THE LITTLE DOG TRUSTY; OR, THE LIAR AND THE BOY OF TRUTH.

VERY, very little children muſt not read this ſtory, for they cannot underſtand it; they will not know what is meant by a liear, and a boy of truth.

Very little children, when they are aſked a queſtion, ſay "yes," and "no," without know⯑ing the meaning of the words; but you, chil⯑dren, who can ſpeak quite plain, and who can tell, by words, what you wiſh for, and what you want, and what you have ſeen, and what you have done; you who underſtand what is meant by the words "I have done it," or "I have not," you may read this ſtory, for you can underſtand it.

Frank and Robert were two little boys, about eight years old. Whenever Frank did any⯑thing wrong, he always told his father a [...] [xii] [...] [] [...] [2]mother of it; and when any body aſked him about any thing which he had done or ſaid, he always told the truth; ſo that every body who knew him believed him: but nobody who knew his brother Robert believed a word which he ſaid, becauſe he uſed to tell lies. Whenever he did any thing wrong, he never ran to his father and mother to tell them of it; but when they aſked him about it, he denied it, and ſaid he had not done the things which he had done. The reaſon that Robert told lies was, becauſe he was afraid of being puniſhed for his faults if he confeſſed them. He was a coward, and could not bear the leaſt pain; but Frank was a brave boy, and could bear to be puniſhed for little faults: his mother never puniſhed him ſo much for ſuch little faults, as ſhe did Ro⯑bert for the lies which he told, and which ſhe found out afterward.

One evening theſe two little boys were play⯑ing together in a room by themſelves; their mother was ironing in a room next to them, and their father was out at work in the fields, ſo there was nobody in the room with Robert and Frank; but there was a l [...]ttle dog Truſty [...]ving by the fire-ſide. Truſty was a pretty [3]playful little dog, and the children were very fond of him.

"Come," ſaid Robert to Frank, "there is Truſty lying beſide the fire aſleep, let us go and waken him, and he will play with us."—"O yes, do, let us," ſaid Frank. So they both ran to⯑gether towards the hearth to waken the dog. Now there was a baſon of milk ſtanding upon the hearth, and the little boys did not ſee where⯑abouts it ſtood, for it was behind them: as they were both playing with the dog, they kicked it with their fe [...]t, and threw it down; and the baſon broke, and all the milk ran out of it over the hearth, and about the floor; and when the little boys ſaw what they had done, they were very ſorry, and frightened, but they did not know what to do: they ſtood for ſome time looking at the broken baſon and the milk, with⯑out ſpeaking. Robert ſpoke firſt.

"So, we ſhall have no milk for ſupper to⯑night," ſaid he, and he ſighed —

"No milk for ſupper!—why not?" ſaid Frank; "is there no more milk in the houſe." "Yes, but we ſhall have none of it; for do not you remember, laſt Monday, when we threw down the milk, my mother ſaid we were very [4]careleſs, and that the next time we did ſo, we ſhould have no more,—and this is the next time; ſo we ſhall have no milk for ſupper to⯑night."

"Well, then," ſaid Frank, "we muſt do without it, that's all: we will take more care another time; there's no great harm done; come, let us run and tell my mother. You know ſhe bid us always tell her directly when we broke any thing; ſo come," ſaid he, taking hold of his brother's hand. "I will come juſt now," ſaid Robert; "don't be in ſuch a hurry, Frank—can't you ſtay a minute?" So Frank ſtayed: and then he ſaid, "Come now, Ro⯑bert." But Robert anſwered, "Stay a little longer, for I dare not go yet—I am afraid."

Little boys, I ad [...]iſe you, never be afraid to tell the truth; never ſay "ſtay a minute," and, "ſtay a little longer," but run directly, and tell of what you have done that is wrong. The longer you ſtay, the more afraid you will grow; till at laſt, perhaps, you will not d [...]re to tell the truth at all. — Hear what happened to Robert.

The longer he ſtayed, the more unwilling he was to go to tell his mother that he had thrown the milk down; and at laſt he pulled his hand [5]away from his brother, and cried, "I won't go at all; Frank, can't you go by yourſelf?" — "Yes," ſaid Frank, "ſo I will; I am not afraid to go by myſelf: I only waited for you out of good-nature, becauſe I thought you would like to tell the truth too."

"Yes, ſo I will; I mean to tell the truth when I am aſked; but I need not go now, when I do not chooſe it:—and why need you go either?—can't you wait here?—ſure [...]y my mo⯑ther can ſee the milk when ſhe comes in."— Frank ſaid no more, but, as his brother would not come, he went without him. He opened the door of the nex [...] room, where he thought his mother was ironing; but when he went in, he ſaw that ſhe was gone, and he thought ſhe was gone to fetch ſome more clothes to iron. The clothes, he kn [...]w, were hanging on the buſhes in the garden; ſo he thought his mo⯑ther was gone there, and he ran after her to tell what had happened.

Now whilſt Frank was gon [...], Robert was left in the room by himſelf; and all the while he was alone he was thinking of ſome excuſes to make to his mother, and he was ſorry that Frank was gone to tell her the truth. He ſaid [6]to himſelf, "If Frank and I both were to ſay, that we did not throw down the baſon, ſhe would believe us, and we ſhould have milk for ſupper. I am very ſorry Frank would go to tell her about it." Juſt as he ſaid this to himſelf, he heard his mother coming down ſtairs. "Oh ho!" ſaid he to himſelf, "then my mother has not been out in the garden, and ſo Frank has not met her, and cannot have told her; ſo now I may ſay what I pleaſe."

Then this naughty, cowardly boy determin⯑ed to tell his mother a lie.

She came into the room; but when ſhe ſaw the broken baſon, and the milk ſpilled, ſhe ſtop⯑ped ſhort, and cried—

"So, ſo! —what a piece of work is here! — who did this, Robert?"

"I don't know, ma'am," ſaid Robert, in a very low voice.

"You don't know, Robert! —tell me the truth—I ſhall not be angry with you, child— you will only loſe the milk at ſupper; and as for the baſon, I would rather have you break all the baſons I have, than tell me one lie.—So don't tell me a lie. —I aſk you, Robert, did you break the baſon?"

[7] "No, ma'am, I did not," ſaid Robert, and he coloured as red as fire.

"Then, where's Frank?—did he do it?" —"No mother, he did not," ſaid Robert; for he was in hopes, that when Frank came in, he ſhould perſuade him to ſay that he did not do it.

"How do you know", ſaid his mother, "that Frank did not do it?"

"Becauſe—becauſe—becauſe, ma'am," ſaid Robert, heſitating, as liars do for an excuſe— "becauſe I was in the room all the time, and I did not ſee him do it."

"Then how was the baſon thrown down? If you have been in the room all the time you can tell."

Then Robert, going on from one lie to an⯑other, anſwered—

"I ſuppoſe the dog muſt have done it."— "Did you ſee him do it?" ſays his mother. "Yes," ſaid this wicked by. "Truſty, Truſty," ſaid his mother, turning round; and Truſty, who was lying before the fire, drying his legs, which were wet with the milk, jump⯑ed up, and came to her. Then ſhe ſaid, "Fie! fie! Truſty!" and ſhe pointed to the milk. [8]"Get me a ſwitch out of the garden, Robert; Truſty muſt be be [...]t for this." Robert ran for the ſwitch, and in the garden he met his bro⯑ther: he ſtopped him, and told him, in a great hurry, all that he had ſaid to his mother; and he begged of him not to tell the truth, but to ſay the ſame as he had done.

"No, I will not tell a lie," ſaid Frank.— "What! and is Truſty to be beat!—he did not throw down the milk, and he ſhan't be beat for it—let me go to my mother."

They both ran toward the houſe; Robert got firſt home, and he locked the houſe door, that Frank might not come in. He gave the ſwitch to his mother. Poor Truſty! he looked up as the ſwitch was l [...]fted over his head, but he could not ſpeak, to tell the truth. Juſt as the blow was falling upon him, Frank's voice was heard at the window,—"Stop, ſtop! dear mo⯑ther, ſtop!" cried he, as loud as ever he could call; "Truſty did not do it—let me [...]n—I and Robert did it—but do not b [...]a [...] Robert."

"Let us in, let us in," cried another voice, which Robert k [...]ew to be his father's; "I am juſt come from work, and here's the do [...] lock⯑ed." Robert turned as pale as aſhes when he [9]heard his father's voice, for his father always whipped him when he told a lie.

His mother went to the door, and unlocked it. "What's all this?" cried his father, as he came in; ſo his mother told him all that had happened;—how the milk had been thrown down; how ſhe had aſked Robert whether he had done it; and he ſaid that he had not, nor that Frank had not done it, but that Truſty the dog had done it; how ſhe was juſt going to beat Truſty, when Frank came to the window and told the truth. "Where is the ſwitch with which you were going to beat Truſty?" ſaid the father.

Then Robert, who ſaw, by his father's looks, that he was going to beat him, fell upon his knees, and cried for mercy, ſaying, "Forgive me this time, and I will never tell a lie again."

But his father caught hold of him by the arm—"I will whip you now," ſaid he, "and then, I hope, you will not." So Robert was whipped, till he cried ſo loud with the pain, that the whole neighbourhood could hear him.

"There," ſaid his father, when he had done, "now go to ſupper; you are to have no [10]milk to night, and you have been whipped. See how liars are ſerved!" Then, turning to Frank, "Come here, and ſhake hands with me, Frank; you will have no milk for ſupper, but that does not ſignify; you have told the truth, and have not been whipped, and every body is pleaſed with you. And now I'll tell you what I will do for you—I will give you the little dog Truſly, to be your own dog. You ſhall feed him, and take care of him, and he ſhall be your dog; you have ſaved him a beating, and I'll anſwer for it you'll be a good maſter to him. Truſty, Truſty, come here." Truſty came; then Frank's father took off Truſty's collar. "To-morrow I'll go to the brazier's," added he, "and get a new collar made for your dog: from this day forward he ſhall always be called after you, Frank!—And, wife, whenever any of the neighbours' children aſk you why the dog Truſty is to be called Frank, tell them this ſtory of our two boys: let them know the difference between a liar and a boy of truth.

THE ORANGE MAN; OR, THE HONEST BOY AND THE THIEF.

CHARLES was the name of the honeſt boy; and Ned was the name of the thief. Charles never touched what was not his own; this is being an honeſt boy: Ned often took what was not his own; this is being a thief. Charles's father and mother, when he was a very little boy, had taught him to be honeſt, by always puniſhing him when he meddled with what was not his own: but when Ned took what was not his own, his father and mother did not puniſh him; ſo he grew up to be a thief.

Early one ſummer's morning, as Charles was going along the road to ſchool, he met a man leading a horſe which was laden with panniers. The man ſtopped at the door of a public-houſe which was by the road fide; and he ſaid to the landlord, who came to the door, [12]"I won't have my horſe unloaded, I ſhall only ſtop with you whilſt I eat my breakfaſt; give my horſe to ſome one to hold here on the road, and let the horſe have a little hay to eat." The landlord called, but there was no one in the way; ſo he beckoned to Charles, who was going by, and begged him to [...]old the horſe. "Oh," ſaid the man, "but can you engage him to be an honeſt boy? for theſe are oranges in my baſkets; and it is not every little boy one can leave with oranges."—"Yes," ſaid the landlord, "I have known Charles from the cradle upwards, and I never caught him in a lie or a theft; all the pariſh knows him to be an honeſt boy; I'll engage your oranges will be as ſafe with him as if you were by yourſelf."— "Can you ſo?" ſaid the orange man; "then I'll engage, my lad, to give you the fineſt orange in my baſket, when I come from break⯑faſt, if you'll watch the red whilſt I am away."— "Yes," ſaid Charles, "I will take care of your oranges." So the man put the bridle into his hand, and he went into the houſe to eat his breakfaſt.

Charles had watched the horſe and the oranges about five minutes, when he ſaw one [13]of his ſchoolfellows coming towards him; as he came nearer, Charles ſaw that it was Ned. Ned ſtopped as he paſſed, and ſaid—

"Good-morrow to you, Charles; what are you doing there? whoſe horſe is that? and what have you got in the baſkets?"—"There are oranges in the baſkets," ſaid Charles; "and a man, who has juſt gone into the inn here to eat his breakfaſt, bid me take care of them, and ſo I did; becauſe he ſaid he would give me an orange when he came back again."

"An orange!" cried Ned; "are you to have a whole orange?—I wiſh I was to have one! However, let me look how large they are." Saying this, Ned went towards the pan⯑nier, and lifted up the cloth that covered it. "La! what fine oranges!" he exclaimed, the moment he ſaw them. "Let me touch them to feel if they are ripe."

"No," ſaid Charles, "you had better not; what ſignifies it to you whether they are ripe, you know, ſince you are not to eat them. You ſhould not meddle with them, they are not yours, —you muſt not touch them." "Not touch them! ſurely," ſaid Ned, "there's no harm in touching them. You don't think I mean to ſteal [14]them, I ſuppoſe." So Ned put his hand into the orange-man's baſket, and he took up an orange, and he felt it; and when he had felt it, he ſmelled it. "It ſmells very ſweet," ſaid he, "and it feels very ripe; I long to taſte it; I will only juſt ſuck one drop of juice at the top." Saying theſe words, he put the orange to his mouth.

Little boys, who wiſh to be honeſt, beware of temptation; do not depend too much upon yourſelves; and remember, that it is eaſier to reſolve to do right at firſt, than at laſt. People are led on, by little and little, to do wrong.

The ſight of the oranges tempted Ned to touch them; the touch tempted him to ſmell them; and the ſmell tempted him to taſte them.

"What are you about, Ned?" cried Charles, taking hold of his arm. "You ſaid, you only wanted to ſmell the orange; do, put it down, for ſhame!"

"Don't ſay for ſhame to me," cried Ned, in a ſurly tone; the oranges are not your's, Charles!" — "No, they are not mine, but I promiſed to take care of them, and ſo I will: — ſo put down that orange!"

[15] "Oh, if it comes to that, I won't," ſaid Ned, and let us ſee who can make me, if I don't chooſe it; — I'm ſtronger than you."

"I am not afraid of you for all that," re⯑plied Charles, "for I am in the right." Then he ſnatched the orange out of Ned's hand, and he puſhed him with all his force from the baſket. Ned, immediately returning, hit him a violent blow, which almoſt ſtunned him. Still, how⯑ever, this good boy, without minding the pain, perſevered in defending what was left in his care; he ſtill held the bridle with one hand, and covered the baſket with his other arm, as well as he could. Ned ſtruggled in vain, to get his hands into the pannier again; he could not; and, finding that he could not win by ſtrength, he had recourſe to cunning. So he pretended to be out of breath and to deſiſt; but he meant, as ſoon as Charles looked away, to creep ſoftly round to the baſket, on the other ſide. Cunning people, though they think themſelves very wiſe, are almoſt always very ſilly.

Ned, intent upon one thing, the getting round to ſteal the oranges, forgot that if he went too cloſe to the horſe's heels, he ſhould [16]ſtartle him. The horſe indeed, diſturbed by the buſtle near him, had already left off eating his hay, and began to put down his ears; but when he felt ſomething touch his hind legs, he gave a ſudden kick, and Ned fell backwards, juſt as he had ſeized the orange.

Ned ſcreamed with the pain; and at the ſcream all the people came out of the public houſe to ſee what was the matter; and amongſt them came the orange-man.

Ned was now ſo much aſhamed, that he almoſt forgot the pain, and wiſhed to run away; but he was ſo much hurt, that he was obliged to ſit down again. The truth of the matter was ſoon told by Charles, and as ſoon believed by all the people preſent who knew him: for he had the character of being an honeſt boy, and Ned was known to be a thief and a liar.

So nobody pitied Ned for the pain he felt. "He deſerves it," ſays one. "Why did he meddle with what was not his own?" —"Pugh! he is not much hurt, I'll anſwer for it," ſaid another. "And if he was, it's a lucky kick for him, if it keeps him from the gallows," ſays a third. Charles was the only perſon who ſaid nothing; he helped Ned away to a bank. For brave boys are always good-natured.

[17] "Oh, come here," ſaid the orange-man, calling him; "come here, my honeſt lad! what! you got that black eye in keeping my oranges, did you? — that's a flout little fellow," ſaid he, taking him by the hand, and leading him into the midſt of the people. Men, wo⯑men, and children, had gathered around, and all the children fixed their eyes upon Charles, and wiſhed to be in his place.

In the mean time the orange man took Charles's hat off his head, and filled it with fine China oranges. "There, my little friend," ſaid he, "take them, and God bleſs you with them! If I could but afford it, you ſhould have all that is in my baſket."

Then the people, and eſpecially the children, ſhouted for joy; but as ſoon as there was ſilence, Charles ſaid to the orange-man, "Thank's, maſter, with all my heart; but I can't take your oranges, only that one I earned; take the reſt back again: as for a black eye, that's no⯑thing! but I won't be paid for it; no more than for doing what's honeſt. So I can't take your oranges, maſter; but I thank you as much as if I had them." Saying theſe words, Charles offered to pour the oranges back into the baſket, bat the man would not let him.

[18] "Then," ſaid Charles, "if they are honeſtly mine, I may give them away;" ſo he emptied the hat amongſt the children his companions. "Divide them amongſt you," ſaid he; and without waiting for their thanks, he preſſed through the crowd, and ran towards home. The children all followed him, clapping their hands, and thanking him.

The little thief came limping after. Nobody praiſed him, nobody thanked him; he had no oranges to eat, nor had he any to give away. People muſt be honeſt, before they can be generous. Ned ſighed as he went towards home; "And all this," ſaid he to himſelf, "was for one orange; it was not worth while." No. It is never worth while to do wrong. Little boys who read this ſtory, conſider which would you rather have been, the honeſt boy, or the thief.

TARLTON.

YOUNG Hardy was educated by Mr. Free⯑man, a very good maſter, at one of the Sunday ſchools in —ſhire. He was honeſt, obedient, active, and good-natured; ſo that he was eſ⯑teemed and beloved by his maſter, and by his companions. Beloved by all his companions who were good, he did not deſire to be loved by the bad; nor was he at all vexed or aſhamed, when idle, miſchievous, or diſhoneſt boys at⯑tempted to plague or ridicule him. His friend Loveit, on the contrary, wiſhed to be univer⯑ſally liked; and his higheſt ambition was to be thought the beſt natured boy in the ſchool:— and ſo he was. He uſually went by the name of poor Loveit, and every body pitied him when he got into diſgrace, which he frequently did; for though he had a good diſpoſition, he was often led to do things, which he knew to be wrong, merely becauſe he could never have the courage to ſay, no; becauſe he was afraid to offend the ill-natured, and could not bear to be laughed at by fools.

[20] One fine autumn evening, all the boys were permitted to go out to play in a pleaſant green meadow, near the ſchool. Loveit, and another boy, called Tarlton, began to play a game at battledore and ſhuttlecock, and a large party ſtood by to look on; for they were the beſt players at battledore and ſhuttlecock in the ſchool, and this was a trial of ſkill between them. When they had kept it up to three hundred and twenty, the game became very in⯑tereſting: the arms of the combatants grew ſo tired, that they could ſcarcely wield the battle⯑dores: —the ſhuttlecock began to waver in the air; now it almoſt touched the ground, and now, to the aſtoniſhment of the ſpectators, mounted again high over their heads; yet the ſtrockes became fe [...]bler and feebler; and "now Loveit!" "now Tarlton!" reſounded on all ſides. For another minute the victory was doubtful; but at length, the ſetting ſun ſhining full in Loveit's face ſo dazzled his eyes, that he could no longer ſee the ſhuttlecock, and it fell at his feet.

After the firſt ſhout for Tarlton's triumph was over, every body exclaimed, "Poor Loveit!" —he's the beſt natured fellow in the world!— [21]what a pity that he did not ſtand with his black to the ſun."

"Now I dare you all to play another game with me," cried Tarlton, vauntingly; and as he ſpoke, he toſſed the ſhuttlecock up with all his force: with ſo much force, that it went over the hedge, and dropped into a lane, which went cloſe beſide the field. "Hey-day!" ſaid Tarl⯑ton, "what ſhall we do now?"

The boys were ſtrictly forbidden to go into the lane; and it was upon their promiſe not to break this command, that they were allowed to play in the adjoining field.

No other ſhuttlecock was to be had, and their play was ſtopped. They ſtood on the top of the bank peeping over the hedge. "I ſee it yonder," ſaid Tarlton; "I wiſh any body would get it. One could get over the gate at the bottom of the field, and be back again in half a minute," added he, looking at Loveit. "But you know we muſt not go into the lane," ſaid Loveit, heſitatingly. "Pugh!" ſaid Tarl⯑ton, "why now what harm could it do?"— "I don't know," ſaid Loveit, drumming upon his battledore; "but—" "You don't know, man! why then what are you afraid of? I aſk [22]you."—Loveit coloured, went on drumming, and again, in a lower voice, ſaid "he didn't know." But upon Tarlton's repeating, in a more inſolent tone, "I aſk you, man, what you're afraid of?" he ſuddenly left off drum⯑ming, and looking round, ſaid, "he was not afraid of any thing that he knew of."—"Yes, but you are," ſaid Hardy, coming forward. "Am I," ſaid Loveit; "of what, pray, am I afraid?" "Of doing wrong!" "Afraid of doing wrong!" repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, ſo that he made every body laugh. "Now hadn't you better ſay, afraid of being flogged?" —"No," ſaid Hardy, coolly, after the laugh had ſomewhat ſubſided, "I am as little afraid of being flogged as you are, Tarlton; but I meant—" "No matter what you meant; why ſhould you interfere with your wiſdom, and your meanings; nobody thought of aſking you to ſtir a ſtep for us; but we aſked Loveit, be⯑cauſe he's the beſt fellow in the world."—"And for that very reaſon you ſhould not aſk him, becauſe you know he can't refuſe you any thing?" "Indeed though," cried Loveit, piqued, "there you're miſtaken, for I could refuſe if I choſe it." Hardy ſmiled; and Loveit, [23]half afraid of his contempt, and half afraid of Tarlton's ridicule, ſtood doubtful, and again had recourſe to his battledore, which he ba⯑lanced moſt curiouſly upon his fore finger. "Look at him!—now do look at him!" cried Tarlton; "did you ever in your life ſee any body look ſo ſilly!—Hardy has him quite under thumb; he's ſo mortally afraid of Parſon Prig, that he dare not, for the ſoul of him, turn ei⯑ther of his eyes from the tip of his noſe; look how he ſquints!"—"I don't ſquint," ſaid Loveit, looking up, "and nobody has me under his thumb; and what Hardy ſaid, was only for fear I ſhould get into diſgrace:—he's the beſt friend I have." Loveit ſpoke this with more than uſual ſpirit, for both his heart and his pride were touched. "Come along them," ſaid Hardy, taking him by the arm in an affectionate manner; and he was juſt going, when Tarl⯑ton called after him, "Ay, go along with its beſt friend, and take care it does not get into a ſcrape;—good by, Little Panado!"—"Who do they call Little Panado," ſaid Loveit, turn⯑ing his head haſtily back. "Never mind," ſaid Hardy, "what does it ſignify?"—"No," ſaid Loveit, "to be ſure it does not ſignify; [24]but one does not like to be called Little Pa⯑nado: beſides," added he, after going a few ſteps farther, "they'll all think it ſo ill-natured. —I had better go back, and juſt tell them, that I'm very ſorry I can't get their ſhuttlecock;— do come back with me."— ‘No, ſaid Hardy, I can't go back; and you'd better not.’ "But, I aſſure you, I won't ſtay a minute; wait for me," added Loveit; and he ſlunk back again to prove that he was not Little Pa⯑nado.

Once returned, the reſt followed of courſe; for to ſupport his character for good-nature, he was obliged to yield to the entreaties of his companions, and to ſhew his ſpirit, leapt over the gate, amidſt the acclamations of the little mob:—he was quickly out of ſight.

"Here," cried he, returning in about five minutes, quite out of breath, "I've got the ſhuttlecock; and I'll tell you what I've ſeen," cried he, panting for breath. "What?" cried every body, eagerly. "Why, juſt at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane," panting. "Well," ſaid Tariton, impatiently, "do go on."—"Let me juſt take breath firſt." "Pugh! never mind your breath."—"Well then, juſt [25]at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane, as I was looking about for the ſhuttlecock, I heard a great ruſtling ſomewhere near-me, and ſo I looked where it could come from; and I ſaw, in a nice little garden, on the oppoſite ſide of the way, a boy, about as big as Tarlton, ſitting in a great tree, ſhaking the branches; and at every ſhake down there came ſuch a ſhower of ſine large roſy apples, they made my mouth water: ſo I called to the boy, to beg one; but he ſaid, he could not give me one, for that they were his grandfather's; and juſt at that minute, from behind a gooſeberry buſh, up popped the uncle—the grandfather poked his head out of the window; ſo I ran off as faſt as my legs would carry me, though I heard him bawling after me all the way."

"And let him bawl," cried Tarlton, "he ſhan't bawl for nothing; I'm determined we'll have ſome of his fine large roſy apples before I ſleep to-night."—At this ſpeech a general ſilence enſued; every body kept their eyes fixed upon Tarlton, except Loveit, who looked down, apprehenſive that he ſhould be drawn on much farther than he intended.—"Oh, indeed!" ſaid he to himſelf, "as Hardy told me, I had better not have come back!"

[26] Regardleſs of this confuſion, Tarlton conti⯑nued, "But before I ſay any more, I hope we have no ſpies amongſt us. If there is any one of you afraid to be ſlogged, let him march off this inſtant!"—Loveith coloured, bit his lips, wiſhed to go, but had not the courage to move firſt.—He waited to ſee what every body elſe would do;—nobody ſtirred;—ſo Loveit ſtood ſtill.

"Well then," cried Tarlton, giving his hand to the boy next him, then to the next, "your word and honour that you won't betray me; but ſtand by me, and I'il ſtand by you."—Each boy gave his hand, and his promiſe; repeating "ſtand by me, and I'll ſtand by you."—Loveit hung back till the laſt; and had almoſt twiſted off the butten of the boy's coat who ſereened him, when Tarlton came up, holding out his hand, "Come, Loveit, lad, you're in for it: Stand by me, and I'll ſtand by you."—" In⯑deed, Tarlton," expoſtulated he, without look⯑ing him in the ſace, "I do wiſh you'd give up this ſeheme; I dare ſay all the apples are gone by this time;—I wiſh you would—Do, pray, give up this ſcheme."—"What ſeheme, man! you hav [...]n [...]t heard it yet; you may as well know [27]your text before you begin preaching." The corners of Loveit's mouth could not refuſe to ſmile, though in his heart he felt not the ſlighteſt inclination to laugh. "Why I don't know you, I declare I don't know you to-day," ſaid Tarlton; "you uſed to be the beſt natured, moſt agreeable lad in the world, and would do any thing one aſked you; but you're quite al⯑tered of late, as we were ſaying juſt now, when you ſkulked away with Hardy: come, do man, pluck up a little ſpirit, and be one of us, or you'll make us all have you." "Hate me!" repeated Loveit, with terror; "no, ſurely, you won't all Hate me!" and he mechanically ſtretched out his hand, which Tarlton ſhook violently, ſaying, "Ay, now, that's right."— "Ay, now, that's wren [...]!" whiſpered Loveit's conſcience; but his conſcience was of no uſe to him, for it was always overpowered by the voice of numbers; and though he had the wiſh, he never had the power, to do right. "Poor Loveit! I knew he would not refuſe us," cried his companions; and even Tarlton. the mo⯑ment he ſhook hands with him, deſpiſed him. It is certain, that weakneſs of mind is deſpiſed both by the good and by the bad.

[28] The league being thus formed, Tarlton aſ⯑ſumed all the airs of a commander, explained his ſchemes, and laid the plan of attack, upon the poor old man's apple tree. It was the only one he had in the world. We ſhall not dwell upon their confultation, for the amuſement of contriving ſuch expeditions is often the chief thing which induces idle boys to engage in them.

There was a ſmall window at the end of the back ſtaireaſe, through which, between nine and ten o'clock at night, Tarlton, accompanied by Loveit and another boy, crept out. It was a moonlight night, and, after croſſing the field, and climbing the gate, directed by Loveit, who now reſol [...]ed to go through the affair with ſpi⯑rit, they proceeded down the lane with raſh, yet fearful ſhops. At a diſtance Loveit ſ [...]w the write-waſhed cottage, and the apple tree beſide it: they quickened their pace, and with ſome difficulty ſcrambled through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not without being ſcratched and [...]o [...] by the briars. Every thing was ſilent. Yet now and then at every ruſtling of the leaves they ſtarted, and their hearts beat violently. Once as Loveit was climbing the apple tree, he thought he heard a door in the [29]cottage open, and earneſtly begged his com⯑panions to deſiſt and return home. This how⯑ever he could, by no means, perſuade them to do, until they had filled their pockets with ap⯑ples; then, to his great joy, they returned, crept in at the ſtaircaſe window, and each re⯑tired, as ſoftly as poſſible, to his own apart⯑ment.

Love it ſlept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left taſt aſleep, and whom he now was extremely afraid of wakening. All the apples were emptied out of Loverit's pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the morning, for fear the ſmell ſhould betray the ſecret to Hardy. The [...]oom door was apt to creak, but it was opened with ſuch precaution, that no noiſe could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as faſt aſleep as when he left him.

"Ah," ſaid he to himſelf, "how quietly he ſleeps! I wiſh I had been ſleeping too." The reproaches of Loveit's conſcience, however, ſerved no other purpoſe but to torment him; he had not ſufficient ſtrength of mind to be good. The very next night, in ſpite of all his fears, and all his penitence, and all his reſolutions, by a little freſh ridicule and perſuaſion he was in⯑duced [30]to accompany the ſame party on a ſimilar expedition. We muſt obſerve, that the neceſ⯑ſity for continuing their depredations became ſtronger the third day; for, though at firſt only a ſmall party had been in the ſecret, by degrees it was divulged to the whole ſchool; and it was neceſſary to ſecure ſecreſy by ſharing the booty.

Every one was aſtoniſhed, that Hardy, with all his quickneſs and penetration, had not yet diſcovered their proceedings; but Loveit could not help ſuſpecting that he was not quite ſo ig⯑norant as he appeared to be. Loveit had ſtrictly kept his promiſe of ſecreſy, but he was by no means an artful boy; and in talking to his friend, conſcious that he had ſomething to con⯑ceal, he was perpetually on the point of betray⯑ing himſelf; then recollecting his engagement, he bluſhed, ſtammered, bungled; and upon Hardy's aſking what he meant, would anſwer with a filly guilty countenance, that he did not know; or abruptly break off, ſaying, Oh no⯑thing! nothing at all!

It was in vain that he urged Tarlton to per⯑mit him to conſult his friend; a gloom over⯑ſpread Tarlton's brow when he began to ſpeak on the ſubject, and he always returned a pe⯑remptory [31]refuſal, accompanied with ſome ſuch taunting expreſſion as this—"I wiſh we had nothing to do with ſuch a ſneaking ſellow. He'll betray us all, I ſee, before we have done with him."—"Well," ſaid Loveit to himſelf, "ſo I am abuſed after all, and called a ſneaking fellow for my pains; that's rather hard to be ſure, when l've got ſo little by the job."

In truth he had not got much, for in the di⯑viſion of the booty only one apple, and a half of another which was only half ripe, happened to fall to his ſhare; though, to be ſure, when they had all eaten their apples, he had the ſa⯑tisfaction to hear every body declare they were very ſorry they had forgotten to offer ſome of theirs to "poor Loveit!"

In the mean time the viſits to the apple tree had been now too frequently repeated to remain concealed from the old man, who lived in the cottage. He uſed to examine his only tree very frequently, and miſſing numbers of [...]oſy apples which he had watched ripening, he, though not much prome to ſuſpicion, began to think that there was ſomething going wrong; eſpecially as a gap was made in his hedge, and there were ſeveral ſmall footſteps in his flower beds.

[32] The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to any living creature, much leſs to children, of whom he was particularly fond. Nor was he in the leaſt avaricious, for though he was not rich, he had enough to live upon, becauſe he had been very induſtrious in his youth; and he was always very ready to part with the little he had; nor^t was he a croſs old man. If any thing would have made him angry, it would have been the ſeeing his fa⯑vourite tree ro [...] bed, as he had promiſed himſelf the pleaſure of gaving his red apples to his grand⯑children on his birth-day. However he looked up at the tree in ſorrow rather than in anger, and leaning upon his ſtaff, he began to con⯑ſider what he had beſt do.

"If I complain to their maſter," ſaid he to himſelf, "they will certainly be flogged, and that I ſhould be ſorry for; yet they muſt not be let to go on ſtealing, that would be worſe ſtill, for that would ſurely bring them to the gallows in the end. Let me ſee—oh, ay, that will do; I will borrow farmer Kent's dog Barker, he'll keep them off, I'll anſwer for it."

Father Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour at the ſame time, to be ſure to [33]chain him well, for he was the fierceſt maſtiff in England. The old man, with farmer Kent's aſſiſtance, chained him faſt to the trunk of the apple tree.

Night came, and Tarlton, Loveit, and his companions, returned at the uſual hour. Grown bolder now by frequent ſucceſs, they came on talking and laughing. But the moment they had ſet their ſoot in the garden, the dog ſtarted up; and, ſhaking his chain as he ſprang forward, barked with unremitting fury. They ſtood ſtill as if fixed to the ſpot. There was juſt moonlight enough to ſee the dog. "Let us try the other ſide of the tree," ſaid Tarlton. But to which ever ſide they turned the dog flew round in an inſtant, barking with encreaſed fury.

"He'll break his chain and tear us to pieces," cried Tarlton; and, ſtruck with ter or, he immediately threw down the baſket he had brought with him, and betook himſelf to flight with the greateſt precipitation. — "Help me! oh, pray, help me! I cant't get through the he ge," cried Loveit in a lamentable tone, whilſt the dog growled hideouſly, and ſprang forward to the extremity of his chain. — "I [34]can't get out! Oh, for God's ſake, ſtay for me one minute, dear Tarlton!"

He called in vain, he was left to ſtruggle through his difficulties by himſelf; and of all his dear friends, not one turned back to help him. At laſt, torn and terrified, he got through the hedge and ran home, deſpiſing his compa⯑nions for their ſelfiſhneſs. Nor could he help obſerving, that Tarlton, with all his vaunted proweſs, was the firſt to run away from the appearance of danger The next morning he could not help reproaching the party with their conduct. — "Why could not you, any of you, ſtay one minute to help me?" ſaid he. "We did not hear you call," anſwered one. "I was ſo frightened," ſaid another, "I would not have turned back for the whole world." — "And you, Tarlton?" — "I," ſaid Tarlton. "Had not I enough to do to take care of myſelf, you blockhead? Every one for himſelf in this world!" "So I ſee," ſaid Loveit gravely. "Well, man! is there any thing ſtrange in that" — "Strange! why yes, I thought you all loved me?" "Lord, love you, lad! ſo we do; but we love ourſelves better." — "Hardy would not have ſerved me ſo, however," ſaid [35]Loveit, turning away in diſguſt. Tarlton was alarmed. — "Pugh!" ſaid he; "what nonſenſe have you taken into your brain? Think no more about it. We are all very ſorry, and beg your pardon; come, ſhake hands, for give and forget." Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly. — "I forgive it with all my heart," ſaid he, "but I cannot forget it ſo ſoon!" — "Why then you are not ſuch a good-humoured follow as we thought you were. Surely you cannot bear malice, Loveit." Loveit ſmiled, and allowed that n [...] certainly could not bear malice. "Well then, come; you know at the bottom we all love you, and would do any thing in the world for you." Poor Loveit, flattered in his foible, began to believe that they did love him at the bottom, as they ſaid, and even with [...]i [...] eyes open conſented again to be duped.

"How ſtrange it is," thought he, "that I ſhould ſet ſuch value upon the love of thoſe I deſpiſe! When I'm once out of this ſcrape, I'll have no more to do with them, I'm deter⯑mined."

Compared with his friend Hardy, his new aſſociates did indeed appear contemptible; for [36]all this time Hardy had treated him with uni⯑form kindneſs, avoided to pry into his ſecrets, yet ſeemed ready to receive his confidence, if it had been offered.

After ſchool in the evening, as he was ſtand⯑ing ſilently beſide Hardy, who was ruling a ſheet of paper for him, Tarlton, in his brutal manner, came up, and ſeizing him by the arm, cried, "Come along with me, Loveit, I've ſomething to ſay to you." — "I can't come now," ſaid Loveit, drawing away his arm. —"Ah, do come now," ſaid Tarlton in a voice of perſuaſion. — "Well, I'll come preſently." — "Nay, but do, pray; there's a good fellow, come now, becauſe I've ſomething to ſay to you." — "What is it you've got to ſay to me? I wiſh you'd let me alone," ſaid Loveit; yet at the ſame time he ſuffered himſelf to be led away.

Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring him into temper again; and even, though he was not very apt to part with his play-things, went ſo far as to ſay, "Loveit, the other day you wanted a top; I'll give you mine, if you deſire it." — Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the thoughts of poſſeſſing [37]this top. "But what did you want to ſay to me juſt now?" — "Aye, we'll talk of that pre⯑ſently — not yet — when we get out of hearing." — "Nobody is near us," ſaid Loveit. — "Come a little farther, however," ſaid Tarlton, look⯑ing round ſuſpiciouſly — "Well now, well?" "You know the dog that frightened us ſo laſt night?" — "Yes." — "It will never frighten us again." — "Won't it? how ſo?" — "Look here," ſaid Tarlton, drawing from his pocket ſomething wrapped in a blue handkerchief. — "What's that?" Tarlton opened it. "Raw meat!" exclaimed Loveit. "How came you by it?" — "Tom, the ſervant boy, Tom got it for me, and I'm to give him ſixpence." — "And is it for the dog?" — "Yes; I vowed I'd be re⯑venged on him, and after this he'll never bark again." — "Never bark again! — What do you mean? — Is it poiſon?' exclaimed Loveit, ſ [...]ing back with horror. "Only poiſon for [...]," ſaid Tarlton, confuſed; "you could not look more ſhocking if it was poiſon for a [...]ſtia [...]." Loveit ſtood for nearly a minute in profound ſilence. "Tarlton," ſaid he, at laſts in a changed tone and altered manner, "I did not know you; I will have no more to do [38]with you." — "Nay, but ſtay," ſaid Tarlton, catching hold of his arm, "ſtay; I was only joking." — "Let go my arm, you were in ear⯑neſt." — "But then that was before I knew there was any harm. If you think there's any harm?" — "If," ſaid Loveit. "Why you know, I might not know; for Tom told me it's a thing that's often done; aſk Tom." — "I'll aſk nobody! Surely we know better what's right and wrong than Tom does." — "But only juſt aſk him, to hear what he'll ſay." — "I dont' want to hear what he'll ſay," cried Loveit vehemently. "The dog will die in agonies — in horrid agonies! There was a dog poiſoned at my father's, I ſaw him in the yard. — Poor creature! he lay, and howled, and writhed himſelf!" — "Poor creature! — Well, there's no harm done now," cried Tarlton, in an hypocritical tone. But though he thought ſit to diſſemble with Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his purpoſe.

Poor Loveit, in haſte to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his mind was in ſuch agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like himſelf; and two or three times his heart was ſo full that he was ready to burſt into tears.

[39] "How good-natured you are to me," ſaid he to Hardy, as he was trying vainly to entertain him; "but if you knew—." Here he ſtopped ſhort, for the bell for evening prayer rang, and they all took their places, and knelt down. After prayers, as they were going to bed, Loveit ſtopped Tarlton—"Well!" aſked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing his eyes upon him;— "Well!" replied Tarlton, in an audacious tone, as if he meant to ſet his inquiring eye at defiance; — "what do you mean to do to night?"—"To go to ſleep, as you do, I ſup⯑poſe," I plied Tarlton, turning away abruptly, and whiſtling as he walked off.

"Oh, he has certainly changed his mind!" ſaid Leveit to himſelf, "elſe he could not whiſtle." About t [...]n minutes after this, as he and Herdy were undreſſing, Hardy ſuddenly re⯑collected that he had left his new kite out upon the graſs. "Oh," ſaid he, "it will be quite ſpoiled before morning!"—"Call Tom," ſaid Loveit, "and bid him bring it in for you in a minute." They both went to the top of the ſtairs to call Tom; no one anſwered. They called again louder. "Is Tom below?"— "I'm here," anſwered he at laſt, coming out [40]of Tarlton's room with a look of mixed embar⯑raſſment and effrontery. And as he was re⯑ceiving Hardy's commiſſion, Loveit ſaw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of his pocket. This excited freſh ſuſpicions in Loveit's mind; but, without ſaying one word, he immediately ſtationed himſelf at the window in his room, which looked out towards the lane; and, as the moon was riſen, he could ſee if any one paſſed that way. "What are you doing there?" ſaid Hardy, after he had been watching ſome time; why don't you come to bed?" Loveit returned no anſwer, but continued ſtand⯑ing at the window. Nor did he watch long in vain; preſently he ſaw Tom gliding ſlowly along a by-path, and get over the gate into the lane.

"He's gone to do it!" exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an emotion which he could not command. "Who's gone! to do what!" cried Hardy, ſtarting up. "How cruel, how wicked!" continued Loveit. "What's cruel —what's wicked? ſpeak out at once!" re⯑turned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in moments of danger, ſtrong minds feel them⯑ſelves entitled to aſſume towards weak ones. [41]Loveit inſtantly, though in an incoherent man⯑ner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the words paſſed his lips, when Hardy ſprang up, and began dreſſing himſelf without ſaying one ſyllable. "For God's ſake, what are you go⯑ing to do?" ſaid Loveit in great anxiety. "They'll never forgive me! don't betray me! they'll never forgive me! pray ſpeak to me! only ſay you won't betray us."—"I will not betray you, truſt to me," ſaid Hardy; and he left the room, and Loveit ſtood in amazement: whilſt, in the mean time, Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all poſſible ſpeed acroſs the meadow, and then down the lane. He came up with Tom juſt as he was climbing the bank into the old man's garden. Hardy, too mūch out of breath to ſpeak, ſeized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with a firm graſp whilſt he panted for utterance— "What, maſter Hardy, is it you? what's the matter? what do you want?"—"I want the poiſoned meat that you have in your pocket." —"Who told you that I had any ſuch thing," ſaid Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket. "Give it me quietly, and I'll let you [42]off."—"Sir, upon my word I hav'n't? I didn't? I don't know what you mean," ſaid Tom trembling, though he was by far the ſtrongeſt of the two; "indeed I don't know what you mean."—"You do," ſaid Hardy, with great indignation, and a violent ſtruggle immediately commenced. The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrage⯑ouſly. Tom was terrified leſt the old man ſhould come out to ſee what was the matter; his ſtrength forſook him, and flinging the hand⯑kerchief and meat over the hedge, he ran away with all his ſpeed. The handkerchief fell with⯑in the reach of the dog, who inſtantly ſhapped at it: luckily it did not come untied. Hardy ſaw a pitchfork on a dunghill cloſe beſide him, and ſeizing upon it, ſtuck it into the handker⯑chief. The dog pull [...]d, tore, growled, grappled, yelled; it was impoſſible to get the handker⯑chief from between his teeth; but the knot was looſed, the meat unperceived by the dog drop⯑ped out, and while he dragged off the hand⯑kerchief in triumph, Hardy with inexpre [...]le joy plunged the pitchfork into the poiſoned meat, and bore it away.

[43] Never did hero retire with more ſatisfaction from a field of battle. Full of the pleaſure of ſucceſsful benevolence, Hardy tripped joyfully home, and vaulted over the window-fill, when the firſt object he beheld was Mr. Power, the uſher, ſtanding at the head of the ſtairs, with his candle in his hand.

"Come up, whoever you are," ſaid Mr. William Power in a ſtern voice; I thought I ſhould find you out at laſt. Come up, who⯑ever you are!" Hardy obeyed without reply.— "Hardy!" exclaimed Mr. Power, ſtarting back with aſtoniſhment; "is it you, Mr. Har⯑dy?" repeated he, holding the light to his face. "Why, Sir, ſaid he in a ſneering tone, "I'm ſure, if Mr. Trueman was here, he wouldn't believe his own eyes; but for my part, I ſaw through you long ſince, I never liked ſaints for my ſhare. Will you pleaſe to do me the fa⯑vour, Sir, if it is not too much trouble, to empty year pockets.—Hardy obeyed in ſilence. "Hey day! meat! raw meat! what next?"— "That's all," ſaid Hardy, emptying his pockets inſide out. "This is all," ſaid Mr. Power, taking up the meat.—"Pray, Sir," ſaid Hardy eagerly, "let that meat be burned, it is poiſon⯑ed." [44]—"Poiſoned!" cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop out of his fingers; "you wretch!" looking at him with a menacing air, "what is all this? Speak." Hardy was ſilent. "Why don't you ſpeak?" cried he, ſhaking him by the ſhoulder impatiently. Still Hardy was ſilent. "Down upon your knees this minute, and con⯑feſs all, tell me where you've been, what you've been doing, and who are your accomplices, for I know there is a gang of you: ſo," added he, preſſing heavily upon Hardy's ſhoulder, "down upon your knees this minute, and confeſs the whole, that's your only way now to get off yourſelf. If you hope for my pardon, I can tell you it's not to be had without aſking for."—"Sir," ſaid Hardy, in a firm but reſpectful voice, "I have no pardon to aſk, I have nothing to confeſs, I am innocent; but if I were not, I would never try to get off myſelf by betraying my companions."—"Very well, Sir! very well! very fine! ſtick to it, ſtick to it, I adviſe you— and we ſhall ſee. And how will you look to⯑morrow, Mr. Innocent, when my uncle the Doctor comes home?" "As I do now, Sir," ſaid Hardy, unmoved. His compoſure threw Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance. [45]"Sir," continued Hardy, "ever ſince I have been at ſchool, I never told a lie, and therefore, Sir, I hope you will believe me now. Upon my word and honour, Sir, I have done nothing wrong."—"Nothing wrong? Better and bet⯑ter! what, when I catched you going out at night?"—"That to be ſure was wrong," ſaid Hardy, recollecting himſelf; "but except that—" "Except that, Sir! I will except no⯑thing. Come along with me, young gentle⯑man, your time for pardon is paſt." Saying theſe words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow paſſage to a ſmall cloſet, ſet apart for deſperate offenders, and uſually known by the name of the Black Hole. "There, Sir, take up your lodging there for to-night," ſaid he, puſhing him in; "to-morrow I'll know more, or I'll know why," added he, double locking the door, with a tremendous noiſe, upon his priſoner, and lock⯑ing alſo the door at the end of the paſſage, ſo that no one could have acceſs to him. "So now I think I have you ſafe!" ſaid Mr. Wil⯑liam Power to himſelf, ſtalking off with ſteps which made the whole gallery reſound, and which made many a guilty heart tremble. The converſation which had paſſed between [46]Hardy and Mr. Power at the head of the ſtairs had been anxiouſly liſtened to, but only a word or two here and there had been diſtinctly over⯑heard. The locking of the black hole door was a terrible ſound—ſome knew not what it portended, and others, knew too well; all aſſem⯑bled in the morring with faces of anxiety. Tarlton's and Loveit's were the moſt agitated. Tarlton for himſelf; Loveit for his friend, for himſelf, for every body. Every one of the party, and Tarlton at their head, ſurrounded him with reproaches; and conſidered him as the author of the evils which hung over them. "How could you do ſo? and why did you ſay any thing to Hardy about it? when you had promiſed too! Oh what ſhall we all do! what a ſerape you have brought us into! Loveit, it's all your fault!"—"All my fault!" repeated poor Loveit, with a ſigh; "well, that is hard."

"Goodneſs! there's the bell," exclaimed a number of voices at once. "Now for it!" They all ſtood in a half circle for morning prayers! they liſtened, "Here he is coming! No—Yes—Here he is!" And Mr. William Power, with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place at the head of the room. [47]They knelt down to prayers, and the moment they roſe Mr. William Power, laying his hand upon the table, cried, "Stand ſtill, gentlemen, if you pleaſe." Every body ſtood ſto [...]k ſtill; he walked out of the circle; they gueſſed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole room was in commotion. Each with eagerneſs aſk⯑ed each what none could anſwer, "Has be t [...]ld?" —"What has he t [...]ld?"—"Who has he told of?"—"I hope he has not told of me?" cried they. "I'll anſwer for it he has told of all of us," ſaid Tarlton. "And I'll anſwer for it he has told of none of us," anſwered Loveit, with a ſigh. "You don't think he's ſuch a fool, when he can get himſelf off," ſaid Tarlton.

At this inſtant the priſoner was led in, and as he paſſed through the circle, every eye was fixed upon him; his eye turned upon no one, not even upon Loveit, who pulled him by the coat as he paſſed—every one felt almoſt afraid to breathe.—"Well, Sir," ſaid Mr. Power, ſitting down in Mr. Trueman's ell [...]ow chair, and placing the priſoner oppoſite to him; "well, Sir, what have you to ſay to me this morning?" —"Nothing, Sir," anſwered Hardy, in a de⯑cided yet modeſt manner; "nothing but what [48]I ſaid laſt night."—"Nothing more?"—"No⯑thing more, Sir."—"But I have ſomething more to ſay to you, Sir, then; and a great deal more, I promiſe you, before I have done with you; and then ſeizing him in a fury, he was juſt going to give him a ſevere flogging, when the ſchool-room door opened, and Mr. True⯑man appeared, followed by an old man whom Loveit immediately knew. He leaned upon his ſtick as he walked, and in his other hand carried a baſket of apples. When they came within the circle, Mr. Trueman ſtopped ſhort— "Hardy!" exclaimed he, with a voice of un⯑ſeigned ſurpriſe, whilſt Mr. William Power ſtood with his hand ſuſpended.—"Aye, Hardy, Sir," repeated he. "I told him you'd not be⯑lieve your own eyes."—Mr. Trueman ad⯑vanced with a ſlow ſtep. "Now, Sir, give me leave," ſaid the Uſher, eagerly drawing him aſide and whiſpering.—"So, Sir," ſaid Mr. T. when the whiſper was done, addreſſing himſelf to Hardy with a voice and manner, which, had he been guilty, muſt have pierced him to the heart, "I find I have been deceived in you— it is but three hours ago that I told your uncle I never had a boy in my ſchool in whom I [49]placed ſo much confidence; but, after all this ſhow of honour and integrity, the moment my back is turned, you are the firſt to ſet an ex⯑ample of diſobedience to my orders. Why do I talk of diſobeying my commands, you are a thief!"—"I, Sir," exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repreſs his feelings.—"You, Sir—you and ſome others," ſaid Mr. Trueman, looking round the room with a penetrating glance— "you and ſome others—" "Aye, Sir," inter⯑rupted Mr. William Power, "get that out of him if you can—aſk him."—"I will aſk him nothing; I ſhall neither put his truth or his honour to the trial; truth and honour are not to be expected amongſt thieves." "I am not a thief! I have never had any thing to do with thieves," cried Hardy, indignantly. "Have not you robbed this old man? don't you know the taſte of theſe apples?" ſaid Mr. Trueman, taking one out of the baſket. "No, Sir, I do not; I never touched one of that old man's apples."—"Never touched one of them! I ſup⯑poſe this is ſome vile equivocation; you have done worſe, you have had the barbarity, the baſeneſs, to attempt to poiſon his dog; the poi⯑ſoned meat was found in your pocket laſt night." [52]—"The poiſoned meat was found in my pocket, Sir I but I never attempted to poiſon the dog, I ſaved his life."—"Lord bleſs him," ſaid the old man. "Nonſenſe! cunning!" ſaid Mr. Power. "I hope you won't let him impoſe upon you ſo, Sir." "No, he cannot impoſe upon me, I have a proof he is little prepared for," ſa [...]d Mr. Trueman, producing the blue hand⯑kerchief in which the meat had been wrapped.

Tariton turned pale; Hardy's countenance never changed.—"Don't you know this hand⯑kerchief, Sir?"—"I do, Sir?"—"Is it not your,"—"No, Sir."—"Don't you know whoſe it is?" cried Mr. Power. Hardy was ſilent.

"Now, gentlemen," ſaid Mr. Trueman, "I am not fond of puniſhing you; but when I do it y [...]u know it is always in earneſt. I will be⯑gin with the eldeſt of you; I will begin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this handkerchief is owned." "I'm ſure it's not mine;" and "I'm ſure it's none of mine," burſt from every mouth, whilſt they looked at each other in diſmay, for none but Hardy, Loveit, and Tarlton knew the ſecret.— "My cane!" ſaid Mr. Trueman, and Power handed him the cane—Loveit groaned from the [53]bottom of his heart—Tarlton le [...]ned back a⯑gainſt the wall with a black countenance— Hardy looked with a ſteady eye at the cane.

"But firſt," ſaid Mr. Trueman, laying down the cane, "let us ſee; perhaps we may find out the owner of this handkerchief another way," examining the corners; it was torn almoſt to pieces, but luckily the corner that was marked remained.

"J. T.!" cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye turned upon the guilty Tarlton, who, now, as pale as aſhes and trembling in every limb, ſunk down upon his knees, and in a whining voice begged for mercy. "Upon my word and ho⯑nour, Sir, I'll tell you all; I ſhould never have thought of ſtealing the apples if Loveit had not firſt told me of them; and it was Tom who firſt put the poiſoning the dog into my head: it was he that carried the meat; wasn't it?" ſaid he, appealing to Hardy, whoſe word he knew muſt be believed—"Oh, dear Sir!" continued he, as Mr. Trueman began to move towards him, "do let me off—do pray let me off this time! I'm not the only one indeed, Sir! I hope you won't make me an example for the reſt—It's very hard I'm to be flogged [52]more than they!" "I'm not going to flog you."—"Thank you, Sir," ſaid Tarlton, getting up and wiping his eyes. "You need not thank me," ſaid Mr. Trueman. "Take your handkerchief—go out of this room—out of this houſe—let me never ſee you more."

"If I had any hopes of him," ſaid Mr. True⯑man, as he ſhut the door after him; "if I had any hopes of him, I would have puniſhed him; but I have none—puniſhment is meant only to make people better; and thoſe who have any hopes of themſelves will know how to ſubmit to it."

At theſe words Loveit firſt, and immediately all the reſt of the guilty party, ſtepped out of the ranks, confeſſed their fault, and declared themſelves ready to bear any puniſhment their maſter thought proper.—"Oh, they have been puniſhed enough," ſaid the old man; "forgive them, Sir."

Hardy looked as if he wiſhed to ſpeak.

"Not becauſe you aſk it," ſaid Mr. True⯑man, "though I ſhould be glad to oblige you —it wouldn't be juſt—but there (pointing to Hardy), there is one who has merited a reward; [53]the higheſt I can give him is the pardon of his companions."

Hardy bowed, and his face glowed with plea⯑ſure, whilſt every body preſent ſumpathiſed in his feelings.—"I am ſure," thought Loveit, "this is a leſſon I ſhall never forget."

"Gentlemen," ſaid the old man with a faul⯑tering voice, "it wasn't for the ſake of my ap⯑ples that I ſpoke; and you, Sir," ſaid he to Hardy, "I thank you for ſaving my dog. If you pleaſe, I'll plant on that mount, oppoſite the window, a young apple tree, from my old one; I will water it, and take care of it with my own hands for your ſake, as long as I am able.— And may God bleſs you! (laying his trembling hand on Hardy's head) may God bleſs you— I'm ſure God will bleſs all ſuch boys as you are"

LAZY LAWRENCE.

IN the pleaſant valley of Aſhton there lived an elderly woman of the name of Preſton; ſhe had a ſmall neat cottage, and there was not a weed to be ſeen in her garden. It was upon her garden that ſhe chiefly depended for ſup⯑port: it conſiſted of ſtrawberry beds, and one ſmall border for flowers. The pinks and roſes ſhe tied up in nice noſegays, and ſent either to Clifton or Briſtol to be ſold; as to her ſtraw⯑berries, ſhe did not ſend them to market, be⯑cauſe it was the cuſtom for numbers of people to come from Clifton, in the ſummer time, to eat ſtrawberries and cream at the gardens in Aſhton.

Now the widow Preſton was ſo obliging, ac⯑tive, and good humoured, that every one who came to ſee her was pleaſed. She lived happily in this manner for ſeveral years; but, alas! one autumn ſhe fell ſick, and, during her illneſs, every thing went wrong; her garden was ne⯑glected, her cow died, and all the money which ſhe had ſaved was ſpent in paying for medicines. []The winter paſſed away, while ſhe was ſo weak that ſhe could earn but little by her work; and, when the ſummer came, her rent was called for, and the rent was not ready in her little purſe as uſual. She begged a few months delay, and they were granted to her; but at the end of that time there was no reſource but to ſell her horſe Lightfoot. Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had ſeen his beſt days, was a very great favourite: in his youth he had al⯑ways carried the dame to market behind her huſband; and it was now her little ſon Jem's turn to ride him. It was Jem's buſineſs to ſeed Lightfoot, and to take care of him; a charge which he never neglected, for, beſides being a very good-natured, he was a very in⯑duſtrious boy.

"It will go near to break my Jem's heart," ſaid dame Preſton to herſelf, as ſhe ſat one even⯑ing beſide the fire ſtirring the embers, and con⯑ſidering how ſhe had beſt open the matter to her ſon, who ſtood oppoſite to her, eating a dry cruſt of bread very heartily for ſupper.

"Jem," ſaid the old woman, "what, ar't hungry?"

"That I am, brave and hungry!"

[56] "Aye! no wonder, you've been brave hard at work — Eh?"

"Brave hard! I wiſh it was not ſo dark, mo⯑ther, that you might juſt ſtep out and ſee the great bed I've dug; I know you'd ſay it was no bad day's work —and, oh mother! I've good news; Farmer Truck will give us the giant-ſtrawberries, and I'm to go for 'em to-morrow morning, and I'll be back afore breakfaſt."

"God bleſs the boy! how he talks! — Four mile there, and four mile back again, afore breakfaſt."

"Aye, upon Lightfoot you know, mother, very eaſily; mayn't I?"

"Aye, child!"

"Why do you ſigh, mother?"

"Finiſh thy ſupper, child."

"I've done!" cried Jem, ſwallowing [...]e laſt mouthful haſtily, as if he thought he had been too long at ſupper — "and now for the great needle; I muſt ſee and mend Lightfoot's bridle afore I go to bed." — To work he ſet, by the light of the fire, and the dame having once more ſtirred it, began again with "Jem, dear, does he go lame at all now" — "What Light⯑foot! Oh la, no, not he! — never was ſo well [57]of his lameneſs in all his life—he's grown quite young again, I think, and then he's ſo fat he can hardly wag." — "God bleſs him — that's right — we muſt ſee, Jem, and keep him fat."

"For what, mother?"

"For Monday fortnight at the fair. He's to be—ſold!"

"Lightfoot!" cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand; "and will mother ſell Lightfoot?"

"Will; no: but I muſt, Jem."

"Muſt; who ſays you muſt? why muſt you, mother?"

"I muſt, I ſay, child — Why, muſt not I pay my debts honeſtly — and muſt not I pay my rent; and was not it called for long and long ago; and have not I had time; and did not I promiſe to pay it for certain Monday fortnight, and am not I two guineas ſhort — and where am I to get two guineas? So what ſignifies talk⯑ing, child," ſaid the widow, leaning her head upon her arm, "Lightfoot muſt go."

Jem was ſilent for a ſew minutes.—"Two guineas; that's a great, great deal. — If I work⯑ed, and worked, and worked ever ſo hard, I could no ways earn two guineas afore Mon⯑day fortnight—could I, mother?"

[58] "Lord help thee, no; not an' work thyſelf to dea [...]h."

"But I could earn ſomething, though, I ſay," cried Jem proudly; "and I will earn ſomething — if it be ever ſo little, it will be ſome⯑thing — and I ſhall do my very beſt; ſo I will."

"That I'm ſure of, my child," ſaid his mo⯑ther, drawing him towards her and kiſſing him; "you were always a good induſtrious lad, that I will ſay afore your face or behind your back; —but it won't do now— Lightfoot muſt go."

Jem turned away, ſtruggling to hide his tears, and went to bed without ſaying a word more. But he knew that crying would do no good, ſo he preſently wiped his eyes, and l [...]y awake, conſidering what he could poſſibly do to ſave the horſe.—"If I get ever ſo little," he ſtill ſaid to himſelf, "it will be ſomething; and who knows but Landlord might then wait a bit longer? and we might make it all up in time; for a penny a day might come to two guineas in time."

But how to get the firſt penny was the queſ⯑tion — The he recollected, that one day, when he had been ſent to Clifton to ſell ſome flowers, he had ſeen an old woman with a board beſide [59]her covered with various ſparkling ſtones, which people ſtopped to look at as they paſſed, and he remembered that ſome people b [...]ught the ſtones; one paid twopence, another threepence, and another ſixpence for them; and Jem heard her ſay that ſhe got them amon [...]ſt the neigh⯑bouring rocks: ſo he thought that if he tried he might find ſome too, and ſell them as ſhe had done.

Early in the morning he wakened full of this ſcheme, jumped up, dreſſed himſelf, and, having given one look at poor Lightfoot in his ſtab [...]e, ſ [...]t off to Clifton in ſearch of the old woman, to enquire where ſhe found her ſparkling ſtones. But it was too early in the morning, the old woman was not at her ſeat; ſo he turned back again diſappointed▪ — He did not waſte his time waiting for her, but ſaddled and bridled Light⯑foot, and went to farmer Truck's for the g [...]t⯑ſtrawberries. A great part of the morning was ſpent in putting them into the ground; a [...], as ſoon as that was finiſhed, [...]e let out again in queſt of the old woman, who, to his great joy, he ſpied ſitting at her corner of the ſtreet with her board before her. But this old woman was deaf and croſs; and when at laſt Jem made her [60]hear his queſtions, he could get no anſwer from her, but that ſhe found the foſſils where he would never find any more. "But can't I look where you looked?" — "Look away, no⯑body hinders you," replied the old woman; and theſe were the only words ſhe would ſay. — Jem was not, however, a boy to be eaſily diſcou⯑raged; he went to the rocks, and walked ſlowly along, looking at all the ſtones as he paſſed. Preſently he came to a place where a number of men were at work looſening ſome large rocks, and one amongſt the workmen was ſtooping down looking for ſomething very eagerly; Jem ran up, and aſked if he could help him. "Yes," ſaid the man, "you can; I've juſt dropped, amongſt this heap of rubbiſh, a fine piece of cryſtal that I got to-day." — "What kind of a looking thing is it?" ſaid Jem. "White, and like glaſ," ſaid the man, and went on working whilſt Jem looked very care⯑fully over the heap of rubbiſh for a great while. "Come," ſaid the man, "it's gone for ever; don't trouble yourſelf any more, my boy." —" It's no trouble; I'll look a little longer; we'll not give it up ſo ſoon," ſaid Jem; and, after he had looked a little longer, he found the piece of [61]cryſtal. "Thank'e," ſaid the man, "you are a fine little induſtrious fellow." Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which the man ſpoke this, ventured to aſk him the ſame queſtions which he had aſked the old woman. "One good turn deſerves another," ſaid the man; "we are going to dinner juſt now, and ſhall leave off work—wait for me here, and I'll make it worth your while."

Jem waited; and, as he was very attentively obſerving how the workmen went on with their work, he heard ſomebody near him give a great yawn, and, turning round, he ſaw ſtretched upon the graſs, beſide the river, a boy about his own age, who he knew very well went in the village of Aſhton by the name of Lazy Lawrence: a name which he moſt juſtly de⯑ſerved, for he never did any thing from morn⯑ing to night; he neither worked nor played, but ſauntered or lounged about reſtleſs and yawning. His father was an alehouſe-keeper, and being generally drunk, could take no care of his ſon, ſo that Lazy Lawrence grew every day worſe and worſe. However, ſome of the neighbours ſaid that he was a good-natured poor fellow enough, and would never do any one [62]harm but himſelf; whilſt others, who were wiſer, often ſhook their heads, and told him, that idleneſs was the root of all evil.

"What, Lawrence!" cried Jem to him, when he ſaw him lying upon the graſs— "what, are you aſleep?" — "Not quite." — "Are you a wake?" — "Not quite." — "What are you doing there?" — "Nothing." — "What are you thinking of?" — "Nothing." — "What makes you lie there?" — "I don't know—be⯑cauſe I can't find any body to play with me to⯑day — Will you come and play?" — "No, I can't; I'm buſy."—"Buſy," cried Lawrence, ſtretching himſelf, "you are always buſy — I would not be you for the world, to have ſo much to do always." — "And I," ſaid Jem laughing, "would not be you for the world, to have nothing to do." So they parted, for the workman juſt then called Jem to follow him. He took him home to his own houſe, and ſhowed him a par⯑cel of foſſils, which he had gathered, he ſaid, on purpoſe to ſell, but had never had time yet to ſort them. He ſet about it however now, and having picked out thoſe which he judged to be the beſt, he put them in a ſmall baſket, and gave them to Jem to ſell, upon condition that [...] ſhould bring him half of what he got. Jem, [63]pleaſed to be employed, was ready to agree to what the man propoſed, provided his mother had no objection to it. When he went home to dinner, he told his mother his ſcheme, and ſhe ſmiled and ſaid he might do as he pleaſed, for ſhe was not afraid of his being from home. "You are not an idle boy," ſaid ſhe, "ſo there is little danger of your getting into any miſ⯑chief."

Accordingly Jem that evening took his ſtand, with his little baſket, upon the bank of the river, juſt at the place where people land from a ferry-boat, and where the walk turns to the wells, where numbers of people perpetually paſs to drink the waters. He choſe his place well, and waited almoſt all evening, offering his foſ⯑ſils with great aſſiduity to every paſſenger; but not one perſon bought any. "Holla!" cried ſome ſailors, who had juſt rowed a boat to land, "bear a hand here, will you, my little fellow! and carry theſe parcels for us into yonder houſe." Jem ran down immediately for the parcels, and did what he was aſked to do ſo quickly, and with ſo much good will, that the maſter of the boat took notice of him, and, when he was go⯑ing away, ſtopped to aſk him what he had got in his little baſket; and when he ſaw that they [64]were foſſils, he immediately told Jem to follow him, for that he was going to carry ſome ſhells he had brought from abroad to a lady in the neighbourhood who was making a grotto. "She will very likely buy your ſtones into the bar⯑gain: come along, my lad; we can but try."

The lady lived but a very little way off, ſo that they were ſoon at her houſe. She was alone in her parlour, and was ſorting a bundle of feathers of different colours: they lay on a ſheet of paſteboard upon a window-ſeat, and it hap⯑pened that as the ſailor was buſtling round the table to ſhew off his ſhells, he knocked down the ſheet of paſteboard, and ſcattered all the fea⯑thers. The lady looked very ſorry, which Jem obſerving, he took the opportunity, whilſt ſhe was buſy looking over the ſailor's bag of ſhells, to gather together all the feathers, and ſort them according to their different colours, as he had ſeen them ſorted when he firſt came into the room.

"Where is the little boy you brought with you? I thought I ſaw him here juſt now."— "And here I am, ma'am," cried Jem, creeping from under the table with ſome few remaining feathers which he had picked from the carpet; [65]"I thought," added he, pointing to the others, "I had better be doing ſomething than ſtand⯑ing idle, ma'am." She ſmiled, and, pleaſed with his activity and ſimplicity, began to aſk him ſeveral queſtions; ſuch as, who he was, where he lived, what employment he had, and how much a day he earned by gathering foſſils. "This is the firſt day I ever tried," ſaid Jem; "I never ſold any yet, and, if you don't buy 'em now, ma'am, I'm afraid nobody elſe will, for I've aſked every body elſe." — "Come then," ſaid the lady laughing, "if that is the caſe, I think I had better buy them all." So emptying all the foſſils out of his baſket, ſhe put half a crown into it. Jem's eyes ſparkled with joy. "Oh, thank you, ma'am," ſaid he, "I will be ſure and bring you as many more to⯑morrow." — "Yes, but I don't promiſe you," ſaid ſhe, "to give you half a crown to-mor⯑row." — "But, perhaps, though you don't pro⯑miſe it, you will."—"No," ſaid the lady, "do not deceive yourſelf; I aſſure you that I will not. That, inſtead of encouraging you to be induſtrious, would teach you to be idle." Jem did not quite underſtand what ſhe meant by this, but anſwered, "I'm ſure I don't wiſh to [66]be idle; what I want is to earn ſomething every day, if I knew how: I'm ſure I don't wiſh to be idle. If you knew all, you'd know I did not." — "How do you mean, if I knew all?" — "Why I mean, if you knew about Light⯑foot." — "Who's Lightfoot?" — "Why, mam⯑my's horſe," added Jem, looking out of the window; "I muſt make haſte home and feed him, afore it get dark; he'll wonder what's gone with me." — "Let him wonder a few mi⯑nutes longer," ſaid the lady, "and tell me the reſt of your ſtory." — "I've no ſtory, ma'am, to tell, but as how mammy ſays he muſt go to the fair Monday fortnight to be ſold, if ſhe can't get the two guineas for her rent; and I ſhould be main ſorry to part with him, for I love him, and he loves me; ſo I'll work for him, I will, all I can: to be ſure," as mammy ſays, "I have no chance, ſuch a little fellow as I am, of earning two guineas afore Monday fortnight." — "But are you in earneſt willing to work," ſaid the lady; "you know there is a great deal of difference between picking up a few ſtones, and working ſteadily every day, and all day long." — "But," ſaid Jem, "I would work every day, and all day long." — "Then," ſaid [67]the lady, "I will give you work. Come here to-morrow morning, and my gardener will ſet you to weed the ſhrubberies, and I will pay you ſix-pence a day. Remember you muſt be at the gates by ſix o'clock." Jem bowed, thank⯑ed her, and went away. It was late in the evening, and he was impatient to get home to feed Lightfoot; yet he recollected that he had promiſed the man who had truſted him to ſell the foſſils that he would bring him half of what he got for them; ſo he thought that he had bet⯑ter go to him directly: and away he went, run⯑ning along by the water ſide about a quarter of a mile, till he came to the man's houſe. He was juſt come home from work, and was ſur⯑priſed when Jem ſhewed him the half-crown, ſaying, "Look what I got for the ſtones: you are to have half, you know." — No," ſaid the man, when he had heard his ſtory, "I ſhall not take half of that; it was given to you. I ex⯑pected but a ſhilling at the moſt, and the half of that is but ſixpence, and that I'll take. — Wife! give the lad two ſhillings, and take this half-crown." So wife opened an old glove, and took out two ſhillings; and the man, as ſhe opened the glove, put in his fingers, and took [68]out a little ſilver penny. — "There, he ſhall have that into the bargain for his honeſty — Honeſty is the beſt policy—There's a lucky penny for you, that I've kept ever ſince I can remember." — "Don't you ever go to part with it, do ye hear!" cried the woman. "Let him do what he will with it, wife," ſaid the man. "But," argued the wife, "another penny would do juſt as well to buy ginger bread, and that's what it will go for." — "No, that it ſhall not, I promiſe you;" ſaid Jem; and ſo he ran away home, fed Lightfoot, ſtroaked him, went to bed, jumped up at five o'clock in the morning, and went ſinging to work as gay as a lark.

Four days he worked "every day and all day long," and the lady every evening, when ſhe came out to walk in her gardens, looked at his work. At laſt ſhe ſaid to her gardener, "This little boy works very hard." — "Never had ſo good a little boy about the grounds," ſaid the gardener; "he's always at his work, let me come by when I will, and he has got twice as much done as another would do; yes, twice as much, ma'am; for look here—he began at this here roſe buſh, and now he's got to where you ſtand, [69]ma'am; and here is the day's work that t'other boy, and he's three years older too, did to-day —I ſay, meaſure Jem's fairly, and it's twice as much, I'm ſure." — "Well, ſaid the lady to her gardener, ſhew me how much is a fair good day's work for a boy of his age."—"Come at ſix o'clock, and go at ſix? why, about this much, ma'am," ſaid the gardener, marking off a piece of the border with his ſpade. "Then, little boy," ſaid the lady, "ſo much ſhall be your taſk every day; the gardener will mark it off for you: and when you've done, the reſt of the day you may do what you pleaſe." Jem was extremely glad of this; and the next day he had finiſhed his taſk by four o'clock; ſo that he had all the reſt of the evening to himſelf. Jem was as fond of play as any little boy could be, and, when he was at it, played with all the eagerneſs and gaiety imaginable: ſo as ſoon as he had finiſhed his taſk, fed Lightfoot, and put by the ſixpence he had earned that day, he ran to the play-ground in the village, where he found a party of boys playing, and amongſt them Lazy Lawrence, who indeed was not playing, but lounging upon a gate with his thumb in his mouth. The reſt were playing at [70]cricket. Jem joined them, and was the mer⯑rieſt and moſt active amongſt them; till, at laſt, when quite out of breath with running, he was obliged to give up to reſt himſelf, and ſat down upon the ſtile, cloſe to the gate on which Lazy Lawrence was ſwinging. "And why don't you play, Lawrence?" ſaid he.—"I'm tired," ſaid Lawrence. — "Tired of what?" — "I don't know well what tires me; grandmother ſays I'm ill, and I muſt take ſomething—I don't know what ails me." — "Oh, pugh! take a good race, one, two, three, and away, and you'll find yourſelf as well as ever. Come, run — one, two, three, and away." — "Ah, no, I can't run indeed," ſaid he, hanging back hea⯑vily; "you know I can play all day long if I like it, ſo I don't mind play as you do, who have only one hour for it." — "So much the worſe for you. Come now, I'm quite freſh again, will you have one game at ball; do." — "No, I tell you I can't; I'm as tired as if I had been working all day long as hard as a horſe." — "Ten times more," ſaid Jem, "for I have been working all day long as hard as a horſe, and yet you ſee I'm not a bit tired; only a little out of breath juſt now." — "That's very [71]odd," ſaid Lawrence, and yawned, for want of ſome better anſwer; then taking out a handful of halfpence—"See what I got from father to⯑day, becauſe I aſked him juſt at the right time, when he had drank a glaſs or two; then I can get any thing I want out of him—ſee! a penny, two-pence, three-pence, four-pence — there's eight-pence in all; would not you be happy if you had eight-pence?" — "Why, I don't know," ſaid Jem laughing, "for you don't ſeem happy, and you have eight-pence." — "That does not ſignify though—I'm ſure you only ſay that be⯑cauſe you envy me—you don't know what it is to have eight-pence—you never had more than two-pence or three-pence at a time in all your life." Jem ſmiled. "Oh, as to that," ſaid he, "you are miſtaken, for I have at this very time more than two-pence, three-pence, or eight-pence either; I have—let me ſee—ſtones, two ſhillings; then five day's work, that's five ſix-pences, that's two ſhillings and ſix-pence, in all makes four ſhillings and ſix-pence, and my ſil⯑ver penny, is four and ſeven-pence — Four and ſeven-pence!" — "You have not!" ſaid Law⯑rence, rouſed ſo as abſolutely to ſtand upright, "four and ſeven-pence! have you? Shew it [72]me, and then I'll believe you. — "Follow me then," cried Jem, "and I'll ſoon make you believe me; come." — "Is it far?" ſaid Law⯑rence, following half running, half hobbling, till he came to the ſtable, where Jem ſhewed him his treaſure. "And how did you come by it? honeſtly?" — "Honeſtly; to be ſure I did; I earned it all." — "Lord bleſs me, earned it! well, I've a great mind to work; but then it's ſuch hot weather; beſides grandmother ſays I'm not ſtrong enough yet for hard work; and beſides, I know how to coax daddy out of money when I want it, ſo I need not work. — But four and ſeven-pence; let's ſee, what will you do with it all? — "That's a ſecret," ſaid Jem, looking great. "I can gueſs; I know what I'd do with it if it was mine — Firſt, I'd buy pockets full of gingerbread; then I'd buy ever ſo many apples and nuts; don't you love nuts? I'd buy nuts enough to laſt me from this time to Chriſtmas, and I'd make little Newton crack 'em for me, for that's the worſt of nuts, there's the trouble of cracking 'em." — "Well, you never deſerve to have a nut." — "But you'll give me ſome of yours," ſaid Lawrence in a fawning tone, for he thought it [73]eaſier to coax than to work — "you'll give me ſome of your good things, won't you?" — "I ſhall not have any of thoſe good things," ſaid Jem. "Then what will you do with all your money?" — "Oh, I know very well what to do with it; but, as I told you, that's a ſecret, and I ſhan't tell it any body — Come now, let's go back and play — their game's up, I dare ſay." — Lawrence went back with him full of curio⯑ſity, and out of humour with himſelf and his eight-pence. — "If I had four and ſeven-pence," ſaid he to himſelf, "I certainly ſhould be happy!"

The next day, as uſual, Jem jumped up before ſix o'clock and went to his work, whilſt Lazy Lawrence ſauntered about without knowing what to do with himſelf. In the courſe of two days he laid out ſix-pence of his money in ap⯑ples and gingerbread, and as long as theſe laſted he ſound himſelf well received by his compa⯑nions; but at length the third day he ſpent his laſt halfpenny, and when it was gone, unfor⯑tunately ſome nuts tempted him very much, but he had no money to pay for them; ſo he ran home to coax his father, as he called it. When he got home, he heard his father talk⯑ing [74]very loud, and at firſt he thought he was drunk; but when he opened the kitchen door, he ſaw that he was not drunk, but angry.

"You lazy dog!" cried he, turning ſudden⯑ly upon Lawrence, and gave him ſuch a violent box on the ear as made the light flaſh from his eyes; "you lazy dog! ſee what you've done for me — look! — look, look, I ſay!" Lawrence looked as ſoon as he came to the uſe of his ſenſes, and, with fear, amazement, and remorſe, beheld at leaſt a dozen bottles burſt, and the fine Worceſterſhire cyder ſtreaming over the floor. "Now, did not I-order you three days ago to carry theſe bottles to the cellar; and did not I charge you to wire the corks? anſwer me, you lazy raſcal; did not I?" — "Yes," ſaid Lawrence, ſcratching his head. "And why was not it done? I aſk you," cried his fa⯑ther with renewed anger, as another bottle burſt at the moment. "What do you ſtand there for, you lazy brat? why don't you move? I ſay—No, no," catching hold of him, "I be⯑lieve you can't move; but I'll make you." And he ſhook him, till Lawrence was ſo giddy he could not ſtand. "What had you to think of? what had you to do all day long, that you [75]could not carry my cyder, my Worceſterſhire cyder, to the cellar when I bid you? But go, you'll never be good for any thing, you are ſuch a lazy raſcal — get out of my ſight!" So ſaying, he puſhed him out of the houſe door, and Lawrence ſneaked off, ſeeing that this was no time to make his petition for halfpence.

The next day he ſaw the nuts again, and, wiſhing for them more than ever, went home in hopes that his father, as he ſaid to himſelf, would be in a better humour. But the cyder was ſtill freſh in his recollection, and the mo⯑ment Lawrence began to whiſper the word "halfpenny" in his ear, his father ſwore, with a loud oath, "I will not give you a halfpenny, no, not a farthing, for a month to come; if you want money, go work for it; I've had enough of your lazineſs — Go work!" At theſe terrible words Lawrence burſt into tears, and, going to the ſide of a ditch, ſat down and cried for an hour; and when he had cried till he could cry no more, he exerted himſelf ſo far as to empty his pockets, to ſee whether there might not hap⯑pen to be one halfpenny left; and, to his great joy, in the fartheſt corner of his pocket one halfpenny was found. With this he proceeded [76]to the fruit woman's ſtall. She was buſy weigh⯑ing out ſome plums, ſo he was obliged to wait; and, whilſt he was waiting, he heard ſome peo⯑ple near him talking and laughing very loud. The fruit woman's ſtall was at the gate of an inn-yard; and peeping through the gate in this yard, Lawrence ſaw a poſtilion and a ſtable-boy about his own ſize playing at pitch-far⯑thing. He ſtood by watching them for a few minutes. "I begun but with one halfpenny," cried the ſtable-boy with an oath, "and now I've got two-pence!" added he, jingling the half-pence in his waiſtcoat pocket Lawrence was moved at the ſound, and ſaid to himſelf, "If I begin with one halfpenny, I may end like him with having two-pence; and it is eaſier to play at pitch-farthing than to work."

So he ſtepped forward, preſenting his half⯑penny, offering to toſs up with the ſtable-boy, who, after looking him full in the face, ac⯑cepted the propoſal, and threw his halfpenny into the air. "Head or tail!" cried he. "Head," replied Lawrence, and it came up head. He ſeized the penny, ſurpriſed at his own ſucceſs, and would have gone inſtantly to have laid it out in nuts; but the ſtable-boy [77]ſtopped him, and tempted him to throw again. This time he loſt; he threw again and won; and ſo he went on, ſometimes loſing, but moſt frequently winning, till half the morning was gone. At laſt, however, he chanced to win twice running, and, finding himſelf maſter of three halfpence, ſaid he would play no more. The ſtable-boy, grumbling, ſwore he would have his revenge another time, and Lawrence went and bought the nuts. "It is a good thing," ſaid he to himſelf, "to play at pitch-farthing: the next time I want a halfpenny I'll not aſk my father for it, nor go to work neither." Satisfied with this reſolution, he ſat down to crack his nuts at his leiſure, upon the horſe-block in the inn-yard. Here, whilſt he eat, he overheard the converſation of the ſtable-boys and poſtilions. At firſt their ſhocking oaths and loud wrangling frightened and ſhock⯑ed him; for Lawrence, though a lazy, had not yet learned to be a wicked boy. But, by de⯑grees, he was accuſtomed to their ſwearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and intereſt in their diſputes and battles. As this was an amuſement which he could enjoy without any ſort of exertion on his part, he ſoon grew ſo [78]fond of it, that every day he returned to the ſtable-yard, and the horſe-block became his conſtant ſeat. Here he ſound ſome relief from the inſupportable fatigue of doing nothing, and here, hour after hour, with his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands, he ſat the ſpectator of wickedneſs. Gaming, cheating, and lying, ſoon became familiar to him; and, to complete his ruin, he formed a ſudden and cloſe intimacy with the ſtable-boy with whom he had firſt began to game—a very bad boy. The conſequences of this intimacy we ſhall pre⯑ſently ſee. But it is now time to inquire what little Jem has been doing all this while.

One day, after he had finiſhed his taſk, the gardener aſked him to ſtay a little while, to help him to carry ſome geranium pots into the hall. Jem. always active and obliging, readily ſtayed from play, and was carrying in a heavy flower-pot, when his miſtreſs croſſed the h [...]ll. "What a terrible litter!" ſaid the, "you are making here—why don't you wipe your ſhoes upon the mat?" Jem turned round to look for the mat, but he ſaw none. "Oh," ſaid the lady, recollecting herſelf, "I can't blame you, for there is no mat."—"No, ma'am" ſaid the [79]gardener, "nor I don't know when, if ever, the man will bring home thoſe mats you beſpoke, ma'am."—"I am very ſorry to hear that," ſaid the lady, "I wiſh we could find ſomebody who would do them, if he can't—I ſhould not care what ſort of mats they were, ſo that one could wipe one's feet on them." Jem, as he was ſweeping away the litter, when he heard theſe laſt words, ſaid to himſelf, "perhaps I could make a mat?" And all the way home, as he trudged along whiſtling, he was thinking over a ſcheme for making mats, which, however bold it may appear, he did not deſpair of exe⯑cuting, with patience and induſtry. Many were the difficulties which his "prophetic eye" foreſaw; but he felt within himſelf that ſpirit, which ſpurs men on to great enterprizes, and makes them "trample on impoſſibilities."

He recollected, in the firſt place, that he had ſeen Lacy Lawrence, whilſt he lounged upon the gate, twiſt a bit of heath into diffe⯑rent ſhapes, and he thought, that if he could find ſome way of plaiting heath firmly together, it would make a very pretty green ſoft mat, which would do very well for one to wipe one's ſhoes on. About a mile from his mother's [80]houſe, on the common which Jem rode over when he went to farmer Truck's for the giant-ſtrawberries, he remembered to have ſeen a great quantity of this heath; and, as it was now only ſix o'clock in the evening, he knew that he ſhould have time to feed Lightfoot, ſtroak him, go to the common, return, and make one trial of his ſkill before he went to bed.

Lightfoot carried him ſwiftly to the common, and there Jem gathered as much of the heath as he thought he ſhould want. But, what toil! what time! what pains did it coſt him, before he could make any thing like a mat! Twenty times he was ready to throw aſide the heath, and give up his project, from impatience of re⯑peated diſappointments. But ſtill he perſevered. Nothing truly great can be accompliſhed with⯑out toil and time. Two hours he worked be⯑fore he went to bed. All his play hours the next day he ſpent at his mat; which, in all, made five hours of fruitleſs attempts—The ſixth, however, repaid him for the labours of the other five; he conquered his grand diffi⯑culty of faſtening the heath ſubſtantially toge⯑ther, and at length completely finiſhed a mat, [81]which far ſurpaſſed his moſt ſanguine expecta⯑tions. He was extremely happy—ſung, danced round it—whiſtled—looked at it again and again, and could hardly leave off looking at it when it was time to go to bed. He laid it by his bed-ſide, that he might ſee it the moment he wakened in the morning.

And now came the grand pleaſure of carry⯑ing it to his miſtreſs. She looked full as much ſurprized as he expected, when ſhe ſaw it, and when ſhe heard who made it. After having duly admired it, ſhe aſked him how much he expected for his mat. "Expect!—Nothing, ma'am," ſaid Jem; "I meant to give it you, if you'd have it; I did not mean to ſell it. I made it at my play hours, and I was very happy making it; and I'm very glad too that you like it; and if you pleaſe to keep it, ma'am—that's all."—"But that's not all," ſaid the lady. "Spend your time no more in weeding in my garden, you can employ yourſelf much better; you ſhall have the reward of your ingenuity as well as of your induſtry. Make as many more ſuch mats as you can, and I will take care and diſpoſe of them for you."—"Thank'e, ma'am," ſaid Jem, making his beſt bow, for he thought [82]by the lady's looks that ſhe meant to do him a favour, though he repeated to himſelf, "diſ⯑poſe of them," what does that mean?'

The next day he went to work to make more mats, and he ſoon learned to make them ſo well and quickly, that he was ſurprized at his own ſucceſs. In every one he made he found leſs difficulty, ſo that, inſtead of making two, he could ſoon make ſour, in a day. In a fortnight he made eighteen. It was Saturday night when he finiſhed, and he carried, at three journeys, his eighteen mats to his miſtreſs's houſe; piled them all up in the hall, and ſtood with his hat off, with a look of proud humility, beſide the pile, waiting for his miſtreſs's appearance. Pre⯑ſently a folding door, at one end of the hall, opened, and he ſaw his miſtreſs, with a great many gentlemen and ladies, riſing from ſeveral tables.

"Oh! there is my little boy, and his mats," cried the lady; and, followed by all the reſt of the company, ſhe came into the hall. Jem modeſtly retired whilſt they looked at his mats; but in a minute or two his miſtreſs beckoned to him, and, when he came into the middle of the circle, he ſaw that his pile of mats had diſap⯑peared. "Well," ſaid the lady ſmiling, "what [83]do you ſee that makes you look ſo ſurpriſed?"— "That all my mats are gone," ſaid Jem; "but you are very welcome."—"Are we?" ſaid the lady; "well, take up your hat, and go home then, for you ſee that it is getting late, and you know, "Lightfoot will wonder what's become of you." Jem turned round to take up his hat, which he had left on the floor.

But how his countenance changed! the hat was heavy with ſhillings. Every one who had taken a mat had put in two ſhillings; ſo that for the eighteen mats he had got thirty-ſix ſhillings. "Thirty-ſix ſhillings!" ſaid the lady; "five and ſeven-pence I think you told me you had earned already—how much does that make? I muſt add, I believe, one other ſix-pence to make out your two guineas."—"Two guineas!" exclaimed Jem, now quite conquering his baſh⯑fulneſs, for at the moment he forgot where he was, and ſaw nobody that was by. "Two guineas!" cried he, clapping his hands together —"Oh Lightfoot!—oh mother!" Then, re⯑collecting himſelf, he ſaw his miſtreſs, whom he now looked up to quite as a friend. "Will you thank them all," ſaid he, ſcarcely daring to glance his eye round upon the company, "will you thank 'em, for you know I don't know how [84]to thank 'em rightly." Every body thought, however, that they had been thanked rightly.

"Now we won't keep you any longer-on⯑ly," ſaid his miſtreſs, "I have one thing to aſk you, that I may be by when you ſhew your treaſure to your mother."—"Come, then," ſaid Jem, "come with me now."—"Not now," ſaid the lady laughing, "but I will come to Aſhton to-morrow evening; perhaps your mother can find me a few ſtrawherries."

"That ſhe will," ſaid Jem; "I'll ſearch the garden myſelf." He now went home, but felt it a great reſtraint to wait till to-morrow even⯑ing before he told his mother. To conſole himſelf he flew to the ſtable: "Lightfoot, you're not to be ſold to-morrow! poor fel⯑low!" ſaid he, patting him, and then could not refrain from counting out his money. Whilſt he was intent upon this, Jem was ſtartled by a noiſe at the door: ſomebody was trying to pull up the latch. It opened, and there came in Lazy Lawrence, with a boy in a red jacket, who had a cock under his arm. They ſtarted when they got into the middle of the ſtable, and when they ſaw Jem, who had been at firſt hid⯑den by the horſe.

[85] "We—we—we came"—ſtammered Lazy Lawrence—"I mean, I came to—to—to—" "To aſk you," continued the ſtable-boy in a bold tone, "whether you will go with us to the cock-fight on Monday? See, I've a fine cock here, and Lawrence told me you were a great friend of his, ſo I came."

Lawrence now attempted to ſay ſomething in praiſe of the pleaſures of cock-fighting, and in recommendation of his new companion. But Jem looked at the ſtable-boy with diſlike, and a ſort of dread; then turning his eyes upon the cock with a look of compaſſion, ſaid in a low voice to Lawrence, "Shall you like to ſtand by and ſee its eyes pecked out?"—"I don't know," ſaid Lawrence, "as to that; but they ſay a cock-fight's a fine fight, and it's no more cruel in me to go than another; and a great many go; and I've nothing elſe to do, ſo I ſhall go."—"But I have ſomething elſe to do," ſaid Jem, laughing, "ſo I ſhall not go." —"But," continued Lawrence, "you know Monday is the great Briſtol fair, and one muſt be merry then, of all days in the year."—"One day in the year, ſure, there's no harm in being merry," ſaid the ſtable-boy. "I hope not," [86]ſaid Jem; for I know, for my part, I am merry every day in the year."—"That's very odd," ſaid Lawrence; "but I know, for my part, I would not for all the world miſs going to the fair, for at leaſt it will be ſomething to talk of for half a year after—come, you'll go, won't you?"—"No," ſaid Jem, ſtill looking as if he did not like to talk before the ill-looking ſtran⯑ger. "Then what will you do with all your money?"—"I'll tell you about that another time," whiſpered Jem; "and don't you go to ſee that cock's eyes pecked out; it won't make you merry, I'm ſure."—"If I had any thing elſe to divert me," ſaid Lawrence, heſitating and yawning.—"Come," cried the ſtable-boy, ſeizing his ſtretching arm, "come along," cried he; and, pulling him away from Jem, upon whom he caſt a look of extreme contempt, "leave him alone, he's not the ſort."— "What a ſool you are," ſaid he to Lawrence, the moment he got him out of the ſtable, "you might have known he would not go—elſe we ſhould ſoon have trimmed him out of his four and ſeven-pence. But how came you to talk of four and ſeven-pence; I ſaw in the manger a hat full of ſilver."—"Indeed!" exclaimed [87]Lawrence. "Yes, indeed—but why did you ſtammer ſo when we firſt got in? you had like to have blown us all up."—"I was ſo aſham⯑ed," ſaid Lawrence, hanging down his head. "Aſhamed! but you muſt not talk of ſhame now you are in for it, and I ſhan't let you off: you owe us half a crown, recollect, and I muſt be paid to-night; ſo ſee and get the money ſome how or other." After a conſiderable pauſe he added, "I'll anſwer for it he'd never miſs half a crown out of all that ſilver."—"But to ſteal," ſaid Lawrence, drawing back with horror—"I never thought I ſhould come to that—and from poor Jem too—the money that he has worked ſo hard for too."—"But it is not ſtealing; we don't mean to ſteal; only to borrow it: and, if we win, as we certainly ſhall, at the cock-fight, pay it back again, and he'll never know any thing of the matter; and what harm will it do him? Beſides, what ſigni⯑fies talking, you can't go to the cock-fight, or the fair either, if you don't; and I tell ye we don't mean to ſteal it; we'll pay it again Mon⯑day night." Lawrence made no reply, and they parted without his coming to any determi⯑nation.

[88] Here let us pauſe in our ſtory—we are almoſt afraid to go on—the reſt is very ſhocking—our little readers will ſhudder as they read. But it is better that they ſhould know the truth, and ſee what the idle boy came to at laſt.

In the dead of the night Lawrence heard ſomebody tap at his window. He knew well who it was, for this was the ſignal agreed upon between him and his wicked companion. He trembled at the thoughts of what he was about to do, and lay quite ſtill, with his head under the bed-clothes, till he heard the ſecond tap. Then he got up, dreſſed himſelf, and opened his window. It was almoſt even with the ground. His companion ſaid to him in a hol⯑low voice, "Are you ready." He made no anſwer, but got out of the window and follow⯑ed. When he got to the ſtable, a black cloud was juſt paſſing over the moon, and it was quite dark. "Where are you?" whiſpered Law⯑rence, groping about, "where are you? Speak to me."—"I am here; give me your hand." Lawrence ſtretched out his hand. "Is that your hand?" ſaid the wicked boy, as Lawrence laid hold of him; "how cold it felt."—"Let us go back," ſaid Lawrence; "it is time yet." [89]—"It is no time to go back," replied the other opening the door; "you've gone too far now to go back:" and he puſhed Lawrence into the ſtable.—"Have you found it—take care of the horſe—have you done?—what are you about? —make haſte, I hear a noiſe," ſaid the ſtable⯑boy, who watched at the door. "I am feeling for the half crown, but I can't find it."— "Bring all together." He brought Jem's broken flower-pot, with all the money in it, to the door.

The black cloud was now paſſed over the moon, and the light ſhone full upon them.— "What do we ſtand here for?" ſaid the ſtable⯑boy, ſnatching the flower-pot out of Lawrence's trembling hands, and pulled him away from the door. "Good God!" cried Lawrence, "you won't take all—you ſaid you'd only take half a crown, and pay it back on Monday —you ſaid you'd only take half a crown!"— "Hold your tongue," replied the other walk⯑ing on, deaf to all remonſtrances—"if I am to be hanged ever, it ſha'n't be for half a crown." Lawrence's blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt as if all his hair ſtood on end. Not another word paſſed. His accomplice carried off the [90]money, and Lawrence crept, with all the hor⯑rors of guilt upon him, to his reſtleſs bed. All nigh he was ſtarting from frightful dreams; or elſe, broad awake, he lay liſtening to every ſmall noiſe, unable to ſtir, and ſcarcely daring to breathe—tormented by that moſt dreadful of all kinds of fear, that fear which is the conſtant companion of an evil conſcience. He thought the morning would never come; but when it was day, when he heard the birds ſing, and ſaw every thing look cheerful as uſual, he ſelt ſtill more miſcrable. It was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for church. All the children of the village, dreſſed in their Sunday clothes, in⯑nocent and gay, and little Jem, the beſt and gayeſt amongſt them, went flocking by his door to church. "Well, Lawrence," ſaid Jem, pulling his coat as he paſſed, and ſaw Law⯑rence leaning againſt his father's door, "what makes you look ſo black?"—"I!" ſaid Law⯑rence ſtarting, "why do you ſay that I look black?"—"Nay then," ſaid Jem, "you look white enough, now, if that will pleaſe you; for you're turned as pale as death."—"Pale!" replied Lawrence, not knowing what he ſaid; and turned abruptly away, for he dared not [91]ſtand another look of Jem's; conſcious that guilt was written in his ſace, he ſhunned every eye. He would now have given the world to have thrown off the load of guilt which lay up⯑on his mind; he longed to follow Jem, to fall upon his knees, and confeſs all; dreading the moment when Jem ſhould diſcover his loſs, Lawrence dared not ſtay at home, and not knowing what to do, or where to go, he me⯑chanically went to his old haunt at the ſtable⯑yard, and lurked thereabouts all day, with his accomplice, who tried in vain to quiet his fears and raiſe his ſpirits, by talking of the next day's cock-fight. It was agreed, that, as ſoon as the duſk of the evening came on, they ſhould go together into a certain lonely field, and there divide their booty.

In the mean time Jem, when he returned from church, was very full of buſineſs, prepar⯑ing for the reception of his miſtreſs, of whoſe intended viſit he had informed his mother; and, whilſt ſhe was arranging the kitchen and their little parlour, he ran to ſearch the ſtraw⯑berry-beds. "Why, my Jem, how merry you are to-day!" ſaid his mother when he came in with the ſtrawberries, and was jumping about [92]the room playfully. "Now keep thoſe ſpirits of yours, Jem, till you want 'em, and don't let it come upon you all at once. Have it in mind that to-morrow's fair day, and Lightfoot muſt go. I bid farmer Truck call for him to⯑night; he ſaid he'd take him along with his own, and he'll be here juſt now—and then I know how it will he with you, Jem!"—"So do I!" cried Jem, ſwallowing his ſecret with great difficulty, and then tumbling head over heels four times running. A carriage paſſed the window and ſtopped at the door. Jem ran out; it was his miſtreſs. She came in ſmiling, and ſoon made the old woman ſmile too, by praiſing the neatneſs of every thing in the houſe. But we ſhall paſs over, however important they were deemed at the time, the praiſes of the ſtrawberries, and of "my grandmother's china plate." Another knock was heard at the door. "Run, Jem," ſaid his mother, "I hope it's our milk-woman with cream for the lady." No; it was farmer Truck come for Lightfoot. The old woman's countenance fell. "Fetch him out, dear," ſaid ſhe, turning to her ſon; but Jem was gone; he flew out to the ſtable the moment he ſaw the flap of farmer Truck's [93]great-coat. "Sit ye down, farmer," ſaid the old woman, after they had waited about five minutes in expectation of Jem's return. "You'd beſt ſit down, if the lady will give you leave; for he'll not hurry himſelf back again. My boy's a fool, madam, about that there horſe." Trying to laugh, ſhe added, "I knew how Lightfoot and he would be loath enough to part—he won't bring him out till the laſt minute; ſo do ſit ye down, neighbour." The ſarmer had ſcarcely ſat down, when Jem, with a pale wild countenance, came back. "What's the matter?" ſaid his miſtreſs. "God bleſs the boy!" ſaid his mother, looking at him quite frightened, whilſt he tried to ſpeak, but could not. She went up to him, and then lean [...]ng his head againſt her, he cried, "It's gone!—it's all gone!" and, burſting into tears, he ſobbed as if his little heart would break. "What's gone, love?" ſaid his mother. "My two guineas —Lightfoot's two guineas. I went to fetch 'em to give you, mammy; but the broken flower-pot that I put them in, and all's gone! —quite gone!" repeated he, checking his ſobs. "I ſaw them ſafe laſt night, and was ſhewing 'em to Lightfoot; and I was ſo glad to think I [94]had earned them all myſelf; and I thought how ſurpriſed you'd look, and how glad you'd be, and how you'd kiſs me, and all!"

His mother liſtened to him with the greateſt ſurpriſe, whilſt his miſtreſs ſtood in ſilence, looking firſt at the old woman, and then at Jem with a penetrating eye, as if ſhe ſuſpected the truth of his ſtory, and was afraid of becoming the dupe of her own compaſſion. "This is a very ſtrange thing!" ſaid ſhe gravely. "How came you to leave all your money in a broken flower-pot in the ſtable? How came you not to give it to your mother to take care of?"— "Why, don't you remember," ſaid Jem, look⯑ing up in the midſt of his tears; "why, don't you remember you your own ſelf bid me not tell her about it till you were by."—"And did you not tell her?"—"Nay, aſk mammy," ſaid Jem, a little offended; and, when after⯑wards the lady went on queſtioning him in a ſevere manner, as if ſhe did not believe him, he at laſt made no anſwer. "Oh, Jem! Jem! why don't you ſpeak to the lady? ſaid his mother. "I have ſpoke, and ſpoke the truth," ſaid Jem proudly, "and ſhe did not believe me."

[95] Still the lady, who had lived too long in the world to be without ſuſpicion, maintained a cold manner, and determined to wait the event without interfering, ſaying only, that ſhe hoped the money would be found; and adviſed Jem to have done crying. "I have done," ſaid Jem, "I ſhall cry no more." And as he had the greateſt command over himſelf, he actually did not ſhed another tear, not even when the farmer got up to go, ſaying, he could wait no longer. Jem ſilently went to bring out Lightfoot.— The lady now took her ſeat where ſhe could ſee all that paſſed at the open parlour window. —The old woman ſtood at the door, and ſeve⯑ral idle people of the village, who had gathered round the lady's carriage examining it, turned about to liſten. In a minute or two Jem ap⯑peared, with a ſteady countenance, leading Lightfoot; and, when he came up, without ſaying a word, put the bridle into farmer Truck's hand. "He has been a good horſe," ſaid the farmer. "He is a good horſe!" cried Jem, and threw his arm over Lightfoot's neck, hiding his own face as he leaned upon him.

At this inſtant a party of milkwomen went by; and one of them having ſet down her pail, [96]came behind Jem, and gave him a pretty ſmart blow upon the back.—He looked up.—"And don't you know me?" ſaid ſhe. "I forget," ſaid Jem;" I think I have ſeen your face before, but I forget."—"Do you ſo? and you'll tell me juſt now," ſaid ſhe, "half opening her hand, "that you forget who gave you this, and who charged you not to part with it too." Here ſhe quite opened her large hand, and on the palm of it appeared Jem's ſilver penny. "Where?" exclaimed Jem ſeizing it, "oh where did you find it? and have you?—oh tell me, have you got the reſt of my money?"—"I know nothing of your money—I don't know what you would be at," ſaid the milkwoman. "But where, pray tell me where, did you find this?"—"With them that you gave it to, I ſuppoſe," ſaid the milkwoman, turning away ſuddenly to take up her milk-pail. But now Jem's miſtreſs called to her through the win⯑dow, begging her to ſtop, and joining in his entreaties to know how ſhe came by the ſilver penny.

"Why, madam," ſaid ſhe, taking up the corner of her apron, "I came by it in an odd way too—You muſt know my Betty is ſick, ſo [97]I come with the milk myſelf, though it's not what I'm uſed to; for my Betty—you know my Betty," ſaid ſhe, turning round to the old woman, "my Betty ſerves you, and ſhe's a tight and ſtirring laſſy, ma'am, I can aſſure—" "yes, I don't doubt it," ſaid the lady impa⯑tiently; "but about the ſilver penny?"— "Why, that's true; as I was coming along all alone, for the reſt came round, and I came a ſhort cut acroſs yon field—No, you can't ſee it, madam, where you ſtand—but if you were here—" "I ſee it—I know it," ſaid Jem, out of breath with anxiety. "Well—well—I reſt⯑ed my pail upon the ſtile, and ſets me down awhile, and there comes out of the hedge—I don't know well how, for they ſtartled me ſo I'd like to have thrown down my milk—two boys, one about the ſize of he," ſaid ſhe, point⯑ing to Jem, "and one a matter taller, but ill⯑looking like, ſo I did not think to ſtir to make way for them, and they were like in a deſperate hurry: ſo, without waiting for the ſtile, one of 'em pulled at the gate, and when it would not open (for it was tied with a pretty ſtout cord) one of 'em whips out with his knife and cuts it—

[98] "Now have you a knife about you, Sir?" continued the milk-woman to the farmer. He gave her his knife.

"Here now, ma'am, juſt ſticking as it were here, between the blade and the haft, was the filver penny. He took no notice, but when he opened it, out it falls; ſtill he takes no heed, but cuts the cord, as I ſaid before, and through the gate they went, and out of ſight in half a minute. I picks up the penny, for my heart miſgave me that it was the very one huſband had had a long time, and had given againſt my voice to he," pointing to Jem; "and I charg⯑ed him not to part with it; and, ma'am, when I looked I knew it by the mark, ſo I thought I would ſhew it to he," again pointing to Jem, "and let him give it back to thoſe it belongs to."—"It belongs to me," ſaid Jem, "I ne⯑ver gave it to any body—but—" "But," cried the farmer, "thoſe boys have robbed him —it is they who have all his money."—"Oh, which way did they go?" cried Jem, "I'll run after them."

"No, no," ſaid the lady, calling to her ſer⯑vant; and ſhe deſired him to take his horſe and ride after them. "Aye," added farmer Truck, [99]do you take the road, and I'll take the field⯑way, and I'll be bound we'll have 'em pre⯑ſently."

Whilſt they were gone in purſuit of the thieves, the lady, who was now thoroughly convinced of Jem's truth, deſired her coach⯑man would produce what ſhe had ordered him to bring with him that evening. Out of the boot of the carriage the coachman immediately produced a new ſaddle and bridle.

How Jem's eyes ſparkled when the ſaddle was thrown upon Lightfoot's back! "Put it on your horſe yourſelf, Jem," ſaid the lady— "it is yours."

Conſuſed reports of Lightfoot's ſplendid ac⯑coutrements, of the purſuit of thieves, and of the fine and generous lady who was ſtanding at dame Preſton's window, quickly ſpread through the village, and drew every body from their houſes. They crowded round Jem to hear the ſtory. The children eſpecially, who were all fond of him, expreſſed the ſtrongeſt indignation againſt the thieves. Every eye was on the ſtretch; and now ſome, who had run down the lane, came back ſhouting, "Here they are! they've got the thieves!"

[100] The footman on horſeback carried one boy before him; and the farmer, ſtriding along, dragged another. The latter had on a red jack⯑et, which little Jem immediately recollected, and ſcarcely dared lift his eyes to look at the boy on horſeback. "Good God!" ſaid he to himſelf, "it muſt be—yet ſurely it can't be Lawrence!" The footman rode on as faſt as the people would let him. The boy's hat was flouched, and his head hung down, ſo that no⯑body could ſee his face.

At this inſtant there was a diſturbance in the crowd. A man who was half drunk puſhed his way forwards, ſwearing that nobody ſhould ſtop him; that he had a right to ſee; and he would ſee. And ſo he did; for, forcing through all reſiſtance, he ſtaggered up to the footman juſt as he was lifting down the boy he had car⯑ried before him. "I will—I tell you I will ſee the thief!" cried the drunken man, puſhing up the boy's hat.—It was his own ſon.—"Law⯑rence!" exclaimed the wretched father. The ſhock ſobered him at once, and he hid his face in his hands.

There was an awful ſilence. Lawrence fell on his knees, and in a voice that could ſcarcely [101]be heard made a full confeſſion of all the cir⯑cumſtances of his guilt. "Such a young crea⯑ture ſo wicked! What could put ſuch wicked⯑neſs into your head?"—"Bad company," ſaid Lawrence. "And how came you—what brought you into bad company?"—"I don't know—except it was idleneſs." While this was ſaying, the farmer was emptying Lazy Lawrence's pockets; and when the money ap⯑peared, all his former companions in the village looked at each other with aſtoniſhment and ter⯑ror. Their parents graſped their little hands cloſer, and cried, "Thank God! he is not my ſon—how often, when he was little, we uſed, as he lounged about, to tell him that idleneſs was the root of all evil."

As for the hardened wretch his accomplice, every one was impatient to have him ſent to gaol. He had put on a bold, inſolent counte⯑nance, till he heard Lawrence's confeſſion; till the money was found upon him; and he heard the milk-woman declare, that ſhe would ſwear to the ſilver penny which he had dropped. Then he turned pale, and betrayed the ſtrongeſt ſigns of fear. "We muſt take him before the [102]juſtice," ſaid the farmer, "and he'll be lodged in Briſtol gaol. "Oh!" ſaid Jem, ſpringing forwards when Lawrence's hands were going to be tied, "let him go—won't you—can't you let him go?"—"Yes, madam, for mer⯑cy's ſake," ſaid Jem's mother to the lady, "think what a diſgrace to his family to be ſent to gaol." His father ſtood by wringing his hands in an agony of deſpair. "It's all my fault," cried he; "I brought him up in idle⯑neſs." —"But he'll never be idle any more," ſaid Jem; won't you ſpeak for him, ma'am?"— "Don't aſk the lady to ſpeak for him," ſaid the farmer; "it's better he ſhould go to bridewell now, than to the gallows by and by."

Nothing more was ſaid, for every body felt the truth of the farmer's ſpeech. Lawrence was ſent to bridewell for a month, and the ſta⯑ble-boy was tranſported to Botany Bay.

During Lawrence's confinement, Jem often viſited him, and carried him ſuch little preſents as he could afford to give; and Jem could af⯑ford to be generous, becauſe he was induſtrious. Lawrence's heart was touched by his kindneſs, and his example ſtruck him ſo forcibly, that, when his confinement was ended, he reſolved [103]to ſet immediately to work; and, to the aſto⯑niſhment of all who knew him, ſoon became remarkable for induſtry: he was found early and late at his work, eſtabliſhed a new charac⯑ter, and for ever loſt the name of Lazy Law⯑rence.

THE FALSE KEY.

MR. SPENCER, a very benevolent and ſen⯑ſible man, undertook the education of ſeveral poor children. Amongſt the reſt was a boy of the name of Franklin, whom he had bred up from the time he was five years old. Franklin had the misfortune to be the ſon of a man of infamous character; and for many years this was a diſgrace and reproach to his child. When any of the neighbours' children quarrelled with him, they uſed to tell him he would turn out like his father. But Mr. Spencer always aſ⯑ſured him, that he might make himſelf what⯑ever he pleaſed; that by behaving well he would certainly, ſooner or later, ſecure the eſ⯑teem and love of all who knew him, even of thoſe who had the ſtrongeſt prejudice againſt him on his father's account.

This hope was very delightful to Franklin, and he ſhewed the ſtrongeſt deſire to learn and to do every thing that was right; ſo that Mr. Spencer ſoon grew fond of him, and took great [105]pains to inſtruct him, and to give him all the good habits and principles which might make him a uſeful, reſpectable, and happy man.

When he was about thirteen years of age, Mr. Spencer one day ſent for him into his clo⯑ſet; and as he was folding up a letter which he had been writing, ſaid to him with a very kind look, but in a graver tone than uſual, "Frank⯑lin, you are going to leave me."—"Sir!" ſaid Franklin. "You are now going to leave me, and to begin the world for yourſelf. You will carry this letter to my ſiſter, Mrs. Churchill, in Queen's Square—you know Queen's Square." Franklin bowed. "You muſt expect," con⯑tinued Mr. Spencer, "to meet with ſeveral diſagreeable things, and a great deal of rough work, at your firſt ſetting out; but be faithful and obedient to your miſtreſs, and obliging to your fellow-ſervants, and all will go well. Mrs. Churchill will make you a very good miſtreſs if you behave properly, and I have no doubt but you will."—"Thank you, Sir."—"And you will always (I mean as long as you deſerve it) find a friend in me."—"Thank you, Sir— I am ſure you are—" There Franklin ſtop⯑ped ſhort, for the recollection of all Mr. Spen⯑cer's [106]goodneſs ruſhed upon him at once, and he could not ſay another word. "Bring me a candle to ſeal this letter," ſaid his maſter; and he was very glad to get out of the room. He came back with the candle, and with a ſtout heart ſtood by whilſt the letter was ſealing; and when his maſter put it into his hand, ſaid, in a cheerful voice, "I hope you will let me ſee you again, Sir, ſometimes." — "Certainly: whenever your miſtreſs can ſpare you I ſhall be very glad to ſee you; and, remember, if ever you get into any difficulty, don't be afraid to come to me. I have ſometimes ſpoken harſhly to you, but you will not meet with a more in⯑dulgent friend." Franklin at this turned away with a full heart; and, after making two or three attempts to expreſs his gratitude, left the room without being able to ſpeak.

He got to Queen's Square about three o'clock. The door was opened by a large red-faced man in a blue coat and ſcarlet waiſtcoat, to whom he felt afraid to give his meſſage, leſt he ſhould not be a ſervant. "Well, what's your buſi⯑neſs, Sir?" ſaid the butler. "I have a letter for Mrs. Churchill, Sir," ſaid Franklin, endea⯑vouring to pronounce his Sir in a tone as re⯑ſpectful [107]as the butler's was inſolent. The man having examined the direction, ſeal, and edges of the letter, carried it up ſtairs, and in a few minutes returned, and ordered Franklin to rub his ſhoes well and follow him. He was then ſhewn into a handſome room, where he found his miſtreſs, an elderly lady. She aſked him a few queſtions, examining him attentively as ſhe ſpoke; and her ſevere eye at firſt, and her gra⯑cious ſmile afterwards, made him feel that ſhe was a perſon to be both loved and feared. "I ſhall give you in charge," ſaid ſhe, ringing a bell, "to my houſekeeper, and I hope ſhe will have no reaſon to be diſpleaſed with you."

The houſekeeper, when ſhe firſt came in, appeared with a ſmiling countenance; but the moment ſhe caſt her eyes on Franklin, it chang⯑ed to a look of ſurpriſe and ſuſpicion. Her miſtreſs recommended him to her protection, ſaying, "Pomfret, I hope you will keep this boy under your own eye." And ſhe received him with a cold "very well, ma'am;" which plain⯑ly ſhewed ſhe was not diſpoſed to like him. In fact Mrs. Pomfret was a woman ſo fond of power, and ſo jealous of favour, that ſhe would have quarrelled with an angel who had got ſo [108]near her miſtreſs without her introduction. She ſmothered her diſpleaſure, however, till night; when, as ſhe attended her miſtreſ's toi⯑lette, ſhe could not refrain from expreſſing her ſentiments. She began cautiouſly: "Ma'am, is not this the boy Mr. Spencer was talking of one day—that has been brought up by the Villaintropic Society, I think they call it?"—"Phi⯑lanthropic Society; yes; and my brother gives him a high character: I hope he will do very well."—"I'm ſure I hope ſo too; but I can't ſay; for my part, I've no great notion of thoſe low people. They ſay all thoſe children are taken from the very loweſt drugs and refugees of the town, and ſurely they are like enough, ma'am, to take after their own fathers and mo⯑thers."—"But they are not ſuffered to be with their parents, and therefore cannot be hurt by their example. This little boy to be ſure was unfortunate in his father, but he has had an ex⯑cellent education."—"Oh, edication! to be ſure, ma'am, I know—I don't ſay but what edication is a great thing. But then, ma'am, edication can't change the natur that's in one, they ſay; and one that's born naturally bad and low, they ſay, all the edication in the world [109]won't do no good; and, for my part, ma'am, I know you knows beſt, but I ſhould be afraid to let any of thoſe Villaintropic folks get into my houſe, for nobody can tell the natur of them aforehand: I declare it frights me."—"Pom⯑fret, I thought you had better ſenſe: how would this poor boy earn his bread? he would be forced to ſtarve or ſteal if every body had ſuch pre⯑judices." Pomfret, who really was a good wo⯑man, was ſoftened at this idea, and ſaid, "God forbid he ſhould ſtarve or ſteal, and God forbid I ſhould ſay any thing prejudiciary of the boy, for there may be no harm in him."—"Well," ſaid Mrs. Churchill, changing her tone, "but, Pomfret, if we don't like the boy at the end of a month, we have done with him; for I have only promiſed Mr. Spencer to keep him a month upon trial—there is no harm done."— "Dear, no, ma'am, to be ſure—and cook muſt put up with her diſappointment, that's all."— "What diſappointment?"—"About her ne⯑phew, ma'am; the boy ſhe and I was ſpeaking to you for."—"When?"—"The day you called her up about the almond pudding, ma'am; if you remember, you ſaid you ſhould have no objections to try the boy; and upon that cook [110]bought him new ſhirts; but they are to the good, as I tell her."—"But I did not promiſe to take her nephew."—"Oh, no, ma'am, not at all; ſhe does not think to ſay that, elſe I ſhould be very angry; but the poor woman never let fall a word, any more than frets that the boy ſhould miſs ſuch a good place."— "Well, but ſince I did ſay that I ſhould have no objection to try him, I ſhall keep my word; let him come to-morrow: let them both have a fair trial, and at the end of the month I can decide which I like beſt, and which we have bet⯑ter keep."

Diſmiſſed with theſe orders, Mrs. Pomfret haſtened to report all that had paſſed to the cook, like a favourite miniſter; proud to diſ⯑play the extent of her ſecret influence. In the morning Felix, the cook's nephew, arrived; and the moment he came into the kitchen every eye, even the ſcullion's, was fixed upon him with approbation, and afterwards glanced upon Franklin with contempt—contempt which Franklin could not endure without ſome confu⯑ſion, though quite unconſcious of having deſerv⯑ed it; nor, upon the moſt impartial and cool ſelf-examination, could be comprehend the juſ⯑tice [111]of his judges. He perceived indeed, for the compariſons were minutely made in audible and ſcornful whiſpers, that Felix was a much handſomer, or, as the kitchen-maid expreſſed it, a much more genteeler gentlemanly-looking like ſort of perſon than he was; and he was made to underſtand, that he wanted a frill to his ſhirt, a cravat, a pair of thin ſhoes, and, above all, ſhoe-ſtrings, beſides other nameleſs advantages, which juſtly made his rival the ad⯑miration of the kitchen. However, upon call⯑ing to mind all that his friend Mr. Spencer had ever ſaid to him, he could not recollect his having warned him that ſhoe-ſtrings were in⯑diſpenſable requiſites to the character of a good ſervant; ſo that he could only comfort himſelf with reſolving, if poſſible, to make amends for theſe deficiencies, and to diſſipate the prejudices which he ſaw were formed againſt him, by the ſtricteſt adherence to all that his tutor had taught him to be his duty. He hoped to ſecure the approbation of his miſtreſs by ſcrupulous obedience to all her commands, and faithful care of all that belonged to her; at the ſame time he flattered himſelf he ſhould win the good will of his fellow-ſervants, by ſhewing a con⯑ſtant [112]deſire to oblige them. He purſued this plan of conduct ſteadily for nearly three weeks, and found that he ſucceeded beyond his expecta⯑tions in pleaſing his miſtreſs; but unfortu⯑nately he found it more difficult to pleaſe his fellow ſervants, and he ſometimes offended when he leaſt expected it.

He had made great progreſs in the affections of Corkſcrew the butler, by working indeed very hard for him, and doing every day at leaſt half his buſineſs. But one unfortunate night the butler was gone out—the bell rang—he went up ſtairs; and his miſtreſs aſking where Corkſcrew was, he anſwered that he was gone out. "Where to?" ſaid his miſtreſs. "I don't know," anſwered Franklin. And as he had told exactly the truth, and meant to do no harm, he was ſurpriſed, at the butler's return, when he repeated to him what had paſſed, to receive a ſudden box on the ear, and the appel⯑lation of a miſchievous, impertinent, mean-ſpirit⯑ed brat! "Miſchievous, impertinent, mean!" repeated Franklin to himſelf; but, looking in the butler's face, which was of a deeper ſcarlet than uſual, he judged that he was far from ſo⯑ber, and did not doubt but that the next morn⯑ing, [113]when he came to the uſe of his reaſon, he would be ſenſible of his injuſtice, and apologize for this box of the ear. But no apology coming all day, Franklin at laſt ventured to requeſt an explanation, or rather to aſk what he had beſt do on the next occaſion. "Why," ſaid Cork⯑ſcrew, "when miſtreſs aſked for me, how came you to ſay I was gone out?"—"Becauſe you know, I ſaw you go out."—"And when ſhe aſked you where I was gone, how came you to ſay that you did not know?—"Becauſe in⯑deed I did not."—"You are a ſtupid block-head: could not you ſay I was gone to the waſherwoman's?"—"But were you?" ſaid Franklin. "Was I!" cried Corkſcrew, and looked as if he would have ſtruck him again; "how dare you give me the lie?—Mr. Hypo⯑crite, you would be ready enough, I'll be bound, to make excuſes for yourſelf.—Why are not miſtreſs's clogs cleaned? go along and blacken 'em this minute, and ſend Felix to me.

From this time forward Felix alone was pri⯑vileged to enter the butler's pantry. Felix be⯑came the favourite of Corkſcrew; and though Franklin by no means ſought to pry into the myſteries of their private conferences, nor ever [114]entered without knocking at the door, yet it was his fate once to be ſent of a meſſage at an unluckly time, and as the door was half open he could not avoid ſeeing Felix drinking a bumper of red liquor, which he could not help ſuſpect⯑ing to be wine; and as the decanter, which uſually went up ſtairs after dinner, was at this time in the butler's graſp, without any ſtopper in it, he was involuntarily forced to ſuſpect they were drinking his miſtreſs's wine.

Nor were the bumpers of port of the only un⯑lawful rewards which Felix received; his aunt the cook had occaſion for his aſſiſtance, and ſhe had many delicious douceurs in her gift. Many a handful of currants, many a half cuſtard, many a triangular remnant of pie, beſides the choice of his own meal at breakfaſt, dinner, and ſupper, f [...]li to the ſhare of the favourite Felix; whilſt Franklin was neglected, though he took the utmoſt pains to pleaſe the cook in all ho⯑nourable ſervice, and, when ſhe was hot, angry, or hurried, he was always at hand to help her; and in the hour of adverſity, when the clock ſtruck five, and no dinner was diſhed, and no kitchen maid with twenty pair of hands was to be had, Franklin would anſwer to her call, with [115]flowers to garniſh her diſhes, and preſence of mind to know, in the midſt of the commotion, where every thing that was wanting was to be found; ſo that, quick as lightning, all difficul⯑ties vaniſhed before him. Yet when the dan⯑ger was over, and the hour of adverſity paſſed, the ungrateful cook would forget her bene⯑factor, and, when it came to be his ſupper time, would throw him, with a careleſſneſs which touched him ſenſibly, any thing which the other ſervants were too nice to eat. All this Frank⯑lin bore with fortitude, nor did he envy Felix the dainties which he eat ſometimes cloſe beſide him: "For," ſaid he to himſelf, "I have a clear conſcience, and that is more than Felix can have. I know how he wins cook's fa⯑vour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her; for, ſince the day I ſaw the baſket, ſhe has done nothing but huff me."

The hiſtory of the baſket was this. Mrs. Pomfret, the houſekeeper, had ſeveral times, directly and indirectly, given the world below to underſtand that ſhe and her miſtreſs thought there was a prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late. Now when ſhe ſpoke, it [116]was uſually at dinner-time; ſhe always looked, or Franklin imagined that ſhe looked, ſuſpi⯑ciouſly at him. Other people looked ſtill more maliciouſly; but as he felt himſelf perfectly in⯑nocent, he went on eating his dinner in ſilence. But at length it was time to explain. One Sunday there appeared a handſome ſirloin of beef, which before noon on Monday had ſhrunk almoſt to the bare bone, and preſented ſuch a deplorable ſpectacle to the opening eyes of Mrs. Pomfret, that her long ſmothered indignation burſt forth, and ſhe boldly declared ſhe was now certain there had been foul play, and ſhe would have the beef found, or ſhe would know why. She ſpoke, but no beef appeared; till Franklin, with a look of ſudden recollection, cried, "Did not I ſee ſomething like a piece of beef in a baſket in the dairy—I think—" The cook, as if ſomebody had ſmote her a deadly blow, grew pale; but ſuddenly recovering the uſe of her ſpeech, turned upon Franklin, and with a voice of thunder gave him the lie direct; and forth⯑with, taking Mrs. Pomfret by the ruffle, led the way to the dairy, declaring ſhe could defy the world—"that ſo ſhe could, and would." —"There, ma'am," ſaid ſhe, kicking an empty [117]baſket which lay on the floor—"there's malice for you—aſk him why he don't ſhew you the beef in the baſket."—"I thought I ſaw—" poor Franklin began. "You thought you ſaw!" cried the cook coming cloſe up to him with kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon. —"And pray, Sir, what buſineſs have ſuch a one as you to think you ſee?"—"And pray, ma'am, will you be pleaſed to ſpeak—perhaps, ma'am, he'll condeſcend to obey you—ma'am, will you be pleaſed to forbid him my dairy— for here he comes prying and ſpying about— and how, ma'am, am I to anſwer for my butter and cream, or any thing at all?—I'm ſure it's what I can't pretend to, unleſs you do me the juſtice to forbid him my places."

Mrs. Pomfret, whoſe eyes were blinded by her prejudices againſt the folks of the Villain⯑tropic Society, and alſo by her ſecret jealouſly of a boy whom ſhe deemed to be a growing fa⯑vourite of her miſtreſs's, took part with the cook, and ended, as ſhe began, with a firm per⯑ſuaſion that Franklin was the guilty perſon. "Let him alone, let him alone!" ſaid ſhe; "he has as many turns and windings as a hare; but we ſhall catch him yet, I'll be bound, in [118]ſome of his doublings. I knew the nature of him well enough, from the firſt time I ever ſet my eyes upon him; but miſtreſs ſhall have her own way, and ſee the end of it." Theſe words, and the bitter ſenſe of injuſtice, drew tears at length faſt down the proud cheek of Franklin, which might poſſibly have touched Mrs. Pom⯑fret, if Felix, with a ſneer, had not called them crocodile tears. "Felix too!" thought he, "this is too much." In fact Felix had till now profeſſed himſelf his firm ally, and had on his part received from Franklin unequivocal proofs of friendſhip; for it muſt be told, that every other morning, when it was Felix's turn to get breakfaſt, Felix never was up in decent time, and muſt inevitably have come to public diſ⯑grace, if Franklin had not got all the breakfaſt things ready for him, the bread and butter ſpread and the toaſt toaſted; and had not moreover re⯑gularly, when the clock ſtruck eight, and Mrs. Pomfret's foot was heard overhead, ran to call the ſleeping Felix, and helped him conſtantly through the hurry of getting dreſſed one inſtant before the houſekeeper came down ſtairs. All this could not but be preſent to his memory; but, ſcorning to reproach him, Franklin wiped [119]away his crocodile tears, and preſerved a mag⯑nanimous ſilence.

The hour of retribution was however not ſo far off as Felix imagined. Cunning people may go on cleverly in their devices for ſome time, but though they may eſcape once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine times, what does that ſignify, for the hundredth they come to ſhame, and loſe all their character. Grown bold by frequent ſucceſs, Felix became more careleſs in his operations; and it happened that one day he met his miſtreſs full in the paſſage, as he was going on one of the cook's ſecret errands. "Where are you going, Felix?" ſaid his miſtreſs. "To the waſherwoman's, ma'am," anſwered he with his uſual effrontery. "Very well," ſaid ſhe, "call at the bookſeller's in — ſtay, I muſt write down the direction.— Pomfret," ſaid ſhe, opening the houſekeeper's room door, "have you a bit of paper." Pom⯑fret came with the writing-paper, and looked very angry to ſee that Felix was going out without her knowledge; ſo, while Mrs. Churchill was writing the direction, ſhe ſtood talking to him about it; whilſt he, in the great⯑eſt terror imaginable, looked up in her face as [120]ſhe ſpoke, but was all the time intent upon parry⯑ing on the other ſide the attacks of a little French dog of his miſtreſ's, which, unluckily for him, had followed her into the paſſage. Manchon was extremely fond of Felix, who, by way of pleaſing his miſtreſs, had paid moſt aſſiduous court to her dog; yet now his careſſes were rather troubleſome. Manchon leaped up, and was not to be rebuffed. "Poor fellow, poor fellow — down! down! poor fellow!" cried Felix, and put him away. But Manchon leaped up again, and began ſmelling near the fatal pocket in a moſt alarming manner. "You will ſee by this direction where you are to go," ſaid his miſtreſs. "Manchon, come here— and you will be ſo good as to bring me — down! down! Manchon, be quiet!" But Manchon knew better; he had now got his head into Felix's pocket, and would not be quiet till he had drawn from thence, ruſtling out of its brown paper, half a cold turkey, which had been miſſing ſince morning. "My cold tur⯑key, as I'm alive!" exclaimed the houſekeeper, darting upon it with horror and amazement. "What is all this?" ſaid Mrs. Churchill in a compoſed voice. "I don't know, ma'am," [121]anſwered Felix, ſo confuſed that he knew not what to ſay—"but—" "But what?" cried Mrs. Pomfret, indignation flaſhing from her eyes. "But what?" repeated his miſtreſs, waiting for his reply with a calm air of atten⯑tion, which ſtill more diſconcerted Felix; for though with an angry perſon he might have ſome chance of eſcape, he knew that he could not invent any excuſe in ſuch circumſtances which could ſtand the examination of a perſon in her ſober ſenſes. He was ſtruck dumb. "Speak," ſaid Mrs. Churchill, in a ſtill lower tone; "I am ready to hear all you have to ſay: in my houſe every body ſhall have juſtice— ſpeak—but what?"—"But," ſtammered Fe⯑lix; and, after in vain attempting to equivocate, confeſſed that he was going to take the turkey to his couſin's: but he threw all the blame upon his aunt, the cook, who, he ſaid, had or⯑dered him upon this expedition. The cook was now ſummoned; but ſhe totally denied all knowledge of the affair, with the ſame violence with which ſhe had lately confounded Franklin about the beef in the baſket; not entirely, how⯑ever, with the ſame ſucceſs, for Felix, perceiv⯑ing by his miſtreſs eye that ſhe was upon the [122]point of deſiring him to leave the houſe imme⯑diately, and not being very willing to leave a place in which he had lived ſo well with the butler, did not heſitate to confront his aunt with aſſurance equal to her own. He knew how to bring his charge home to her. He pro⯑duced a note in her own hand-writing, the purport of which was to requeſt her couſin's acceptance of "ſome delicate cold turkey," and to beg ſhe would ſend her by the return of the bearer a little of her cherry-brandy.

Mrs. Churchill coolly wrote upon the back of the note her cook's diſcharge, and informed Felix ſhe had no further occaſion for his ſer⯑vices; but, upon his pleading with many tears, which Franklin did not call crocodile tears, that he was ſo young, and that he was under the dominion of his aunt, he touched Mrs. Pom⯑fret's compaſſion, and ſhe obtained for him per⯑miſſion to ſtay till the end of the month, to give him yet a chance of redeeming his cha⯑racter.

Mrs. Pomfret, now ſeeing how far ſhe had been impoſed upon, reſolved for the future to be more upon her guard with Felix, and felt that ſhe had treated Franklin with great injuſ⯑tice, [123]when ſhe accuſed him of mal-practices about the ſirloin of beef. Good people, when they are made ſenſible that they have treated any one with injuſtice, are impatient to have an opportunity to rectify their miſtake; and Mrs. Pomfret was now prepared to ſee every thing which Franklin did in the moſt favour⯑able point of view, eſpecially as the next day ſhe diſcovered that it was he who every morn⯑ing boiled the water for her tea, and buttered her toaſt, ſervices for which ſhe had always thought ſhe was indebted to Felix. Beſides, ſhe had rated Felix's abilities very highly, be⯑cauſe he made up her weekly accounts for her; but unluckily once, when Franklin was out of the way, and ſhe brought a bill in a hurry to her favourite to caſt up, ſhe diſcovered that he did not know how to caſt up pounds, ſhillings, and pence, and he was obliged to confeſs that he muſt wait till Franklin came home.

But, paſſing over a number of ſmall incidents which gradually unfolded the character of the two boys, we muſt proceed to a more ſerious affair.

Corkſcrew, frequently, after he had finiſhed taking away ſupper, and after the houſekeeper [124]was gone to bed, ſallied forth to a neighbouring alehouſe to drink with his friends. The ale⯑houſe was kept by that couſin of Felix's who was ſo fond of "delicate cold turkey," and who had ſuch choice cherry-brandy. Corkſcrew kept the key of the houſe door, ſo that he could return home at what hour he thought proper; and, if he ſhould by accident be called for by his miſtreſs after ſupper, Felix knew where to find him, and did not ſcruple to make any of thoſe excuſes which poor Franklin had too much integrity to uſe. All theſe precau⯑tions taken, the butler was at liberty to indulge his favourite paſſion, which ſo increaſed with indulgence, that his wages were by no means ſufficient to ſupport him in this way of life. Every day he felt leſs reſolution to break through his bad habits, for every day drinking become more neceſſary to him. His health was ruined. With a red, pimpled, bloated face, emaciated legs, and a ſwelled, diſeaſed body, he appeared the victim of intoxication. In the morning when he got up his hands trembled, his ſpirits ſlagged, he could do nothing till he had taken a dram; an operation which he was oblig⯑ed to repeat ſeveral times in the courſe of the [125]day, as all thoſe wretched people muſt who once acquire this cuſtom.

He had run up a long bill at the alehouſe which he frequented; and the landlord, who grew urgent for his money, refuſed to give him further credit. One night, when Corckſcrew had drank enough only to make him fretful, he leaned with his elbow ſurlily upon the table, began to quarrel with the landlord, and ſwore that he had not of late treated him like a gen⯑tleman. To which the landlord coolly replied, "That as long as he had paid like a gentleman, he had been treated like one, and that was as much as any one could expect, or, at any rate, as much as any one would meet with, in this world." For the truth of this aſſertion he appealed, laughing, to a party of men who were drinking in the room. The men, however, took part with Corkſcrew, and, drawing him over to their table, made him ſit down with them. They were in high good humour, and the butler ſoon grew ſo intimate with them, that, in the openneſs of his heart, he ſoon com⯑municated to them, not only all his own affairs, but all that he knew, and more than all that he knew, of his miſtreſs's.

[126] His new friends were by no means uninte⯑reſted in his converſation, and encouraged him as much as poſſible to talk; for they had ſecret views, which the butler was by no means ſuf⯑ficiently ſober to diſcover. Mrs. Churchill had ſome fine old family plate; and theſe men belonged to a gang of houſebreakers. Before they parted with Corkſcrew, they engaged him to meet them again the next night; their inti⯑macy was ſtill more cloſely cemented. One of the men actually offered to lend Corkſcrew three guineas towards the payment of his debt, and hinted that, if he thought proper, he could eaſily get the whole cleared off. Upon this hint Corkſcrew be came all attention, till, after ſome heſitation on their part, and repeated promiſes of ſecreſy on his, they at length diſcloſed their plans to him. They gave him to underſtand, that if he would aſſiſt in letting them into his miſtreſ's houſe, they would let him have an ample ſhare in the booty. The butler, who had the reputation of being an honeſt man, and indeed whoſe integrity had hitherto been proof againſt every thing but his miſtreſ's port, turn⯑ed pale and trembled at this propoſal; drank [127]two or three bumpers to drown thought; and promiſed to give an anſwer the next day.

He went home more than half intoxicated. His mind was ſo full of what had paſſed, that he could not help bragging to Felix, whom he found awake at his return, that he could have his bill paid off at the alehouſe whenever he pleaſed; dropping beſides ſome hints, which were not loſt upon Felix. In the morning Felix reminded him of the things which he had ſaid; and Corkſcrew, alarmed, endeavoured to evade his queſtions, by ſaying that he was not in his ſenſes when he talked in that manner. Nothing however that he could urge made any impreſſion upon Felix, whoſe recollection on the ſubject was perfectly diſtinct, and who had too much cunning himſelf, and too little con⯑fidence in his companion, to be the dupe of his diſſimulation. The butler knew not what to do when he ſaw that Felix was abſolutely de⯑termined either to betray their ſcheme, or to become a ſharer in the booty.

The next night came, and he was now to make a final deciſion; either to determine on breaking off entirely with his new acquaint⯑ance, [128]or taking Felix with him to join in the plot.

His debt, his love of drinking, the impoſſi⯑bility of indulging it without a freſh ſupply of money, all came into his mind at once, and conquered his remaining ſcruples. It is ſaid by thoſe whoſe fatal experience give them a right to be believed, that a drunkard will ſacri⯑fice any thing, every thing, ſooner than the pleaſure of habitual intoxication.

How much eaſier is it never to begin a bad cuſtom, than to break through it when once formed!

The hour of rendezvous came, and Cork⯑ſcrew went to the alehouſe, where he found the houſe-breakers waiting for him, and a glaſs of brandy ready poured out. He ſighed—drank —heſitated—drank again—heard the landlord talk of his bill—ſaw the money produced, which would pay it in a moment — drank again — curſed himſelf, and, giving his hand to the vil⯑lain who was whiſpering in his ear, ſwore that he could not help it, and muſt do as they would have him. They required of him to give up the key of the houſe-door, that they might get another made by it. He had left it with Felix, [129]and was now obliged to explain the new difficulty which had ariſen. Felix knew enough to ruin them, and muſt therefore be won over. This was no very difficult taſk; he had a ſtrong deſire to have ſome worked cravats, and the butler knew enough of him to believe that this would be a ſufficient bribe. The cravats were bought and ſhewn to Felix. He thought them the only things wanting to make him a complete fine gentleman, and to go without them, eſpecially when he had once ſeen himſelf in the glaſs with one tied on in a ſplendid bow, appeared impoſ⯑ſible. Even this paltry temptation, working upon his vanity, at length prevailed with a boy, whoſe integrity had long been corrupted by the habits of petty pilfering and daily falſehood. It was agreed that, the firſt time his miſtreſs ſent him out on a meſſage, he ſhould carry the key of the houſe door to his couſin's, and deliver it into the hands of one of the gang, who were there in waiting for it. Such was the ſcheme. Felix, the night after all this had been planned, went to bed and fell faſt aſleep; but the butler, who had not yet ſtifled the voice of conſcience, felt, in the ſilence of the night, ſo inſupport⯑ably miſerable, that, inſtead of going to reſt, he [130]ſtole ſoftly into the pantry for a bottle of his miſtreſs's wine, and there, drinking glaſs after glaſs, he ſtayed till he became ſo far intoxicated that, though he contrived to find his way back to bed, he could by no means undreſs himſelf. Without any power of recollection, he flung himſelf upon the bed, leaving his candle half hanging out of the candleſtick beſide him. Franklin ſlept in the next room to him, and preſently wakening, thought he perceived a ſtrong ſmell of ſomething burning. He jump⯑ed up, and ſeeing a light under the butler's door, gently opened it, and to his aſtoniſhment beheld one of the bed curtains in flames. He immediately ran to the butler, and pulled him with all his force to rouſe him from his lethar⯑gy. He came to his ſenſes at length, but was ſo terrified, and ſo helpleſs, that, if it had not been for Franklin, the whole houſe would ſoon inevitably have been on fire. Felix, trembling and cowardly, knew not what to do; and it was curious to ſee him obeying Franklin, whoſe turn it was now to command. Franklin ran up ſtairs to waken Mrs. Pomfret, whoſe terror of fire was ſo great that ſhe came from her room almoſt out of her ſenſes, whilſt he, with [131]the greateſt preſence of mind, recollected where he had ſeen two large tubs of water, which the maids had prepared the night before for their waſhing, and, ſeizing the wet linen which had been left to ſoak, threw them upon the flames. He exerted himſelf with ſo much good ſenſe, that the fire was preſently extinguiſhed. Every thing was now once more ſafe and quiet. Mrs. Pomfret, recovering from her fright, poſtponed all enquiries till the morning, and rejoiced that her miſtreſs had not been wakened, whilſt Corkſcrew flattered himſelf that he ſhould be able to conceal the true cauſe of the accident. "Don't you tell Mrs. Pomfret where you found the candle when you came into the room," ſaid he to Franklin. "If ſhe aſks me, you know I muſt tell the truth," replied he. "Muſt!" repeated Felix ſneeringly; "what you muſt be a tell-tale!"—"No, I never told any tales of any body, and I ſhould be very ſorry to get any one into a ſcrape; but for all that I ſhall not tell a lie, either for myſelf or any body elſe, let you call me what names you will."—"But if I were to give you ſomething that you would like," ſaid Corkſcrew;— "ſomething that I know you would like!" [132]repeated Felix. "Nothing you can give me will do," anſwered Franklin ſteadily; "ſo it is uſeleſs to ſay any more about it—I hope I ſhall not be queſtioned." In this hope he was miſ⯑taken; for the firſt thing Mrs. Pomfret did in the morning was to come into the butler's room to examine and deplore the burnt curtains, whilſt Corkſcrew ſtood by endeavouring to ex⯑culpate himſelf by all the excuſes he could in⯑vent. Mrs. Pomfret, however, thought ſome⯑times blinded by her prejudices, was no fool, and it was abſolutely impoſſible to make her be⯑lieve that a candle which had been left on the hearth, where Corkſcrew proteſted he had left it, could have ſet curtains on fire which were at leaſt ſix foot diſtance. Turning ſhort round to Franklin, ſhe deſired that he would ſhew her where he found the candle when he came into the room. He begged not to be queſtion⯑ed; but ſhe inſiſted. He took up the candle⯑ſtick; but the moment the houſekeeper caſt her eye upon it, ſhe ſnatched it from his hands —"How did this candleſtick come here? This was not the candleſtick you found here laſt night," cried ſhe. "Yes, indeed, it was," anſwered Franklin. "That is impoſſible," [133]retorted ſhe vehemently, "for I left this can⯑dleſtick with my own hands, laſt night, in the hall, the laſt thing I did after you," ſaid ſhe, turning to the butler, "was gone to bed—I'm ſure of it—Nay, don't you recollect my taking this japanned candleſtick out of your hand, and making you go up to bed with the braſs one, and I bolted the door at the ſtair head after you?"

This was all very true; but Corkſcrew had afterwards gone down from his room by a ba [...]k ſtaircaſe, unbolted that door, and, upon his re⯑turn from the alehouſe, had taken the japanned candleſtick by miſtake up ſtairs, and had left the braſs one in its ſtead upon the hall table.

"Oh, ma'am," ſaid Felix, "indeed you forget, for Mr. Corkſcrew came into my room to deſire me to call him betimes in the morn⯑ing, and I happened to take particular notice, and he had the japanned candleſtick in his hand, and that was juſt as I heard you bolting the door—indeed, ma'am, you forget."—"In⯑deed, Sir," retorted Mrs. Pomfret, riſing in an⯑g [...]r, "I do not forget; I'm not come to be ſupper-annuated yet, I hope—How do you dare to tell me I forget?"—"Oh, ma'am," cried [134]Felix, "I beg your pardon, I did not—I did not mean to ſay you forgot—but only I thought, perhaps, you might not particularly remember; for it you pleaſe to recollect—" "I won't pleaſe to recollect juſt whatever you pleaſe, Sir!—Hold your tongue—Why ſhould you poke yourſelf into this ſcrape—What have you to do with it, I ſhould be glad to know?"— "Nothing in the world, oh nothing in the world; I'm ſure I beg your pardon, ma'am," anſwered Felix in a ſoft tone, and, ſneaking off, left his friend Corkſcrew to fight his own bat⯑tle, ſecretly reſolving to deſert in good time if he ſaw any danger of the alehouſe tranſactions coming to light.

Corkſcrew could make but very blundering excuſes for himſelf; and, conſcious of guilt, he turned pale, and appeared ſo much more terri⯑fied than butlers uſually appear when detected in a lie, that Mrs. Pomfret reſolved, as ſhe ſaid, to ſift the matter to the bottom. Impatiently did ſhe wait till the clock ſtruck nine, and her miſtreſs's bell rang, the ſignal for her attendance at her levee.—"How do you find yourſelf this morning, ma'am," ſaid ſhe, undrawing the cur⯑tains. "Very ſleepy, indeed," anſwered her [135]miſtreſs in a drowſy voice; "I think I muſt ſleep half an hour longer—ſhut the curtains." —"As you pleaſe, ma'am; but I ſuppoſe I had better open a little of the window ſhutter, for it's paſt nine."—"But juſt ſtruck."— "Oh dear, ma'am, it ſtruck before I came up ſtairs, and you know we are twenty minutes ſlow — Lord bleſs us?" exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, as ſhe let fall the bar of the window, which rouſed her miſtreſs—"I'm ſure I beg pardon a thouſand times—it's only the bar—becauſe I had this great key in my hand."—Put down the key then, or you'll knock ſomething elſe down; and you may open the ſthutters now, for I'm quite awake."—"Dear me! I'm ſo ſorry to think of diſturbing you," cried Mrs. Pomfret, at the ſame time throwing the ſhut⯑ters wide open: "but, to be ſure, ma'am, I have ſomething to tell you, which won't let you ſleep again in a hurry. I brought up this here key of the houſe door for reaſons of my own, which I'm ſure you'll approve of—but I'm not come to that part of my ſtory yet—I hope you were not diſturbed by the noiſe in the houſe laſt night, ma'am."—"I heard no noiſe."—"I am ſurpriſed at that though," [136]continued Mrs. Pomfret, and now proceeded to give a moſt ample account of the fire, of her fears, and her ſuſpicions.—"To be ſure, ma'am, what I ſay is, that, without the ſpirit of prophecy, one can no ways account for what has paſſed. I'm quite clear in my own judg⯑ment that Mr. Corkſcrew muſt have been out laſt night after I went to bed; for, beſides the japanned candleſtick, which of itſelf I'm ſure is ſtrong enough to hang a man, there's another circumſtance, ma'am, that certifies it to me — though I have not mentioned it, ma'am, to no one yet," lowering her voice—"Franklin, when I queſtioned him, told me, that he left the lantern in the outſide porch in the court laſt night, and this morning it was on the kitchen table: now, ma'am, that lantern could not come without hands; and I could not for⯑get about that, you know; for Franklin ſays he's ſure he left the lantern out."—"And do you believe him?"—"To be ſure, ma'am — how can I help believing him? I never found him out in the leaſt ſymptom of a lie ſince ever he came into the houſe; ſo one can't help be⯑lieving in him, like him or not."—"Without meaning to tell a falſehood, however, he might [137]make a miſtake."—"No, ma'am, he never makes miſtakes; it is not his way to go goſſip⯑ping and tattling; he never tells any thing till he's aſked, and then it's fit he ſhould. About the ſirloin of beef, and all, he was right in the end I found, to do him juſtice; and I'm ſure he's right now about the lantern—he's always right." Mrs. Churchill could not help ſmiling. —"If you had ſeen him, ma'am, laſt night in the midſt of the fire—I'm ſure we may thank him that we were not burned alive in our beds —and I ſhall never forget his coming to call me—Poor fellow! he that I was always ſcold⯑ing and ſcolding, enough to make him hate me. But he's too good to hate any body; and I'll be bound I'll make it up to him now."— "Take care that you don't go from one ex⯑treme into another, Pomfret; don't ſpoil the boy."—No, ma'am, there's no danger of that; but I'm ſure if you had ſeen him laſt night yourſelf, you would think he deſerved to be re⯑warded."—"And ſo he ſhall be rewarded," ſaid Mrs. Churchill; "but I will try him more fully yet."—"There's no occaſion, I think, for trying him any more, ma'am," ſaid Mrs. Pomfret, who was as violent in her likings as [138]as in her diſlikes. "Pray deſire," continued her miſtreſs, "that he will bring up breakfaſt this morning; and leave the key of the houſe door, Pomfret, with me."

When Franklin brought the urn into the breakfaſt parlour, his miſtreſs was ſtanding by the fire with the key in her hand. She ſpoke to him of his laſt night's exertions in terms of much approbation. "How long have you lived with me?" ſaid ſhe, pauſing; "three weeks, I think?"—"Three weeks and four days, madam."—"That is but a ſhort time; yet you have conducted yourſelf ſo as to make me think I may depend upon you. You know this key?"—"I believe, madam, it is the key of the houſe door."—"It is: I ſhall truſt it in your care. It is a great truſt for ſo young a perſon as you are." Franklin ſtood ſilent, with a firm but modeſt look. "If you take the charge of this key," continued his miſtreſs, "remember it is upon condition that you never give it out of your own hands. In the day⯑time it muſt not be left in the door. You muſt not tell any body where you keep it at night; and the houſe door muſt not be unlocked after eleven o'clock at night, unleſs by my orders. [139]Will you take charge of the key upon theſe conditions?"—"I will, madam, do any thing you order me," ſaid Franklin, and received the key from her hands.

When Mrs. Churchill's orders were made known, they cauſed many ſecret marvellings and murmurings. Corkſcrew and Felix were diſconcerted, and dared not openly avow their diſcontent; and they treated Frank⯑lin with the greateſt ſeeming kindneſs and cordiality. Every thing went on ſmoothly for three days; the butler never attempted his uſual midnight viſits to the alehouſe, but went to bed in proper time, and paid particular court to Mrs. Pomfret, in order to diſpel her ſuſpicions. She had never had any idea of the real fact, that he and Felix were joined in a plot with houſe-breakers to rob the houſe, but thought he only went out at irregular hours to indulge himſelf in his paſſion for drinking.—So ſtood affairs the night before Mrs. Churchill's birth⯑day. Corkſcrew, by the houſekeeper's means, ventured to preſent a petition that hemight go to the play the next day, and his requeſt was granted. Franklin came into the kitchen juſt when all the ſervants had gathered round the [140]butler, who, with great importance was read⯑ing aloud the play-bill. Every body preſent ſoon began to ſpeak at once, and with great en⯑thuſiaſm talked of the playhouſe, the actors and actreſſes; and then Felix, in the firſt pauſe, turned to Franklin, and ſaid, "Lord, you know nothing of all this! you never went to a play, did you?"—"Never," ſaid Franklin, and felt, he did not know why, a little aſhamed; and he longed extremely to go to one. "How ſhould you like to go to the play with me to⯑morrow," ſaid Corkſcrew. "Oh," exclaimed Franklin, "I ſhould like it exceedingly."— "And do you think miſtreſs would let you if I aſked."—"I think—may be ſhe would, if Mrs. Pemfret aſked her."—"But then you have no money, have you?"—"No," ſaid Franklin, ſighing. "But ſtay, ſaid Corkſcrew, "what I am thinking of is, that if miſtreſs will let you go, I'll treat you myſelf, rather than that you ſhould be diſappointed."

Delight, ſurpriſe, and gratitude, appeared in Franklin's face at theſe words. Corkſcrew re⯑j [...]ced to ſee that now, at leaſt, he had found a moſt powerful temptation. "Well, then, I'll go juſt now and aſk her: in the mean time [141]lend me the key of the houſe door for a minute or two."—"The key!" anſwered Franklin ſtarting; "I'm ſorry, but I can't do that, for I've promiſed my miſtreſs never to let it out of my own hands."—"But how will ſhe know any thing of the matter?—Run, run and get it for us."—"No, I cannot," replied Franklin, re⯑ſiſting the puſh which the butler gave his ſhoul⯑der. "You can't?" cried Corkſcrew, chang⯑ing his tone; "then, Sir, I can't take you to the play."—"Very well, Sir," ſaid Franklin ſorrowfully, but with ſteadineſs. "Very well, Sir," ſaid Felix, mimicking him, "you need not look ſo important, nor fancy yourſelf ſuch a great man, becauſe you're maſter of a key." —"Say no more to him," interrupted Cork⯑ſcrew; let him alone to take his own way— Felix, you would have no objection, I ſuppoſe, to going to the play with me?"—"Oh, I ſhould like it of all things, if I did not come between any body elſe"—"But come, come!" added the hypocrite, aſſuming a tone of friendly perſuaſion, "you won't be ſuch a blockhead, Franklin, as to loſe going to the play for no⯑thing; it's only juſt obſtinacy: what harm can it do to lend Mr. Corkſcrew the key for five [142]minutes; he'll give it to you back again ſafe and ſound. "I don't doubt that," anſwered Franklin "Then it muſt be all becauſe you don't wiſh to oblige Mr. Corkſcrew."—"No; but I can't oblige him in this: for, as I told you before, my miſtreſs truſted me; I promiſed never to let the key out of my own hands; and you would not have me break my truſt: Mr. Spencer told me that was worſe than robbing." At the word robbing both Corkſcrew and Felix involuntarily caſt down their eyes, and turned the converſation immediately, ſay⯑ing that he did very right; that they did not really want the key, and had only aſked for it juſt to try if he would keep his word. "Shake hands," ſaid Corkſorew, "I am glad to find you out to be an honeſt fellow!"—"I'm ſorry you did not think me one before, Mr. Cork⯑ſcrew:" ſaid Franklin, giving his hand rather proudly; and he walked away.

"We ſhall make no hand of this prig," ſaid Corkſcrew. "But we'll have the key from him in ſpite of all his obſtinacy," ſaid Felix; "and let him make his ſtory good as he can afterwards. He ſhall repent of theſe airs. To-night I'll watch him, and find out [143]where he hides the key; and when he's aſleep we'll get it without thanking him."

This plan Felix put in execution. They diſcovered the place where Franklin kept the key at night, ſtole it whilſt he ſlept, took off the impreſſion in wax, and carefully replaced it in Franklin's trunk, exactly where they found it.

Probably our young readers cannot gueſs what uſe they could mean to make of this im⯑preſſion of the key in wax. Knowing how to do miſchief is very different from wiſhing to do it; and the moſt innocent perſons are generally the leaſt ignorant. By means of the impreſ⯑ſion, which they had thus obtained, Corkſcrew and Felix propoſed to get a falſe key made by Picklock, a ſmith who belonged to their gang of houſebreakers; and with this falſe key they knew they could open the door whenever they pleaſed.

Little ſuſpecting what had happened, Frank⯑lin the next morning went to unlock the houſe⯑door as uſual; but finding the key entangled in the lock, he took it out to examine it, and perceived a lump of wax ſticking in one of the wards. Struck with this circumſtance, it brought to his mind all that had paſſed the pre⯑ceding [144]evening, and, being ſure that he had no wax near the key, he began to ſuſpect what had happened; and he could not help recollecting what he had once heard Felix ſay, that "give him but a halfpenny worth of wax, and he could open the ſtrongeſt lock that ever was made by hands."

All theſe things conſidered, Franklin reſolv⯑ed to take the key juſt as it was, with the wax ſticking in it, to his miſtreſs. "I was not miſ⯑taken when I thought I might truſt you with this key," ſaid Mrs. Churchill, after ſhe had heard his ſtory. "My brother will be here to day, and I ſhall conſult him; in the mean time ſay nothing of what has paſſed."

Evening came, and after tea Mr. Spencer ſent for Franklin up ſtairs. "So, Mr. Frank⯑lin," ſaid he, I'm glad to find you are in ſuch high truſt in this family. Franklin bowed. "But you have loſt, I underſtand, the pleaſure of going to the play to-night."—"I don't think any thing—much, I mean—of that, Sir," anſwered Franklin ſmiling. "Are Corkſcrew and Felix gone to the play."—"Yes; half an hour ago, Sir."—"Then I ſhall look into his [145]room, and examine the pantry and the plate that is under his care."

When Mr. Spencer came to examine the pantry, he found the large ſalvers and cups in a baſket behind the door, and the other things placed ſo as to be eaſily carried off. Nothing at firſt appeared in Corkſcrew's bed-chamber to ſtreng then their ſuſpicions, till, juſt as they were going to leave the room, Mrs. Pomfret exclaimed, "why, if there is not Mr. Cork⯑ſcrew's dreſs coat hanging up there! and if here isn't Felix's fine cravat that he wanted in ſuch a hurry to go to the play!—Why, Sir, they can't be gone to the play—look at the cravat.— Ha! upon my word, I am afraid they are not at the play—No, Sir, no! you may be ſure that they are plotting with their barbarous gang at the alehouſe—and they'll certainly break in⯑to the houſe to-night—we ſhall all be murder⯑ed in our beds, as ſure as I'm a living woman, Sir—But if you'll only take my advice—" "Pray, good Mrs. Pomfret, don't be alarmed." —"Nay, Sir, but I won't pretend to ſleep in the houſe, if Franklin isn't to have a blunder⯑buſs, and I a baggonet."—"You ſhall have both [146]indeed, Mrs Pomfret; but don't make ſuch a noiſe, for every body will hear you."

The love of myſtery was the only thing which could have conquered Mrs. Pomfret's love of talking. She was ſilent; and contented herſelf the reſt of the evening with making ſigns, looking ominous and ſtalking about the houſe like one poſſeſſed with a ſecret.

Eſcaped from Mrs. Pomfret's fears and ad⯑vice, Mr. Spencer went to a ſhop within a few doors of the alehouſe, which he heard Cork⯑ſcrew frequented, and ſent to beg to ſpeak to the landlord. He came; and, when Mr. Spencer queſtioned him, confeſſed that Cork⯑ſcrew and Felix were actually drinking in his houſe, with two men of ſuſpicious appearance. That, as he paſſed through the paſſage, he heard them diſputing about a key; and that one of them ſaid, "Since we've got the key, we'll go about it to-night." This was ſufficient infor⯑mation. Mr. Spencer, leſt the landlord ſhould give them information of what was going for⯑wards, took him along with him to Bow-ſtreet.

A conſtable and proper aſſiſtance was ſent to Mrs. Churchill's. They ſtationed themſelves in a back parlour, which opened on a paſſage [147]leading to the butler's pantry, where the plate was kept. A little after midnight they heard the hall-door; Corkſcrew and his accomplices went directly to the pantry, and there Mr. Spen⯑cer and the conſtable immediately ſecured them, as they were carrying off their booty.

Mrs. Churchill and Pomfret had ſpent the night at the houſe of an acquaintance in the ſame ſtreet. "Well, ma'am," ſaid Mrs. Pom⯑fret, who had heard all the news in the morn⯑ing, "the villains are all ſafe, thank God; I was afraid to go to the window this morning, but it was my luck to ſee them all go by to gaol —they looked ſo ſhocking!—I am ſure I never ſhall forget Felix's look to my dying day!— But poor Franklin! ma'am, that boy has the beſt heart in the world—I could not get him to give a ſecond look at them as they paſſed— poor fellow! I thought he would have dropped; and he was ſo modeſt, ma'am, when Mr. Spen⯑cer ſpoke to him, and told him he had done his duty."—"And did my brother tell him what re⯑ward I intend for him."—"No, ma'am, and I'm ſure Franklin thinks no more of reward than I do."—"I intend," continued Mrs. Churchill," to ſell ſome of my old uſeleſs plate, and to lay [148]it out in an annuity for Franklin's life."— "La, ma'am!" exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret with unfeigned joy, "I'm ſure you are very good; and I'm very glad of it."—"And," continued Mrs. Churchill, "here are ſome tickets for the play, which I ſhall beg you, Pomfret, to give him, and to take him with you."—"I am very much obliged to you, indeed, ma'am; and I'll go with him with all my heart, and chooſe ſuch plays as won't do no prejudice to his morality. —And ma'am," ſaid Mrs. Pomfret, "the night after the fire I left him my great bible, and my watch, in my will; for I never was more miſ⯑taken at the firſt in any boy in my born days: but he has won me by his own deſerts, and I ſhall from this time forth love all the Villain⯑tropic folks for his ſake."

THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.

"THE mother of miſchief," ſays an old pro⯑verb, "is no bigger than a midge's wing"

At Doctor Middleton's ſchool in England, there was a great tall dunce of the name of Fiſher, who never could be taught how to look out a word in a dictionary. He uſed to tor⯑ment every body with—"Do pray help me! I can't make out this one word."—The per⯑ſon who uſually helped him in his diſtreſs was a very clever good-natured boy, of the name of De Grey. De Grey had been many years under Dr. Middleton's care, and by his abili⯑ties and good conduct did him great credit. The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of him; but he was ſo well beloved, or ſo much eſteemed by his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the odious name of favourite, [150]until the arrival of a new ſcholar of the name of Archer.

Till Archer came, the ideas of favourites and parties, were almoſt unknown at Dr. Middle⯑ton's; but he brought all theſe ideas freſh from a great public-ſchool, at which he had been educated—at which he had acquired a ſufficient quantity of Greek and Latin, and a ſuper⯑abundant quantity of party-ſpirit. His aim, the moment that he came to a new ſchool, was, to get to the head of it, or at leaſt to form the ſtrong⯑eſt party. His influence, for he was a boy of conſiderable abilities, was quickly felt, though he had a powerful rival, as he thought proper to call him, in De Grey; and, with him, a rival was always an enemy. De Grey, ſo far from giving him any cauſe of hatred, treated him with a degree of cordiality, which would pro⯑bably have had an effect upon Archer's mind, if it had not been for the artifices of Fiſher.

It may ſeem ſurpriſing, that a great dunce ſhould be able to work upon a boy like Archer, who was called a great genius; but when ge⯑nius is joined to a violent temper, inſtead of being united to good ſenſe, it is at the mercy even of dunces.

[151] Fiſher was mortally offended one morning by De Grey's refuſing to tranſlate his whole leſſon for him. He went over to Archer, who, con⯑ſidering him as a partiſan deſerting from the enemy, received him with open arms, and tranſlated his whole leſſon, without expreſſing much contempt for his ſtupidity. From this moment Fiſher forgot all De Grey's former kindneſs, and conſidered only how he could in his turn mortify the perſon, whom he felt to be ſo much his ſuperior.

De Grey and Archer were now reading for a premium, which was to be given in their claſs. Fiſher betted on Archer's head, who had not ſenſe enough to deſpiſe the bet of a blockhead. On the contrary, he ſuffered him to excite the ſpirit of rivalſhip in its utmoſt fury by collecting the bets of all the ſchool.— So, that this premium now became a matter of the greateſt conſequence, and Archer, inſtead of taking the means to ſecure a judgment in his favour, was liſtening to the opinions of all his companions. It was a prize which was to be won by his own exertions, but he ſuffered him⯑ſelf to conſider it as an affair of chance. The [...]onſequence was, that he truſted to chance— [152]his partiſans loſt their wagers, and he the pre⯑mium —and his temper.

"Mr. Archer," ſaid Dr. Middleton, after the grand affair was decided, "you have done all, that genius alone could do; but you, De Grey, have done all that genius, and induſtry united, could do."

"Well!" cried Archer with affected gaiety, as ſoon as the Doctor had left the room— "Well, I'm content with my ſentence—Ge⯑nius alone! for me—induſtry for thoſe who want it"—added he, with a ſignificant look at De Grey.

Fiſher applauded this as a very ſpirited ſpeech, and by inſinuations, that Dr. Middleton "al⯑ways gave the premium to De Grey," and that "thoſe who had loſt their bets might thank themſelves for it, for being ſuch ſimpletons as to bet againſt the favourite," he raiſed a murmur, highly flattering to Archer, amongſt ſome of the moſt credulous boys; whilſt others loudly proclaimed their belief in Dr. Middle⯑ton's impartiality. Theſe warmly congratu⯑lated De Grey. At this Archer grew more and more angry, and when Fiſher was proceed⯑ing to ſpeak nonſenſe for him, puſhed forward [153]into the circle to De Grey, crying—"I wiſh, Mr. Fiſher, you would let me fight my own battles!"

"And I wiſh," ſaid young Townſend, who was fonder of diverſions than of premiums, or battles, or of any thing elſe—"I wiſh, that we were not to have any battles; after having worked like horſes, don't ſet about to fight like dogs. Come," ſaid he, tapping De Grey's ſhoulder, "let us ſee your new play-houſe, do—It's a holiday, and let us make the moſt of it—let us have the School for Scandal, do, and I'll play Charles for you, and you De Grey ſhall be my little Premium.—Come, do open this new play-houſe of yours to-night."

"Come then!" ſaid De Grey, and he ran acroſs the play-ground to a waſte building, at the fartheſt end of it, in which, at the earneſt requeſt of the whole community, and with the permiſſion of doctor Middleton, he had with much pains and ingenuity erecte [...] a theatre.

"The new theatre is going to be opened! Follow the Manager!—Follow the Manager!" —echoed a multitude of voices.

"Follow the Manager!" echoed very diſ⯑agreeably in Archer's ear; but as he could not [154]be left alone, he was alſo obliged to follow the Manager. The moment that the door was un⯑locked, the crowd ruſhed in; the delight and wonder expreſſed at the ſight was great, and the applauſes and thanks which were beſtowed upon the Manager were long and loud.

Archer at leaſt thought them long, for he was impatient till his voice could be heard. When at length the exclamations had ſpent themſelves, he walked acroſs the ſtage with a knowing air, and looking round contemptu⯑ouſly—

"And is this your famous play-houſe?" cried he. "I wiſh you had any of you ſeen the play-houſe I have been uſed to!"

Theſe words made a great and viſible change in the feelings and opinions of the public. "Who would be a ſervant of the public? or who would toll for popular applauſe?"—A few words ſpoken in a deciſive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the play-houſe was in an inſtant metamorphoſed in the eyes of the ſpectators. All gratitude for the paſt was for⯑gotten, and the expectation of ſomething bet⯑ter juſtified to the capricious multitude their [155]diſdain of what they had ſo lately pronounced to be excellent.

Every one now began to cri [...]ciſe. One ob⯑ſerved, "that the green certain was full of holes, and would not draw up."—Another at⯑tacked the ſcenes—"Scenes! they were not like real ſcenes—Archer muſt know beſt, be⯑cauſe he was uſed to theſe things."—So every body crowded to hear ſomething of the other playhouſe. They gathered round Archer to hear the deſcription of his playhouſe, and at every ſentence inſulting compariſons were made. When he had done, his auditors looked round—dighed—and wiſhed that Archer had been their Manager. They turned from De Grey, as from a perſon who had done them an injury. Some of his friends—for he had friends, who were not ſwayed by the popular opinion— felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to expreſs their feelings, but De Grey ſtopped them, and begged that he might ſpeak for himſelf.

"Gentlemen," ſaid he, coming forward, as ſoon as he felt that he had ſufficient command of himſelf—

[156] "My friends, I ſee you are diſcontented with me and my playhouſe. I have done my beſt to pleaſe you: but if any body elſe can pleaſe you better, I ſhall be glad of it. I did not work ſo hard for the glory of being your Manager. You have my free leave to tear down"—Here his voice faultered, but he hur⯑ried on—"You have my free leave to tear down all my work as faſt as you pleaſe—Ar⯑cher, ſhake hands firſt, however, to ſhew that there's no malice in the caſe."

Archer, who was touched by what his rival ſaid, and ſtopping the hand of his new partiſan Fiſher, cried, "No, Fiſher! no!—no pulling down. We can alter it. There is a great deal of ingenuity in it conſidering."

In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to reaſon. The time for reaſon was paſt, enthuſiaſm had taken hold of their minds. —"Down with it!—Down with it!" "Ar⯑cher for ever!" cried Fiſher, and tore down the curtain. The riot once begun, nothing could ſtop the little mob, till the whole theatre was demoliſhed. The love of power prevailed in the mind of Archer; he was ſecretly flat⯑tered by the zeal of his party, and he miſtook [157]their love of miſchief for attachment to himſelf. De Grey looked on ſuperior. "I ſaid I could bear to ſee all this, and I can," ſaid he—"now it is all over."—And now it was all over there was ſilence. The rioters ſtood ſtill to take breath, and to look at what they had done. There was a blank ſpace before them.

In this moment of ſilence there was heard ſomething like a female voice.—"Huſh!— What ſtrange voice is that?" ſaid Archer. Fiſher caught faſt hold of his arm—Every body looked round to ſee where the voice came from It was duſk—Two window-ſhutters at the far⯑theſt end of the building were ſeen to move ſlowly inwards. De Grey, and in the ſame inſtant Archer went forward; and as the ſhut⯑ters opened, there appeared through the hole the dark face and ſhrivelled hands of a very old gypſey. She did not ſpeak; but ſhe looked firſt at one, and then at another. At length ſhe fixed her eyes upon De Grey—"Well, my good woman, what do you want with me?"

"Want!—nothing—with you," ſaid the old woman; "do you want nothing with me?"

"Nothing," ſaid De Grey. Her eye im⯑mediately turned upon Archer—"You want [158]ſomething with me," ſaid ſhe with emphaſis— "I!—What do I want!" replied Archer— "No," ſaid ſhe, changing her tone, "you want nothing—nothing will you ever want, or I am much miſtaken in that face."

In that watch-chain, ſhe ſhould have ſaid, for her quick eye had eſpied Archer's watch-chain. He was the only perſon in company who had a watch, and ſhe therefore judged him to be the richeſt.

"Had you ever your fortune told, Sir, in your life?"

"Not I!" ſaid he, looking at De Grey, as if he was afraid of his ridicule if he liſtened to the gypſey.

"Not you!—no!—for you will make your own fortune, and the fortune of all that belong to you!"

"There's good news for my friends!" cried Archer—"And I'm one of them, remember that," cried Fiſher.—"And I"—"And I"— joined a number of voices.

"Good luck to them!" cried the gypſey, "good luck to them all!"

Then as ſoon as they had acquired ſufficient confidence in her good-will, they preſſed up to [159]the window—"There," cried Townſend, as he chanced to ſtumble over the carpenter's mitre-box, which ſtood in the way—"There's a good omen for me. I've ſtumbled on the mitre-box; I ſhall certainly be a Biſhop."

Happy he who had ſixpence, for he bid fair to be a Judge upon the Bench. And happier he who had a ſhilling, for he was in the high road to be one day upon the woolſack, Lord High Chancellor of England. No one had half a crown, or no one would ſurely have kept it in his pocket upon ſuch an occaſion, for he might have been an Archbiſhop, a King, or what he pleaſed.

Fiſher, who like all weak people was ex⯑tremely credulous, had kept his poſt immove⯑able in the front row all the time, his mouth open, and his ſtupid eyes fixed upon the gypſey, in whom he felt implicit faith.

Thoſe, who have leaſt confidence in their own powers, and who have leaſt expectation from the ſucceſs of their own exertions, are al⯑ways moſt diſpoſed to truſt in fortune-tellers and fortune. They hope to win, when they cannot earn; and as they can never be con⯑vinced by thoſe who ſpeak ſenſe, it is no won⯑der [160]they are always perſuaded by thoſe who talk nonſenſe.

"I have a queſtion to put," ſaid Fiſher in a ſolemn tone. "Put it then," ſaid Archer, "what hinders you?" "But they will hear me," ſaid he, looking ſuſpiciouſly at De Grey. "I ſhall not hear you," ſaid De Grey, "I am going." Every body elſe drew back, and left him to whiſper his queſtion in the gypſey's ear.

"What is become of my Livy?"

"Your ſiſter Livy, do you mean?" ſaid the gypſey.

"No, my Latin Livy."

The gypſey pauſed for further information — ‘It had a leaf torn out in the beginning, and I hate Dr. Middleton—’

"Written in it," interrupted the gypſey —

"Right — the very book!" cried Fiſher with joy. "But how could you know it was Dr. Middleton's name? I thought I had ſcratched it, ſo that nobody could make it out."

"Nobody could make it out but me," re⯑plied the gypſey. "But never think to deceive me," ſaid ſhe, ſhaking her head at him in a manner that made him tremble."

"I don't deceive you indeed. I tell you the whole truth. I loſt it a week ago."

[161] "True."

"And when ſhall I find it?"

"Meet me here at this hour to-morrow evening, and I will anſwer you. — No more! — I muſt be gone — Not a word more to⯑night."

She pulled the ſhutters towards her, and left the youth in darkneſs. All his companions were gone. He had been ſo deeply engaged in this conference, that he had not perceived their departure. He found all the world at ſupper, but no entreaties could prevail upon him to diſcloſe his ſecret. Townſend rallied in vain. As for Archer, he was not diſpoſed to deſtroy by ridicule the effect, which he ſaw that the old woman's predictions in his favour had had upon the imagination of many of his little partiſans. He had privately ſlipped two good ſhillings into the gypſey's hand to ſecure her; for he was willing to pay any price, for any means of ac⯑quiring power.

The watch-chain had not deceived the gyp⯑ſey, for Archer was the richeſt perſon in the community. His friends had imprudently ſup⯑plied him with more money than is uſually truſted to boys of his age. Doctor Middleton [162]had refuſed to give him a larger monthly allow⯑ance than the reſt of his companions; but he brought to ſchool with him ſecretly the ſum of five guineas. This appeared to his friends and to himſelf an inexhauſtible treaſure.

Riches and talents would, he flattered him⯑ſelf, ſecure to him that aſcendancy of which he was ſo ambitious. "Am I your Manager, or not?" was now his queſtion. "I ſcorn to take advantage of a haſty moment, but ſince laſt night you have had time to conſider. If you deſire me to be your Manager, you ſhall ſee what a theatre I will make for you. In this purſe," ſaid he, ſhewing through the net⯑work a glimpſe of the ſhining treaſure — "in this purſe is Aladdin's wonderful lamp — Am I your Manager? — Put it to the vote."

It was put to the vote. About ten of the moſt reaſonable of the aſſembly declared their gratitude, and high approbation of their old friend De Grey; but the numbers were in fa⯑vour of the new friend. And as no metaphy⯑ſical diſtinctions relative to the idea of a ma⯑jority had ever entered their thoughts, the moſt numerous party conſidered themſelves as now beyond diſpute in the right. They drew off on [163]one ſide in triumph, and their leader, who knew the conſequence of a name in party mat⯑ters, immediately diſtinguiſhed his partiſans by the gallant name of Archers, ſtigmatiſing the friends of De Grey by the odious epithet of Greybeards.

Amongſt the Archers was a claſs, not very remarkable for their mental qualifications; but who, by their bodily activity, and by the peculiar advantages annexed to their way of life, render⯑ed themſelves of the higheſt conſequence, eſpe⯑cially to the rich and enterpriſing. The judi⯑cious reader will apprehend that I allude to the perſons called day-ſcholars. Amongſt theſe, Fiſher was diſtinguiſhed by his knowledge of all the ſtreets and ſhops in the adjacent town; and, though a dull ſcholar, he had ſuch reputation as a man of buſineſs, that whoever had commiſ⯑ſions to execute at the confectioner's were ſure to apply to him. Some of the youngeſt of his employers had, it is true, at times complained, that he made miſtakes of halfpence and pence in their accounts; but as theſe affairs could never be brought to a public trial, Fiſher's cha⯑racter and conſequence were undiminiſhed, till the fatal day when his aunt Barbara forbad his [164]viſits to the confectioner — or rather, till ſhe requeſted the confectioner, who had his private reaſons for obeying her, not to receive her ne⯑phew's viſits, as he had made himſelf ſick at his houſe, and Mrs. Barbara's fears for his health were inceſſant.

Though his viſits to the confectioner's were thus at an end, there were many other ſhops open to him; and, with officious zeal, he offer⯑ed his ſervices to the new Manager, to purchaſe whatever might be wanting for the theatre.

Since his father's death, Fiſher had become a boarder at Dr. Middleton's; but his frequent viſits to his aunt Barbara afforded him oppor⯑tunities of going into the town. The carpen⯑ter, De Grey's friend, was diſcarded by Archer, for having ſaid "lack-a-daiſy!" when he ſaw that the old theatre was pulled down. A new carpenter and paper-hanger, recommended by Fiſher, were appointed to attend, with their tools, for orders at two o'clock. Archer, im⯑patient to ſhew his ingenuity and his generoſity, gave his plan and his orders in a few minutes, in a moſt decided manner. — "Theſe things," he obſerved, "ſhould be done with ſome ſpirit."

[165] To which the carpenter readily aſſented, and added, that "Gentlemen of ſpirit never looked to the expence, but always to the effect." Upon this pri [...]ciple Mr. Chip ſet to work with all poſſible alacrity. In a few hours time he pro⯑miſed to produce a grand effect. High expec⯑tations were formed — nothing was talked of but the new play-houſe; and ſo intent upon it was every head, that no leſſons could be got. Ar⯑cher was obliged, in the midſt of his various oc⯑cupations, to perform the part of grammar and dictionary for twenty different people.

"Oh, ye Athenians!" he exclaimed, "how hard do I work to obtain your praiſe!"

Impatient to return to the theatre, the mo⯑ment the hours deſtined for inſtruction, or, as they are termed by ſchool-boys, ſchool hours, were over, each priſoner ſtarted up with a ſhout of joy.

"Stop one moment, gentlemen, if you pleaſe," ſaid Dr. Middleton, in an aweful voice. "Mr. Archer, return to your place. — Are you all here?" — The names of all the boys were called over, and when each had anſwered to his name, Dr. Middleton ſaid,

[166] "Gentlemen, I am ſorry to interrupt your amu [...]ements; but, till you have contrary orders from me, no one, on pain of my ſerious diſplea⯑ſure, muſt go into that building," (pointing to the place where the theatre was erecting)— "Mr. Archer, your carpenter is at the door, you will be ſo good as to diſmiſs him.—I do not think proper to give my reaſons for theſe orders; but you who know me," ſaid the doctor, and his eye turned towards De Grey, "will not ſuſpect me of caprice—I depend, gentle⯑men, upon your obedience."

To the dead ſilence, with which theſe orders were received, ſucceeded in a few minutes an univerſal groan—"So!" ſaid Townſend, "all our diverſion is over."—"So," whiſpered Fiſher in the Manager's ear, "This is ſome trick of the Greybeards, did you not obſerve how he looked at De Grey?"—Fired by this idea, which had never entered his mind before, Archer ſtarted from his reverie, and ſtriking his hand upon the table, ſwore, that he would not be outwitted by any Greybeard in Europe —No, nor by all of them put together. The A chefs were ſurely a match for them—he would ſtand by them, if they would ſtand by [167]him," he declared with a loud voice, "againſt the whole world, and Dr. Middleton himſelf, with "little Premium" at his right hand."

Every body admired Archer's ſpirit, but were a little appalled at the ſound of ſtanding againſt Dr. Middleton.

"Why not?" reſumed the indignant Mana⯑ger, "Dr. Middleton, nor no doctor upon earth ſhall treat me with injuſtice. This, you ſee, is a ſtroke at me and my party, and I won't bear it."

"Oh, you are miſtaken!" ſaid De Grey, who was the only one who dared to oppoſe rea⯑ſon to the angry orator—"It cannot be a ſtroke aimed at "you and your party," for he does not know that you have a party."

"I'll make him know it, and I'll make you know it too," ſaid Archer; "before I came here you reigned alone, now your reign is over, Mr. De Grey. Remember my majority this morning, and your theatre laſt night."—"He has remembered it," ſaid Fiſher, "you ſee, the moment he was not to be our Manager, we were to have no theatre—no playhouſe—no plays. We muſt all ſit down with our hands before us [168]—all for "good reaſons" of Dr. Middleton's, which he does not vouchſafe to tell us."

"I won't be governed by any man's reaſons that he won't tell me," cried Archer; "he can⯑not have good reaſons, or why not tell them."

"Nonſenſe! we ſhall not ſuſpect him of ca⯑price!"

"Why not?"

"Becauſe we who know him," ſaid De Grey, "have never known him capricious."

"Perhaps not, I know nothing about him," ſaid Archer.

"No," ſaid De Grey, "for that very reaſon I ſpeak, who do know him.—Don't be in a paſſion, Archer."

"I will be in a paſſion—I won't ſubmit to tyranny—I won't be made a fool of by a few ſoft words.—You don't know me, De Grey— I'll go through with what I've begun—I am Manager, and I will be Manager, and you ſhall ſee my theatre finiſhed in ſpite of you, and my party triumphant."

"Party," repeated De Grey.—"I cannot imagine what is in the word "party" that ſeems to drive you mad. We never heard of parties till you came amongſt us."

[169] "No; before I came, I ſay, nobody dared oppoſe you, but I dare; and I tell you to your face,—take care of me—a warm friend and a bitter enemy is my motto."

"I am not your enemy!—I believe you are out of your ſenſes, Archer!" ſaid he laughing.

"Out of my ſenſes!—No—you are my ene⯑my!—Are not you my rival?—Did not you win the premium?—Did not you want to be Manager?—Anſwer me, are not you, in one word, a Greybeard?"

"You called me a Greybeard, but my name is De Grey," ſaid he, ſtill laughing.

"Laugh on!" cried the other furiouſly. Come Archers, ſollow me!—we ſhall laugh by and by, I promiſe you."

At the door Archer was ſtopped by Mr. Chip—"Oh, Mr. Chip, I am ordered to diſ⯑charge you."

"Yes, Sir; and here is a little bill—

"Bill! Mr. Chip—why, you have not been at work for two hours!"

"Not much over, Sir; but if you'll pleaſe to look into it, you'll ſee it's for a few things you ordered. The ſtuff is all laid out and de⯑livered. The paper, and the feſtoon-bordering [170]for the drawing-room ſcene is cut out, and left yander, within."

"Yander, within!—I wiſh you had not been in ſuch a confounded hurry—ſix-and-twenty ſhillings!" cried he, "but I can't ſtay to talk about it now. — I'll tell you, Mr. Chip," ſaid Archer, lowering his voice, "what you muſt do for me, my good fellow." — Then drawing Mr. Chip aſide, he begged him to pull down ſome of the wood-work which had been put up, and to cut it into a certain number of wooden bars, of which he gave him the dimenſions, with orders to place them all, when ready, under a hay-ſtack, which he pointed out. Mr. Chip ſcrupled and heſitated, and began to talk of "the doctor." Archer immediately began to talk of the bill, and throwing down a guinea and a half, the conſcientious carpenter pocketed the money di⯑rectly, and made his bow.

"Well, Maſter Archer," ſaid he, "there's no refuſing you nothing. — You have ſuch a way of talking one out of it — you manage me juſt like a child."

"Aye, aye!" ſaid Archer, knowing that he had been cheated, and yet proud of managing a carpenter — "Aye, aye, I know the way to ma⯑nage [171]every body—let the things be ready in an hour's time—and hark'e! leave your tools by miſtake behind you, and a thouſand of twenty-penny nails. — Aſk no queſtions, and keep your own counſel, like a wiſe man—off with you, and take care of "the doctor."

"Archers! Archers! — To the Archer's tree follow your leader," cried he, ſounding his well known whiſtle as a ſignal.—His followers ga⯑thered round him, and he raiſing himſelf upon the mount, at the foot of the tree, counted his numbers, and then, in a voice lower than uſual, addreſſed them thus:

"My friends, is there a Greyberad amongſt us? If there is, let him walk off now — he has my free leave."

No one ſtirred. — "Then we are all Archers, and we will ſtand by one another—join hands my friends."

They all joined hands.

"Promiſe me not to betray me, and I will go on — I aſk no ſecurity but your honour."

They all gave their honour to be ſecret and faithful, as he called it, and he went on —

"Did you ever hear of ſuch a thing as a Bar⯑ring out, my friends?"

[172] They had heard of ſuch a thing; but they had only heard of it.

Archer gave the hiſtory of a Barring out, in which he had been concerned at his ſchool; in which the boys ſtood out two days againſt the maſter, and gained their point at laſt, which was a week's more holidays at Eaſter.

"But if we ſhould not ſucceed," ſaid they, "Dr. Middleton is ſo ſteady, he never goes back from what he has ſaid."

"Did you ever try to puſh him back? — Let us be ſteady, and he'll tremble — tyrants always tremble when —

"Oh!" interrupted a number of voices, "but he is not a tyrant, is he?"

"All ſchool-maſters are tyrants, are not they?" replied Archer, "and is not he a ſchool-maſter?"

To this logic there was no anſwer; but, ſtill reluctant, they aſked "What they ſhould get by a Barring out?"

"Get! — Every thing! — What we want! — which is every thing to lads of ſpirit — victory and liberty! — Bar him out till he repeals his tyrannical law — till he lets us in to our own [173]theatre again, or till he tells us his "good rea⯑ſons" againſt it.

"But perhaps he has reaſons for not telling us."

"Impoſſible!". cried Archer, "that's the way we are always to be governed by a man in a wig, who ſays he has good reaſons, and can't tell them.—Are you fools? — Go—go back to De Grey—I ſee you are all Greybeards — Go —who goes firſt?"

Nobody would go firſt.

"I will have nothing to do with ye, if ye are reſolved to be ſlaves!"

"We won't be ſlaves!" they all exclaimed at once.

"Then," ſaid Archer, "ſtand out in the right and be free."

"The right." — It would have taken up too much time to examine what "the right" was. Archer was always ſure, that "the right" was what his party chofe to do—that is, what he choſe to do himſelf; and ſuch is the influence of numbers upon each other in conquering the feelings of ſhame, and in confuſing the powers of reaſoning, that in a few minutes "the right" was forgotten, and each ſaid to himſelf,

"To be ſure, Archer is a very clever boy, and he can't be miſtaken;"—or, "To be ſure Townſend thinks ſo, and he would not do any thing to get us into a ſcrape:"—or, "To be ſure every body will agree to this but myſelf, and I can't ſtand out alone, to be pointed at as a Greybeard and a ſlave. Every body thinks it is right, and every body can't be wrong."

By ſome of theſe arguments, which paſſed rapidly through the mind, without his being conſcious of them, each boy decided, and de⯑ceived himſelf—what none would have done alone, none ſcrupled to do as a party.

It was determined then, that there ſhould be a Barring out. The arrangement of the affair was left to their new Manager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience.

Obedience, it ſeems, is neceſſary, even from rebels to their ringleaders—not reaſonable, but implicit obedience.

Scarcely had the aſſembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, when Fiſher, with an important length of face, came up to the Manager, and de⯑ſired to ſpeak one word to him—

"My advice to you, Archer, is, to do no⯑thing in this till we have conſulted you know who about whether it's right or wrong."

[175] "You know who!—Who do you mean? —Make haſte, and don't make ſo many faces, for I'm in a hurry.—Who is "You know who?"

"The old woman," ſaid Fiſher gravely; "the Gypſey."

"You may conſult the old woman," ſaid Archer, burſting out a laughing, "about what's right and wrong, if you pleaſe; but no old wo⯑man ſhall decide for me."

"No; but you don't take me," ſaid Fiſher, "You don't take me. By right and wrong, I mean lucky and unlucky."

"Whatever I do will be lucky," replied Archer. "My Gypſey told you that already."

"I know, I know," ſaid Fiſher, "and what ſhe ſaid about your friends being lucky—that went a great way with many," added he, with a ſagacious nod of his head, "I can tell you that—more than you think.—Do you know," ſaid he, laying hold of Archer's button, "I'm in the ſecret. There are nine of us have crook⯑ed our little fingers upon it, not to ſtir a ſtep till we get her advice; and ſhe has appointed me to meet her about particular buſineſs of my [176]own at eight. So I'm to conſult her and to bring her anſwer."

Archer knew too well how to govern fools to attempt to reaſon with them; and, inſtead of laughing any longer at Fiſher's ridiculous ſu⯑perſtition, he was determined to take advantage of it. He affected to be perſuaded of the wiſ⯑dom of the meaſure—looked at his watch, urged him to be exact to a moment, conjured him to remember exactly the words of the oracle, and, above all things, to demand the lucky hour and minute when the Barring out ſhould begin.

With theſe inſtructions, Archer put his watch into the ſolemn dupe's hand, and left him to count the ſeconds, till the moment of his ap⯑pointment, whilſt he ran off himſelf to prepare the oracle. At a little gate which locked into a lane, through which he gueſſed that the Gypſey muſt paſs, he ſtationed himſelf, ſaw her, gave her half a crown and her inſtructions, made his eſcape, and got back unſuſpected to Fiſher, whom he found in the attitude in which he had left him, watching the motion of the minute⯑hand.

Proud of his ſecret commiſſion, Fiſher ſlouch⯑ed his hat, he knew not why, over his face, and [177]proceeded towards the appointed ſpot. To keep, as he had been charged to do by Archer, within the letter of the law, he ſtood behind the forbidden building and waited ſome minutes. Through a gap in the hedge the old woman at length made her appearance, muffled up and looking cautiouſly about her.

"There's nobody near us!" ſaid Fiſher, and he began to be a little afraid.—"What anſwer," ſaid he, recollecting himſelf, "about my Livy?"

"Loſt!—Loſt!—Loſt!" ſaid the Gypſey, lifting up her hands, "never, never, never to be found!—But no matter for that now—that is not your errand to-night—no tricks with me —ſpeak to me of what is next your heart."

Fiſher, aſtoniſhed, put his hand upon his heart, told her all that ſhe knew before, and re⯑ceived the anſwers, which Archer had dictated —"That the Archers ſhould be lucky as long as they ſtuck to their Manager and to one ano⯑ther; that the Barring out ſhould end in woe, if not begun preciſely as the clock ſhould ſtrike nine on Wedneſday night; but if begun in that lucky moment, and all obedient to their lucky leader, all ſhould end well."

[178] A thought, a provident thought now ſtruck Fiſher; for even he had ſome foreſight, where his favourite paſſion was concerned.—"Pray, in our Barring out, ſhall we be ſtarved?"

"No," ſaid the Gypſey, "not if you truſt to me for food, and if you give me money enough—ſilver won't do for ſo many, gold is what muſt croſs my hand."

"I have no gold," ſaid Fiſher, "and I don't know what you mean by "ſo many,"—I'm only talking of number one, you know—I muſt take care of that firſt."

So, as Fiſher thought that it was poſſible that Archer, clever as he was, might be diſap⯑pointed in his ſupplies, he determined to take ſecret meaſures for himſelf. His aunt Barbara's interdiction had ſhut him out of the confec⯑tioner's ſhop, but he flattered himſelf that he could out-wit his aunt; he therefore begged the Gypſey to procure him twelve buns by Thurſday morning, and bring them ſecretly to one of the windows of the ſchool-room.

As Fiſher did not produce any money when he made this propoſal, it was at firſt abſolutely rejected; but a bribe at length conquered his difficulties; and the bribe which Fiſher found [179]himſelf obliged to give—for he had no pocket money left of his own, he being as much reſtrict⯑ed in that article as Archer was indulged—the bribe that he found himſelf obliged to give to quiet the Gypſey was half a crown, which Archer had entruſted to him to buy candles for the theatre.—"Oh," thought he to himſelf, "Archer's ſo careleſs about money, he will never think of aſking me for the half crown again; and now he'll want no candles for the theatre—or at any rate it will be ſome time firſt; and may be aunt Barbara may be got to give me that much at Chriſtmas—then, if the worſt comes to the worſt, one can pay Archer. —My mouth waters for the buns, and have 'em I muſt now."

So, for the hope of twelve buns, he ſacrificed the money which had been entruſted to him.— The meaneſt motives, in mean minds, often prompt to the commiſſion of thoſe great faults, to which, one ſhould think, nothing but ſome violent paſſion could have tempted.

The ambaſſador having thus, in his opinion, concluded his own and the public buſineſs, re⯑turned well ſatisfied with the reſult, after re⯑ceiving the Gypſey's reiterated promiſe to tap [180] three times at the window on Thurſday morn⯑ing.

The day appointed for the Barring out at length arrived, and Archer, aſſembling the con⯑federates, informed them, that all was prepared for carrying their deſign into execution; that he now depended for ſucceſs upon their punctu⯑ality and courage. He had, within the laſt two hours, got all the bars ready to faſten the doors and window ſhutters of the ſchool-room; he had, with the aſſiſtance of two of the day-ſcho⯑lars who were of the party, ſent into the town for proviſions, at his own expence, which would make a handſome ſupper for that night; he had alſo negociated with ſome couſins of his, who lived in the town, for a conſtant ſupply in future.

"Bleſs me," exclaimed Archer, ſuddenly ſtopping in this narration of his ſervices, "there's one thing, after all, I've forgot, we ſhall be undone without it—Fiſher, pray did you ever buy the candles for the play-houſe."

"No, to be ſure," replied Fiſher, extremely frightened, "you know you don't want candles for the play-houſe now."

[181] "Not for the play-houſe, but for the Barring-out—we ſhall be in the dark, man—you muſt run this minute, run."

"For candles?" ſaid Fiſher confuſed, "how many? — what ſort?"

"Stupidity!" exclaimed Archer, "you are a pretty fellow at a dead liſt!—Lend me a pen⯑cil and a bit of paper, do; I'll write down what I want myſelf!—Well, what are you fumbling for?"

"For money!" ſaid Fiſher, colouring.

"Money, man! Didn't I give you half a crown the other day?"

"Yes," replied Fiſher, ſtammering; "but I wasn't ſure that that might be enough."

"Enough! yes, to be ſure it will—I don't know what you are at."

"Nothing, nothing," ſaid Fiſher, "here, write upon this then," ſaid Fiſher, putting a piece of paper into Archer's hand, upon which Archer wrote his orders.—"Away, away!" cried he.

And away went Fiſher.—He returned; but not until a conſiderable time afterwards.

They were at ſupper when he returned— "Fiſher always comes in at ſupper-time," ob⯑ſerved one of the Greybeards, careleſsly.

[182] "Well, and would you have him come in after ſupper-time," ſaid Townſend, who always ſupplied his party with ready wit.

"I've got the candles," whiſpered Fiſher, as he paſſed by Archer to his place—"And the tinder-box?" ſaid Archer.

"Yes; I got back from my aunt Barbara under pretence, that I muſt ſtudy for repetition-day an hour later to-night—So I got leave. — Was not that clever?"

A dunce always thinks it clever to cheat even by ſober lies.

How Mr. Fiſher procured the candles and the tinder-box without money, and without credit, for he had no credit, we ſhall diſcover in future.

Archer and his aſſociates had agreed to ſtay the laſt in the ſchool-room, and as ſoon as the Greybeards were gone out to bed, he as the ſignal was to ſhut and lock one door, Town⯑ſend the other; a third conſpirator was to ſtrike a light, in caſe they ſhould not be able to ſecure a candle; a fourth was to take charge of the candle as ſoon as lighted; and all the reſt were to run to their bars, which were ſecreted in the room; then to fix them to the common faſten⯑ing [183]bars of the window, in the manner in which they had been previouſly inſtructed by the Ma⯑nager. Thus each had his part aſſigned, and each was warned, that the ſucceſs of the whole depended upon their order and punctuality.

Order and punctuality it appears are neceſ⯑ſary even in a Barring out, and even rebellion muſt have its laws.

The long expected moment at length ar⯑rived. De Grey and his friends, unconſcious of what was going forward, walked out of the ſchool-room as uſual at bed time. The clock began to ſtrike nine. There was one Grey⯑beard left in the room, who was packing up ſome of his books, which had been left about by accident. It is impoſſible to deſcribe the impatience with which he was watched, eſpe⯑cially by Fiſher, and the nine who depended upon the Gypſey oracle.

When he bad got all his books together un⯑der his arm, he let one of them fall; and whilſt he ſtooped to pick it up Archer gave the ſignal. The doors were ſhut, locked, and double-locked in an inſtant. A light was ſtruck, and each ran to his poſt. The bars were all in the ſame moment put up to the windows, and Ar⯑cher, [184]when he had tried them all, and ſeen that they were ſecure, gave a loud "Huzza!"—in which he was joined by all the party moſt man⯑fully—by all but the poor Greybeard, who, the picture of aſtoniſhment, ſtood ſtock ſtill in the midſt of them with his books under his arm; at which ſpectacle Townſend, who enjoyed the ſrolic of the fray more than any thing elſe, burſt into an immoderate fit of laughter.—"So, my little Greybeard," ſaid he, holding a candle full in his eyes, "what think you of all this?— How came you amongſt the wicked ones?"

"I don't know indeed," ſaid the little boy very gravely, "you ſhut me up amongſt you— won't you let me out?"

"Let you out! No, no, my little Grey⯑beard," ſaid Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the window bars—"Look ye here—Touch theſe — Put your hand to them — pull, puſh, kick — Put a little ſpirit into it, man — Kick like an Archer, if ye can — away with ye. It's a pity that the King of the Greybeards is not here to admire me — I ſhould like to ſhew him our fortifications. But come, my merry-men all, now to the feaſt. — Out with [185]the table into the middle of the room — Good cheer, my jolly Archers! — I'm your Manager?"

Townſend, delighted with the buſtle, rubbed his hands, and capered about the room, whilſt the preparations for the feaſt were hurried for⯑ward.

"Four candles! — Four candles on the ta⯑ble. Let's have things in ſtyle when we are about it, Mr. Manager," cried Townſend. "Places! — Places! There's nothing like a fair ſcramble, my boys — Let every one take care of himſelf — Halloo! Grey-beard, I've knocked Greybeard down here in the ſcuffle — Get up again, my lad, and ſee a little of life."

"No, no," cried Piſher, "he ſhan't ſup with us."

"No, no," cried the Manager, "he ſhan't live with us; a Greybeard is not ſit company for Archers."

"No, no," cried Townſend, "evil com⯑munication corrupts good manners."

So with one unanimous hiſs they hunted the poor little gentle boy into a corner; and having pent him up with benches, Fiſher opened his books for him, which he thought the greateſt mortification, and ſet up a candle beſide him — [186]"There, now he looks like a Greybeard as he is!" cried they.

"Tell me what's the Latin for cold roaſt beef?" ſaid Fiſher, exulting, and they returned to their feaſt.

Long and loud they revelled. They had a few bottles of cyder. "Give me the cork⯑ſcrew, the cyder ſhan't be kept till it's ſour," cried Townſend, in anſwer to the Manager, who, when he beheld the proviſions vaniſhing with ſurpriſing rapidity, began to fear for the morrow.

"Hang to-morrow!" cried Townſend, "let Greybeards think of to-morrow; Mr. Manager, here's your good health."

The Archers all ſtood up as their cup [...] were filled to drink the health of their chief with an univerſal cheer.

But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and as Archer bowed to thank the company, a ſudden ſhower from above aſto⯑niſhed the whole aſſembly. They looked up and beheld the roſe of a watering engine, whoſe long neck appeared through a trap-door in the ceiling.

[187] "Your good health, Mr. Manager!" ſaid a voice, which was known to be the gardener's, and in the midſt of their ſurpriſe and diſmay the candles were ſuddenly extinguiſhed — the trap⯑door ſhut down, and they were left in utter darkneſs.

"The Devil!" ſaid Archer —

"Don't ſwear, Mr. Manager," ſaid the ſame voice from the ceiling, "I hear every word you ſay."

"Mercy upon us!" exclaimed Fiſher. "The clock," added he, whiſpering, "muſt have been wrong, for it had not done ſtriking when we began. — Only you remember, Ar⯑cher; it had juſt done before you had done locking your door."

"Hold your tongue, blockhead!" ſaid Ar⯑cher. —"Well, boys! were ye never in the dark before? You are not afraid of a ſhower of rain, I hope — Is any body drowned?"

"No," ſaid they with a faint laugh, "but what ſhall we do here in the dark all night long, and all day to-morrow? — we can't unbar the ſhu [...]ters." "It's a wonder nobody ever thought of that trap-door!" ſaid Townſend.

[188] The trap-door had indeed eſcaped the Ma⯑nager's obſervation; as the houſe was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-waſhed, the opening was ſcarcely perceptible. Vexed to be out-generalled, and ſtill more vexed to have it remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent exclamations, and reproaches againſt thoſe, who were thus ſo ſoon diſcouraged by a trifle: and groping for the tinder box, he aſked if any thing could be eaſier than to ſtrike a light again.

The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-box viſible, another ſhower from above aimed, and aimed exactly at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further ſervice.

Archer in a fury daſhed it to the ground. And now for the firſt time he f [...]lt what it was to be the unſucceſsful head of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of the diſcon⯑tented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contri⯑vances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only overſight, than he was grieved at the diſaſter itſelf.

[189] "Oh, my hair is all wet!" cried one dole⯑fully.

"Wring it then," ſaid Archer.

"My hand's cut with your broken glaſs," cried another.

"Glaſs!" cried a third, "mercy! is there broken glaſs? and it's all about, I ſuppoſe, amongſt the ſupper — and I [...]d but one bit of bread all the time.

"Bread!" cried Archer —" Eat, if you want it — Here's a piece here, and no glaſs near it."

"It's all wet — And I don't like dry bread by itſelf — That's no feaſt."

"Heigh-day!—What, nothing but moan⯑ing and grumbling! — If theſe are the joys of a Barring out," cried Townſend, "I'd rather be ſnug in my bed. I expected that we ſhould have ſat up till twelve o'clock, talking and laughing and ſinging."

"So you may ſtill, what hinders you?" ſaid Archer— "Sing and we'll join you, and I ſhould be glad thoſe fellows over-head heard us ſing⯑ing. Begin, Townſend—

[190]or elſe —

Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment. In vain they roared in chorus. In vain they tried to appear gay — It would not do. The voices died away, and dropped off one by one. They had each provided himſelf with a great coat to ſleep upon, but now in the dark there was a peeviſh ſcrambling conteſt for the coats, and half the company, in very bad hu⯑mour, ſtretched themſelves upon the benches for the night.

There is great pleaſure in bearing any thing that has the appearance of hardſhip, as long as there is any glory to be acquired by it; but when people feel themſelves foiled, there is no further pleaſure in endurance: and if in their misfortune there is any mixture of the ridicu⯑lous, the motives for heroiſm are immediately deſtroyed. Dr. Middleton had probably con⯑ſidered this in the choice he made of his firſt attack.

Archer, who had ſpent the night as a man, who had the cares of government upon his ſhoulders, roſe early in the morning, whilſt [191]every body elſe was faſt aſleep. In the night he had revolved the affair of the trap-door, and a new danger had alarmed him. It was poſſi⯑ble that the enemy might deſcend▪ upon them through the trap-door. The room had been built high to admit a free circulation of air. It was twenty feet high; to that it was in vain to think of reaching to the trap-door. As ſoon as the day-light appeared Archer roſe ſoftly, that he might reconnoitre, and deviſe ſome method of guarding againſt this new danger. Luckily there were round holes in the top of the win⯑dow ſhutters, which admitted ſufficient light for him to work by. The remains of the ſoaked feaſt, wet candles, and broken glaſs ſpread over the table in the middle of the room, looked rather diſmal this morning.

"A pretty ſet of fellows I have to manage!" ſaid Archer, contemplating the groupe of ſleep⯑ers before him. — "It is well they have ſome⯑body to think for them. Now if I wanted — which, thank goodneſs, I don't — but if I did want to call a call cabinet-council to my aſſiſt⯑ance, who could I pitch upon? — Not this ſtu⯑pid ſnorer, who is dreaming of Gypſeys, if he [192]is dreaming of any thing," continued Archer, as he looked into Fiſher's open mouth.

"This next chap is quick enough; but then he is ſo fond of having every thing his own way.

"And this curl-pated monkey, who is grin⯑ning in his ſleep, is all tongue, and no brains.

"Here are brains, though nobody would think it, in this lump," ſaid he, looking at a fat, rolled up, heavy-breathing ſleeper; "but what ſignify brains to ſuch a lazy dog; I might kick him for my foot-ball this half-hour before I ſhould get him awake.

"This lank-jawed Harlequin beſide him is a handy fellow, to be ſure; but then if he has hands he has no head—and he'd be afraid of his own ſhadow too, by this light, he is ſuch a coward!

"And Townſend, why he has puns in plenty; but when there's any work to be done, he's the worſt fellow to be near one in the world— he can do nothing but laught at his own puns.

"This poor little fellow, that we hunted into the corner, has more ſenſe than all of them put together; but then he is a Greybeard."

[193] Thus ſpeculated the chief of a party upon his ſleeping friends.—And how did it happen, that he ſhould be ſo ambitious to pleaſe and govern this ſet, when, for each individual of which it was compoſed, he felt ſuch ſupreme contempt? —He had formed them into a party, had given them a name, and he was at their head.—If theſe be not good reaſons, none better can be aſſigned for Archer's conduct.

"I wiſh ye could all ſleep on," ſaid he, "but I muſt waken ye, though you will be only in my way. The ſound of my hammering muſt waken them—ſo I may as well do the thing handſomely, and flatter ſome of them by pre⯑tending to aſk their advice."

Accordingly he pulled two or three to waken them.—"Come, Townſend, waken, my boy! —Here's ſome diverſion for you—up! up!"

"Diverſion!" cried Townſend, "I'm your man!—I'm up—up to any thing."

So, under the name of diverſion, Archer ſet Townſend to work at four o'clock in the morn⯑ing. They had nails, a few tools, and ſeveral ſpars, ſtill left from the wreck of the play-houſe. Theſe, by Archer's directions, they ſharpened at one end, and nailed them to the ends of ſe⯑veral [194]forms. All hands were now called to clear away the ſupper things, and to erect theſe forms perpendicularly under the trap-door; and, with the aſſiſtance of a few braces a che⯑vaux-de-friſe was formed, upon which nobody could venture to deſcend. At the fartheſt end of the room they likewiſe formed a penthouſe of the tables, under which they propoſed to breakfaſt, ſecure from the pelting ſtorm, if it ſhould again aſſail them through the trap-door. They crouded under the penthouſe as ſoon as it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity paid the workmen for the job.

"Lord! I ſhall like to ſee the gardener's phiz through the trap-door, when he beholds the ſpikes under him!" cried Townſend.— "Now for breakfaſt!"

"Aye, now for breakfaſt," ſaid Archer, look⯑ing at his watch; "paſt eight o'clock, and my town boys not come!—I don't underſtand this!"

Archer had expected a conſtant ſupply of pro⯑viſions from two boys who lived in the town, who were couſins of his, and who had promiſed to come every day, and put food in at a certain hole in the wall, in which a ventilator uſually turned. [195]This ventilator Archer had taken down, and had contrived it ſo, that it could be eaſily re⯑moved and replaced at pleaſure; but, upon ex⯑amination, it was now perceived that the hole had been newly ſtopped up by an iron back, which it was impoſſible to penetrate or re⯑move.

"It never came into my head that any body would ever have thought of the ventilator but myſelf!" exclaimed Archer, in great perplexity. —He liſtened and waited for his couſins, but no couſins came; and, at a late hour, the company were obliged to breakfaſt upon the ſcattered fragments of the laſt night's feaſt. That feaſt had been ſpread with ſuch imprudent profuſion, that little now remained to ſatisfy the hungry gueſts. Archer, who well knew the effect which the apprehenſion of a ſcarcity would have upon his aſſociates, did every thing that could be done by a bold countenance and reiterated aſſertions to perſuade them, that his couſins would certainly come at laſt, and that the ſup⯑plies were only delayed.—The delay, however, was alarming.

Fiſher alone heard the Manager's calculations, and ſaw the public fears unmoved. Secretly [196]rejoicing in his own wiſdom, he walked from window to window, ſlily liſtening for the Gyp⯑ſey's ſignal.—"There it is!" cried he, with more joy ſparkling in his eyes than had ever enlightened them before; "Come this way, Archer—but don't tell any body—hark! do ye hear thoſe three taps at the window!—This is the old woman with twelve buns for me!—I'll give you one whole one for yourſelf, if you will unbar the window for me."

"Unbar the window!" interrupted Archer; "no, that I won't, for you or the Gypſey ei⯑ther; but I have head enough to get your buns without that. But ſtay; there is ſomething of more conſequence than your twelve buns—I muſt think for ye all, I ſee, regularly."

So he ſummoned a council and propoſed, that every one ſhould ſubſcribe, and truſt the ſubſcription to the Gypſey, to purchaſe a freſh ſupply of proviſions. Archer laid down a guinea of his own money for his ſubſcription; at which ſight all the company clapped their hands, and is popularity ro [...]e to a high pitch with their renewed hopes of plenty. Now, having made a liſt of their wants, they folded the money in the paper, put it into a bag, which [197]Archer tied to a long ſtring, and, having broken the pane of glaſs behind the round hole in the window ſhutter, he let down the bag to the Gypſey. She promiſed to be punctual, and having filled the bag with Fiſher's twelve buns, they were drawn up in triumph, and every body anticipated the pleaſure with which they ſhould ſee the ſame bag drawn up at dinner-time. The buns were a little ſqueezed in being drawn through the hole in the window ſhutter; but Archer immediately ſawed out a piece of the ſhutter, and broke the correſponding panes in each of the other windows, to prevent ſuſpicion, and to make it appear that they had all been broken to admit air.

What a pity that ſo much ingenuity ſhould have been employed to no purpoſe. It may have ſurpriſed the intelligent reader, that the Gypſey was ſo punctual to her promiſe to Fiſher; but we muſt recollect, that her appa⯑rent integrity was only cunning; ſhe was punc⯑tual that ſhe might be employed again—that ſhe might be entruſted with the contribution which, ſhe foreſaw, muſt be raiſed amongſt the famiſhing garriſon. No ſooner had ſhe receiv⯑ed the money than her end was gained.

[198] Dinner-time came—it ſtruck three, four, five, ſix. They liſtened with hungry ears, but no ſignal was heard. The morning had been very long, and Archer had in vain tried to diſ⯑ſuade them from devouring the remainder of the proviſions before they were ſure of a freſh ſupply. And now, thoſe who had been the moſt confident were the moſt impatient of their diſappointment.

Archer, in the diviſion of the food, had at⯑tempted, by the moſt ſcrupulous exactneſs, to content the public, and he was both aſtoniſhed and provoked to perceive that his impartiality was impeached. So differently do people judge in different ſituations!—He was the firſt per⯑ſon to accuſe his maſter of injuſtice, and the leaſt capable of bearing ſuch an imputation upon himſelf from others. He now experienced ſome of the joys of power, and the delight of managing unreaſonable numbers.

"Have not I done every thing I could to pleaſe ye?—Have not I ſpent my money to buy ye food?—Have not I divided the laſt morſel with ye?—I have not taſted one mouthful to⯑day!—Did not I ſet to work for ye at ſun-riſe? Did not I lie awake all night for ye?—Have not I had all the labour, all the anxiety?— [199]Look round and ſee my contrivances, my work, my generoſity!—And after all, you think me a tyrant, becauſe I want you to have common ſenſe.—Is not this bun which I hold in my hand my own?—Did not I earn it by my own ingenuity from that ſelfiſh dunce (pointing to Fiſher) who could never have gotten one of his twelve buns, if I had not ſhewn him how; eleven of them he has eaten ſince morning for his own ſhare, without offering any mortal a morſel; but I ſcorn to eat even what is juſtly my own, when I ſee ſo many hungry creatures longing for it. I was not going to touch this laſt morſel myſelf; I only begged you to keep it till ſupper time, when perhaps you'll want it more, and Townſend, who can't bear the ſlight⯑eſt thing that croſſes his own whims, and who thinks there's nothing in this world to be minded but his own diverſion, calls me a tyrant. —You all of you promiſed to obey me—the firſt thing I aſk you to do for your own good, and when, if you had common ſenſe, you muſt know I can want nothing but your good, you rebel againſt me.—Traitors!—Fools!—Ungrateful fools!"

Archer walked up and down unable to com⯑mand his emotion, whilſt, for the moment, the diſcontented multitude was ſilenced.

[200] "Here," ſaid he, ſtriking his hand upon the little boy's ſhoulder, "Here's the only one amongſt ye, who has not uttered one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one bit of bread—a bit that I gave him myſelf this day.—Here" ſaid he, ſnatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch—"Take it—it's mine—I give it to you, though you are a Grey⯑beard — you deſerve it — eat it, and be an Archer.—You ſhall be my captain—will you?" ſaid he, liſting him up in his arms above the reſt.

"I like you now," ſaid the little boy cou⯑rageouſly; "but I love De Grey better; he has always been my friend, and he adviſed me never to call myſelf any of thoſe names, Archer or Grey beard, ſo I won't—though I am ſhut in here, I have nothing to do with it—I love Dr. Middleton; he was never unjuſt to me; and, I dare ſay that he has very good reaſons, as De Grey ſaid, for forbidding us to go into that houſe—beſides, it's his own.

Inſtead of admiring the good ſenſe and ſteadi⯑neſs of this little lad, Archer ſuffered Townſend to ſnatch the untaſted bun out of his hands. He flung it at the hole in the window, but it [201]fell back. The Archers ſcrambled for it, and Fiſher eat it.

Archer ſaw this, and was ſenſible that he had not done handſomely in ſuffering it. A few moments ago he had admired his own genero⯑ſity, and though he had felt the injuſtice of others, he had not accuſed himſelf of any. He turned away from the little boy, and ſitting down at one end of the table hid his face in his hands. He continued immoveable in this poſ⯑ture for ſome time.

"Lord!" ſaid Townſend, "it was an ex⯑cellent joke!"

"Pooh!" ſaid Fiſher, "what a fool, to think ſo much about a bun!"

"Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me," ſaid the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his face.

Archer ſtooped down, and lifted him up upon the table; at which ſight the enraged par⯑tiſans ſet up a general hiſs—"He has forſaken us!—He deſerts his party!—He wants to be a Greybeard!—After he has got us all into this ſcrape he will leave us!"

"I am not going to leave you," cried Ar⯑cher— "No one ſhall ever accuſe me of de⯑ſerting [202]my party. I'll ſtick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the laſt moment. But this little fellow—Take it as you pleaſe, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window—Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard! —This little fellow is worth you all put to⯑gether, and I'll ſtand by him againſt whoever daſes to lay a finger upon him—And the next morſel of food that I ſee ſhall be his—Touch him who dares!"

The commanding air with which Archer ſpoke and looked; and the belief, that the little boy deſerved his protection, ſilenced the crowd. But the ſtorm was only huſhed.

No ſound of merriment was now to be heard, no battledore and ſhuttlecock—no ball—no marbles. Some ſat in a corner, whiſpering their wiſhes that Archer would unbar the doors and give up. Others ſtretching their arms, and gaping as they ſauntered up and down the room, wiſhed for air, or food or water. Fiſher and his nine, who had ſuch firm dependence upon the Gypſey, now gave themſelves up to utter deſpair. It was eight o'clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no can⯑dles, no light could they have. The proſpect [203]of another long dark night made them ſtill more diſcontented. Townſend at the head of the yawners, and Fiſher at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered ſpirits, demanding "how long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected, that they ſhould ſtarve themſelves to death for his ſake?"

The idea of giving up was more intolerable to Archer than all the reſt; he ſaw, that the majority, his own convincing argument, was againſt him. He was therefore obliged to con⯑deſcend to the arts of perſuaſion. He flattered ſome with hopes of food from the town-boys. Some he reminded of their promiſes. Others he praiſed for former proweſs; and others he ſhamed by the repetition of their high vaunts in the beginning of the buſineſs.

It was at length reſolved that at all events they would hold out. With this determination they ſtretched themſelves again to ſleep, for the ſecond night, in weak and weary obſtinacy.

Archer ſlept longer and more ſoundly than uſual the next morning, and when he awoke— he found his hands tied behind him. Three or four boys had juſt got hold of his feet, which [204]they preſſed down, whilſt the trembling hands of Fiſher were faſtening the cord round them. With all the force which rage could inſpire, Archer ſtruggled and roared to "his Archers!" —his friends—his party!—for help againſt the traitors.

But all kept aloof. Townſend in particular ſtood laughing, and looking on—"I beg your pardon, Archer, but really you look ſo droll! —All alive and kicking!—Don't be angry— I'm ſo weak, I cannot help laughing to day."

The packthread cracked—"His hands are free!—He's looſe!" cried the leaſt of the boys, and ran away, whilſt Archer leaped up, and ſeizing hold of Fiſher with a powerful graſp, ſternly demanded "what he meant by this?"

"Aſk my party"—ſaid Fiſher terrified— "they ſet me on—Aſk my party."

"Your party!" cried Archer, with a look of ineffable contempt—"You reptile!—your party!—Can ſuch a thing as you have a party?"

To be ſure," ſaid Fiſher, ſettling his collar, which Archer in his ſurpriſe had let go—"To be ſure—Why not?—Any man who chuſes it may have a party as well as yourſelf, I ſuppoſe— I have my nine Fiſhermen"—

[205] At theſe words, ſpoken with much ſullen importance, Archer, in ſpite of his vexation, could not help laughing—"Fiſhermen!" cried he, "Fiſhermen!"— "And why not Fiſher⯑men as well as Archers!" cried they—"One party is juſt as good as another; it is only a queſtion, which can get the upper hand—and we had your hands tied juſt now."

"That's right, Townſend," ſaid Archer, "laugh on, my boy!—Friend or foe, it's all the ſame to you. I know how to value your friendſhip now. You are a mighty good fel⯑low when the ſun ſhines; but let a ſtorm come, and how you ſlink away!"

At this inſtant Archer felt the difference be⯑tween a good companion, and a good friend; a difference which ſome people do not diſcover till late in life.

"Have I no friend?—no real friend amongſt ye all? And could ye ſtand by and ſee my hands tied behind me like a thief's. What ſignifies ſuch a party?—All mute?"

"We want ſomething to eat," anſwered the Fiſhermen—"What ſignifies ſuch a party in⯑deed? —and ſuch a Manager, who can do no⯑thing for one?"

[206] "And have I done nothing?"

"Don't let's hear any more proſing," ſaid Fiſher—"We are too many for you. I've ad⯑viſed my party, if they've a mind not to be ſtarved, to give you up for the ringleader as you were; and Dr. Middleton will let us all off, I dare ſay."

So depending upon the ſullen ſilence of the aſſembly, he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of "No!—no!—no! —Don't tie him" — was ſeebly raiſed.

Archer ſtood ſtill — But the moment Fiſher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the reſt with eyes ſpark⯑ling with indignation — "Archers!" cried he.

A voice at this inſtant was heard at the door —It was De Grey's voice—"I have got a large baſket of proviſions for your breakfaſt"

A general ſhout of joy was ſent forth by the voracious public—"Breakfaſt! — Proviſions!— a large baſket—De Grey lor ever! —Huzza!"

De Grey promiſed upon his honour, that if they would unbar the door nobody ſhould come in with him, and no advantage ſhould be taken of them. This promiſe was enough even for Archer.

[207] "I will let him in," ſaid he, "myſelf, for I'm ſure he'll never break his word."

He pulled away the bar—the door opened — and having bargained for the liberty of Mel⯑ſom, the little boy who had been ſhut in by miſtake, De Grey puſhed in his baſket of pro⯑viſions, and locked and barred the door in⯑ſtantly.

Joy and gratitude ſparkled in every face, when he unpacked his baſket, and ſpread the table with a plentiful breakfaſt. A hundred queſtions were aſked him at once—"Eat firſt," ſaid he, "and we will talk afterwards." This buſineſs was quickly diſpatched by people, who had not taſted food for ſeveral hours. Their curioſity encreaſed as their hunger diminiſhed. —"Who ſent us breakfaſt?—Does Dr. Mid⯑dleton know?" — were queſtions reiterated from every mouth.

"He does know," anſwered De Grey, "and the firſt thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow priſoner. I am to ſtay here till you give up. This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you [...]ood, and he will allow no more."

[208] Every one looked at the empty baſket. But Archer, in whom half-vanquiſhed party-ſpirit revived with the ſtrength he had got from his breakfaſt, broke into exclamations in praiſe of De Grey's magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey was become one of themſelves.

"And you will join us, will you? — that's a noble fellow!"

"No," anſwered De Grey calmly, "but I hope to perſuade, or rather to convince you that you ought to join me."

"You would have found it no hard taſk to have perſuaded or convinced us, whichever you pleaſed," ſaid Townſend, "if you had appealed to Archers faſting, but Archers feaſting are quite other animals. Even Caeſar himſelf after breakfaſt is quite another thing!" added he, pointing to Archer.

"You may ſpeak for yourſelf, Mr. Town⯑ſend," replied the inſulted hero, "but not for me, or for Archers in general if you pleaſe. We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey's promiſe—that was not giving up. And it would have been juſt as difficult, I promiſe you, to perſuade or convince me either, that I [209]ſhould give up againſt my honour before break⯑faſt as after."

This ſpirited ſpeech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not ſo Fiſher, whoſe memory was upon this oc⯑caſion very diſtinct.

"What nonſenſe"—and the orator pauſed for a ſynonymous expreſſion, but none was at hand. "What nonſenſe and—nonſenſe is here!— Why, don't you remember that dinner-time, and ſupper-time, and breakfaſt-time will come again? — So what ſignifies mouthing about per⯑ſuading and convincing. — We will not go through again what we did yeſterday! — Honour me no honour, I don't underſtand it. — I'd ra⯑ther be flogged at once, as I have been many's the good time for a leſs thing — I ſay, we'd bet⯑ter all be flogged at once, which muſt be the end of it ſooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfaſt, and ſupper, all only becauſe Mr. Archer won't give up becauſe of his honour, and nonſenſe!'

Many prud [...]nt faces amongſt the Fiſhermen ſeemed to deliberate at the cloſe of this oration, in which the arguments were brought to "home to each man's buſineſs and boſom."

[210] "But," ſaid De Grey, "when we yield, I hope it will not be merely to get our dinner, gen⯑tlemen. — When we yield, Archer —"

"Don't addreſs yourſelf to me," interrupted Archer, ſtruggling with his pride, "you have no farther occaſion to try to win me—I have no power, no party, you ſee! —and now I find that I have no friends, I don't care what becomes of myſelf. — I ſuppoſe I'm to be given up as ring⯑leader.—Here's this Fiſher, and a party of his Fiſhermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, juſt as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fiſher's party againſt me."

De Grey was going to aſſure him, that he had no intention of joining any party, when a ſudden change appeared in Archer's counte⯑nance.

"Silence!" cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was ſilence. Some one was heard to whiſtle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to every body preſent, ex⯑cept to Archer, who immediately whiſtled the concluſion.

[211] "There!" cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph—"That's a method of holding ſecret correſpondence, whilſt a priſoner, which I learned from "Richard Coeur de Lion." I know how to make uſe of every thing.—Hol⯑la! Friend! are you there at laſt?" cried he, going to the ventilator.

"Yes, but we are barred out here."

"Round to the window then, and fill our bag; we'll let it down, my lad, in a trice, bar me out who can!"

Archer let down the bag with all the expedi⯑tion of joy, and it was filled with a [...]l the expedi⯑tion of fear. —" [...] ull away! —make h [...]ſte, for Heaven's ſake!" ſaid the voice from without, the gardener will come from dinner elſe, and we ſhall be caught. He mounted g [...]rd all yeſter⯑day at the ventilator; and, though I watched, and watched, till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. —I don't know what has taken him out of the way now—make haſte, pull away!"

The heavy bag was ſoon pulied up—"Have you any more?" ſaid Archer.

"Yes, plenty—let down quick! I'v [...] got the Taylor's bag full, which is three times [...]s large [212]as yours, and I've changed cloaths with the taylor's boy, ſo nobody took notice of me as I came down the ſtreet."

"There's my own couſin!" exclaimed Archer—"there's a noble fellow!—there's my own couſin, I acknowledge. — Fill the bag then."

Several times the bag deſcended and aſcended; and at every unlading of the crane, freſh accla⯑mations were heard. — "I have no more!" at length, the boy with the taylor's bag cried.

"Off with you then; we've enough, and thank you."

A delightful review was now made of their treaſure; buſy hands arranged and ſorted the heterogeneous maſs. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged maſter of the whole. Townſend, who, in proſperity as in adverſity, ſaw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, puſhed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. — "Friend," ſaid he, "you look like a great philoſopher, and Archer like a great hero."

"And you, Townſend," ſaid Archer, "may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero."

[213] "No, no," replied Townſend, "wits are never heroes, becauſe they are wits—you are out of your wits, and therefore may ſet up for a hero."

"Laugh, and welcome. —I'm not a tyrant— I don't want to reſtrain any body's wit; but I cannot ſay I admire puns."

"Nor I neither," ſaid the time-ſerving Fiſher, ſidling up to the Manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plumb-cake, "nor I nei⯑ther —I hate puns. I can never underſtand Townſend's puns; beſides, any body can make puns; and one doesn't want wit either at all times; for inſtance, when one is going to ſettle about dinner, or buſineſs of conſequence. — Bleſs us all, Archer!" continued he, with ſud⯑den familiarity, "What a ſight of good things are here! — I'm ſure we are much obliged to you and your couſin — I never thought he'd have come. — Why, now we can hold out as long as you pleaſe. — Let us ſee," ſaid he, dividing the proviſions upon the table, "we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, may be. — Why, now, we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards — and the doctor will ſurely give up to us, for, you ſee, he knows nothing of [214]all this, and he'll think we are ſtarving all this while; and he'd be afraid, you ſee, to let us ſtarve quite, in reality, for three whole days, be⯑cauſe of what would be ſaid in the town. My aunt Barbara, for one, would be at him, long be⯑fore that time was out; and beſides, you know, in that there caſe, he'd be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a Barring out, you know."

Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deſerved; for his eye was fixed upon De Grey.—"What is De Grey thinking of?" he aſked impatiently.

"I am thinking," ſaid De Grey, "that Dr. Middleton muſt believe that I have be⯑trayed his confidence in me. The gardener was ordered away from his watch-poſt for one half-hour when I was admitted. This half⯑hour the gardener has made nearly an hour. I never would have come amongſt you if I had foreſeen all this. Dr. Middleton truſted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me."

"De Grey!" cried Archer, with energy, "he ſhall not repent of his confidence in you; nor ſhall you repent of coming amongſt us; [215]you ſhall find that we have ſome honour as well as yourſelf; and I will take care of your ho⯑nour as if it were my own!

"Hey-day!" interrupted Townſend, "are heroes allowed to change ſides, pray? And does the chief of the Archers ſtand talking ſen⯑timent to the chief of the Greybeards? —In the middle of his own party too!"

"Party!" repeated Archer, diſdainfully, "I have done with parties! —I ſee what parties are have done with parties! —I ſee what parties are made of! —I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can."

"That you may do," ſaid De Grey, ſtretch⯑ing out his hand.

"Unbar the doors! —Unbar the windows! — Away with all theſe things! — I give up for De Grey's ſake; he ſhall not loſe his credit on my account."

"No," ſaid De Grey, "you ſhall not give up for my ſake."

"Well then, I'll give up to do what is ho⯑nourable," ſaid Archer.

"Why not to do what is reaſonable?" ſaid De Grey.

"Reaſonable! — Oh, the firſt thing that a man of ſpirit ſhould think of is, what is honourable."

[216] "But how will he find out what is honour⯑able, unleſs he can reaſon?"

"Oh," ſaid Archer, "his own feelings al⯑ways tell him what is honourable."

"Have not your feelings changed within theſe few hours?"

"Yes, with circumſtances; but right or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do ſo and ſo, I'm ſatisfied."

"But you cannot think any thing honour⯑able, or the contrary, without reaſoning; and as to what you call feeling, it's only a quick ſort of reaſoning."

"The quicker the better," ſaid Archer.

"Perhaps not," ſaid De Grey, "we are apt to reaſon beſt, when we are not in quite ſo great a burry."

"But," ſaid Archer, "we have not always time enought to reaſon at firſt."

"You muſt, however, acknowledge," re⯑pli [...]d De Grey ſmiling, "that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be in the wrong at laſt. Is it not therefore beſt to begin by rea⯑ſoning to find out the right at firſt?"

"To be ſure."

[217] "And did you reaſon with yourſelf at firſt? And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own ſchool-room, be⯑cauſe he deſired you not to go into one of his own houſes?"

"No; but I ſhould never have thought of heading a Barring out, if he had not ſhewn partiality; and if you had flown into a paſſion with me openly, at once, for pulling down your ſcenery, which would have been quite natural, and not have gone ſlily and forbid us the houſe, out of revenge, there would have been none of this work."

"Why," ſaid De Grey, "ſhould you ſuſ⯑pect me of ſuch a mean action, when you have never ſeen or known me do any thing mean, and when in this inſtance you have no proofs."

"Will you give me your word and hon⯑our now, De Grey, before every body here, that you did not do what I ſuſpected?"

"I do aſſure you, upon my honour, I never, directly or indirectly, ſpoke to Dr. Middleton about the play-houſe."

"Then," ſaid Archer, "I'm as glad as if I had found a thouſand pounds! — Now you are my friend indeed."

[218] "And Dr. Middleton—why ſhould you ſuſ⯑pect him without reaſon, any more than me?"

"As to that," ſaid Archer, "he is your friend, and you are right to defend him; and I won't ſay another word againſt him—will that ſatisfy you?"

"Not quite."

"Not quite! — Then, indeed, you are unrea⯑ſonable!"

"No; for I don't wiſh you to yield out of friendſhip to me, any more than to honour. — If you yield to reaſon, you will be governed by reaſon another time."

"Well; but then don't triumph over me, becauſe you have the beſt ſide of the argu⯑ment."

"Not I! — How can I?" ſaid De Grey; "for now you are on the beſt ſide as well as my⯑ſelf, are not you? So we may triumph to⯑gether."

"You are a good friend!" ſaid Archer, and with great eagerneſs be pulled down the fortifi⯑cations, whilſt every hand aſſiſted. The room was reſtored to order in a few minutes; the ſhutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in. The windows were thrown up, and the firſt feeling of the freſh air was delightful. The [219]green play-ground appeared before them, and the hopes of exerciſe and liberty brightened the countenances of theſe voluntary priſoners.

But alas! they were not yet at liberty! The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, ſmote their hearts! When the rebels had ſent an ambaſſador with their ſurrender, they ſtood in pale and ſilent ſuſpence, waiting for their doom. — "Ah!" ſaid Fiſher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, "the doc⯑tor will think the moſt of that — he'll never for⯑give us for that."

"Huſh! here he comes!" — His ſteady ſtep was heard approaching nearer and nearer! — Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middle⯑ton entered. — Fiſher inſtantly fell on his knees.

"It is no delight to me to ſee people on their knees; ſtand up, Mr. Fiſher. — I hope you are all conſcious that you have done wrong?"

"Sir," ſaid Archer, "they are conſcious that they have done wrong, and ſo am I. I am the ringleader — puniſh me as you think proper — I ſubmit. Your puniſhments — your venge⯑ance ought to fall on me alone!"

"Sir," ſaid Dr. Middleton calmly, "I per⯑ceive, that whatever elſe you may have learned [220]in the courſe of your education, you have not been taught the meaning of the word Puniſh⯑ment. Puniſhment and vengeance do not, with us, mean the ſame thing. Puniſhment is pain given, with the reaſonable hope of prevent⯑ing thoſe on whom it is inflicted from doing, in future, what will hurt themſelves or others. Ve [...]g [...]ance never looks to the future; but is the ex [...]ion of anger for an injury that is paſt. I [...]e [...]i [...]n [...] anger—you have done me no injury."

Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows.

"Yes; I ſ [...]e that you have broken my win⯑dows: that is a ſmall evil."

"Oh Sir! How good! How merciful!" exclaimed thoſe who had been moſt panic-ſ [...]ruck — "He forgives us!"

"Stay," reſumed Dr. Middleton, "I cannot forgive you — I ſhall never reveng [...], but it is my duty to puniſh. — You have r [...]b [...]ned againſt the juſt authority, w [...]ien is neceſſary to con [...]uct and govern you, whilſt you have not ſufficient reaſon to govern and conduct yourſelves. — Without obedience to your maſter, as children, you cannot be educate [...]. — [...] [...]out obedience to the laws," added he, turning to Archer, "as [221]men, you cannot be ſuffered in ſociety. — You, Sir, think yourſelf a man, I obſerve, and you think it the part of a man not to ſubmit to the will of another. I have no pleaſure in making others, whether men or children, ſubmit to my will; but my reaſon and experience are ſuperior to yours — your parents at leaſt think ſo, or they would not have entruſted me with the care of your education. As long as they do entruſt you to my care, and as long as I have any hop [...]s or ma [...]ing you wiſer and better by puniſhment, I ſhall ſteadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be [...]n ceſſary, and I judge it to be neceſſary now. This is a long ſermon, Mr. Archer, not preach⯑ed to ſhew my own eloquence, but to convince your underſtanding. — Now, as to your puniſh⯑ment! —"

"Name it, Sir," ſaid Archer, "whatever it is▪ I will cheerfully ſubmit to it."

"Name it yourſelt," ſaid Dr. Middleton, "and ſhew me that you now underſtand the na⯑ture of puniſhment."

Archer, proud to be tre [...]ted like a reaſonable creature, and ſorry that he had behaved like a fooliſh ſchool-boy, was ſilent for ſome time, but at length replied, "That he would rather [...]ot [222]name his own puniſhment." He repeated, however, that he "truſted he ſhould bear it well, whatever it might be."

"I ſhall then," ſaid Dr. Middleton, "de⯑prive you, for two months, of pocket money, as you have had too much, and have made a bad uſe of it."

"Sir," ſaid Archer, "I brought five gui⯑neas with me to ſchool — this guinea is all that I have left."

Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered him, with a look of approbation; and told him that it ſhould be applied to the re⯑pairs of the ſchool-room. The reſt of the boys waited in ſilence for the doctor's ſentence a⯑gainſt them; but not with thoſe looks of abject fear, with which boys uſually expect the ſen⯑tence of a ſchool-maſter.

"You ſhall return from the play-ground, all of you," ſaid Dr. Middieton, "one quarter of an hour ſooner, for two months to come, than the reſt of your companions. A bell ſhall ring at the appointed time. I give you an opportu⯑nity of recovering my confidence by your punc⯑tuality."

[223] "Oh, Sir, we will come the inſtant, the very inſtant the bell rings— you ſhall have confi⯑dence in us," cried they eagerly.

"I deſerve your confidence, I hope," ſaid Dr. Middleton, "for it is my firſt wiſh to make you all happy. — You do not know the pain that it has coſt me to deprive you of food for ſo many hours."

Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where they had depoſited their laſt ſup⯑plies. — Archer delivered them up to the doctor, proud to ſhew, that they were not reduced to obedience merely by neceſſity.

"The reaſon," reſumed Dr. Middleton, [...]ving now returned to the uſual benignity of his manner, — "The reaſon why I deſired, that [...]ne of you ſhould go to that building," (point⯑ing out of the window), was this: I had been informed, that a gang of Gypſies had ſlept there the night before I ſpoke to you, one of whom was dangerouſly ill of a putrid ſever. I did not chuſe to mention my reaſon to you at that time, for fear of alarming you or your friends. I have had the place cleaned, and you may re⯑turn to it when you pleaſe. The Gypſies were yeſterday removed from the town."

[224] "De Grey you were in the right," whiſ⯑pered Archer, "and it was I that was unjuſt."

"The old woman," continued the doctor, "whom you employed to buy food, has eſcaped the fever, but ſhe has not eſcaped a gaol, whi⯑ther ſhe was ſent yeſterday, for having defraud⯑ed you of your money."

"Mr. Fiſher," ſaid Dr. Middleton, as to you, I ſhall not puniſh you!—I have no hope of making you either wiſer or better. — Do you know this paper?"

The paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.

"I deſired him to buy thoſe things, Sir," ſaid Archer, colouring.

"And did you deſire him not to pay for them?"

"No," ſaid Archer, "he had half a crown on purpoſe to pay for them."

"I know he had; but he choſe to apply it to his own private uſe, and gave it to the Gypſey to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made uſe of this name," ſaid he, turning to the other [...]de of the bill, and pointing to De Grey's [225]name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey's exerciſes.

"I aſſure you, Sir," cried Archer —

"You need not aſſure me, Sir," ſaid Dr. Middleton, "I cannot ſuſpect a boy of your temper of having any part in ſo baſe an action. — When the people in the ſhop refuſed to let Mr. Fiſher have the things without paying for them, he made uſe of De Grey's name, who was known there. Suſpecting ſome miſchief, however, from the purchaſe of the tinder-box, the ſhopkeeper informed me of the circum⯑ſtance. Nothing in this whole buſineſs gave me half ſo much pain as I felt for a moment, when I ſuſpected that De Grey was concerned in it."

A loud cry, in which Archer's voice was heard moſt diſtinctly, declared De Grey's inno⯑cence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honeſt faces, with benevolent approba⯑tion.

"Archer," ſaid he, taking him by the hand, "I am heartily glad to ſee that you have got the better of your party-ſpirit — I wiſh you may keep ſuch a friend as you have now beſide you. — One ſuch friend is worth two ſuch parties."

[226] "As for you, Mr. Fiſher — depart — you muſt never return hither again."

"In vain he ſolicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him. Every body turned away with contempt, and he ſpeaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice— "What ſhall I ſay to my aunt Barbara?"