum of money--seven guineas.

"Some time after I came to town, as I was returning from a visit to an
emigrant, with whom I had become acquainted, I was stopped at the corner
of a street by a crowd of people--_a mob_, as I have been taught to
call it, since I came to England--who had gathered round a blind man, a
little boy, and a virago of a woman, who stood upon the steps before
a print-shop door. The woman accused the boy of being a thief. The boy
protested that he was innocent, and his ingenuous countenance spoke
strongly in his favour. He belonged to the blind man, who, as soon as
he could make himself heard, complained bitterly of the damage which had
been done to his dulcimer. The mob, in their first fury, had broken it.
I was interested for the man but more for the boy. Perhaps, said I to
myself, he has neither father nor mother!

"When the woman, who was standing yet furious at the shop-door, had no
more words for utterance, the little boy was suffered to speak in his
own defence. He said, that, as he was passing by the open window of the
print-shop, he put his hand in to give part of a bun which he was eating
to a little dog, who was sitting on the counter, near the window;
and who looked thin and miserable, as if he was half-starved. 'But,'
continued the little boy, 'when I put the bun to the dog's mouth, he did
not eat it; I gave him a little push to make him mind me, and he fell
out of the window into my hands; and then I found that it was not a
real dog, but only the picture of a dog, painted upon pasteboard. The
mistress of the shop saw the dog in my hand, and snatched it away,
and accused me of being a thief; so then, with the noise she made, the
chairmen, who were near the door, came up, and the mob gathered, and
our dulcimer was broken, and I'm very sorry for it.' The mistress of
the print-shop observed, in a loud and contemptuous tone, 'that all this
must be a lie, for that _such a one as_ he could not have buns to give
away to dogs!'--Here the blind man vindicated his boy, by assuring us
that 'he came honestly by the bun--that two buns had been given to him
about an hour before this time by a young gentleman, who met him as
he was coming out of a pastry-cook's shop.' When the mob heard this
explanation, they were sorry for the mischief they had done to the blind
man's dulcimer; and, after examining it with expressions of sorrow, they
quietly dispersed. I thought that I could perhaps mend the dulcimer, and
I offered my services; they were gladly accepted, and I desired the man
to leave it at the cabinet-maker's, in Leicester Fields, where I
lodged. In the meantime the little boy, whilst I had been examining the
dulcimer, had been wiping the dirt from off the pasteboard dog, which,
during the fray, had fallen into the street--'Is it not like a real
dog?' said the boy, 'Was it not enough to deceive any body?'

"It was, indeed, extremely like a _real_ dog--like my dog, Caesar, whom
I had taken care of from the time I was five years old, and whom I was
obliged to leave at our house in Paris, when I was dragged to prison.
The more I looked at this pasteboard image, the more I was convinced
that the picture must have been drawn from the life. Every streak, every
spot, every shade of its brown coat I remembered. Its extreme thinness
was the only circumstance in which the picture was unlike my Caesar.
I inquired from the scolding woman of the shop how she came by this
picture--'Honestly,' was her laconic answer; but when I asked whether it
were to be sold, and when I paid its price, the lady changed her tone;
no longer considering me as the partisan of the little boy, against whom
she was enraged, but rather looking upon me as a customer, who had paid
too much for her goods, she condescended to inform me that the dog
was painted by one of the _poor_ French emigrants, who lived in her
neighbourhood. She directed me to the house, and I discovered the man to
be my father's old servant Michael. He was overjoyed at the sight of me;
he was infirm, and unequal to any laborious employment; he had supported
himself with great difficulty by painting toys, and various figures of
men, women, and animals, upon pasteboard. He showed me two excellent
figures of French poissardes, and also a good cat, of his doing;--but my
Caesar was the best of his works.

"My lodgings at the cabinet-maker's were too small to accommodate
Michael; and yet I wished to have him with me, for he seemed so infirm
as to want assistance. I consequently left my cabinet-maker, and took
lodgings with this stationer; he and his wife are quiet people, and I
hope poor Michael has been happier since he came to me; he has, however,
been for some days confined to his bed, and I have been so busy, that I
have not been able to stir from home. To-day the poor little boy called
for his dulcimer; I must own that I found it a more difficult job to
mend it than I had expected. I could not match the wire, and I sent the
boy out to an ironmonger's a few hours ago. How little did I expect to
see him return with--my mother!"

We shall not attempt to describe the alternate emotions of joy and
sorrow which quickly succeeded each other in Mad. de Rosier's heart,
while she listened to her son's little history. Impatient to communicate
her happiness to her friends, she took leave hastily of her beloved son,
promising to call for him early the next day. "Settle all your
business to-night," said she, "and I will introduce you to _my_ friends
to-morrow. _My_ friends, I say proudly--for I have made friends since
I came to England; and England, amongst other commodities excellent in
their kind, produces incomparable friends--friends in adversity. _We_
know their value. Adieu: settle all your affairs here expeditiously."

"I have no affairs, no business, my dear mother," interrupted Henry,
"except to mend the dulcimer, as I promised, and that I'll finish
directly. Adieu, till to-morrow morning! What a delightful sound!"

With all the alacrity of benevolence he returned to his work, and his
mother returned to Mrs. Harcourt's. It was nearly eight o'clock before
she arrived at home. Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda, met her with
inquiring eyes.

"She smiles," said Matilda; and Herbert, with a higher jump than he had
ever been known to make before, exclaimed, "She has found her son!--I am
sure of it!--I knew she would find him."

"Let her sit down," said Matilda, in a gentle voice.

Isabella brought her an excellent dish of coffee; and Mrs. Harcourt,
with kind reproaches, asked why she had not brought her son _home_ with
her. She rang the bell with as much vivacity as she spoke, ordered her
coach to be sent instantly to Golden-square, and wrote an order, as she
called it, for his coming _immediately_ to her, quitting all dulcimers
and dulcimer boys, under pain of his mother's displeasure. "Here, Mad.
de Rosier," said she, with peremptory playfulness, "countersign my
order, that I may be sure of my prisoner."

Scarcely were the note and carriage despatched, before Herbert and
Favoretta stationed themselves at the window, that they might be ready
to give the first intelligence. Their notions of time and distance were
not very accurate upon this occasion; for before the carriage had
been out of sight ten minutes, they expected it to return; and they
exclaimed, at the sight of every coach that appeared at the end of the
street, "Here's the carriage!--Here he is!" But the carriages rolled by
continually, and convinced them of their mistakes.

Herbert complained of the dull light of the lamps, though the street was
remarkably well lighted; and he next quarrelled with the glare of the
flambeaux, which footmen brandished behind carriages that were unknown
to him. At length a flambeau appeared with which he did not quarrel.
Herbert, as its light shone upon the footman, looked with an eager eye,
then put his finger upon his own lips, and held his other hand forcibly
before Favoretta's mouth, for now he was certain. The coach stopped
at the door--Mad. de Rosier ran down stairs--Mrs. Harcourt and all
the family followed her--Herbert was at the coach door before Henri de
Rosier could leap out, and he seized his hand with the familiarity of an
old acquaintance.

The sympathy of all her joyful pupils, the animated kindness with which
Mrs. Harcourt received her son, touched Mad. de Rosier with the most
exquisite pleasure. The happiness that we are conscious of having
deserved is doubly grateful to the heart.

Mrs. Harcourt did not confine her attentions within the narrow limits
of politeness--with generous eagerness she exerted herself to show her
gratitude to the excellent governess of her children. She applied to the
gentleman who was at the head of the academy for the education of the
sons of French emigrants, and recommended Henri de Rosier to him in the
strongest terms.

In the meantime Lady N----, who had been warmly interested in Mad. de
Rosier's favour, and more by what she had seen of her pupils, wrote
to her brother, who was at Paris, to request that he would make every
possible inquiry concerning the property of the late Comte de Rosier.
The answer to her letter informed her that Mad. de Rosier's property was
restored to her and to her son by the new government of France.

Mrs. Harcourt, who now foresaw the probability of Mad. de Rosier's
return to France, could not avoid feeling regret at the thoughts of
parting with a friend to whom her whole family was sincerely attached.
The plan of education which had been traced out remained yet unfinished,
and she feared, she said, that Isabella and Matilda might feel the want
of their accomplished preceptress. But these fears were the best omens
for her future success: a sensible mother, in whom the desire to educate
her family has once been excited, and who turns the energy of her
mind to this interesting subject, seizes upon every useful idea, every
practical principle, with avidity, and she may trust securely to her
own persevering cares. Whatever a mother learns for the sake of her
children, she never forgets.

The rapid improvement of Mrs. Harcourt's understanding since she had
applied herself to literature, was her reward, and her excitement to
fresh application. Isabella and Matilda were now of an age to be her
companions, and her taste for domestic life was confirmed every day by
the sweet experience of its pleasures.

"You have taught me your value, and now you are going to leave me," said
she to Mad. de Rosier. "I quarrelled with the Duke de la Rochefoucault
for his asserting, that in the misfortunes of our best friends there is
always something that is not disagreeable to us; but I am afraid I
must stand convicted of selfishness, for in the good fortune of my best
friend there is something that I cannot feel to be perfectly agreeable."






MADEMOISELLE PANACHE.

SECOND PART[1]

[Footnote 1: The first part is in the Parent's Assistant, vol. iv.]


The tendency of any particular mode of education is not always
perceived, before it is too late to change the habits or the character
of the pupil. To superficial observers, children of nearly the same age
often seem much alike in manners and disposition, who, in a few years
afterward, appear in every respect strikingly different. We have given
our readers some idea of the manner in which Mrs. Temple educated her
daughters, and some notion of the mode in which Lady Augusta was managed
by Mlle. Panache; the difference between the characters of Helen and
Lady Augusta, though visible even at the early age of twelve or thirteen
to an intelligent mother, was scarcely noticed by common acquaintance,
who contented themselves with the usual phrases, as equally applicable
to both the young ladies. "Upon my word, Lady Augusta and Miss Helen
Temple are both of them very fine girls, and very highly accomplished,
and vastly well educated, as I understand. I really cannot tell which to
prefer. Lady Augusta, to be sure, is rather the taller of the two, and
her manners are certainly more womanly and fashioned than Miss Helen's;
but then, Miss Helen Temple has something of simplicity about her
that some people think very engaging. For my part, I don't pretend to
judge--girls alter so; there's no telling at twelve years old what they
may turn out at sixteen."

From twelve to sixteen, Lady Augusta continued under the direction of
Mlle. Panache; whilst her mother, content with her daughter's progress
in external accomplishments, paid no attention to the cultivation of her
temper or her understanding. Lady S---- lived much in what is called the
world; was fond of company, and fonder of cards, sentimentally anxious
to be thought a good mother, but indolently willing to leave her
daughter wholly to the care of a French governess, whose character she
had never taken the trouble to investigate. Not that Lady S---- could
be ignorant that, however well qualified to teach the true French
pronunciation, she could not be a perfectly eligible companion for
her daughter as she grew up: her ladyship intended to part with the
governess when Lady Augusta was fifteen; but from day to day, and from
year to year, this was put off: sometimes Lady S---- thought it a pity
to dismiss mademoiselle, because "she was the best creature in the
world;" sometimes she rested content with the idea, that six months more
or less could not signify; till at length _family reasons_ obliged her
to postpone mademoiselle's dismission: part of the money intended for
the payment of the governess's salary had been unfortunately lost by the
mother at the card-table. Lady Augusta consequently continued under the
auspices of Mlle. Panache till her ladyship was eighteen, and till her
education was supposed to be entirely completed.

In the meantime Mlle. Panache endeavoured, by all the vulgar arts of
flattery, to ingratiate herself with her pupil, in hopes that from
a governess she might become a _companion_. The summer months seemed
unusually long to the impatient young lady, whose imagination daily
anticipated the glories of her next winter's campaign. Towards the end
of July, however, a reinforcement of visitors came to her mother's,
and the present began to engage some attention, as well as the future.
Amongst these visitors was Lord George ----, a young nobleman, near
twenty-one, who was heir to a very considerable fortune. We mention
his fortune _first_, because it was his _first_ merit, even in his own
opinion. Cold, silent, selfish, supercilious, and silly, there appeared
nothing in him to engage the affections, or to strike the fancy of a
fair lady; but Lady Augusta's fancy was not fixed upon his lordship's
character or manners, and much that might have disgusted consequently
escaped her observation. Her mother had not considered the matter very
attentively; but she thought that this young nobleman might be no bad
match for her Augusta, and she trusted that her daughter's charms
would make their due impression on his heart. Some weeks passed away in
fashionable negligence of the lady on his part, and alternate pique and
coquetry on hers, whilst, during these operations, her confidante and
governess was too much occupied with her own manoeuvres to attend to
those of her pupil. Lord George had with him upon this visit a Mr.
Dashwood, who was engaged to accompany him upon his travels, and who had
had the honour of being his lordship's tutor. At the name of a _tutor_,
let no one picture to himself a gloomy pedant; or yet a man whose
knowledge, virtue, and benevolence, would command the respect, or win
the affections, of youth. Mr. Dashwood could not be mistaken for a
pedant, unless a coxcomb be a sort of pedant. Dashwood pretended neither
to win affection nor to command respect; but he was, as his pupil
emphatically swore, "the best fellow in the world." Upon this best
fellow in the world, Mlle. Panache fixed her sagacious hopes; she
began to think that it would be infinitely better to be the wife of
the gallant Mr. Dashwood, than the humble companion or the slighted
governess of the capricious Lady Augusta. Having thus far opened the
views and characters of these various personages, we shall now give our
readers an opportunity of judging of them by their words and actions.

"You go with us, my lord, to the archery-meeting this evening?" said
Lady S----, as she rose from breakfast--his lordship gave a negligent
assent.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mlle. Panache, turning eagerly to Dashwood, "have you
seen _de uniforme?--C'est charmant_; and I have no small hand in it."

Dashwood paid he expected compliment to her taste. "Ah! _non_," said
she, "you are too good, too flattering; but you must tell me your
judgment without flattery! _Vous etes homme de gout_, though an
Englishman--you see I have got no _prejuges_." Dashwood bowed.
"_Allons!_" said she, starting up with vast gaiety: "we have got no time
to lose. I have de _rubans_ to put to de bow; I must go and attend my
Diane."

"Attend her Diane!" repeated Dashwood, the moment the door was shut,
and he was left alone with Lord George. "Attend her Diane! a very
proper attendant." Lord George was wholly indifferent to propriety or
impropriety upon this, as upon all other subjects. "What are we to do
with ourselves, I wonder, this morning!" said he, with his customary
yawn; and he walked towards the window. The labour of finding employment
for his lordship always devolved upon his companion. "I thought, my
lord," said Dashwood, "you talked yesterday of going upon the water; the
river is very smooth, and I hope we shall have a fine day."

"I hope so too; but over the hill yonder it looks confounded black, hey?
Well, at any rate we may go down and make some of them get ready to go
with us. I'll take my black Tom--he's a handy fellow."

"But if you take black Tom," said Dashwood, laughing, "we must not
expect to have the ladies of our party; for you know mademoiselle has an
unconquerable _antipaty_, as she calls it, to a <DW64>."

Lord George declared that, for this very reason, he would order black
Tom down to the water-side, and that he should enjoy her affectation,
or her terror, whichever it was, of all things. "I suppose," said he,
"she'll scream as loud as Lady Augusta screamed at a frog the other
day."

"I'll lay you a wager I spoil your sport, my lord; I'll lay you a
guinea I get mademoiselle into the boat without a single scream," said
Dashwood.

"Done!" said Lord George. "Two to one she screams."

"Done!" said Dashwood; and he hoped that, by proposing this bet, he had
provided his pupil with an object for the whole morning. But Lord George
was not so easily roused immediately after breakfast. "It looks terribly
like rain," said he, going back and forward irresolutely between the
door and the window. "Do you think it will rain, hey?"

"No, no; I'm sure it will not rain."

"I wouldn't lay two to one of that, however: look at this great cloud
that's coming."

"Oh! it will blow over."

"I don't know that," said Lord George, shaking his head with great
solemnity. "Which way is the wind?" opening the window. "Well, I believe
it may hold up, hey?"

"Certainly--I think so."

"Then I'll call black Tom, hey?--though I think one grows tired of going
upon the water," muttered his lordship, as he left the room. "Couldn't
one find something better?"

"Nothing better," thought Dashwood, "but to hang yourself, my lord,
which, I'll be bound, you'll do before you are forty, for want of
something better. But that's not my affair."

"Where's mademoiselle?" cried Lady Augusta, entering hastily, with a bow
and arrow in her hand: "I've lost my quiver: where's mademoiselle?"

"Upon my word I don't know," said Dashwood, assuming an air of interest.

"You don't know, Mr. Dashwood!" said Lady Augusta, sarcastically;
"that's rather extraordinary. I make it a rule, whenever I want
mademoiselle, to ask where you are, and I never found myself
disappointed before."

"I am sorry, madam, you should ever be disappointed," said Dashwood,
laughing. "Is this your ladyship's _own_ taste?" added he, taking the
painted bow out of her hand. "It's uncommonly pretty."

"Pretty or not, Lord George did not think it worth while to look at it
last night. His lordship will go through the world mighty easily, don't
you think so, Mr. Dashwood?" Dashwood attempted an apology for his
pupil, but in such a sort, as if he did not mean it to be accepted,
and then, returning the bow to her ladyship's hand, paused, sighed, and
observed, that, upon the whole, it was happy for his lordship that he
possessed so much nonchalance. "Persons of a different cast," continued
he, "cannot, as your ladyship justly observes, expect to pass through
life so easily." This speech was pronounced in a tone so different from
Dashwood's usual careless gaiety, that Lady Augusta could not help being
struck with it; and by her vanity, it was interpreted precisely as the
gentleman wished. Rank and fortune were her serious objects, but she
had no objection to amusing herself with romance. The idea of seeing the
gay, witty Mr. Dashwood metamorphosed, by the power of her charms, into
a despairing, sighing swain, played upon her imagination, and she heard
his first sigh with a look which plainly showed how well she understood
its meaning.

"Why now, was there ever any thing so provoking!" cried Lord George,
swinging himself into the room.

"What's the matter, my lord?" said Dashwood.

"Why, don't you see, it's raining as hard as it can rain?" replied his
lordship, with the true pathos of a man whose happiness is dependent
upon the weather. His scheme of going upon the water being now
impracticable, he lounged about the room all the rest of the morning,
supporting that miserable kind of existence, which idle gentlemen are
doomed to support, they know not how, upon a rainy day. Neither Lady
Augusta nor her mother, in calculating the advantages and disadvantages
of an alliance with his lordship, ever once considered his habits of
listless idleness as any objection in a companion for life.

After dinner the day cleared up--the ladies were dressed in their
archery uniform--the carriages came to the door, and Lord George was
happy in the prospect of driving his new phaeton. Dashwood handed
the ladies to their coach; for his lordship was too much engaged in
confabulation with his groom, on the merits of his off-leader, to pay
attention to any thing else upon earth.

His phaeton was presently out of sight, for he gloried in driving as
fast as possible; and, to reward his exertions, he had the satisfaction
of hearing two strangers, as he passed them, say--"Ha! upon my word,
those horses go well!" A postilion at a turnpike gate, moreover,
exclaimed to a farmer, who stood with his mouth wide open--"There goes
Lord George! he cuts as fine a figure on the road as e'er a man in
England." Such was the style of praise of which this young nobleman was
silly enough to be vain.

"I've been in these three quarters of an hour!" cried he, exultingly, as
Lady S---- got out of her coach.

"There has been no shooting yet though, I hope?" said Lady Augusta.

"No, no, ma'am," replied Dashwood; "but the ladies are all upon the
green--a crowd of fair competitors; but I'd bet a thousand pounds upon
your ladyship's arrows. Make way there--make way," cried the man of
gallantry, in an imperious tone, to some poor people, who crowded round
the carriage; and talking and laughing loud, he pushed forward, making
as much bustle in seating the ladies as they could have wished. Being
seated, they began to bow and nod to their acquaintance. "There's Mrs.
Temple and her daughters," said Lady S----.

"Where, ma'am?" said Lady Augusta: "I'm sure I did not expect to meet
them here. Where are they?"

"Just opposite to us. Pray, Mr. Dashwood, who is that gentleman in
brown, who is talking to Miss Helen Temple?" "Upon my word I don't know,
madam; he bowed just now to Lord George."

"Did he?" said Lady Augusta. "I wonder who he is!"

Lord George soon satisfied her curiosity, for, coming up to them, he
said negligently, "Dashwood, there's young Mountague yonder."

"Ha! is that young Mountague? Well, is his father dead? What has he done
with that old quiz?"

"Ask him yourself," said Lord George sullenly: "I asked him just now,
and he looked as black as November."

"He was so fond of his father--it is quite a bore," said Dashwood. "I
think he'll be _a quiz_ himself in due time."

"No," said Lord George; "he knows better than that too in some things.
He has a monstrous fine horse with him here; and that's a good pretty
girl that he's going to marry."

"Is he going to be married to Miss Helen Temple?" said Lady S----. "Who
is he, pray? I hope a suitable match."

"That I can't tell, for I don't know what she _has_," replied Lord
George. "But Mountague can afford to do as he pleases--very good
family--fine fortune."

"Yes; old quiz made an excellent nurse to his estate," observed
Dashwood; "he owes him some gratitude for that."

"Is not he very young to settle in the world?" said Lady S----.

"Young--yes--only a year older than I am," said Lord George; "but I knew
he'd never be quiet till he got himself _noosed_."

"I suppose he'll be at the ball to-night," said Lady Augusta, "and then
we shall see something of him, perhaps. It's an age since we've seen
the Miss Temples any where. I wonder whether there's any thing more
than report, my lord, in this conquest of Miss Helen Temple? Had you the
thing from good authority?"

"Authority!" said Lord George; "I don't recollect my authority,
faith!--somebody said so to me, I think. It's nothing to me, at any
rate." Lady Augusta's curiosity, however, was not quite so easily
satisfied as his lordship's; she was resolved to study Mr. Mountague
thoroughly at the ball; and her habitual disposition to coquetry, joined
to a dislike of poor Helen, which originated whilst they were children,
made her form a strong desire to rival Helen in the admiration of this
young gentleman of--"very good family and fine fortune." Her ladyship
was just falling into a reverie upon this subject, when she was summoned
to join the archeresses.

The prize was a silver arrow. The ladies were impatient to begin--the
green was cleared. Some of the spectators took their seats on benches
under the trees, whilst a party of gentlemen stood by, to supply the
ladies with arrows. Three ladies shot, but widely from the mark; a
fourth tried her skill, but no applause ensued; a fifth came forward,
a striking figure, elegantly dressed, who, after a prelude of very
becoming diffidence, drew her bow, and took aim in the most graceful
attitude imaginable.

"Who is that beautiful creature?" exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with
enthusiasm; and as the arrow flew from the bow, he started up, wishing
it success.

"The nearest, by six inches, that has been shot yet," cried Dashwood.
"Here, sir! here!" said he to Mr. Mountague, who went up to examine the
target, "this is Lady Augusta S----'s arrow, within the second circle,
almost put out the bull's eye!" The clamour of applause at length
subsiding, several other arrows were shot, but none came near to Lady
Augusta's, and the prize was unanimously acknowledged to be hers.

The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, and several gentlemen
tried to reach it in vain: Mr. Mountague sprung from the ground with
great activity, brought down the arrow, and presented it, with an air of
gallantry, to the fair victor.

"My dear Helen," said Emma to her sister, in a low voice, "you are not
well."

"I!" replied Helen, turning quickly: "why! can you think me so mean as
to--"

"Hush, hush! you don't consider how loud you are speaking."

"Am I?" said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her tone; "but then, why did
you say I was not well?"

"Because you looked so pale."

"Pale! I'm sure I don't look pale," said Helen--"do I?"

"Not now, indeed," said Emma, smiling.

"Was not it an excellent shot?" said Mr. Mountague, returning to them;
"but you were not near enough to see it; do come and look at it." Mrs.
Temple rose and followed him.--"I can't say," continued he, "that I
particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is a surprising
shot."

"It really is a surprising shot," said Helen, looking at it quite at
ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. Mountague's eyes
were not intent upon the _surprising shot_, but were eagerly turned to
another side of the green, where, illuminated by the rays of the setting
sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver arrow, totally
unconscious, as he imagined, either of her own charms or his
admiration.--"Are you acquainted with Lady Augusta?" said Mr. Mountague.

"Yes," said Mrs. Temple. "Are you?"

"Not yet; but I have met her mother often in town--a silly, card-playing
woman. I hope her daughter is as little like her in her mind as in her
person." Here Mr. Mountague paused, for they had walked up quite close
to the seemingly unconscious beauty.--"Oh, Mrs. Temple!" said she,
starting, and then recovering herself, with an innocent smile--"is it
you? I beg ten thousand pardons," and, offering a hand to Helen and
Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involuntarily drew back her
hand, with as much coldness as she could without being absolutely rude.

It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to begin at ten,
the ladies called for their carriages, that they might drive to their
lodgings, in an adjacent town, to change their dress. In the crowd,
Helen happened to be pretty close behind Lady S----, so close, that she
could not avoid hearing her conversation.

"Dear ma'am!" an elderly lady in black was saying to her, "I can assure
you, your ladyship has been misinformed. I assure you, it is no such
thing. He's a relation of the family--he has paid a long visit in
this country, but then it is a parting visit to his uncle: he sets out
immediately for Italy, I'm told. I assure you, your ladyship has been
misinformed; he and his uncle are often at Mrs. Temple's; but depend
upon it he has no thoughts of Miss Helen."

These words struck Helen to the heart: she walked on, leaning upon her
sister's arm, who fortunately happened to know where she was going. Emma
helped her sister to recollect that it was necessary to get into the
carriage when the step was let down. The carriage presently stopped with
them at the inn, and they were shown to their rooms. Helen sat down, the
moment she got up stairs, without thinking of dressing; and her mother's
hair was half finished, when she turned round and said, "Why, Helen, my
dear! you certainly will not be ready."

"Shan't I, ma'am?" said Helen, starting up. "Is there any occasion that
we should dress any more?"

"Nay, my dear," said Mrs. Temple, laughing, "look in the glass at your
hair; it has been blown all over your face by the wind."

"It is a great deal of useless trouble," said Helen, as she began the
duties of the toilette.

"Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness," said her mother.

"No, indeed, mamma; I'm not lazy. But I really don't think it signifies.
Nobody will take notice how I am dressed, I dare say."

"A sudden fit of humility, then?" said Mrs. Temple, still laughing.

"No, ma'am; but you have often told us how little it signifies. When the
ball is over, every thing about it is forgotten in a few hours."

"Oh, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen?"

"No, indeed, mother," said Helen, sighing; "I'm sure I don't pretend to
any philosophy."

"Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?"

"No, indeed, ma'am!"

"No, indeed, ma'am!" said Mrs. Temple, still rallying her.--Why, Helen,
my dear, you have answered 'No, indeed, ma'am,' to every thing I've said
this half hour."

"No, indeed, mother," said Helen; "but I assure you, ma'am," continued
she, in a hurried manner, "if you would only give me leave to explain--"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Temple, "this is no time for explanations:
make haste and dress yourself, and follow me down to tea." Mr. Mountague
was engaged to drink tea with Mrs. Temple.

How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the mind in the course of
a few minutes!

"I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust," said Helen to herself. "Because
Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, am I vexed? Why should I be displeased
with Mr. Mountague's admiring her? I will appear no more like a fool;
and Heaven forbid I should become envious."

As this last thought took possession of her mind, she finished dressing
herself, and went with Emma down to tea. The well-wrought-up dignity
with which Helen entered the parlour was, however, thrown away upon this
occasion; for opposite to her mother at the tea-table there appeared,
instead of Mr. Mountague, only an empty chair, and an empty teacup
and saucer, with a spoon in it. He was gone to the ball; and when Mrs.
Temple and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the bottom of
the country dance, talking in high spirits to his partner, Lady Augusta,
who, in the course of the evening, cast many looks of triumph upon
Helen. But Helen kept to her resolution of commanding her own mind,
and maintained an easy serenity of manner, which the consciousness of
superior temper never fails to bestow. Towards the end of the night, she
danced one dance with Mr. Mountague, and as he was leading her to her
place, Lady Augusta, and two or three of her companions, came up, all
seemingly stifling a laugh. "What is the matter?" said Helen. "Why, my
dear creature," said Lady Augusta, who still apparently laboured under a
violent inclination to laugh, and whispering to Helen, but so loud that
she could distinctly be overheard--"you must certainly be in love."

"Madam!" said Helen, colouring, and much distressed.

"Yes; you certainly must," pursued Lady Augusta, rudely; for ladies of
quality can be as rude, sometimes ruder, than other people. "Must
not she, Lady Di.," appealing to one of her companions, and laughing
affectedly--"must not she be either in love, or out of her senses? Pray,
Miss Temple, put out your foot." Helen put out her foot.

"Ay, that's the black one--well, the other." Now the other was white.
The ill-bred raillery commenced. Helen, though somewhat abashed, smiled
with great good humour, and walked on towards her seat. "What is the
matter, my dear?" said her mother.

"Nothing, madam," answered Mr. Mountague, "but that Miss Helen Temple's
shoes are odd, and her temper--even." These few words, which might pass
in a ball-room, were accompanied with a look of approbation, which made
her ample amends for the pain she had felt. He then sat down by Mrs.
Temple, and, without immediately adverting to any one, spoke with
indignation of coquetry, and lamented that so many beautiful girls
should be spoiled by affectation.

"If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame?" said Mrs. Temple.
"If young women were not deceived into a belief that affectation
pleases, they would scarcely trouble themselves to practise it so much."

"Deceived!" said Mr. Mountague--"but is any body deceived by a person's
saying, 'I have the honour to be, madam, your obedient, humble servant?'
Besides, as to pleasing--what do we mean? pleasing for a moment, for a
day, or for life?"

"Pleasing for a moment," said Helen, smiling, "is of some consequence;
for, if we take care of the moments, the years will take care of
themselves, you know."

"Pleasing for _one_ moment, though," said Mr. Mountague, "is very
different, as you must perceive, from pleasing _every_ moment."

Here the country dance suddenly stopped, and three or four couple were
thrown into confusion. The gentlemen were stooping down, as if looking
for something on the floor. "Oh, I beg, I insist upon it; you can't
think how much you distress me!" cried a voice which sounded like Lady
Augusta's. Mr. Mountague immediately went to see what was the matter.
"It is only my bracelet," said she, turning to him. "Don't, pray don't
trouble yourself," cried she, as he stooped to assist in collecting
the scattered pearls, which she received with grace in the whitest hand
imaginable. "Nay, now I must insist upon it," said she to Mr. Mountague,
as he stooped again--"you shall not plague yourself any longer." And in
her anxiety to prevent him from plaguing himself any longer, she laid
upon his arm the white hand, which he had an instant before so much
admired. Whether all Mr. Mountague's sober contempt of coquetry was,
at this moment, the prevalent feeling in his mind, we cannot presume to
determine; we must only remark, that the remainder of the evening was
devoted to Lady Augusta; he sat beside her at supper, and paid her
a thousand compliments, which Helen in vain endeavoured to persuade
herself meant nothing more than--"I am, madam, your obedient, humble
servant."

"It is half after two," said Mrs. Temple, when she rose to go.

"Half after two!" said Mr. Mountague, as he handed Mrs. Temple to her
carriage--"bless me! can it be so late?"

All the way home Emma and Mrs. Temple were obliged to support the
conversation; for Helen was so extremely entertained with watching
the clouds passing over the moon, that nothing else could engage her
attention.

The gossiping old lady's information respecting Mr. Mountague was as
accurate as the information of gossips usually is found to be. Mr.
Mountague, notwithstanding her opinion and sagacity, _had thoughts
of Miss Helen Temple_. During some months which he had spent at his
uncle's, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, he had had opportunities of
studying Helen's character and temper, which he found perfectly well
suited to his own; but he had never yet declared his attachment to her.
Things were in this undecided situation, when he saw, and was struck
with the beauty of Lady Augusta ----, at this archery-ball. Lord George
---- introduced him to Lady S----; and, in consequence of a pressing
invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to spend a few days at
S---- Hall.

"So Mr. Mountague is going to spend a week at S---- Hall, I find," said
Mrs. Temple, as she and her daughters were sitting at work the morning
after the archery-ball. To this simple observation of Mrs. Temple a
silence, which seemed as if it never would be broken, ensued.

"Helen, my dear!" said Mrs. Temple, in a soft voice.

"Ma'am!" said Helen, starting.

"You need not start so, my dear; I am not going to say any thing very
tremendous. When you and your sister were children, if you remember, I
often used to tell you that I looked forward, with pleasure, to the time
when I should live with you as friends and equals. That time is come;
and I hope, now that your own reason is sufficiently matured to be the
guide of your conduct, that you do not think I any longer desire you to
be governed by my _will_. Indeed," continued she, "I consider you as my
equals in every respect but in _age_; and I wish to make that inequality
useful to you, by giving you, as far as I can, that advantage, which
only _age_ can give--experience."

"You are very kind, dear mother," said Helen.

"But you must be sensible," said Mrs. Temple, in a graver tone, "that it
will depend upon yourselves, in a great measure, whether I _can_ be so
much your friend as I shall wish."

"Oh, mother," said Helen, "_be_ my friend! I shall never have a better;
and, indeed, I want a friend," added she, the tears starting from her
eyes. "You'll think me very silly, very vain. He never gave me any
reason, I'm sure, to think so; but I did fancy that Mr. Mountague liked
me."

"And," said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter's hand, "without being very
silly or very vain, may not one sometimes be mistaken? Then you thought
you had won Mr. Mountague's heart? But what did you think about your
own? Take care you don't make another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you
thought he never could win yours?"

"I never thought much about that," replied Helen, "till yesterday."

"And to-day," said Mrs. Temple--"what do you think about it to-day?"

"Why," said Helen, "don't you think, mother, that Mr. Mountague has a
great many good qualities?"

"Yes; a great many good qualities, a great many advantages, and, amongst
them, the power of pleasing you."

"He would not think _that_ any advantage," said Helen; "therefore I
should be sorry that he had it."

"And so should I," said Mrs. Temple, "be very sorry that my daughter's
happiness should be out of her own power."

"It is the uncertainty that torments me," resumed Helen, after a pause.
"One moment I fancy that he prefers _me_, the next moment I am certain
he prefers another. Yesterday, when we were coming away from the green,
I heard Mrs. Hargrave say to Lady S---- but why, mother, should I take
up your time with these minute circumstances? I ought not to think any
more about it."

"Ought not!" repeated Mrs. Temple; "my dear, it is a matter of prudence,
rather than duty. By speaking to your mother with so much openness, you
secure her esteem and affection; and, amongst the goods of this life,
you will find the esteem and affection of a mother worth having,"
concluded Mrs. Temple, with a smile; and Helen parted from her mother
with a feeling of gratitude, which may securely be expected from an
ingenuous well-educated daughter, who is treated with similar kindness.

No one was ready for breakfast the morning that Mr. Mountague arrived at
S---- Hall, and he spent an hour alone in the breakfast-room. At length
the silence was interrupted by a shrill female voice, which, as it
approached nearer, he perceived to be the voice of a foreigner half
suffocated with ineffectual desire to make her anger intelligible. He
could only distinguish the words--"I ring, ring, ring, ay, twenty time,
and nobody mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all." With a
violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, and Mlle.
Panache, little expecting to find any body there, entered, volubly
repeating--"Dey let me ring, ring, ring!" Surprised at the sight of a
gentleman, and a young gentleman, she repented having been so loud
in her anger. However, upon the second reconnoitring glance at
Mr. Mountague, she felt much in doubt how to behave towards him.
Mademoiselle boasted often of the well-bred instinct, by which she could
immediately distinguish "_un homme comme il faut_" from any other; yet
sometimes, like Falstaff's, her instinct was fallacious. Recollecting
that Lady S---- had sent for an apothecary, she took it into her head
that Mr. Mountague was this apothecary. "Miladi is not visible yet,
sir," said she; "does she know you are here?"

"I hope not, ma'am; for I should be very sorry she were to be disturbed,
after sitting up so late last night."

"Oh, dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, _pardonnez_, some
excellent white wine whey out of my own head last night, when she got
into her bed. I hope you don't make no objection to white wine whey,
sir?"

"I!--not in the least, ma'am."

"Oh, I'm glad you don't disapprove of what I've done! You attend many
family in dis country, sir?"

"Madam!" said Mr. Mountague, taking an instant's time to consider what
she could mean by _attend_.

"You _visit_ many family in dis country, sir?" persisted mademoiselle.

"Very few, ma'am; I am a stranger in this part of the world, except at
Mrs. Temple's."

"Madame Temple, ah, _oui_! I know her very well; she has two fine
daughters--I mean when dey have seen more of de world. It's a great
pity, too, dey have never had de advantage of a native, to teach de
good pronunciation _de la langue Francaise_. Madame Temple will repent
herself of dat when it is too late, as I tell her always. But, sir, you
have been at her house. I am sorry we did not hear none of de family had
been indisposed."

"They are all now perfectly well, ma'am," replied Mr. Mountague,
"except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight cold last week."

"But she is re-establish by your _advise_, I suppose? and she--did she
recommend you to miladi?"

"No, madam," said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by mademoiselle's
phraseology: "Lord George ---- did me the honour to introduce me to Lady
S----."

"Ah, Milord George! are you a long time acquainted wid milord?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have known Lord George many years."

"Ah, many year!--you be de family physician, _apparemment_?"

"The family physician! Oh no, ma'am!" said Mr. Mountague, smiling.

"Eh!" said mademoiselle, "but dat is being too modest. Many take _de
titre_ of physician, I'll engage, wid less pretensions. And," added she,
looking graciously, "_absolument_, I will not have you call yourself de
family _apothicaire_."

At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family apothecary
by the hand, with an air of familiarity which astounded mademoiselle.
"_Qu'est ce que c'est_?" whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his
lordship: "is not dis his _apothicaire_?" Dashwood, at this question,
burst into a loud laugh. "Mr. Mountague," cried he, "have you been
prescribing for mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary."

Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially where there
was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body superior to him in
abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood's mirth; repeating the
story, as "an excellent thing," to every one, as they came down to
breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom he congratulated, the moment
she entered the room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with
an apothecary. "Here he is!" said he, pointing to Mr. Mountague.

"_Ma chere amie! mon coeur!_ tink of my mistaking your Mr. Mountague for
such a sort of person! If you had only told me, sir, dat you were Miladi
Augusta's partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity of
making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat could not find
it out. _Ma chere amie! Mon coeur!_ Miladi Augusta, will you make my
excuse?"

"_Ma chere amie! mon coeur!_" repeated Mr. Mountague to himself: "is
it possible that this woman can be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?"
What was his surprise, when he discovered that Mlle. Panache had been
her ladyship's governess! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some
moments. "So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French
governess!" said he to himself; "but that is her misfortune, not her
fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might make her what he
pleased." When Mr. Mountague recovered from his reverie, he heard the
company, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk
over the last night's ball. "You did not tire yourself last night with
dancing, my lord," said Dashwood.

"No; I hate dancing," replied Lord George: "I wish the ladies would take
to dancing with one another; I think that would be an excellent scheme."
An aunt of his lordship, who was present, took great offence at this
suggestion of her nephew. She had been used to the deference paid in
former times to the sex; and she said she could not bear to see women
give up their proper places in society. "Really, George," added she,
turning to her nephew, "I wish you would not talk in this manner. The
young men now give themselves the strangest airs. Lady S----, I will
expose him; do you know, last night, he was lolling at his full length
upon a bench in the ball-room, while three young handsome ladies were
standing opposite to him, tired to death."

"They could not be more tired than I was, I am sure, ma'am."

"Why, you had not been dancing, and they had."

"Had they, ma'am? that was not my fault. I did not ask 'em to dance, and
I don't see it was my business to ask 'em to sit down. I did not know
who they were, at any rate," concluded his lordship, sullenly.

"You knew they were women, and as such entitled to your respect."

Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dashwood, and pulled up his
boot.

"Another thing--you were in the house three weeks with Miss Earl last
summer; you met her yesterday evening, and you thought proper not to
take the least notice of her."

"Miss, Earl, ma'am; was she there?"

"Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to her."

"I did not see her, ma'am."

"Mrs. Earl spoke to you."

"I didn't hear her, ma'am."

"I told you of it at the moment."

"I didn't understand you, ma'am."

"Besides, ma'am," interposed Dashwood, "as to Miss Earl, if she meant
that my lord should bow to her, she should have curtsied first to him."

"Curtsied first to him!"

"Yes, that's the rule--that's the thing now. The ladies are always to
speak first."

"I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. Lady Augusta, what say
you to all this?"

"Oh, that it's shocking to be sure!" said Lady Augusta, "if one thinks
of it; so the only way is not to think about it."

"An excellent bon-mot!" exclaimed Dashwood. "It's _thinking_ that spoils
conversation, and every thing else."

"But," added Lady Augusta, who observed that her bon-mot was not so much
admired by all the company as by Dashwood, "I really only mean, that one
must do as other people do."

"_Assurement_," said mademoiselle; "not dat I approve of the want of
gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. But, I tink, Mademoiselle Earl is
as stiff as de poker, and I don't approve of dat, neider--_Je n'aime pas
les prudes, moi_."

"But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of manners?" said the
old lady, gravely.

"_Dignite!_--Oh, I don't say noting against _dignite_, neider; not but
I tink de English reserve is _de trop_. I tink a lady of a certain
rank has always good _principes_ enough, to be sure, and as to the rest
_qu'importe?_--dat's my notions."

Mr. Mountague looked with anxiety at Lady Augusta, to see what she
thought of her governess's notions; but all that he could judge from
her countenance was that she did not think at all. "Well, she has time
enough before her to learn to think," said he to himself. "I am glad
she did not assent to mademoiselle's _notions_, at least. I hope she has
learnt nothing from her but '_the true French pronunciation_.'"

No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George ---- gave his
customary morning yawn, and walked as usual to the window. "Come," said
Dashwood, in his free manner--"come, mademoiselle, you must come down
with us to the water-side, and Lady Augusta, I hope."

"Ay," whispered Lord George to Dashwood, "and let's settle our wager
about mademoiselle and my blackamore--don't think I'll let you off
that."

"Off!--I'm ready to double the bet, my lord," said Dashwood aloud,
and in the same moment turned to mademoiselle with some high-flown
compliment about the beauty of her complexion, and the dangers of going
without a veil on a hot sunny day.

"Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you've persuaded mademoiselle to take the
veil, we'll set out, if you please," said Lady Augusta.

Mr. Mountague, who kept his attention continually upon Lady Augusta,
was delighted to see that she waited for the elderly lady, who, at
breakfast, had said so much in favour of dignity of manners. Mr.
Mountague did not, at this moment, consider that this elderly lady was
Lord George's aunt, and that the attention paid to her by Lady Augusta
might possibly proceed from motives of policy, not from choice. Young
men of open tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived by
coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the meanness of their
artifices. As Mr. Mountague walked down to the river, Lady Augusta
contrived to entertain him so completely, that Helen Temple never once
came into his mind; though he had sense enough to perceive his danger,
he had not sufficient _courage_ to avoid it: it sometimes requires
courage to fly from danger. From this agreeable _tete-a-tete_ he was
roused, however, by the voice of Mlle. Panache, who, in an affected
agony, was struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both her
hands--"No! no!--_Non! non!_ I will not--I will not, I tell you, I will
not."

"Nay, nay," said Dashwood; "but I have sworn to get you into the boat."

"Ah! into de boat _a la bonne heure_; but not wid dat vilain black."

"Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his man; and you'll
acknowledge, my lord, in that case it's a drawn bet," said Dashwood.

"I! not I. I'll acknowledge nothing," replied his lordship; and he swore
his black Tom should not be sent away: "he's a capital boatman, and I
can't do without him."

"Den I won't stir," said mademoiselle, passionately, to Dashwood.

"Then I must carry you, must I?" cried Dashwood, laughing; and
immediately, to Mr. Mountague's amazement, a romping scene ensued
between this tutor and governess, which ended in Dashwood's carrying
mademoiselle in his arms into the boat, amidst the secret derision
of two footmen, and the undisguised laughter of black Tom, who were
spectators of the scene.

Mr. Mountague trembled at the thoughts of receiving a wife from the
hands of a Mlle. Panache; but, turning his eye upon Lady Augusta, he
thought she blushed, and this blush at once saved her, in his opinion,
and increased his indignation against her governess. Mademoiselle being
now alarmed, and provoked by the laughter of the servants, the dry
sarcastic manner of Lord George, the cool air of Mr. Mountague, and the
downcast looks of her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high
angry tone assured him, "that she had never seen nobody have so much
assurance;" and she demanded, furiously--"how he could ever tink to take
such liberties wid her? Only tell me how you could dare to tink of it?"

"I confess I did not _think_ as I ought to have done, mademoiselle,"
replied Dashwood, looking an apology to Lady Augusta, which, however, he
took great care mademoiselle should not observe. "But your bet, my lord,
if you please," added he, attempting to turn it off in a joke: "there
was no scream--my bet's fairly won."

"I assure you, sir, dis won't do: it's no good joke, I promise you.
_Ma chere amie, mon coeur_," cried mademoiselle to Lady
Augusta--"_viens_--come, let us go--Don't touch that," pursued she,
roughly, to black Tom, who was going to draw away the plank that led
to the shore. "I will go home dis minute, and speak to Miladi S----.
_Viens! viens, ma chere amie!_"--and she darted out of the boat, whilst
Dashwood followed, in vain attempting to stop her. She prudently,
however, took the longest way through the park, that she might have a
full opportunity of _listening to reason_, as Dashwood called it; and
before she reached home, she was perfectly convinced of the expediency
of moderate measures. "Let the thing rest where it is," said Dashwood:
"it's a joke, and there's an end of it; but if you take it in earnest,
you know the story might not tell so well, even if you told it, and
there would never be an end of it." All this, followed by a profusion of
compliments, ratified a peace, which the moment he had made, he
laughed at himself for having taken so much trouble to effect; whilst
mademoiselle rested in the blessed persuasion that Dashwood was
desperately in love with her; nay, so little knowledge had she of the
human heart as to believe that the scene which had just passed was a
proof of his passion.

"I wonder where's Miladi Augusta? I thought she was wid me all this
time," said she.

"She's coming; don't you see her at the end of the grove with Mr.
Mountague? We have walked fast,"

"Oh, she can't never walk so fast as me; I tink I am as young as she
is."

Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon the consequences
of the attachment which he saw rising in Mr. Mountague's mind for Lady
Augusta. If a man of sense were to gain an influence over her, Dashwood
feared that all his hopes would be destroyed, and he resolved to use
all his power over mademoiselle to prejudice her, and by her means to
prejudice her pupil against this gentleman. Mademoiselle's having begun
by taking him for an _apothicaire_, was a circumstance much in favour
of Dashwood's views, because she felt herself pledged to justify, or at
least to persist, in her opinion, that he did not look like _un homme
comme il faut_.

In the mean time Mr. Mountague was walking slowly towards them with Lady
Augusta, who found it necessary to walk as slowly as possible, because
of the heat. He had been reflecting very soberly upon her ladyship's
late blush, which, according to his interpretation, said, as plainly as
a blush could say, all that the most refined sense and delicacy could
dictate. Yet such is, upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the
human mind, that he by no means felt _sure_ that the lady had blushed at
all. Her colour was, perhaps, a shade higher than usual; but then it was
hot weather, and she had been walking. The doubt, however, Mr.
Mountague thought proper to suppress; and the reality of the blush,
once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed the foundation
of several ingenious theories of moral sentiment, and some truly logical
deductions. A passionate admirer of grace and beauty, he could not help
wishing that he might find Lady Augusta's temper and understanding equal
to her personal accomplishments. When we are very anxious to discover
perfections in any character, we generally succeed, or fancy that we
succeed. Mr. Mountague quickly discovered many amiable and interesting
qualities in this fair lady, and, though he perceived some defects, he
excused them to himself with the most philosophic ingenuity.

"Affectation," the judicious Locke observes, "has always the laudable
aim of pleasing:" upon this principle Mr. Mountague could not reasonably
think of it with severity. "From the desire of pleasing," argued
he, "proceeds not only all that is amiable, but much of what is most
estimable in the female sex. This desire leads to affectation and
coquetry, to folly and vice, only when it is extended to unworthy
objects. The moment a woman's wish to please becomes discriminative, the
moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd,
she not only ceases to be a coquette, but she exerts herself to excel in
every thing that he approves, and, from her versatility of manners, she
has the happy power of adapting herself to his taste, and of becoming
all that his most sanguine wishes could desire." The proofs of this
discriminative taste, and the first symptoms of this salutary attachment
to a man superior to the vulgar herd, Mr. Mountague thought he discerned
very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he ever forget that she was but
eighteen. "She is so very young," said he to himself, "that it is but
reasonable I should constantly consider what she may become, rather than
what she is." To do him justice, we shall observe, that her ladyship at
this time, with all the address of which so young a lady was capable,
did every thing in her power to confirm Mr. Mountague in his favourable
sentiments of her.

Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he was at length
determined by the generous enthusiasm, amiable simplicity, and candid
good sense which Lady Augusta showed in speaking of a favourite friend
of hers, of whom he could not approve. This friend, Lady Diana, was one
of the rude ladies who had laughed with so much ill-nature at Helen's
white and black shoes at the archery ball. She was a dashing, rich,
extravagant, fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike manners, too
often "touching the brink of all we hate," without exciting any passions
allied to love. Her look was almost an oath--her language was suitable
to her looks--she swore and dressed to the height of the fashion--she
could drive four horses in hand--was a desperate huntress--and so
loud in the praises of her dogs and horses, that she intimidated
even sportsmen and jockeys. She talked so much of her favourite horse
_Spanker_, that she acquired amongst a particular set of gentlemen the
appellation of my Lady Di Spanker. Lady Augusta perceived that the soft
affectations remarkable in her own manners were in agreeable contrast
in the company of this masculine dame; she therefore cultivated her
acquaintance, and Lady S---- could make no objection to a woman who was
well received every where; she was rather flattered to see her daughter
taken notice of by this dashing belle; consequently, Lady Di. Spanker,
for by that name we also shall call her, frequently rode over from
Cheltenham, which was some miles distant from S---- Hall. One morning
she called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon her coming out to try
her favourite horse. All the gentlemen went down immediately to assist
in putting her ladyship on horseback: this was quite unnecessary, for
Lady Diana took that office upon herself. Lady Augusta was all timidity,
and was played off to great advantage by the rough raillery of her
friend. At length she conquered her fears so much as to seat herself
upon the side-saddle; her riding mistress gathered up the reins for
her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands; then armed her with her
whip, exhorting her, "for God's sake, not to be such a coward!" Scarcely
was the word _coward_ pronounced, when Lady Augusta, by some unguarded
motion of her whip, gave offence to her high-mettled steed, which
instantly began to rear: there was no danger, for Mr. Mountague caught
hold of the reins, and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect safety.
"How now, Spanker!" exclaimed Lady Di., in a voice calculated to strike
terror into the nerves of a horse--"how now, Spanker!" and mounting him
with masculine boldness of gesture--"I'll teach you, sir, who's your
mistress," continued she; "I'll make you pay for these tricks!"
Spanker reared again, and Lady Di. gave him what she called "a complete
dressing!" In vain Lady Augusta screamed; in vain the spectators
entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip; she persisted in beating
Spanker till she fairly mastered him. When he was perfectly subdued, she
dismounted with the same carelessness with which she had mounted; and,
giving the horse to her groom, pushed back her hat, and looked round for
applause. Lord George, roused to a degree of admiration, which he had
never before been heard to express for any thing female, swore that,
in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done; and Lady Di.
Spanker received his congratulations with a loud laugh, and a hearty
shake of the hand. "Walk him about, Jack," added she, turning to the
groom, who held her horse; "walk him about, for he's all in a lather;
and when he's cool, bring him up here again. And then, my dear child,"
said she to Lady Augusta, "you shall give him a fair trial."

"I!--Oh! never, never!" cried Lady Augusta, shrinking back with a faint
shriek: "this is a trial to which you must not put my friendship. I must
insist upon leaving Spanker to your management; I would not venture upon
him again for the universe."

"How can you talk so like a child--so like a woman?" cried her friend.

"I confess, I am a very woman," said Lady Augusta, with a sigh: "and I
fear I shall never be otherwise."

"_Fear_!" repeated Mr. Mountague, to whom even the affectation of
feminine softness and timidity appeared at this instant charming, from
the contrast with the masculine intrepidity and disgusting coarseness of
Lady Diana Spanker's manners. The tone in which he pronounced the single
word _fear_ was sufficient to betray his feelings towards both the
ladies. Lady Di. gave him a look of sovereign contempt. "All I know and
can tell you," cried she, "is, that fear should never get a-horseback."
Lord George burst into one of his loud laughs. "But as to the rest,
_fear_ may be a confounded good thing in its proper place; but they say
it's catching; so I must run away from you, child," said she to Lady
Augusta. "Jack, bring up Spanker. I've twenty miles to ride before
dinner. I've no time to lose," pulling out her watch: "faith, I've
fooled away an hour here; Spanker must make it up for me. God bless you
all! Good bye!" and she mounted her horse, and galloped off full speed.

"God bless ye! good bye to ye, Lady Di. Spanker," cried Dashwood, the
moment she was out of hearing. "Heaven preserve us from amazons!" Lord
George did not say, _Amen_. On the contrary, he declared she was a fine
dashing woman, and seemed to have a great deal of blood about her. Mr.
Mountague watched Lady Augusta's countenance in silence, and was much
pleased to observe that she did not assent to his lordship's encomium.
"She has good sense enough to perceive the faults of her new friend, and
now her eyes are open she will no longer make a favourite companion, I
hope, of this odious woman," thought he. "I am afraid, I am sadly afraid
you are right," said Lady Augusta, going up to the elderly lady, whom
we formerly mentioned, who had seen all that had passed from the open
windows of the drawing-room. "I own I _do_ see something of what you
told me the other day you disliked so much in my friend, Lady Di.;" and
Lady Augusta gave the candid sigh of expiring friendship as she uttered
these words.

"Do you know," cried Dashwood, "that this spanking horsewoman has
frightened us all out of our senses? I vow to Heaven, I never was so
much terrified in my life as when I saw you, Lady Augusta, upon that
vicious animal."

"To be sure," said Lady Augusta, "it was very silly of me to venture; I
almost broke my neck, out of _pure friendship_."

"It is well it is no worse," said the elderly lady: "if a fall from a
horse was the worst evil to be expected from a friendship with a woman
of this sort, it would be nothing very terrible."

Lady Augusta, with an appearance of ingenuous candour, sighed again,
and replied--"It is so difficult to see any imperfections in those one
loves! Forgive me, if I spoke with too much warmth, madam, the other
day, in vindication of my friend. I own I ought to have paid more
deference to your judgment and knowledge of the world, so much superior
to my own; but certainly I must confess, the impropriety of her
amazonian manners, as Mr. Dashwood calls them, never struck my partial
eyes till this morning. Nor could I, nor would I, believe half the world
said of her; indeed, even now, I am persuaded she is, in the main, quite
irreproachable; but I feel the truth of what you said to me, madam, that
young women cannot be too careful in the choice of their female friends;
that we are judged of by our companions; how unfairly one must be
judged of sometimes!" concluded her ladyship, with a look of pensive
reflection.

Mr. Mountague never thought her half so beautiful as at this instant.
"How _mind_ embellishes beauty!" thought he; "and what quality of the
mind more amiable than candour!--All that was wanting to her character
was reflection; and could one expect so much reflection as this from a
girl of eighteen, who had been educated by a Mlle. Panache?" Our readers
will observe that this gentleman now reasoned like a madman, but
not like a fool; his deductions from the appearances before him were
admirable; but these appearances were false. He had not observed that
Lady Augusta's eyes were open to the defects of her amazonian friend, in
the very moment that Lord George ---- was roused to admiration by
this horseman belle. Mr. Mountague did not perceive that the candid
reflections addressed to his lordship's aunt were the immediate
consequence of female jealousy.

The next morning, at breakfast, Lord George was summoned three times
before he made his appearance: at length he burst in, with a piece of
news he had just heard from his groom--"That Lady Di. Spanker, in riding
home full gallop the preceding day, had been thrown from her horse by an
old woman. Faith, I couldn't believe the thing," added Lord George, with
a loud laugh; "for she certainly sits a horse better than any woman in
England; but my groom had the whole story from the grand-daughter of the
old woman who was run over."

"Run over!" exclaimed Lady Augusta; "was the poor woman run over?--was
she hurt?"

"Hurt! yes, she was hurt, I fancy," said Lord George. "I never heard of
any body's being run over without being hurt. The girl has a petition
that will come up to us just now, I suppose. I saw her in the back yard
as I came in."

"Oh! let us see the poor child," said Lady Augusta: "do let us have her
called to this window." The window opened down to the ground, and, as
soon as the little girl appeared with the petition in her hand, Lady
Augusta threw open the sash, and received it from her timid hand with
a smile, which to Mr. Mountague seemed expressive of sweet and graceful
benevolence. Lady Augusta read the petition with much feeling, and her
lover thought her voice never before sounded so melodious. She wrote
her name eagerly at the head of a subscription. The money she gave was
rather more than the occasion required; but, thought Mr. Mountague,

     "If the generous spirit flow
     Beyond where prudence fears to go
     Those errors are of nobler kind,
     Than virtues of a narrow mind[2]."

[Footnote 2: Soame Jenyns.]

By a series of petty artifices Lady Augusta contrived to make herself
appear most engaging and amiable to this artless young man: but the
moment of success was to her the moment of danger. She was little aware,
that when a man of sense began to think seriously of her as a wife, he
would require very different qualities from those which please in public
assemblies. Her ladyship fell into a mistake not uncommon in her
sex; she thought that "Love blinds when once he wounds the swain[3]."
Coquettes have sometimes penetration sufficient to see what will please
their different admirers: but even those who have that versatility of
manners, which can be all things to all men, forget that it is possible
to support an assumed character only for a time; the moment the
immediate motive for dissimulation diminishes, the power of habit acts,
and the real disposition and manners appear.

[Footnote 3: Collius's Eclogues.]

When Lady Augusta thought herself sure of her captive, and consequently
when the power of habit was beginning to act with all its wonted
force, she was walking out with him in a shrubbery near the house, and
mademoiselle, with Mr. Dashwood, who generally was the gallant partner
of her walks, accompanied them. Mademoiselle stopped to gather some fine
carnations; near the carnations was a rose-tree. Mr. Mountague, as three
of those roses, one of them in full blow, one half blown, and another a
pretty bud, caught his eye, recollected a passage in Berkeley's romance
of _Gaudentio di Lucca_. "Did you ever happen to meet with Gaudentio di
Lucca? do you recollect the story of Berilla, Lady Augusta?" said he.

"No; I have never heard of Berilla: what is the story?" said she.

"I wish I had the book," said Mr. Mountague; "I cannot do it justice,
but I will borrow it for you from Miss Helen Temple. I lent it to her
some time ago; I dare say she has finished reading it."

At these words, Lady Augusta's desire to have Gaudentio di Lucca
suddenly increased; and she expressed vast curiosity to know the story
of Berilla. "And pray what put you in mind of this book just now?" said
she.

"These roses. In Berkeley's Utopia, which he calls Mezzorania--(every
philosopher, you know, Mr. Dashwood, must have a Utopia, under whatever
name he pleases to call it)--in Mezzorania, Lady Augusta, gentlemen did
not, as amongst us, make declarations of love by artificial words, but
by natural flowers[4]. The lover in the beginning of his attachment
declared it to his mistress by the offer of an opening bud; if she felt
favourably inclined towards him, she accepted and wore the bud. When
time had increased his affection--for in Mezzorania it is supposed that
time increases affection for those that deserve it--the lover presented
a half-blown flower; and, after this also was graciously accepted, he
came, we may suppose not very long afterwards, with a full-blown flower,
the emblem of mature affection. The ladies who accepted these full-blown
flowers, and wore them, were looked upon amongst the simple Mezzoranians
as engaged for life; nor did the gentlemen, when they offered their
flowers, make one single protestation or vow of eternal love, yet they
were believed, and deserved, it is said, to be believed."

[Footnote 4: Gaudentio di Lucca, p. 202.]

"_Qu'est ce que c'est? Qu'est ce que c'est?_" repeated mademoiselle
several times to Dashwood, whilst Mr. Mountague was speaking: she did
not understand English sufficiently to comprehend him, and Dashwood was
obliged to make the thing intelligible to her in French. Whilst he
was occupied with her, Mr. Mountague gathered three roses, a bud, a
half-blown and a full-blown rose, and playfully presented them to Lady
Augusta for her choice.--"I'm dying to see this Gaudentio di Lucca;
you'll get the book for me to-morrow from Miss Helen Temple, will you?"
said Lady Augusta, as she with a coquettish smile took the rose-bud, and
put it into her bosom.

"_Bon!_" cried mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the full-blown rose,
which Mr. Mountague threw away carelessly. "_Bon!_ but it is great pity
dis should be thrown away."

"It is not thrown away upon Mlle. Panache!" said Dashwood.

"Dat maybe," said mademoiselle; "but I observe, wid all your fine
compliment, you let me stoop to pick it up for myself--_a l'Anglaise!_"

"_A la Francaise_, then," said Dashwood, laughing, "permit me to put it
into your nosegay."

"Dat is more dan you deserve," replied mademoiselle.--"_Eh! non, non_.
I can accommodate it, I tell you, to my own taste best." She settled
and resettled the flower: but suddenly she stopped, uttered a piercing
shriek, plucked the full-blown rose from her bosom, and threw it upon
the ground with a theatrical look of horror. A black earwig now appeared
creeping out of the rose; it was running away, but mademoiselle pursued,
set her foot upon it, and crushed it to death. "Oh! I hope to Heaven,
Mr. Mountague, there are none of these vile creatures in the bud you've
given me!" exclaimed Lady Augusta. She looked at her bud as she spoke,
and espied upon one of the leaves a small green caterpillar: with a look
scarcely less theatrical than mademoiselle's, she tore off the leaf and
flung it from her; then, from habitual imitation of her governess, she
set her foot upon the harmless caterpillar, and crushed it in a moment.

In the same moment Lady Augusta's whole person seemed metamorphosed to
the eyes of her lover. She ceased to be beautiful: he seemed to see her
countenance distorted by malevolence; he saw in her gestures disgusting
cruelty; and all the graces vanished.

When Lady Augusta was a girl of twelve years old, she saw Mlle. Panache
crush a spider to death without emotion: the lesson on humanity was
not lost upon her. From imitation, she learned her governess's foolish
terror of insects; and from example, she was also taught that species of
cruelty, by which at eighteen she disgusted a man of humanity who was in
love with her. Mr. Mountague said not one word upon the occasion. They
walked on. A few minutes after the caterpillar had been crushed, Lady
Augusta exclaimed, "Why, mademoiselle, what have you done with Fanfan? I
thought my dog was with us: for Heaven's sake, where is he?"

"He is run, he is run on," replied mademoiselle.

"Oh, he'll be lost! he'll run down the avenue, quite out upon the
turnpike road.--Fanfan! Fanfan!"

"Don't alarm, don't distress yourself," cried Dashwood: "if your
ladyship will permit me, I'll see for Fanfan instantly, and bring her
back to you, if she is to be found in the universe."

"O Lord! don't trouble yourself; I only spoke to mademoiselle, who
regularly loses Fanfan when she takes him out with her." Dashwood set
out in search of the dog; and Lady Augusta, overcome with affectation,
professed herself unable to walk one yard further, and sank down upon a
seat under a tree, in a very graceful, languid attitude. Mr. Mountague
stood silent beside her. Mademoiselle went on with a voluble defence
of her conduct towards Fanfan, which lasted till Dashwood reappeared,
hurrying towards them with the dog in his arms--"_Ah, la voila! chere_
Fanfan!" exclaimed mademoiselle.

"I am sure I really am excessively obliged to Mr. Dashwood, I must say,"
cried Lady Augusta, looking reproachfully at Mr. Mountague.

Dashwood now approached with panting, breathless eagerness, announcing
a terrible misfortune, that Fanfan had got a thorn or something in his
fore-foot. Lady Augusta received Fanfan upon her lap, with expressions
of the most tender condolence; and Dashwood knelt down at her feet to
sympathize in her sorrow, and to examine the dog's paw. Mademoiselle
produced a needle to extract the thorn.

"I wish we had a magnifying-glass," said Dashwood, looking with strained
solicitude at the wound.

"Oh, you insensible monster! positively you shan't touch Fanfan," cried
Lady Augusta, guarding her lapdog from Mr. Mountague, who stooped now,
for the first time, to see what was the matter. "Don't touch him, I say;
I would not trust him to you for the universe; I know you hate lapdogs.
You'll kill him--you'll kill him."

"I kill him! Oh no," said Mr. Mountague; "I would not even kill a
caterpillar."

Lady Augusta  at these words; but she recovered herself when
Dashwood laughed, and asked Mr. Mountague how long it was since he had
turned brahmin; and how long since he had professed to like caterpillars
and earwigs.

"_Bon Dieu!_--earwig!" interrupted mademoiselle: "is it possible that
monsieur or any body dat has sense, can like _dose_ earwig?"

"I do not remember," answered Mr. Mountague, calmly, "ever to have
professed any _liking_ for earwigs."

"Well, _pity_; you profess pity for them," said Mr. Dashwood, "and pity,
you know, is 'akin to love.'--Pray, did your ladyship ever hear of the
man who had a pet toad?"[5]

[Footnote 5: Vide Smellie's Natural History, vol. ii.]

"Oh, the odious wretch!" cried Lady Augusta, affectedly; "but how could
the man bring himself to like a toad?"

"He began by _pitying_ him, I suppose," said Dashwood. "For my part, I
own I must consider that man to be in a most enviable situation whose
heart is sufficiently at ease to sympathize with the insect creation."

"Or with the brute creation," said Mr. Mountague, smiling and looking
at Fanfan, whose paw Dashwood was at this instant nursing with infinite
tenderness.

"Oh, gentlemen, let us have no more of this, for Heaven's sake!" said
Lady Augusta, interposing, with affected anxiety, as if she imagined
a quarrel would ensue. "Poor dear Fanfan, you would not have any body
quarrel about you, would you, Fanfan?" She rose as she spoke, and,
delivering the dog to Dashwood to be carried home, she walked towards
the house, with an air of marked displeasure towards Mr. Mountague.

Her ladyship's displeasure did not affect him as she expected. Her
image--her gesture stamping upon the caterpillar, recurred to her
lover's mind many times in the course of the evening; and in the silence
of the night, and whenever the idea of her came into his mind, it was
attended with this picture of active cruelty.

"Has your ladyship," said Mr. Mountague, addressing himself to Lady
S----, "any commands for Mrs. Temple? I am going to ride over to see her
this morning."

Lady S---- said that she would trouble him with a card for Mrs. Temple;
a card of invitation for the ensuing week. "And pray don't forget my
kindest remembrances," cried Lady Augusta, "especially to Miss Helen
Temple; and if she should have entirely finished the book we were
talking of, I shall be glad to see it."

When Mr. Mountague arrived at Mrs. Temple's, he was shown into the usual
sitting-room: the servant told him that none of the ladies were at home,
but that they would soon return, he believed, from their walk, as they
were gone only to a cottage at about half a mile's distance.

The room in which he had passed so many agreeable hours awakened in his
mind a number of dormant associations--work, books, drawing, writing! he
saw every thing had been going forward just as usual in his absence. All
the domestic occupations, thought he, which make _home_ delightful, are
here: I see nothing of these at S---- Hall. Upon the table, near a
neat work-basket, which he knew to be Helen's, lay an open book; it was
Gaudentio di Lucca. Mr. Mountague recollected the bud he had given to
Lady Augusta, and he began to whistle, but not for want of thought. A
music-book on the desk of the piano-forte caught his eye; it was open at
a favourite lesson of his, which he remembered to have heard Helen play
the last evening he was in her company. Helen was no great proficient
in music; but she played agreeably enough to please her friends, and she
was not ambitious of exhibiting her accomplishments. Lady Augusta,
on the contrary, seemed never to consider her accomplishments as
occupations, but as the means of attracting admiration. To interrupt the
comparison, which Mr. Mountague was beginning to enter into between her
ladyship and Helen, he thought the best thing he could do was to walk
to meet Mrs. Temple; wisely considering, that putting the body in motion
sometimes stops the current of the mind. He had at least observed,
that his schoolfellow, Lord George ----, seemed to find this a specific
against thought; and for once he was willing to imitate his lordship's
example, and to hurry about from place to place, without being in a
hurry. He rang the bell, inquired in haste which way the ladies were
gone, and walked after them, like a man who had the business of the
nation upon his hands; yet he slackened his pace when he came near the
cottage where he knew that he was to meet Mrs. Temple and her daughters.
When he entered the cottage, the first object that he saw was Helen,
sitting by the side of a decrepit old woman, who was resting her head
upon a crutch, and who seemed to be in pain. This was the poor woman who
had been ridden over by Lady Di. Spanker. A farmer who lived near Mrs.
Temple, and who was coming homewards at the time the accident happened,
had the humanity to carry the wretched woman to this cottage, which was
occupied by one of Mrs. Temple's tenants. As soon as the news reached
her, she sent for a surgeon, and went with her daughters to give that
species of consolation which the rich and happy can so well bestow upon
the poor and Miserable--the consolation not of gold, but of sympathy.

There was no affectation, no ostentation of sensibility, Mr. Mountague
observed, in this cottage scene; the ease and simplicity of Helen's
manner never appeared to him more amiable. He recollected Lady Augusta's
picturesque attitude, when she was speaking to this old woman's
grand-daughter; but there was something in what he now beheld that gave
him more the idea of nature and reality: he heard, he saw, that much had
actually been _done_ to relieve distress, and done when there were no
spectators to applaud or admire. Slight circumstances show whether the
mind be intent upon self or not. An awkward servant girl brushed by
Helen whilst she was speaking to the old woman, and with a great black
kettle, which she was going to set upon the fire, blackened Helen's
white dress, in a manner which no lady intent upon her personal
appearance could have borne with patience. Mr. Mountague saw the black
streaks before Helen perceived them, and when the maid was reproved for
her carelessness, Helen's good-natured smile assured her "that there was
no great harm done."

When they returned home, Mr. Mountague found that Helen conversed with
him with all her own ingenuous freedom, but there was something more of
softness and dignity, and less of sprightliness, than formerly in
her manner. Even this happened to be agreeable to him, for it was
in contrast with the constant appearance of effort and artificial
brilliancy conspicuous in the manners of Lady Augusta. The constant
round of cards and company, the noise and bustle at S---- Hall, made it
more like town than country life, and he had often observed that, in
the intervals between dressing, and visiting, and gallantry, his fair
mistress was frequently subject to _ennui_. He recollected that, in the
many domestic hours he had spent at Mrs. Temple's, he had never beheld
this French demon, who makes the votaries of dissipation and idleness
his victims. What advantage has a man, in judging of female character,
who can see a woman in the midst of her own family, "who can read her
history" in the eyes of those who know her most intimately, who can
see her conduct as a daughter and a sister, and in the most important
relations of life can form a certain judgment from what she has been, of
what she is likely to be? But how can a man judge what sort of wife he
may probably expect in a lady, whom he meets with only at public places,
or whom he never sees even at her own house, without all the advantages
or disadvantages of _stage decoration_? A man who marries a showy,
entertaining coquette, and expects that she will make him a charming
companion for life, commits as absurd a blunder as that of the
famous nobleman, who, delighted with the wit and humour of Punch at
a puppet-show, bought Punch, and ordered him to be sent home for his
private amusement.

Whether all or any of these reflections occurred to Mr. Mountague during
his morning visit at Mrs. Temple's we cannot pretend to say; but
his silence and absence seemed to show that his thoughts were busily
engaged. Never did Helen appear to him so amiable as she did this
morning, when the dignity, delicacy, and simplicity of her manners were
contrasted in his imagination with the caprice and coquetry of his
new mistress. He felt a secret idea that he was beloved, and a sober
certainty that Helen had a heart capable of sincere and permanent
affection, joined to a cultivated understanding and reasonable
principles, which would wear through life, and ensure happiness, with
power superior to the magic of passion.

It was with some difficulty that he asked Helen for Gaudentio di Lucca,
and with yet greater difficulty that he took leave of her. As he was
riding towards S---- Hall, "revolving in his altered mind the various
turns of fate below," he was suddenly roused from his meditations by the
sight of a phaeton overturned in the middle of the road, another phaeton
and four empty, and a group of people gathered near a bank by the
road-side. Mr. Mountague rode up as fast as possible to the scene of
action: the overturned phaeton was Lord George's, the other Lady Di.
Spanker's; the group of people was composed of several servants, Lord
George, Lady Di., and mademoiselle, all surrounding a fainting fair one,
who was no other than Lady Augusta herself. Lord George was shaking his
own arms, legs, and head, to make himself sure of their safety. Lady Di.
eagerly told the whole story to Mr. Mountague, that Lord George had been
running races with her, and by his confounded bad driving had overturned
himself and Lady Augusta. "Poor thing, she's not hurt at all, luckily;
but she's terrified to death, as usual, and she has been going from one
fainting fit to another."

"_Bon Dieu!_" interrupted mademoiselle; "but what will Miladi S---- say
to us? I wish Miladi Augusta would come to her senses."

Lady Augusta opened her beautiful eyes, and, just come sufficiently
to her senses to observe who was looking at her, she put aside
mademoiselle's smelling-bottle, and, in a soft voice, begged to have her
own salts. Mademoiselle felt in one of her ladyship's pockets for the
salts in vain: Lady Di. plunged her hand into her other pocket, and
pulled out, in the first place, a book, which she threw upon the bank,
and then came out the salts. In due time the lady was happily restored
to the full use of her senses, and was put into her mother's coach,
which had been sent for to convey her home. The carriages drove away,
and Mr. Mountague was just mounting his horse, when he saw the book
which had been pulled out of Lady Augusta's pocket, and which, by
mistake, was left where it had been thrown upon the grass. What was his
astonishment, when upon opening it, he saw one of the very worst hooks
in the French language; a book which never could have been found in the
possession of any woman of delicacy--of decency. Her lover stood for
some minutes in silent amazement, disgust, and, we may add, terror.

These feelings had by no means subsided in his mind, when, upon his
entering the drawing-room at S---- Hall, he was accosted by Mlle.
Panache, who, with no small degree of alarm in her countenance, inquired
whether he knew any thing of the book which had been left upon the road.
No one was in the room but the governess and her pupil. Mr. Mountague
produced the book, and Lady Augusta received it with a deep blush.

"Put a good face upon the matter at least," whispered her governess in
French.

"I can assure you," said her ladyship, "I don't know what's in this
book; I never opened it; I got it this morning at the circulating
library at Cheltenham: I put it into my pocket in a hurry--pray what is
it?"

"If you have not opened it," said Mr. Mountague, laying his hand upon
the book; "I may hope that you never will--but this is the _second_
volume."

"May be so," said Lady Augusta; "I suppose, in my hurry, I mistook--"

"She never had the first, I can promise you," cried mademoiselle.

"Never," said Lady Augusta. The assertions had not the power to
convince; they were pronounced with much vehemence, but not with the
simplicity of truth. Mr. Mountague was determined to have the point
cleared up; and he immediately offered to ride back to Cheltenham, and
return the second volume. At this proposal, Lady Augusta, who foresaw
that her falsehood would be detected, turned pale; but mademoiselle,
with a laugh of effrontery, which she thought was putting a good face
upon the matter, exclaimed,

"Eh! listen to me--you may spare yourself de trouble of your ride," said
she, "for the truth is, I have de first volume. _Mon Dieu!_ I have not
committed murder--do not look so shock--what signify what I read at my
age?"

"But Lady Augusta, your pupil!" said Mr. Mountague.

"I tell you she has never read one word of it; and, after all, is she
child now? When she was, Miladi S---- was very particular, and I, of
consequence and of course, in de choice of her books; but now, _oder
affaire_, she is at liberty, and my maxim is--_Tout est sain aux
sains_."

Mr. Mountague's indignation was now strongly raised against this odious
governess, and he looked upon her pupil with an eye of compassion. "So
early, so young, tainted by the pernicious maxims of a worthless woman!"

"Eh, _donc_, what signify your silence and your salts?" cried
mademoiselle, turning to her.

"If I could be spared this scene at present," said Lady Augusta,
faintly--"I really am not well. We had better talk over this business
some other time, Mr. Mountague:" to this he acceded, and the lady gained
more by her salts and silence than her governess did by her garrulous
effrontery.

When she talked over the business with Mr. Mountague, she threw all the
blame upon mademoiselle, and she appeared extremely shocked and alarmed
at the idea that she had lessened herself by her _folly_, as she called
it, in the esteem of a man of superior sense and taste. It was perhaps
possible that, at this moment of her life, her character might have
taken a new turn, that she might really have been awakened to higher
views and nobler sentiments than any she had ever yet known; but the
baleful influence of her constant attendant and conductress prevailed
against her _better self_. Mademoiselle continually represented to
her, that she did not know or exert the whole of her power over Mr.
Mountague; and she excited her to caprice and coquetry. The fate of
trifling characters is generally decided by trifles: we must beg leave
to relate the important history of a turban.

Mlle. Panache, who piqued herself much upon her skill as a milliner,
made up a certain turban for Lady Augusta, which Dashwood admired
extremely, but which Mr. Mountague had the misfortune not to think
perfectly beautiful. Vexed that he should dare to differ from her in
taste, Lady Augusta could not rest without endeavouring to make him give
up his opinion: he thought that it was not worth while to dispute about
a trifle; and though he could not absolutely say that it was pretty, he
condescended so far as to allow that it might perhaps be pretty, if it
were put on differently.

"This is the way I always wear it--every body wears it so--and I shall
not alter it," said Lady Augusta, who was quite out of temper.

Mr. Mountague looked grave: the want of temper was an evil which he
dreaded beyond measure in a companion for life. Smiles and dimples
usually adorned Lady Augusta's face; but these were artificial smiles:
now passions, which one should scarcely imagine such a trifle could
excite, darkened her brow, and entirely altered the air of her whole
person, so as to make it absolutely disagreeable to her admirer. Lord
George, who was standing by, and who felt delighted with such scenes,
winked at Dashwood, and, with more energy than he usually expressed upon
any subject, now pronounced that, in his humble opinion, the turban was
quite the thing, and could not be better put on. Lady Augusta turned a
triumphant, insulting eye upon Mr. Mountague: he was silent--his silence
she took as a token of submission--in fact, it was an expression of
contempt. The next day, at dinner, her ladyship appeared in the same
turban, put on sedulously in the same manner. Lord George seated himself
beside her; and as she observed that he paid her unusual attention, she
fancied that at length his icy heart would thaw. Always more intent
upon making cages[6], Lady Augusta bent her mind upon captivating a new
admirer. Mr. Mountague she saw was displeased, but she now really
felt and showed herself indifferent to his opinion. How variable, how
wretched, is the life of a coquette! The next day Lord George's heart
froze again as hard as ever, and Lady Augusta lightened upon the
impassive ice in vain. She was mortified beyond measure, for her grand
object was conquest. That she might triumph over poor Helen, she had
taken pains to attract Mr. Mountague. Dashwood, though far beneath her
ladyship in fortune and in station, she deemed worth winning, as a man
of wit and gallantry. Lord George, to be sure, had little wit, and less
gallantry; but he was Lord George, and that was saying enough. In short,
Lady Augusta exacted tribute to her vanity without any discrimination,
and she valued her treasures by number, and not by weight. A man of
sense is mortified to see himself confounded with the stupid and the
worthless.

[Footnote 6: Swift]

Mr. Mountague, after having loved like a madman, felt it not in the
least incumbent upon him to love like a fool; he had imprudently
declared himself an admirer of Lady Augusta, but he now resolved
never to unite himself to her without some more reasonable prospect
of happiness. Every day some petty cause of disagreement arose between
them, whilst mademoiselle, by her silly and impertinent interference,
made matters worse. Mademoiselle had early expressed her strong
abhorrence of prudes; her pupil seemed to have caught the same
abhorrence; she saw that Mr. Mountague was alarmed by her spirit of
coquetry, yet still it continued in full force. For instance, she would
continually go out with Lord George in his phaeton, though she declared,
every time he handed her in, "that she was certain he would break her
neck." She would receive verses from Dashwood, and keep them embalmed in
her pocket-book, though she allowed that she thought them "sad stuff."

However, in these verses something more was meant than met the ear. He
began with addressing a poem to her ladyship, called The Turban, which
her silly mother extolled with eagerness, and seemed to think by no
means inferior to the Rape of the Lock. Lady Augusta wrote a few lines
in answer to the Turban--reply produced reply--nonsense, nonsense--till
Dashwood now and then forgot his poetical character. Lady Augusta
forgave it; he, of course, forgot himself again into a lover in prose.
For some time the sonnets were shown to Lady S----, but at length some
were received, which it was thought as well not to show to any body. In
short, between fancy, flattery, poetry, passion, jest, and earnest, Lady
Augusta was drawn on till she hardly knew where she was; but Dashwood
knew perfectly well where he was, and resolved to keep his ground
resolutely.

When encouraged by the lady's coquetry, he first formed his plans; he
imagined that a promise of a wedding-present would easily secure her
governess: but this was a slight mistake; avarice happened not to be
the ruling, or, at least at this time, the reigning passion of
mademoiselle's mind; and quickly perceiving his error, he paid assiduous
court to her vanity. She firmly believed that she had captivated him,
and was totally blind to his real designs. The grand difficulty with
Dashwood was, not to persuade her of his passion, but to prevent her
from believing him too soon; and he thought it expedient to delay
completing his conquest of the governess till he had gained an equally
powerful influence over her pupil. One evening, Dashwood, passing
through a sheltered walk, heard Lady Augusta and Mr. Mountague talking
very loudly and eagerly: they passed through the grove so quickly that
he could catch only the words "phaeton--imprudence."

"Pshaw! jealousy--nonsense."

"Reasonable woman for a wife."

"Pooh, no such thing."

"My unalterable resolution," were the concluding words of Mr. Mountague,
in a calm but decided voice; and, "As you please, sir! I've no notion of
giving up my will in every thing," the concluding words of Lady Augusta
pronounced in a pettish tone, as she broke from him; yet pausing for
a moment, Dashwood, to his great surprise and concern, heard her in a
softer tone add a _but_, which showed she was not quite willing to break
from Mr. Mountague for ever. Dashwood was alarmed beyond measure; but
the lady did not long continue in this frame of mind, for, upon going
into her dressing-room to rest herself, she found her governess at the
glass.

"_Bon Dieu!_" exclaimed mademoiselle, turning round: "Miladi told me you
was gone out--_mais qu'est ce que c'est? vous voila pale_--you are as
white--_blanc comme mon linge_," cried she, with emphasis, at the same
time touching a handkerchief, which was so far from white, that her
pupil could not help bursting out into a laugh at the unfortunate
illustration. "_Pauvre petite! tenez_," continued mademoiselle, running
up to her with salts, apprehensive that she was going into fits.

"I am not ill, thank you," said Lady Augusta, taking the smelling
bottle.

"But don't tell me dat," said mademoiselle: "I saw you walking out of de
window wid dat man, and I know dis is some new _demele_ wid him. Come,
_point de secret, mon enfant_. Has not he being giving you one good
lecture?"

"Lecture!" said Lady Augusta, rising with becoming spirit: "no,
mademoiselle, I am not to be lectured by any body."

"No, to be sure; dat is what I say, and, _surtout_, not by a lover.
_Quel homme!_ why I would not have him to pay his court to me for all de
world. Why, _pauvre petite_, he has made you look ten years older ever
since he began to fall in love wid you. Dis what you call a lover in
England? _Bon_, why, I know noting of de matter, if he be one bit in
love wid you, _mon enfant_."

"Oh, as to that, he certainly is in love with me: whatever other faults
he has, I must do him that justice."

"_Justice!_ Oh, let him have justice, _de tout mon caeur_; but I say, if
he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in love I ever happen to see;
he eat, drink, sleep, talk, laugh, _se possede tout comme un autre.
Bon Dieu!_ I would not give noting at all _myself_ for such a sort of
a lover. _Mon enfant_, dis is not de way I would wish to see you loved;
dis is not de way no man ought for to dare for to love you."

"And how ought I to be loved?" asked Lady Augusta, impatiently.

"_La belle question!_ Eh! don't every body, de stupidest person in
de world, know how dey ought to be love? _Mais passionnement,
eperdument_--dere is a--a _je ne sais quoi_ dat infailliblement
distinguish de true lover from de false."

"Then," said Lady Augusta, "you really don't think that Mr. Mountague
loves me?"

"Tink!" replied mademoiselle, "I don't tink about it; but have not I
said enough? Open your eyes; make your own _comparaisons_."

Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a knock at the door from
her maid came to let her know that Lord George was waiting.

"Ah! milord George! I won't keep you den: _va t'en_."

"But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that I was going
out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made all this rout."

"Den let him make his rout; _qu'importe? Miladi votre chere mere_ make
no objections. _Quelle impertinence!_ If he was milord duc he could not
give himself no more airs. _Va, man enfant_--Dis a lover! _Quel homme,
quel tyran!_ and den, of course, when he grows to be a husband, he will
be worserer and worserer, and badderer and badderer, when he grows to be
your husband."

"Oh," cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves hastily, "my husband
he shall never be, I am determined. So now I'll give him his _coup de
grace_."

"_Bon!_" said mademoiselle, following her pupil, "and I must not miss to
be by, for I shall love to see dat man mortify."

"You _are_ going then?" said Mr. Mountague, gravely, as she passed.

"Going, going, going, gone!" cried Lady Augusta, who, tripping
carelessly by, gave her hand to the sulky lord; then springing into the
phaeton, said as usual--"I know, my lord, you'll break my neck;" at the
same time casting a look at Mr. Mountague, which seemed to say--"I hope
you'll break _your heart_, at least."

When she returned from her airing, the first glance at Mr. Mountague's
countenance convinced her that her power was at an end. She was not the
only person who observed this. Dashwood, under his air of thoughtless
gaiety, watched all that passed with the utmost vigilance, and he knew
how to avail himself of every circumstance that could be turned to
his own advantage. He well knew that a lady's ear is never so happily
prepared for the voice of flattery as after having been forced to hear
that of sincerity. Dashwood contrived to meet Lady Augusta, just after
she had been mortified by her late admirer's total recovery of his
liberty, and, seizing well his moment, pressed his suit with gallant
ardour. As he exhibited all those signs of passion which her governess
would have deemed unequivocal, the young lady thought herself justified
in not absolutely driving him to despair.

Where was Lady S---- all this time! Where?--at the card-table, playing
very judiciously at whist. With an indolent security, which will be
thought incredible by those who have not seen similar instances of folly
in great families, she let every thing pass before her eyes without
seeing it. Confident that her daughter, after having gone through the
usual routine, would meet with some suitable establishment, that the
settlements would then be the father's business, the choice of the
jewels hers, she left her dear Augusta, in the meantime, to conduct
herself; or, what was ten times worse, to be conducted by Mlle. Panache.
Thus to the habitual indolence, or temporary convenience of parents,
are the peace and reputation of a family secretly sacrificed. And we may
observe, that those who take the least precaution to prevent imprudence
in their children are most enraged and implacable when the evil becomes
irremediable.

In losing Mr. Mountague's heart, Lady Augusta's vanity felt a double
pang, from the apprehension that Helen would probably recover her
captive. Acting merely from the impulse of the moment, her ladyship was
perfectly a child in her conduct; she seldom knew her own mind two hours
together, and really did not foresee the consequences of any one of her
actions. Half a dozen incompatible wishes filled her heart, or, rather,
her imagination. The most immediate object of vanity had always the
greatest power over her; and upon this habit of mind Dashwood calculated
with security.

In the pride of conquest, her ladyship had rejoiced at her mother's
inviting Mrs. Temple and her daughters to an entertainment at S----
Hall, where she flattered herself that Mr. Mountague would appear as her
declared admirer. The day, alas! came; but things had taken a new turn,
and Lady Augusta was as impatient that the visit should be finished,
as she had been eager to have the invitation sent. Lady S---- was not
precisely informed of all that was going on in her own house, as we
have observed; and she was, therefore, a little surprised at the look of
vexation with which her daughter heard that she had pressed Mrs. Temple
to stay all night. "My dear," said Lady S----, "you know you can sleep
in mademoiselle's room for this one night, and Miss Helen Temple will
have yours. One should be civil to people, especially when one sees
them but seldom." Lady Augusta was much out of humour with her mother's
ill-timed civility; but there was no remedy. In the hurry of moving her
things at night, Lady Augusta left in her dressing table drawer a letter
of Dashwood's--a letter which she would not have had seen by Miss
Helen Temple for any consideration. Our readers may imagine what her
ladyship's consternation must have been, when, the next morning, Helen
put the letter into her hand, saying, "There's a paper you left in your
dressing-table, Lady Augusta." The ingenuous countenance of Helen, as
she spoke, might have convinced any one but Lady Augusta that she
was incapable of having opened this paper; but her ladyship judged
otherwise: she had no doubt that every syllable of the letter had been
seen, and that her secret would quickly be divulged. The company had not
yet assembled at breakfast. She retired precipitately to her own room,
to consider what could possibly be done in this emergency. She at length
resolved to apply to Mr. Mountague for assistance; for she had seen
enough of him to feel assured that he was a man of honour, and that she
might safely trust him. When she heard him go down stairs to breakfast,
she followed, and contrived to give him a note, which he read with no
small degree of surprise.

"How to apologize for myself I know not, nor have I one moment's time
to deliberate. Believe me, I feel my sensibility and delicacy severely
wounded; but an ill-fated, uncontrollable passion must plead my excuse.
I candidly own that my conduct must appear to you in a strange light;
but spare me, I beseech you, all reproaches, and pardon my weakness, for
on your generosity and honour must I rely, in this moment of distress.

"A letter of mine--a fatal letter from Dashwood--has fallen into the
hands of Miss Helen Temple. All that I hold most dear is at her mercy. I
am fully persuaded that, were she to promise to keep my secret, nothing
on earth would tempt her to betray me; but I know she has so much the
habit of speaking of every thing to her mother, that I am in torture
till this promise is obtained. Your influence I must depend upon. Speak
to her, I conjure you, the moment breakfast is over; and assure yourself
of my unalterable gratitude.

"AUGUSTA ----."

The moment breakfast was over, Mr. Mountague followed Helen into the
library; a portfolio, full of prints, lay open on the table, and as he
turned them over, he stopped at a print of Alexander putting his seal
to the lips of Hephaestion, whom he detected reading a letter over
his shoulder. Helen, as he looked at the print, said she admired the
delicacy of Alexander's reproof to his friend; but observed, that it was
scarcely probable the seal should bind Hephsestion's lips.

"How so?" said Mr. Mountague, eagerly.

"Because," said Helen, "if honour could not restrain his curiosity, it
would hardly secure his secrecy."

"Charming girl!" exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with enthusiasm. Helen, struck
with surprise, and a variety of emotions,  deeply. "I beg your
pardon," said Mr. Mountague, changing his tone, "for being so abrupt.
You found a letter of Lady Augusta's last night. She is in great, I am
sure needless, anxiety about it."

"Needless, indeed; I did not think it necessary to assure Lady Augusta,
when I returned her letter, that I had not read it. I gave it her
because I thought she would not like to have an open letter left where
it might fall into the hands of servants. As she has mentioned this
subject to you, I hope, sir, you will persuade her of the truth; you
seem to be fully convinced of it yourself."

"I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of the generosity, the
simplicity of your mind. May I ask whether you formed any conjecture,
whether you know whom that letter was from?"

Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied--"Yes, sir, I did form a
conjecture--I thought it was from you."

"From me!" exclaimed Mr. Mountague. "I must undeceive you there: the
letter was not mine. I am eager," continued he, smiling, "to undeceive
you. I wish I might flatter myself this explanation could ever be half
as interesting to you as it is to me. That letter was not mine, and I
can never, in future, be on any other terms with Lady Augusta than those
of a common acquaintance."

Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance of mademoiselle,
followed by Dashwood, to whom she was talking with great earnestness.
Mr. Mountague, when he had collected his thoughts sufficiently to think
of Lady Augusta, wrote the following answer to her letter:--

"Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect to your note. Miss
Helen Temple has not read it, nor has she, I am convinced, the slightest
suspicion of its contents or its author. I beg leave to assure your
ladyship, that I am sensible of the honour of your confidence, and
that you shall never have any reason to repent of having trusted in my
discretion. Yet permit me, even at the hazard of appearing impertinent,
at the still greater hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my
most earnest hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion, which
I am persuaded would prove fatal to the happiness of your future life. I
am, with much respect, Your ladyship's obedient servant, F. MOUNTAGUE."

Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the greatest eagerness:
the first time she ran her eye over it, joy, to find her secret yet
undiscovered, suspended every other feeling; but, upon a second perusal,
her ladyship felt extremely displeased by the cold civility of the
style, and somewhat alarmed at the concluding paragraph. With no esteem,
and little affection for Dashwood, she had suffered herself to imagine
that her passion for him was _uncontrollable_.

What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a man destitute
equally of fortune and principle, she had never attempted to calculate;
but there was something awful in the words--"I earnestly hope that
nothing will tempt you to form a connexion which would prove fatal
to your future happiness." Whilst she was pondering upon these words,
Dashwood met her in the park, where she was walking alone. "Why so
grave?" exclaimed he, with anxiety.

"I am only thinking--that--I am afraid--I think this is a silly
business: I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn't think any more of it, and
give me back my letters."

Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were dearer to him than life,
and that the "last pang should tear them from his heart."

"But, if we go on with all this," resumed Lady Augusta, "it will at
least break my mother's heart, and mademoiselle's into the bargain;
besides, I don't half believe you; I really--"

"I really, what?" cried he, pouring forth protestations of passion,
which put Mr. Mountague's letter entirely out of her head.

A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind in the most
important actions of our lives; and faults are often attributed to
passion which arise from folly. The pleasure of duping her governess,
the fear of witnessing Helen's triumph over her lover's recovered
affections, and the idea of the bustle and eclat of an elopement, all
mixed together, went under the general denomination of love!--Cupid is
often blamed for deeds in which he has no share.

"But," resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last pause of expiring
prudence, "what shall we do about mademoiselle?"

"Poor mademoiselle!" cried Dashwood, leaning back against a tree to
support himself, whilst he laughed violently--"what do you think she is
about at this instant?--packing up her clothes in a band-box."

"Packing up her clothes in a band-box!"

"Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience to carry her
off to Scotland, and at four o'clock to-morrow morning she trips down
stairs out of the garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across
the park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes refuge with her
good friend, Miss Lacy, the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now,
in the mean time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my _real_
angel."

"Oh, no, upon my word," said Lady Augusta, so faintly, that Dashwood
went on exactly in the same tone.

"I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on our trip to
Scotland before mademoiselle's patience is half exhausted, and before
_Miladi_ S---- is quite awake."

Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and thus, by an
_unlucky_ stroke of humour, was the grand event of her life decided.

Marmontel's well-known story, called _Heureusement_, is certainly not
a moral tale: to counteract its effects, he should have written
_Malheureusement_, if he could.

Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta and
Dashwood.

The next morning Lady S---- came down, according to her usual custom,
late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Mountague,
&c., were assembled. "Has not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?"
said Lady S----. She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mlle.
Panache and her daughter make their appearance; but she waited in vain.
Neither mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, were any where to
be found. Every body round the breakfast-table looked at each other in
silence, waiting the event. "They are out walking, I suppose," said Lady
S----, which supposition contented her for the first five minutes; but
then she exclaimed, "It's very strange they don't come back!"

"Very strange--I mean rather strange," said Lord George, helping
himself, as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, and then drumming
upon the table; whilst Mr. Mountague, all the time, looked down, and
preserved a profound silence.

At length the door opened, and Mlle. Panache, in a riding habit, made
her appearance. "_Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!_" said she, looking round
at the silent party, with a half terrified, half astonished countenance.
"_Je vous demande mille pardons--Qu'est ce que c'est?_ I have only been
to take a walk dis morning into de village to de milliner's. She has
disappointed me of my tings, dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in
time for breakfast, I hope?"

"But where is my daughter?" cried Lady S----, roused at last from her
natural indolence--"where is Lady Augusta?"

"_Bon Dieu!_ Miladi, I don't know. _Bon Dieu!_ in her bed, I suppose.
_Bon Dieu!_" exclaimed she a third time, and turned as pale as ashes.
"But where den is Mr. Dashwood?" At this instant a note, directed to
mademoiselle, was brought into the room: the servant said that Lady
Augusta's maid had just found it upon her lady's toilette--mademoiselle
tore open the note.

"Excuse me to my mother--_you_ can best plead my excuse.

"You will not see me again till I am

'Augusta Dashwood.'"

"_Ah scelerat! Ah scelerat! Il m'a trahi!_" screamed mademoiselle: she
threw down the note, and sunk upon the sofa in real hysterics; whilst
Lady S----, seeing in one and the same moment her own folly and her
daughter's ruin, fixed her eyes upon the words "Augusta Dashwood," and
fainted. Mr. Mountague led Lord George out of the room with him, whilst
Mrs. Temple, Helen, and her sister, ran to the assistance of the unhappy
mother and the detected governess.

As soon as mademoiselle had recovered tolerable _composure_, she
recollected that she had betrayed too violent emotion on this occasion.
"_Il m'a trahi_," were words, however, that she could not recall; it was
in vain she attempted to fabricate some apology for herself. No apology
could avail: and whilst Lady S----, in silent anguish, wept for her own
and her daughter's folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms,
abused Dashwood, and reproached her pupil with having shown duplicity,
ingratitude, and a _bad heart_.

"A bad education!" exclaimed Lady S----, with a voice of mingled anger
and sorrow. "Leave the room, mademoiselle; leave my house. How could
I choose such a governess for my daughter! Yet, indeed," added her
ladyship, turning to Mrs. Temple, "she was well recommended to me, and
how could I foresee all this?"

To such an appeal, at such a time, there was no reply to be made: it is
cruel to point out errors to those who feel that they are irreparable;
but it is benevolent to point them out to others, who have yet their
choice to make.






THE KNAPSACK [1]

[Footnote 1: In the Travels of M. Beanjolin into Sweden, he mentions
having, in the year 1790, met carriages laden with the knapsacks of
Swedish soldiers, who had fallen in battle in Finland. These carriages
were escorted by peasants, who were relieved at every stage, and thus
the property of the deceased was conveyed from one extremity of the
kingdom to the other, and faithfully restored to their relations. The
Swedish peasants are so remarkably honest, that scarcely any thing is
ever lost in these convoys of numerous and ill-secured packages.]



_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_

COUNT HELMAAR, _a Swedish Nobleman_. CHRISTIERN, _a Swedish Soldier_.
ALEFTSON, _Count Helmaar's Fool_. THOMAS, _a Footman_.

ELEONORA, _a Swedish Lady, beloved by Count Helmaar_. CHRISTINA,
_Sister to Helmaar_. ULRICA, _an old Housekeeper_. CATHERINE, _Wife to
Christiern_.

KATE _and_ ULRIC, _the Son and Daughter of Catherine--they are six and
seven years old_.

_Serjeant, and a Troop of Soldiers, a Train of Dancers, a Page,
Peasants, &c_.



ACT I.


SCENE--_A cottage in Sweden_.--CATHERINE, _a young and handsome woman,
is sitting at her spinning wheel.--A little Boy and Girl, of six and
seven years of age, are seated on the ground eating their dinner_.

CATHERINE _sings, while she is spinning_.

Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me, The wife that fondly waits for
thee; Long are the years, and long each day, While my loved soldier's
far away. Haste from the wars, &c.

Lone ev'ry field, and lone the bow'r; Pleasant to me nor sun nor show'r:
The snows are gone, the flow'rs are gay--Why is my life of life away?
Haste from the wars, &c.

_Little Girl_. When will father come home?

_Little Boy_. When will he come, mother? when? To-day? to-morrow?

_Cath_. No, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but soon, I hope, very soon; for
they say the wars are over.

_Little Girl_. I am glad of that, and when father comes home, I'll give
him some of my flowers.

_Little Boy (who is still eating)_. And I'll give him some of my bread
and cheese, which he'll like better than flowers, if he is as hungry
as I am, and that to be sure he will be, after coming such a long, long
journey.

_Little Girl_. Long, long journey! how long?--how far is father off,
mother?--where is he?

_Little Boy_. I know, he is in--in--in--in--in Finland? how far off,
mother?

_Cath_. A great many miles, my dear; I don't know how many.

_Little Boy_. Is it not two miles to the great house, mother, where we
go to sell our <DW19>s?

_Cath_. Yes, about two miles--and now you had best set out towards the
great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, the housekeeper, to pay you the little
bill she owes you for <DW19>s--there's good children; and when you have
been paid for your <DW19>s, you can call at the baker's, in the village,
and bring home some bread for to-morrow (_patting the little boy's
head_)--you that love bread and cheese so much must work hard to get it.

_Little Boy_. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have enough
for myself and father too, when he comes. Come along--come (_to his
sister_)--and, as we come home through the forest, I'll show you where
we can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we'll help one another.

_Little Girl sings_.

That's the best way, At work and at play, To help one another--I heard
mother say--To help one another--I heard mother say--

[_The children go off, singing these words_.]

_Cath. (alone_.) Dear, good children, how happy their father will be to
see them, when he comes back!--(_She begins to eat the remains of the
dinner, which the children have left_.) The little rogue was so hungry,
he has not left me much; but he would have left me all, if he had
thought that I wanted it: he shall have a _good large bowl_ of milk for
supper. It was but last night he skimmed the cream off his milk for me,
because he thought I liked it. Heigho!--God knows how long they may have
milk to skim--as long as I can work they shall never want; but I'm not
so strong as I used to be; but then I shall get strong, and all will be
well, when my husband comes back (_a drum beats at a distance_). Hark!
a drum!--some news from abroad, perhaps--nearer and nearer (_she sinks
upon a chair_)--why cannot I run to see--to ask (_the drum beats louder
and louder_)--fool that I am! they will be gone! they will be all gone!
(_she starts up_.)

[_Exit hastily_.]

SCENE _changes to a high road, leading to a village.--A party of ragged,
tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them_.

_Serj_. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a great way
further to go:--keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, through yonder
village. (_The drum beats_.)

[_Soldiers exeunt_.]

_Serj_. (_alone_.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them! the sad
remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a musket. Ah! I've
seen them march quite another guess sort of way, when they marched,
and I amongst them, to face the enemy--heads up--step firm--thus it
was--quick time--march!--(_he marches proudly_)--My poor fellows, how
they lag now (_looking after them_)--ay, ay, there they go, slower and
slower; they don't like going through the village; nor I neither; for,
at every village we pass through, out come the women and children,
running after us, and crying, "Where's my father?--What's become of my
husband?"--Stout fellow as I am, and a Serjeant too, that ought to know
better, and set the others an example, I can't stand these questions.

_Enter_ CATHERINE, _breathless_.

_Cath_. I--I--I've overtaken him at last. Sir--Mr. Serjeant, one word!
What news from Finland?

_Serj_. The best--the war's over. Peace is proclaimed.

_Cath. (clasping her hands joyfully_.) Peace! happy sound!--Peace! The
war's over!--Peace!--And the regiment of Helmaar--(_The Serjeant appears
impatient to get away_)--Only one word, good serjeant: when will the
regiment of Helmaar be back?

_Serj_. All that remain of it will be home next week.

_Cath_. Next week?--But, all that _remain_, did you say?--Then many have
been killed?

_Serj_. Many, many--too many. Some honest peasants are bringing home the
knapsacks of those who have fallen in battle. 'Tis fair that what little
they had should come home to their families. Now, I pray you, let me
pass on.

_Cath_. One word more: tell me, do you know, in the regiment of Helmaar,
one Christiern Aleftson?

_Serj, (with eagerness_.) Christiern Aleftson! as brave a fellow, and as
good as ever lived, if it be the same that I knew.

_Cath_. As brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived! Oh, that's he! he
is my husband--where is he? where is he?

_Serj, (aside_.) She wrings my heart!--(_Aloud_)--He was--

_Cath_. _Was!_

_Serj_. He is, I hope, safe.

_Cath_. You _hope!_--don't look away--I must see your face: tell me all
you know.

_Serj_. I know nothing for certain. When the peasants come with the
knapsacks, you will hear all from them. Pray you, let me follow my men;
they are already at a great distance.

[_Exit Serj. followed by Catherine_.]

_Cath_. I will not detain you an instant--only one word more--

[_Exit_.]

SCENE.--_An apartment in Count Helmaar's Castle.--A train of
dancers.--After they have danced for some time,

Enter a Page_.

_Page_. Ladies! I have waited, according to your commands, till Count
Helmaar appeared in the ante-chamber--he is there now, along with the
ladies Christina and Eleonora.

_1st Dancer_. Now is our time--Count Helmaar shall hear our song to
welcome him home.

_2nd Dancer_. None was ever more welcome.

_3rd Dancer_. But stay till I have breath to sing.

SONG.

I.

Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home; In crowds your happy neighbours come, To
hail with joy the cheerful morn, That sees their Helmaar's safe return.

II.

No hollow heart, no borrow'd face. Shall ever Helmaar's hall disgrace:
Slaves alone on tyrants wait; Friends surround the good and great.

Welcome Helmaar, &c.

_Enter_ ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, _and_ COUNT HELMAAR.

_Helmaar_. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome.

_1st Dancer (looking at a black fillet on Helmaar's head_). He has been
wounded.

_Christina_. Yes--severely wounded.

_Helmaar_. And had it not been for the fidelity of the soldier who
carried me from the field of battle, I should never have seen you more,
my friends, nor you, my charming Eleonora. (_A noise of one singing
behind the scenes_.)--What disturbance is that without?

_Christina_. Tis only Aleftson, the fool:--in your absence, brother,
he has been the cause of great diversion in the castle:--I love to play
upon him, it keeps him in tune;--you can't think how much good it does
him.

_Helmaar_. And how much good it does you, sister:--from your childhood
you had always a lively wit, and loved to exercise it; but do you waste
it upon fools?

_Christina_. I'm sometimes inclined to think this Aleftson is more knave
than fool.

_Eleon_. By your leave, Lady Christina, he is no knave, or I am much
mistaken. To my knowledge, he has carried his whole salary, and all
the little presents he has received from us, to his brother's wife and
children. I have seen him chuck his money, thus, at those poor children,
when they have been at their plays, and then run away, lest their mother
should make them give it back.

_Enter_ ALEFTSON, _the fool, in a fool's coat, fool's cap and bells,
singing_.

I.

There's the courtier, who watches the nod of the great; Who thinks much
of his pension, and nought of the state: When for ribands and titles his
honour he sells--What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

II.

There's the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die His house and
his acres, the devil knows why: His acres he loses, his forests he
sells--What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

III.

There's the student so crabbed and wonderful wise, With his plus and
his minus, his x's and y's: Pale at midnight he pores o'er his magical
spells--What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

IV.

The lover, who's ogling, and rhyming, and sighing, Who's musing, and
pining, and whining, and dying: When a thousand of lies ev'ry minute he
tells--What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

V.

There's the lady so fine, with her airs and her graces, With a face
like an angel's--if angels have faces: She marries, and Hymen the vision
dispels--What's her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells?

_Christina, Eleonora, Helmaar, &c_.--Bravo! bravissimo!--excellent
fool!--Encore.

[_The fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly_.]

_Christina_. What now, Aleftson? I never saw you sad before--What's the
matter?--Speak.

[_Fool sobs, but gives no answer_.]

_Helm_. Why do you weep so bitterly?

_Aleft_. Because I am a fool.

_Helm_. Many should weep, if that were cause sufficient.

_Eleon_. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, been a merry
fool.

_Fool_. Because always, till now, I was a fool, but now I am grown wise:
and 'tis difficult, to all but you, lady, to be merry and wise.

_Christina_. A pretty compliment; 'tis a pity it was paid by a fool.

_Fool_. Who else should pay compliments, lady, or who else believe them?

_Christina_. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a fool to speak the
truth without offence.

_Fool_. Fool as you take me to be, I'm not fool enough yet to speak
truth to a lady, and think to do it without offence.

_Eleon_. Why, you have said a hundred severe things to _me_ within this
week, and have I ever been angry with you?

_Fool_. Never; for, out of the whole hundred, not one was true. But have
a care, lady--fool as I am, you'd be glad to stop a fool's mouth with
your white hand this instant, rather than let him tell the truth of you.

_Christina_ (_laughing, and all the other ladies, except Eleonora,
exclaim_)--Speak on, good fool; speak on--

_Helm_. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not to hear the
truth from either wise men or fools--Speak on.

_Fool_. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our count there
was killed in Finland--I, being a fool, was lying laughing, and thinking
of nothing at all, on the floor, in the west drawing-room, looking at
the count's picture--In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

_Eleon_. (stopping his mouth.) Oh! tell any thing but _that_, good fool.

_Helmaar_ (_kneels and kisses her hand_). Speak on, excellent fool.

_Christina and ladies_. Speak on, excellent fool--In came the Lady
Eleonora, all in tears.

_Fool_. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears--(_pauses and
looks round_). Why now, what makes you all so curious about these
tears?--Tears are but salt water, let them come from what eyes they
will--my tears are as good as hers--in came John Aleftson, all in tears,
just now, and nobody kneels to me--nobody kisses my hands--nobody cares
half a straw for my tears--(_folds his arms and looks melancholy_). I am
not one of those--I know the cause of my tears too well.

_Helm_. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return--hey?

_Fool_ (_scornfully_). No--I am not such a fool as that comes to. Don't
I know that, when you are at home, the poor may hold up their heads,
and no journeyman-gentleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing
those who live in cottages? No, no,--I am not such a fool as to cry
because Count Helmaar is come back; but the truth is, I cried because I
am tired and ashamed of wearing this thing--(_throwing down his fool's
cap upon the floor, changes his tone entirely_)--_I!_--who am brother
to the man who saved Count Helmaar's life--I to wear a fool's cap and
bells--Oh shame! shame!

[_The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment._]

_Christina_ (_aside_). A lucid interval--poor fool!--I will torment him
no more--he has feeling--'twere better he had none.

_Eleon_. Hush!--hear him!

_Aleft_. (_throwing himself at the counts feet_). Noble count, I have
submitted to be thought a fool; I have worn this fool's cap in your
absence, that I might indulge my humour, and enjoy the liberty of
speaking my mind freely to the people of all conditions. Now that you
are returned, I have no need of such a disguise--I may now speak the
truth without fear, and without a cap and bells.--I resign my salary,
and give back the ensign of my office--(_presents the fool's cap_).

[_Exit_.]

_Christina_. He might well say, that none but fools should pay
compliments--this is the best compliment that has been paid you,
brother.

_Eleon_. And observe, he has resigned his salary.

_Helm_. From this moment let it be doubled:--he made an excellent use of
money when he was a fool--may he make half as good a use of it now he is
a wise man.

_Christina_. Amen--and now I hope we are to have some more dancing.

[_Exeunt_.]



ACT II.


SCENE--_By moonlight--a forest--a castle illuminated at a distance.--A
group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack beside
him.--One peasant lies stretched on the ground_.

_1st Peasant_. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart
being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in that
plight--(_points to the sleeping peasant_)--it is a folly to think of
getting on further this evening.

_2nd Peasant_. And what I say is, it's folly to sleep here, seeing I
know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one mile at
furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey.

_1st Peasant_ (_pointing to the sleeper_). He can't walk a mile--he's
done for--dog tired--

_3rd Peasant_. Are you _certain_ sure we have only one mile further to
go?

_2nd Peasant_. Certain sure--

_All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant_. Oh, let us go on, then,
and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile.

_1st Peasant_. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all.

_All together_. So we will.

_2nd Peasant_. But first, do you see, let's waken him; for a sleeping
man's twice as heavy as one that's awake--Hollo, friend! waken!
waken!--(_he shakes the sleeper, who snores loudly_)--Good Lord, he
snores loud enough to waken all the birds in the wood.

[_All the peasants shout in the sleeper's ear, and he starts up, shaking
himself._]

_Charles_. Am I awake?--(_stretching_.)

_2nd Peasant_. No, not yet, man--Why, don't you know where you are? Ay;
here's the moon--and these be trees; and--I be a man, and what do you
call this? (_holding up a knapsack_.)

_Charles_. A knapsack, I say, to be sure:--I'm as broad awake as the
best of you.

_2nd Peasant_. Come on, then; we've a great way further to go before you
sleep again.

_Charles_. A great way further! further to-night!--No, no.

_2nd Peasant_. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast
asleep--You are to be carried, you and your knapsack.

[_They prepare to carry him_.]

_Charles_ (_starting up, and struggling with them_). I've legs to
walk--I won't be carried!--I, a Swede, and be carried!--No! No!--

_All together_. Yes! Yes!

_Charles_. No! No!--(_he struggles for his knapsack, which comes untied
in the struggle, and all the things fall out_.)--There, this comes of
playing the fool.

[_They help him to pick up the things, and exclaim,_]

_All_. There's no harm done--(_throwing the knapsack over his
shoulder_).

_Charles_. I'm the first to march, after all.

_Peasants_. Ay, in your sleep!

[_Exeunt, laughing._]

_Enter_ CATHERINE'S _two little Children_.

_Little Girl_. I am sure I heard some voices this way--suppose it was
the fairies!

_Little Boy_. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There are no such
things as fairies; but if there were any such, we have no need to fear
them.

_Little Boy sings_.

     I.

     Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm,
     Have pow'r, or will, to work us harm;
     For those who dare the truth to tell,
     Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

     II.

     For us they spread their dainty fare,
     For us they scent the midnight air;
     For us their glow-worm lamps they light,
     For us their music cheers the night.

_Little Girl sings_.

I.

     Ye fays and fairies, hasten here,
     Robed in glittering gossamere;
     With tapers bright, and music sweet,
     And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

     II.

     And, little Mable, let us view
     Your acorn goblets fill'd with dew;
     Nor warn us hence till we have seen
     The nut-shell chariot of your queen:

     III.

     In which on nights of yore she sat,
     Driven by her gray-coated gnat;
     With spider spokes and cobweb traces,
     And horses fit for fairy races.

     IV.

     And bid us join your revel ring,
     And see you dance, and hear you sing:
     Your fairy dainties let us taste,
     And speed us home with fairy haste.

_Little Boy_. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my
wish, I know what I should ask.

_Little Girl._ And so do I--I would ask them to send father home before
I could count ten.

_Little Boy_. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the
face of the whole army, "This is a brave man!" And father should hold up
his head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

[_As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.]

_Little Girl_. Oh! take care!--come, let us march home:--but stay, I have
not found my <DW19>.

_Little Boy_. Never mind your <DW19>; it was not here you left it.

_Little Girl_. Yes, it was somewhere here, I'm sure, and I must find it,
to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to
bed.

_Little Boy_. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

_Little Girl_. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those
trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my <DW19>.--When we get home,
I shall say, "Mother, do you know there is great news?--there's a great
many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing
and music in the great house, because the master's come home, and the
housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our
<DW19>s; at last the butler--"

_Little Boy_. Heyday!--What have we here?--a purse, a purse, a heavy
purse.

_Little Girl_. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

_Little Boy_. No, no; it can't be mother's: mother has no purse full of
money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

_Little Girl_. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she
has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

_Little Boy_. Come, let us run back with it to her,--mother would tell
us to do so, I'm sure, if she was here.

_Little Girl_. But I'm afraid the housekeeper won't see us to-night.

_Little Boy_. Oh, yes; but I'll beg, and pray, and push, till I get into
her room.

_Little Girl_. Yes; but don't push me, or I shall knock my head against
the trees. Give me your hand, brother.--Oh, my <DW19>! I shall never
find you.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--Catherine's _Cottage_.

CATHERINE, _spinning, sings_.

     I.

     Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel,
     And leave my heart no time to feel;
     Companion of my widow'd hour,
     My only friend, my only dow'r.

     II.

     Thy lengthening thread I love to see,
     Thy whirring sound is dear to me:
     Oh, swiftly turn by night and day,
     And toil for him that's far away.

_Catherine_. Hark! here come the children. No, 'twas only the wind.
What can keep these children so late?--but it is a fine moonlight
night--they'll have brave appetites for their supper when they come
back--but I wonder they don't come home.--Heigho! since their father
has been gone, I am grown a coward--(_a knock at the door heard_)--Come
in!--Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

_Enter_ CHARLES, _with a knapsack on his back_

_Charles_. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at
this time o' night, as I guess by the looks of ye--but I'm only a poor
fellow, that has been a-foot a great many hours.

_Cath_. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you're
welcome to.

[_She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair,
and flings his knapsack behind him_.]

_Charles_. 'Tis a choice thing to rest one's self:--I say, mistress,
you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many
leagues since break of day.

_Cath_. Indeed, you may well be tired--and where do you come from?--Did
you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming back from Finland?

_Charles (eats and speaks_). Not the soldiers themselves, I can't say as
I did; but we are them that are bringing home the knapsacks of the poor
fellows that have lost their lives in the wars in Finland.

_Cath._ (during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a chair.
_Aside_) Now I shall know my fate.

_Charles (eating and speaking)_. My comrades are gone on to the village
beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by the families of them
to whom they belonged, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistress,
as you know the folks here-abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this
is, here, behind me? (_looking up at Catherine_.)--Oons, but how pale
she looks! (_aside_). Here, sit ye down, do. (_Aside_) Why, I would not
have said a word if I had thought on it--to be sure she has a lover now,
that has been killed in the wars. (_Aloud_) Take a sup of the cold milk,
mistress.

_Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack_). 'Tis his! 'tis my
husband's!

[_She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with her hands_.]

_Charles_. Poor soul! poor soul!--(_he pauses_.) But now it is not clear
to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress:--these knapsacks be all
so much alike, I'm sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from
t'other--it is by what's in the inside only one can tell for certain.
(_Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, carries it towards
Catherine, and holds it before her face_.)--Look ye here, now; don't
give way to sorrow while there's hope left--Mayhap, mistress--look at
this now, can't ye, mistress?

[_Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees the
waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a swoon. The peasant
runs to support her.--At this instant the back door of the cottage
opens, and_ ALEFTSON _enters_.]

_Aleft_. Catherine!

_Charles_. Poor soul!--there, raise her head--give her air--she fell
into this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack--her husband's--he's
dead. Poor creature!--'twas my luck to bring the bad news--what shall we
do for her?--I'm no better than a fool, when I see a body this way.

_Aleft_. (_sprinkling water on her face_.) She'll be as well as ever she
was, you'll see, presently--leave her to me!

_Charles_. There! she gave a sigh--she's coming to her senses.

[_Catherine raises herself_.]

_Cath_. What has been the matter?--(_She starts at the sight of
Aleftson_.)--My husband!--no--'tis Aleftson--what makes you look so like
him?--you don't look like yourself.

_Aleft. (aside to the peasant_.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.

_Cath_. (_looking round, sees the knapsack_.) What's there?--Oh, I
recollect it all now.--(_To Aleftson_) Look there! look there! your
brother! your brother's dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.

_Aleft_. I wish I had none.

_Cath_. Oh, my husband!--shall I never, never see you more--never more
hear your voice--never more see my children in their father's arms?

_Aleft_. (_takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed_.) But we
are not sure this is Christiern's.

_Charles (snatching it from him_). Don't show it to her again,
man!--you'll drive her mad.

_Aleft. (aside_.) Let me alone; I know what I'm about. (_Aloud_) 'Tis
certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps--

_Cath_. It is his--it is his--too well I know it--my own work--I gave it
to him the very day he went away to the wars--he told me he would wear
it again the day of his coming home--but he'll never come home again.

_Aleft_. How can you be _sure_ of that?

_Cath_. How!--why, am not I sure, too sure?--hey!--what do you mean?--he
smiles!--have you heard any thing?--do you know any thing?--but he can
know nothing--he can tell me nothing--he has no sense. (_She turns to
the peasant_.) Where did you get this knapsack?--did you see--

_Aleft_. He saw nothing--he knows nothing--he can tell you
nothing:--listen to me, Catherine--see, I have thrown aside the dress of
a fool--you know I had my senses once--I have them now as clear as ever
I had in my life--ay, you may well be surprised--but I will surprise you
more--Count Helmaar's come home.

_Cath_. Count Helmaar!--impossible!

_Charles_. Count Helmaar!--he was killed in the last battle, in Finland.

_Aleft_. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle--he is safe at
home--I have just seen him.

_Cath_. Seen him!--but why do I listen to him, poor fool! he knows not
what he says--and yet, if the count be really alive--

_Charles_. Is the count really alive? I'd give my best cow to see him.

_Aleft_. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour you _shall_
see him.

_Cath. (clasping her hands_.) Then there _is_ hope for me--Tell me, is
there any news?

_Aleft_. There is.

_Cath_. Of my husband?

_Aleft_. Yes--ask me no more--you must hear the rest from Count Helmaar
himself--he has sent for you.

_Cath. (springs forward_.) This instant let me go, let me hear--(_she
stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her
passage_).--But what shall I hear?--there can be no good news for
me--this speaks too plainly.

[_Aleftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away_.]

_Charles_. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with you--I
won't be left behind--I'm wide awake now--I must have a sight of Count
Helmaar in his own castle--why, they'll make much of me in every cottage
on my road home, when I can swear to 'em I've seen Count Helmaar alive,
in his own castle, face to face--God bless him, he's _the poor man's
friend_.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--_The housekeeper's room in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle_.

ULRICA _and_ CHRISTIERN.

CHRISTIERN _is drawing on his boots_.--_Mrs_. ULRICA _is sitting at a
tea-table making coffee_.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, well; I'll say no more: if you can't stay to-night,
you can't--but I had laid it all out in my head so cleverly, that you
should stay, and take a good night's rest here, in the castle; then, in
the morning, you'll find yourself as fresh as a lark.

_Christiern_. Oh! I am not at all tired.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Not tired! don't tell me that, now, for I know that you
_are_ tired, and can't help being tired, say what you will--Drink this
dish of coffee, at any rate--(_he drinks coffee_).

_Christiern_. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my little
ones--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want to see the
happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and don't come every
day, you know; and now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the
cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared out this night,
on no account or possibility.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Ma'am, the cook is hunting high and low for the
brandy-cherries.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Lord bless me! are not they there before those eyes of
yours?--But I can't blame nobody for being out of their wits a little
with joy such a night as this.

[_Exit Footman_.]

_Christiern_. Never man was better beloved in the regiment than Count
Helmaar.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay! ay! so he is every where, and so he deserves to be.
Is your coffee good? sweeten to your taste, and don't spare sugar, nor
don't spare any thing that this house affords; for, to be sure, you
deserve it all--nothing can be too good for him that saved my master's
life. So now that we are comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee,
pray be so very good as to tell me the whole story of my master's
escape, and of the horse being killed under him, and of your carrying
him off on your shoulders; for I've only heard it by bits and scraps, as
one may say; I've seen only the bill of fare, ha! ha! ha!--so now pray
set out all the good things for me, in due order, garnished and all;
and, before you begin, taste these cakes--they are my own making.

_Christiern (aside)_. 'Tis the one-and-twentieth time I've told the
story to-day; but no matter. (_Aloud_) Why, then, madam, the long and
the short of the story is--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh, pray, let it be the _long_, not the _short_ of the
story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when
it concerns my master--'tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer
the finer, and the more I relish it--but I interrupt you, and you eat
none of my cake--pray go on--(_A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica!
Mrs. Ulrica!_)--Coming!--coming!--patience.

_Christiern_. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here--just
please to look; I've drawn the field of battle for you here, with
coffee, on the table--and you shall be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. I!--no--I'll not be the enemy--my master's enemy!

_Christiern_. Well, I'll be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. You!--Oh no, you sha'n't be the enemy.

_Christiern_. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The cake--my cake!--no, indeed.

_Christiern_. Well, let the candle be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, let the candle be the enemy; and where was my
master, and where are you--I don't understand--what is all this great
slop?

_Christiern_. Why, ma'am, the field of battle; and let the coffee-pot be
my master: here comes the enemy--

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the dancers above.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. More refreshments!--more!--bless my heart, 'tis an
_un_possibility they can have swallowed down all I laid out, not an hour
ago, in the confectionary room.

_Footman_. Confectionary room! Oh, I never thought of looking there.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Look ye there, now!--why, where did you think of looking,
then?--in the stable, or the cockloft, hey?--[_Exit Footman_.]--But I
can't scold on such a night as this: their poor heads are all turned
with joy; and my own's scarce in a more proper_er_ condition--Well,
I beg your pardon--pray go on--the coffee-pot is my master, and the
candle's the enemy.

_Christiern_. So, ma'am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon Count
Helmaar.

[_A call without of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!_]

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!--can't you do without Mrs.
Ulrica one instant but you must call, call--(_Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs.
Ulrica!_)--Mercy on us, what do you want? I _must_ go for one instant.

_Christiern_. And I _must_ bid ye a good night.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Nay, nay, nay,--(_eagerly_)--you won't go--I'll be back.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_ Ma'am! Mrs. Ulrica! the key of the blue press.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The key of the blue press--I had it in my hand just
now--I gave it--I--(_looks amongst a bunch of keys, and then all round
the room_)--I know nothing at all about it, I tell you--I must drink my
tea, and I will--[_Exit Footman_]. 'Tis a sin to scold on such a night
as this, if one could help it--Well, Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot's
my master.

_Christiern_. And the sugar-basin--why here's a key in the sugar-basin.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Lord bless me! 'tis the very key, the key of the blue
press--why dear me--(_feels in her pocket_)--and here are the sugar
tongs in my pocket, I protest--where was my poor head? Hers, Thomas!
Thomas! here's the key; take it, and don't say a word for your life, if
you can help it; you need not come in, I say--(_she holds the door--the
footman pushes in_).

_Footman_. But, ma'am, I have something particular to say.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why, you've always something particular to say--is it any
thing about my master?

_Footman_. No, but about your purse, ma'am.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. What of my purse?

_Footman_. Here's your little godson, ma'am, is here, who has found it.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Hold your foolish tongue, can't you?--don't
mention my little godson, for your life.

[_The little boy creeps in under the footman's arm; his sister Kate
follows him. Mrs. Ulrica lifts up her hands and eyes, with signs of
impatience_.]

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Now I had settled in my head that their father
should not see them till to-morrow morning.

_Little Girl_. Who is that strange man?

_Little Boy_. He has made me forget all I had to say.

_Christiern_ (_aside_). What charming children!

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_asid_). He does not know them to be his--they don't know
him to be their father. (_Aloud_) Well, children, what brings you here
at this time of night?

_Little Boy_. What I was going to say was--(_the little boy looks at
the stranger between every two or three words, and Christiern looks at
him_)--what I was going to say was--

_Little Girl_. Ha! ha! ha!--he forgets that we found this purse in the
forest as we were going home.

_Little Boy_. And we thought that it might be yours.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why should you think it was mine?

_Little Boy_. Because nobody else could have so much money in one purse;
so we brought it to you--here it is.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. 'Tis none of my purse. (_Aside_) Oh! he'll certainly find
out that they are his children--(_she stands between the children and
Christiern_). 'Tis none of my purse; but you are good, honest little
dears, and I'll be hanged if I won't carry you both up to my master
himself, this very minute, and tell the story of your honesty before all
the company.

[_She pushes the children towards the door. Ulric looks back._]

_Little Boy_. He has a soldier's coat on--let me ask him if he is a
soldier.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. No--what's that to you?

_Little Girl_. Let me ask him if he knows any thing about father.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_puts her hand before the little girl's mouth_). Hold
your little foolish tongue, I say--what's that to you?

[_Exeunt, Mrs. Ulrica pushing forward the children._]

_Enter, at the opposite door,_ THOMAS, _the footman._

_Footman._ Sir, would you please to come into our servants'-hall, only
for one instant: there's one wants to speak a word to you.

_Christiern._ Oh, I cannot stay another moment: I must go home: who is
it?

_Footman_. 'Tis a poor man who has brought in two carts full of my
master's baggage; and my master begs you'll be so very good as to see
that the things are all right, as you know 'em, and no one else here
does.

_Christiern (with impatience)._ How provoking!--a full hour's work:--I
sha'n't get home this night, I see that:--I wish the man and the baggage
were in the Gulf of Finland. [_Exeunt._]

SCENE--_The apartment where the_ COUNT, ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, _&c., were
dancing._

_Enter Mrs._ ULRICA, _eading the two children._

_Christina._ Ha! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to interrupt; but
I was so proud of my little godson and his sister, though not my
goddaughter, that I couldn't but bring them up, through the very midst
of the company, to my master, to praise them according to their deserts;
for nobody can praise those that deserve it so well as my master--to my
fancy.

_Eleonora_ (_aside_). Nor to mine.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Here's a purse, sir, which this little boy and girl
of mine found in the woods as they were going home; and, like honest
children, as they are, they came back with it directly to me, thinking
that it was mine.

_Helmaar_. Shake hands, my honest little fellow--this is just what I
should have expected from a godson of Mrs. Ulrica, and a son of--

_Mrs. Ulrica (aside to the Count_). Oh, Lord bless you, sir, don't
tell him--My lady--(_to Christina_)--would you take the children out of
hearing?

_Eleon_. (_to the children_). Come with us, my dears.

[_Exeunt ladies and children._]

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Don't, sir, pray, tell the children any thing about their
father: they don't know that their father's here, though they've just
seen him; and I've been striving all I can to keep the secret, and to
keep the father here all night, that I may have the pleasure of seeing
the meeting of father and mother and children at their own cottage
to-morrow. I would not miss the sight of their meeting for fifty pounds;
and yet I shall not see it after all--for Christiern will go, all I can
say or do. Lord bless me! I forgot to bolt him in when I came up with
the children--the bird's flown, for certain--(_going in a great hurry_).

_Helmaar_. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed; your prisoner is
very safe, I can assure you, though you forgot to bolt him in: I have
given him an employment that will detain him a full hour, for I design
to have the pleasure of restoring my deliverer myself to his family.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! that will be delightful!--Then you'll keep him here
all night!--but that will vex him terribly; and of all the days and
nights of the year, one wouldn't have any body vexed this day or night,
more especially the man, who, as I may say, is the cause of all our
illuminations, and rejoicings, and dancings--no, no, happen what will,
we must not have him vexed.

_Helmaar_. He shall not be vexed, I promise you; and, if it be necessary
to keep your heart from breaking, my good Mrs. Ulrica, I'll tell you a
secret, which I had intended, I own, to have kept from you one half hour
longer.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. A secret! dear sir, half an hour's a great while, to
keep a secret from one when it's about one's friends: pray, if it be
proper--but you are the best judge--I should be very glad to hear just a
little hint of the matter, to prepare me.

_Helmaar_. Then prepare in a few minutes to see the happy meeting
between Christiern and his family: I have sent to his cottage for his
wife, to desire that she would come hither immediately.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! a thousand thanks to you, sir; but I'm afraid the
messenger will let the cat out of the bag.

_Helmaar_. The man I have sent can keep a secret--Which way did the Lady
Eleonora go?--Are those peasants in the hall? [_Exit Count._]

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_following_). She went towards the west drawing-room, I
think, sir.--Yes, sir, the peasants are at supper in the hall. (_Aside_)
Bless me! I wonder what messenger he sent, for I don't know many--men I
mean--fit to be trusted with a secret. [_Exit_.]

SCENE--_An apartment in Count_ HELMAAR'S
_Castle_.--ELEONORA.--CHRISTINA.--_Little_ KATE _and_ ULRIC _asleep on
the floor_.

_Eleon_. Poor creatures! they were quite tired by sitting up so late: is
their mother come yet?

_Christina._ Not yet; but she will soon be here, for my brother told
Aleftson to make all possible haste. Do you know where my brother
is?--he is not among the dancers. I expected to have found him sighing
at the Lady Eleonora's feet.

_Eleon_. He is much better employed than in sighing at any body's
feet; he is gone down into the great hall, to see and reward some
poor peasants who have brought home the knapsacks of those unfortunate
soldiers who fell in the last battle:--your good Mrs. Ulrica found out
that these peasants were in the village near us--she sent for them, got
a plentiful supper ready, and the count is now speaking to them.

_Christina_. And can you forgive my ungallant brother for thinking of
vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent on nothing but your bright
eyes?--then all I can say is, you are both of you just fit for one
another: every _fool_, indeed, saw that long ago.

[_A cry behind the scenes of "Long line Count Helmaar! Long live the
good count! long live the poor man's friend!_"]

_Christina (joins the cry_). Long live Count Helmaar!--join me,
Eleonora--long live the good count! long live the poor man's friend!

[_The little children waken, start up, and stretch themselves_.]

_Eleon_. There, you have wakened these poor children.

_Ulric_. What's the matter? I dreamed father was shaking hands with me.

_Enter Mrs_. ULRICA.

_Little Kate_. Mrs. Ulrica! where am I? I thought I was in my little bed
at home--I was dreaming about a purse, I believe.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Was it about this purse you were dreaming?--(_shows the
purse which the children found in the wood_)--Come, take it into your
little hands, and waken and rouse yourselves, for you must come and
give this purse back to the rightful owner; I've found him out for
you--(_Aside to Christina and Eleonora_). And now, ladies, if you please
to go up into the gallery, you'll see something worth looking at.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--_A hall in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle.--Peasants rising from supper
in the back scene_.

_1st Peasant_. Here's a health to the poor man's friend; and may
every poor man, every poor honest man--and there are none other in
Sweden--find as good a friend as Count Helmaar.

_Enter_ CHARLES, _eagerly_.

_Charles_. Count Helmaar! is he here?

_Omnes_. Heyday! Charles, the sleeper, broad awake! or is he walking in
his sleep?

_Charles_. Where's Count Helmaar, I say?--I'd walk in my sleep, or any
way, to get a sight of him.

_1st Peasant_. Hush! stand back!--here's some of the quality coming, who
are not thinking of you.

[_The peasants all retire to the back scene. Count_ HELMAAR, CHRISTINA,
_and_ ELEONORA, _appear, looking from a gallery. Enter_ ALEFTSON _and_
CATHERINE _at one door, Mrs._ ULRICA _at the opposite door, with_
CHRISTIERN, _followed by the two children._]

_Cath._ (_springs forward_.) Christiern! my husband! alive!--is it a
dream?

_Christiern_ (_embracing her_). Your own Christiern, dearest Catherine.

[_The children clap their hands, and run to their father._]

_Ulric._ Why, I thought he was my father; only he did not shake hands
with me.

_Kate._ And Mrs. Ulrica hid me hold my tongue.

_Christiern._ My Ulric! my little Kate!

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Ay, my little Kate, you may speak now as much as you
will.--(_Their father kisses them eagerly._)--Ay, kiss them, kiss them;
they are as good children as ever were born--and as honest: Kate, show
him the purse, and ask him if it be his.

_Kate._ Is it yours, father?--(_holds up the purse_).

_Christiern._ 'Tis mine; 'twas in my knapsack; but how it came here,
Heaven knows.

_Ulric._ We found it in the wood, father, as we were going home, just at
the foot of a tree.

_Charles_ (_comes forward_). Why, mayhap, now I recollect, I might
have dropped it there--more shame for me, or rather more shame for
them--(_looking back at his companions_)--that were playing the fool
with me, and tumbled out all the things on the ground. Master, I hope
there's no harm done: we poor peasant fellows have brought home all the
other knapsacks safe and sound to the relations of them that died; and
yours came by mistake, it seems.

_Christiern._ It's a very lucky mistake; for I wouldn't have lost a
waistcoat which there is in that knapsack for all the waistcoats in
Sweden. My Catherine, 'twas that which you gave me the day before I went
abroad--do you remember it?

_Charles._ Ay, that she does; it had like to have been the death of
her--for she thought you must be dead for certain when he saw it brought
home without you--but I knew he was not ead, mistress--did not I tell
you, mistress, not to give way to sorrow while there was hope left?

_Cath_. O joy! joy!--too much joy!

_Aleft_. Now are you sorry you came with me when I bade you?--but I'm a
fool!--I'm a fool!

_Ulric_. But where's the cap and coat you used to wear?

_Kate_. You are quite another man, uncle.

_Aleft_. The same man, niece, only in another coat.

_Mrs. Ulrica (laughing)_. How they stare!----Well, Christiern, you are
not angry with my master and me for keeping you now?--but angry or not,
I don't care, for I wouldn't have missed seeing this meeting for any
thing in the whole world.

_Enter Count_ HELMAAR, ELEONOKA, _and_ CHRISTINA.

_Christina_. Nor I.

_Eleon_. Nor I.

_Helmaar_. Nor I.

_The Peasants_. Nor any of us

_Helmaar (to little Ulric)_. My honest little boy, is that the purse
which you found in the wood?

_Ulric_. Yes, and it's my own father's.

_Helmaar_. And how much money is there in it?

[_The child opens the purse, and spreads the money on the floor_.]

_Ulric (to Mrs. Ulrica)_. Count you, for I can't count so much.

_Mrs. Ulrica (counts)_. Eight ducats, five rixdollars, and let me see
how many--sixteen carolines[2]:--'twould have been pity, Catherine, to
have lost all this treasure, which Christiern has saved for you.

[Footnote 2: A rixdollar is 4s. 6d. sterling; two rixdollars are equal
in value to a ducat; a caroline is 1s. 2d.]

_Helmaar_. Catherine, I beg that all the money in this purse may be
given to these honest peasants. (_To Kate_) Here, take it to them, my
little modest girl. As for you and your children, Catherine, you may
depend upon it that I will not neglect to make you easy in the world:
your own good conduct, and the excellent manner in which you have
brought up these children, would incline me to serve you, even if your
husband had not saved my life.

_Cath_. Christiern, my dear husband, and did _you_ save Count Helmaar's
life?

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay, that he did.

_Cath_. (_embracing him_.) I am the happiest wife, and--(_turning to
kiss her children_)--the happiest mother upon earth.

_Charles_ (_staring up in Count Helmaar's face_). God bless him! I've
seen him face to face at last; and now I wish in my heart I could see
his wife.

_Christina_. And so do I most sincerely: my dear brother, who has been
all his life labouring for the happiness of others, should now surely
think of making himself happy.

_Eleonora_ (_giving her hand to Helmaar_). No, leave that to me, for I
shall think of nothing else all my life.









End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales And Novels, Volume 1 (of 10), by
Maria Edgeworth

*** 