The Parent’s Assistant by Maria Edgeworth (page 5)

my making you my last bow, “ye distant spires, ye ANTIC towers!”

Wheel. (aside to Lord J.). Ye ANTIC towers!–fit for Oxford, my lord!

Lord J. Antique towers, I suppose Mr. Bursal means.

Burs. Antique, to be sure!–I said antique, did not I, Wheeler?

Wheel. O, yes.

Lord J. (aside). What a mean animal is this!

Enter RORY O’RYAN.

Rory. Why, now, what’s become of Talbot, I want to know? There he is not to be found anywhere in the wide world; and there’s a hullabaloo amongst his friends for him.

(Wheeler and Bursal wink at one another.)

Wheel. We know nothing of him.

Lord J. I have not the honour, sir, to be one of Mr. Talbot’s friends. It is his own fault, and I am sorry for it.

Rory. ‘Faith, so am I, especially as it is mine–fault I mean; and especially as the election is just going to come on.

Enter a party of boys, who cry, Finsbury’s come!–Finsbury’s come with the dresses!

Wheel. Finsbury’s come? Oh, let us see the dresses, and let us try ’em on to-night.

Burs. (pushing the crowd). On with ye–on with ye, there!–Let’s try ’em on!–Try ’em on–I’m to be colonel.

lst Boy. And I lieutenant.

2nd Boy. And I ensign.

3rd Boy. And I college salt-bearer.

4th Boy. And I oppidan.

5th Boy. Oh, what a pity I’m in mourning.

Several speak at once.

And we are servitors. We are to be the eight servitors.

Wheel. And I am to be your Captain, I hope. Come on, my Colonel. (To Bursal). My lord, you are coming?

Rory. By-and-by–I’ve a word in his ear, by your LAVE and his.

Burs. Why, what the devil stops the way, there?–Push on–on with them.

6th Boy. I’m marshal.

Burs. On with you–on with you–who cares what you are?

Wheel. (to Bursal, aside). You’ll pay Finsbury for me, you rich Jew? (To Lord John.) Your lordship will remember your lordship’s promise.

Lord J. I do not usually forget my promises, sir; and therefore need not to be reminded of them.

Wheel. I beg pardon–I beg ten thousand pardons, my lord.

Burs. (taking him by the arm). Come on, man, and don’t stand begging pardon there, or I’ll leave you.

Wheel. (to Burs.) I beg pardon, Bursal–I beg pardon, ten thousand times. (Exeunt.)

Manent LORD JOHN and RORY O’RYAN.

Rory. Wheugh!–Now put the case. If I was going to be hanged, for the life of me I couldn’t be after begging so many pardons for nothing at all. But many men, many minds–(Hums.) True game to the last! No Wheeler for me. Oh, murder! I forgot, I was nigh letting the cat out o’ the bag again.

Lord J. You had something to say to me, sir? I wait till your recollection returns.

Rory. ‘Faith, and that’s very kind of you; and if you had always done so, you would never have been offended with me, my lord.

Lord J. You are mistaken, Mr. O’Ryan, if you think that you did or could offend me.

Rory. Mistaken was I, then, sure enough; but we are all liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one another; that’s the way to go through.

Lord J. You will go through the world your own way, Mr. O’Ryan, and allow me to go through it my way.

Rory. Very fair–fair enough–then we shan’t cross. But now, to come to the point. I don’t like to be making disagreeable retrospects, if I could any way avoid it; nor to be going about the bush, especially at this time o’ day; when, as Mr. Finsbury’s come, we’ve not so much time to lose as we had. Is there any truth, then, my lord, in the report that is going about this hour past, that you have gone in a huff, and given your promise there to that sneaking Wheeler to vote for him now?

Lord J. In answer to your question, sir, I am to inform you that I HAVE promised Mr. Wheeler to vote for him.

Rory. In a huff?–Ay, now, there it is!–Well, when a man’s MAD, to be sure, he’s mad–and that’s all that can be said about it. And I know, if I had been MAD myself, I might have done a foolish thing as well as another. But now, my lord, that you are not mad–

Lord J. I protest, sir, I cannot understand you. In one word, sir, I’m neither mad nor a fool!–Your most obedient (going, angrily).

Rory (holding him). Take care now; you are going mad with me again. But phoo! I like you the better for being mad. I’m very often mad myself, and I would not give a potato for one that had never been mad in his life.

Lord J. (aside). He’ll not be quiet, till he makes me knock him down.

Rory. Agh! agh! agh!–I begin to guess whereabouts I am at last. MAD, in your country, I take it, means fit for Bedlam; but with us in Ireland, now, ’tis no such thing; it mean’s nothing in life but the being in a passion. Well, one comfort is, my lord, as you’re a bit of a scholar, we have the Latin proverb in our favour–“Ira furor brevis est” (Anger is short madness). The shorter the better, I think. So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt against poor Talbot, I’ll assure you he’s as innocent o’ that unfortunate song as the babe unborn.

Lord J. It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies to me.

Rory. He make apologies! Not he, ‘faith; he’d send me to Coventry, or, maybe, to a worse place, did he but know I was condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to him. But, upon my conscience, I’ve a regard for you both, and don’t like to see you go together by the ears. Now, look you, my lord. By this book, and all the books that were ever shut and opened, he never saw or heard of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this morning.

Lord J. But you told me this morning that it was he who wrote it.

Rory. For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out; but it was only a WHITE lie to SARVE a friend, and make him cut a dash with a new song at election time. But I’ve done for ever with white lies.

Lord J. (walking about as if agitated). I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O’Ryan. This may be a good joke to you; but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot never wrote a word of the song?

Rory. Not a word or syllable, good or bad.

Lord J. And I have given my promise to vote against him. He’ll lose his election.

Rory. Not if you’ll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.

Lord J. I have promised to leave them to themselves; and Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time.

Rory. Bless my body! I’ll not stay prating here then. (Exit Rory.)

Lord J. (follows). But what can have become of Talbot? I have been too hasty for once in my life. Well, I shall suffer for it more than anybody else; for I love Talbot, since he did not make the song, of which I hate to think. (Exit.)

SCENE III.

A large hall in Eton College–A staircase at the end–Eton lads, dressed in their Montem Dresses in the Scene–In front, WHEELER (dressed as Captain), BURSAL and FINSBURY.

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

Burs. INFINITE CREDIT! Why, he’ll have no objection to that–hey, Wheeler? But I thought Finsbury knew you too well to give you credit for anything.

Fins. You are pleased to be pleasant, sir. Mr. Wheeler knows, in that sense of the word, it is out of my power to give him credit, and I’m sure he would not ask it.

Wheel. (aside). O, Bursal, pay him, and I’ll pay you tomorrow.

Burs. Now, if you weren’t to be captain after all, Wheeler, what a pretty figure you’d cut. Ha! ha! ha!–Hey?

Wheel. Oh, I am as sure of being captain as of being alive. (Aside.) Do pay for me, now, there’s a good, dear fellow, before THEY (looking back) come up.

Burs. (aside). I love to make him lick the dust. (Aloud.) Hollo! here’s Finsbury waiting to be paid, lads. (To the lads who are in the back scene.) Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?

(The lads come forward, and several exclaim at once,) I’ve paid! I’ve paid!

Enter LORD JOHN and RORY O’RYAN.

Rory. Oh, King of Fashion, how fine we are! Why, now, to look at ye all one might fancy one’s self at the playhouse at once, or at a fancy ball in dear little Dublin. Come, strike up a dance.

Burs. Pshaw! Wherever you come, Rory O’Ryan, no one else can be heard. Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?

Several Boys exclaim. We’ve all paid.

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

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

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

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

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

Rory, as each lad passes, catches his arm, Are you a TalbotITE or a WheelerITE? To each who answers “A Wheelerite,” Rory replies, “Phoo! dance off, then. Go to the devil and shake yourself.”* Each who answers “A Talbotite,” Rory shakes by the hand violently, singing,

“Talbot, oh, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”

*This is the name of a country dance.

When they have almost all passed, Lord John says, But where can Mr. Talbot be all this time?

Burs. Who knows? Who cares?

Wheel. A pretty electioneerer! (Aside to Bursal.) Finsbury’s waiting to be paid.

Lord J. You don’t wait for me, Mr. Finsbury. You know, I have settled with you.

Fins. Yes, my lord–yes. Many thanks: and I have left your lordship’s dress here, and everybody’s dress, I believe, as bespoke.

Burs. Here, Finsbury, is the money for Wheeler, who, between you and me, is as poor as a rat.

Wheeler (affecting to laugh.). Well, I hope I shall be as rich as a Jew to-morrow. (Bursal counts money, in an ostentatious manner, into Finsbury’s hand.)

Fins. A thousand thanks for all favours.

Rory. You will be kind enough to LAVE Mr. Talbot’s dress with me, Mr. Finsbury, for I’m a friend.

Fins. Indubitably, sir: but the misfortune is–he! he! he!–Mr. Talbot, sir, has bespoke no dress. Your servant, gentlemen. (Exit Finsbury.)

Burs. So your friend Mr. Talbot could not afford to bespeak a dress– (Bursal and Wheeler laugh insolently.) How comes that, I wonder?

Lord J. If I’m not mistaken, here comes Talbot to answer for himself.

Rory. But who, in the name of St. Patrick, has he along with him?

Enter TALBOT and LANDLORD.

Talb. Come in along with us, Farmer Hearty–come in.

(Whilst the Farmer comes in, the boys who were sitting on the stairs, rise and exclaim,)

Whom have we here? What now? Come down, lads; here’s more fun.

Rory. What’s here, Talbot?

Talb. An honest farmer, and a good natured landlord, who would come here along with me to speak–

Farm. (interrupting). To speak the truth–(strikes his stick on the ground).

Landlord (unbuttoning his waistcoat). But I am so hot–so short-winded, that (panting and puffing)–that for the soul and body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say.

Rory. ‘Faith, now, the more short winded a story, the better, to my fancy.

Burs. Wheeler, what’s the matter, man? you look as if your under jaw was broke.

Farm. The matter is, young gentlemen, that there was once upon a time a fine, bay hunter.

Wheel. (squeezing up to Talbot, aside). Don’t expose me, don’t let him tell. (To the Farmer.) I’ll pay for the corn I spoiled. (To the Landlord.) I’ll pay for the horse.

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

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

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

Land. (holding his sides). Oh, that I had but a little breath in this body o’ mine to speak all–speak on, Farmer.

Farm. (striking his stick on the floor). Oons, sir, when a man’s put out, he can’t go on with his story.

Omnes. Be quiet, Rory–hush! (Rory puts his finger on his lips.)

Farm. Why, sir, I was a-going to tell you the shabbiness–why, sir, he did not pay the landlord, here, for the horse; but he goes and says to the landlord, here–“Mr. Talbot had your horse on the self-same day; ’twas he did the damage; ’tis from he you must get your money.” So Mr. Talbot, here, who is another sort of a gentleman (though he has not so fine a coat) would not see a man at a loss, that could not afford it; and not knowing which of ’em it was that spoiled the horse, goes, when he finds the other would not pay a farthing, and pays all.

Rory (rubbing his hands). There’s Talbot for ye. And, now, gentlemen (to Wheeler and Bursal), you guess the RASON, as I do, I suppose, why he bespoke no dress; he had not money enough to be fine–and honest, too. You are very fine, Mr. Wheeler, to do you justice.

Lord J. Pray, Mr. O’Ryan, let the farmer go on; he has more to say. How did you find out, pray, my good friend, that it was not Talbot who spoiled the horse! Speak loud enough to be heard by everybody.

Farm. Ay, that I will–I say (very loudly) I say I saw him there (pointing to Wheeler) take the jump which strained the horse; and I’m ready to swear to it. Yet he let another pay; there’s the shabbiness.

(A general groan from all the lads. “Oh, shabby Wheeler, shabby! I’ll not vote for shabby Wheeler!”)

Lord J. (aside). Alas! I must vote for him.

Rory sings.

“True game to the last; no Wheeler for me; Talbot, oh, Talbot’s the dog for me.” (Several voices join the chorus.)

Burs. Wheeler, if you are not chosen Captain, you must see and pay me for the dress.

Wheel. I am as poor as a rat.

Rory. Oh, yes! oh yes! hear ye! hear ye, all manner of men–the election is now going to begin forthwith in the big field, and Rory O’Ryan holds the poll for Talbot. Talbot for ever!–huzza!

(Exit Rory, followed by the Boys, who exclaim “Talbot for ever!–huzza!” The Landlord and Farmer join them.)

Lord J. Talbot, I am glad you are what I always thought you–I’m glad you did not write that odious song. I would not lose such a friend for all the songs in the world. Forgive me for my hastiness this morning. I’ve punished myself–I’ve promised to vote for Wheeler.

Talb. Oh, no matter whom you vote for, my lord, if you are still my friend, and if you know me to be yours. (They shake hands.)

Lord J. I must not say, “Huzza for Talbot!” (Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

WINDSOR TERRACE.

LADY PIERCEFIELD, MRS. TALBOT, LOUISA, and a little girl of six years old, LADY VIOLETTA, daughter to LADY PIERCEFIELD.

Violetta (looking at a paper which Louisa holds). I like it VERY much.

Lady P. What is it that you like VERY much, Violetta?

Violet. You are not to know yet, mamma; it is–I may tell her that–it is a little drawing that Louisa is doing for me. Louisa, I wish you would let me show it to mamma.

Louisa. And welcome, my dear; it is only a sketch of “The Little Merchants,” a story which Violetta was reading, and she asked me to try to draw the pictures of the little merchants for her. (Whilst Lady P. looks at the drawing, Violetta says to Louisa)

But are you in earnest, Louisa, about what you were saying to me just now,–quite in earnest?

Louisa. Yes, in earnest,–quite in earnest, my dear.

Violet. And may I ask mamma, NOW?

Louisa. If you please, my dear.

Violet. (runs to her mother). Stoop down to me, mamma ; I’ve something to whisper to you.

(Lady Piercefield stoops down; Violetta throws her arms round her mother’s neck.)

Violet. (aside to her mother). Mamma, do you know–you know you want a governess for me.

Lady P. Yes, if I could find a good one.

Violet. (aloud). Stoop again, mamma, I’ve more to whisper. (Aside to her mother). SHE says she will be my governess, if you please.

Lady P. SHE!–who is SHE?

Violet. Louisa.

Lady P. (patting Violetta’s cheek). You are a little fool. Miss Talbot is only playing with you.

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

Louisa. Yes.

Violet. (claps her hands). YES, mamma; do you hear YES?

Louisa. If Lady Piercefield will trust you to my care, I am persuaded that I should be much happier as your governess, my good little Violetta, than as an humble dependent of Miss Bursal’s. (Aside to her mother.) You see that, now I am put to the trial, I keep to my resolution, dear mother.

Mrs. T. Your ladyship would not be surprised at this offer of my Louisa, if you had heard, as we have done within these few hours, of the loss of the East India ship in which almost our whole property was embarked.

Louisa. The Bombay Castle is wrecked.

Lady P. The Bombay Castle! I have the pleasure to tell you that you are misinformed–it was the Airly Castle that was wrecked.

Louisa and Mrs. T. Indeed!

Lady P. Yes; you may depend upon it–it was the Airly Castle that was lost. You know I am just come from Portsmouth, where I went to meet my brother, Governor Morton, who came home with the last India fleet, and from whom I had the intelligence.

(Here Violetta interrupts, to ask her mother for her nosegay–Lady P. gives it to her, then goes on speaking.)

Lady P. They were in such haste, foolish people! to carry their news to London, that they mistook one castle for another. But do you know that Mr. Bursal loses fifty thousand pounds, it is said, by the Airly Castle! When I told him she was lost, I thought he would have dropped down. However, I found he comforted himself afterwards with a bottle of Burgundy: but poor Miss Bursal has been in hysterics ever since.

Mrs. T. Poor girl! My Louisa, YOU did not fall into hysterics, when I told you of the loss of our whole fortune.

(Violetta, during this dialogue, has been seated on the ground making up a nosegay.)

Violet. (aside). Fall into hysterics! What are hysterics, I wonder.

Louisa. Miss Bursal is much to be pitied; for the loss of wealth will be the loss of happiness to her.

Lady P. It is to be hoped that the loss may at least check the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, as my son tells me–

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

Enter LORD JOHN.

Lord J. (hastily). How d’ye do, mother! Miss Talbot, I give you joy.

Lady P. Take breath–take breath.

Louisa. It is my brother.

Mrs. T. Here he is!–Hark! hark!

(A cry behind the scenes of “Talbot and truth for ever! Huzza!”)

Louisa. They are chairing him.

Lord J. Yes, they are chairing him; and he has been chosen for his honourable conduct, not for his electioneering skill; for, to do him justice, Coriolanus himself was not a worse electioneerer.

Enter RORY O’RYAN and another Eton lad, carrying TALBOT in a chair, followed by a crowd of Eton lads.

Rory. By your LAVE, my lord–by your LAVE, ladies.

Omnes. Huzza! Talbot and truth for ever! Huzza!

Talb. Set me down! There’s my mother! There’s my sister!

Rory. Easy, easy. Set him down? No such TING! give him t’other huzza! There’s nothing like a good loud huzza in this world. Yes, there is! for, as my Lord John said just now, out of some book, or out of his own head,–

“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs, Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.”

CURTAIN FALLS.

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

In the neighbourhood of a seaport town in the west of England, there lived a gardener, who had one son, called Maurice, to whom he was very partial. One day his father sent him to the neighbouring town to purchase some garden seeds for him. When Maurice got to the seed-shop, it was full of people, who were all impatient to be served: first a great tall man, and next a great fat woman pushed before him; and he stood quietly beside the counter, waiting till somebody should be at leisure to attend to him. At length, when all the other people who were in the shop had got what they wanted, the shopman turned to Maurice–“And what do you want, my patient little fellow?” said he.

“I want all these seeds for my father,” said Maurice, putting a list of seeds into the shopman’s hand; “and I have brought money to pay for them all.”

The seedsman looked out all the seeds that Maurice wanted, and packed them up in paper: he was folding up some painted lady-peas, when, from a door at the back of the shop, there came in a square, rough-faced man, who exclaimed, the moment he came in, “Are the seeds I ordered ready?– The wind’s fair–they ought to have been aboard yesterday. And my china jar, is it packed up and directed? where is it?”

“It is up there on the shelf over your head, sir,” answered the seedsman. “It is very safe, you see; but we have not had time to pack it yet. It shall be done to-day; and we will get the seeds ready for you, sir, immediately.”

“Immediately! then stir about it. The seeds will not pack themselves up. Make haste, pray.”

“Immediately, sir, as soon as I have done up the parcel for this little boy.”

“What signifies the parcel for this little boy? He can wait, and I cannot–wind and tide wait for no man. Here, my good lad, take your parcel, and sheer off,” said the impatient man; and, as he spoke, he took up the parcel of seeds from the counter, as the shopman stooped to look for a sheet of thick brown paper and packthread to tie it up.

The parcel was but loosely folded up, and as the impatient man lifted it, the weight of the peas which were withinside of it burst the paper, and all the seeds fell out upon the floor, whilst Maurice in vain held his hands to catch them. The peas rolled to all parts of the shop; the impatient man swore at them, but Maurice, without being out of humour, set about collecting them as fast as possible.

Whilst the boy was busied in this manner, the man got what seeds he wanted; and as he was talking about them, a sailor came into the shop, and said, “Captain, the wind has changed within these five minutes, and it looks as if we should have ugly weather.”

“Well, I’m glad of it,” replied the rough faced man, who was the captain of a ship. “I am glad to have a day longer to stay ashore, and I’ve business enough on my hands.” The captain pushed forward towards the shop door. Maurice, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up his seeds, saw that the captain’s foot was entangled in some packthread which hung down from the shelf on which the china jar stood. Maurice saw that, if the captain took one more step forward, he must pull the string, so that it would throw down the jar, round the bottom of which the packthread was entangled. He immediately caught hold of the captain’s leg, and stopped him. “Stay! Stand still, sir!” said he, “or you will break your china jar.”

The man stood still, looked, and saw how the packthread had caught in his shoe buckle, and how it was near dragging down his beautiful china jar. “I am really very much obliged to you, my little fellow,” said he. “You have saved my jar, which I would not have broken for ten guineas, for it is for my wife, and I’ve brought it safe from abroad many a league. It would have been a pity if I had broken it just when it was safe landed. I am really much obliged to you, my little fellow, this was returning good for evil. I am sorry I threw down your seeds, as you are such a good natured, forgiving boy. Be so kind,” continued he, turning to the shopman, “as to reach down that china jar for me.”

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

“Yes, sir,” replied Maurice, “very fond of it; for my father is a gardener, and he lets me help him at his work, and he has given me a little garden of my own.”

“Then here are a couple of tulip-roots for you; and if you take care of them, I’ll promise you that you will have the finest tulips in England in your little garden. These tulips were given to me by a Dutch merchant, who told me that they were some of the rarest and finest in Holland. They will prosper with you, I’m sure, wind and weather permitting.”

Maurice thanked the gentleman, and returned home, eager to show his precious tulip-roots to his father, and to a companion of his, the son of a nurseryman, who lived near him. Arthur was the name of the nurseryman’s son.

The first thing Maurice did, after showing his tulip-roots to his father, was to run to Arthur’s garden in search of him. Their gardens were separated only by a low wall of loose stones: “Arthur! Arthur! where are you? Are you in your garden! I want you.” But Arthur made no answer, and did not, as usual, come running to meet his friend. “I know where you are,” continued Maurice, “and I’m coming to you as fast as the raspberry-bushes will let me. I have good news for you–something you’ll be delighted to see, Arthur!–Ha!–but here is something that I am not delighted to see, I am sure,” said poor Maurice, who, when he had got through the raspberry-bushes, and had come in sight of his own garden, beheld his bell-glass–his beloved bell-glass, under which his cucumbers were grown so finely–his only bell-glass, broken to pieces!

“I am sorry for it,” said Arthur, who stood leaning upon his spade in his own garden; “I am afraid you will be very angry with me.”

“Why, was it you, Arthur, broke my bell-glass! Oh, how could you do so?”

“I was throwing weeds and rubbish over the wall, and by accident a great lump of couch-grass, with stones hanging to the roots, fell upon your bell-glass, and broke it, as you see.”

Maurice lifted up the lump of couch-grass, which had fallen through the broken glass upon his cucumbers, and he looked at his cucumbers for a moment in silence–“Oh, my poor cucumbers! you must all die now. I shall see all your yellow flowers withered tomorrow; but it is done, and it cannot be helped; so, Arthur, let us say no more about it.”

“You are very good; I thought you would have been angry. I am sure I should have been exceedingly angry if you had broken the glass, if it had been mine.”

“Oh, forgive and forget, as my father always says; that’s the best way. Look what I have got for you.” Then he told Arthur the story of the captain of the ship, and the china jar; the seeds having been thrown down, and of the fine tulip-roots which had been given to him; and Maurice concluded by offering one of the precious roots to Arthur, who thanked him with great joy, and repeatedly said, “How good you were not to be angry with me for breaking your bell-glass! I am much more sorry for it than if you had been in a passion with me!”

Arthur now went to plant his tulip-root: and Maurice looked at the beds which his companion had been digging, and at all the things which were coming up in his garden.

“I don’t know how it is,” said Arthur, “but you always seem as glad to see the things in my garden coming up, and doing well, as if they were all your own. I am much happier since my father came to live here, and since you and I have been allowed to work and to play together, than I ever was before; for you must know, before we came to live here, I had a cousin in the house with me, who used to plague me. He was not nearly so good-natured as you are. He never took pleasure in looking at my garden, or at anything that I did that was well done; and he never gave me a share of anything that he had; and so I did not like him; how could I? But, I believe that hating people makes us unhappy; for I know I never was happy when I was quarrelling with him; and I am always happy with you, Maurice. You know we never quarrel.”

It would be well for all the world if they could be convinced, like Arthur, that to live in friendship is better than to quarrel. It would be well for all the world if they followed Maurice’s maxim of “Forgive and Forget,” when they receive, or when they imagine that they receive, an injury.

Arthur’s father, Mr. Oakly, the nurseryman, was apt to take offence at trifles; and when he thought that any of his neighbours disobliged him, he was too proud to ask them to explain their conduct; therefore he was often mistaken in his judgment of them. He thought that it showed SPIRIT, to remember and to resent an injury; and, therefore, though he was not an ill-natured man, he was sometimes led, by this mistaken idea of SPIRIT, to do ill-natured things: “A warm friend and a bitter enemy,” was one of his maxims, and he had many more enemies than friends. He was not very rich, but he was proud; and his favourite proverb was, “Better live in spite than in pity.”

When first he settled near Mr. Grant, the gardener, he felt inclined to dislike him, because he was told that Mr. Grant was a Scotchman, and he had a prejudice against Scotchmen; all of whom he believed to be cunning and avaricious, because he had once been over-reached by a Scotch peddler. Grant’s friendly manners in some degree conquered this prepossession but still he secretly suspected that THIS CIVILITY, as he said, “was all show, and that he was not, nor could not, being a Scotchman, be such a hearty friend as a true-born Englishman.”

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

“How came you, pray, neighbour Grant, if a man may ask, by these wonderful fine raspberries?” said Mr. Oakly, one evening, to the gardener.

“That’s a secret,” replied Grant, with an arch smile.

“Oh, in case it’s a secret, I’ve no more to say; for I never meddle with any man’s secrets that he does not choose to trust me with. But I wish, neighbour Grant, you would put down that book. You are always poring over some book or another when a man comes to see you, which is not, according to my notions (being a plain, UNLARNED Englishman bred and born), so civil and neighbourly as might be.”

Mr. Grant hastily shut his book, but remarked, with a shrewd glance at his son, that it was in that book he found his Brobdingnag raspberries.

“You are pleased to be pleasant upon them that have not the luck to be as book-LARNED as yourself, Mr. Grant; but I take it, being only a plain spoken Englishman, as I observed afore, that one is to the full as like to find a raspberry in one’s garden as in one’s book, Mr. Grant.”

Grant, observing that his neighbour spoke rather in a surly tone, did not contradict him; being well versed in the Bible, he knew that “A soft word turneth away wrath,” and he answered, in a good humoured voice, “I hear, neighbour Oakly, you are likely to make a great deal of money of your nursery this year. Here’s to the health of you and yours, not forgetting the seedling larches, which I see are coming on finely.”

“Thank ye, neighbour, kindly; the larches are coming on tolerably well, that’s certain; and here’s to your good health, Mr. Grant–you and yours, not forgetting your, what dye call ’em raspberries”–(drinks)–and, after a pause, resumes, “I’m not apt to be a beggar, neighbour, but if you could give me–“

Here Mr. Oakly was interrupted by the entrance of some strangers, and he did finish making his request–Mr. Oakly was not, as he said of himself, apt to ask favours, and nothing but Grant’s cordiality could have conquered his prejudices, so far as to tempt him to ask a favour from a Scotchman. He was going to have asked for some of the Brobdingnag raspberry-plants. The next day the thought of the raspberry-plants recurred to his memory, but being a bashful man, he did not like to go himself on purpose to make his request, and he desired his wife, who was just setting out to market, to call at Grant’s gate, and, if he was at work in his garden, to ask him for a few plants of his raspberries.

The answer which Oakly’s wife brought to him was that Mr. Grant had not a raspberry-plant in the world to give him, and that if he had ever so many, he would not give one away, except to his own son.

Oakly flew into a passion when he received such a message, declared it was just such a mean, shabby trick as might have been expected from a Scotchman–called himself a booby, a dupe, and a blockhead, for ever having trusted to the civil speeches of a Scotchman–swore that he would die in the parish workhouse before he would ever ask another favour, be it ever so small, from a Scotchman; related to his wife, for the hundredth time, the way in which he had been taken in by the Scotch peddler ten years ago, and concluded by forswearing all further intercourse with Mr. Grant, and all belonging to him.

“Son Arthur,” said he, addressing himself to the boy, who just then came in from work–“Son Arthur, do you hear me? let me never again see you with Grant’s son.”

“With Maurice, father?”

“With Maurice Grant, I say; I forbid you from this day and hour forward to have anything to do with him.”

“Oh, why, dear father?”

“Ask no questions but do as I bid you.”

Arthur burst out a crying, and only said, “Yes, father, I’ll do as you bid me, to be sure.”

“Why now, what does the boy cry for? Is there no other boy, simpleton, think you, to play with, but this Scotchman’s son! I’ll find out another play-fellow for ye, child, if that be all.”

“That’s not all, father,” said Arthur, trying to stop himself from sobbing; “but the thing is, I shall never have such another play-fellow,- -I shall never have such another friend as Maurice Grant.”

“Like father like son–you may think yourself well off to have done with him.”

“Done with him! Oh, father, and shall I never go again to work in his garden, and may not he come to mine?”

“No,” replied Oakly, sturdily; “his father has used me uncivil, and no man shall use me uncivil twice. I say no. Wife, sweep up this hearth. Boy, don’t take on like a fool; but eat thy bacon and greens, and let’s hear no more of Maurice Grant.”

Arthur promised to obey his father. He only begged that he might once more speak to Maurice, and tell him that it was by his father’s orders he acted. This request was granted; but when Arthur further begged to know what reason he might give for this separation, his father refused to tell his reasons. The two friends took leave of one another very sorrowfully.

Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavoured to discover what could have offended his neighbour; but all explanation was prevented by the obstinate silence of Oakly.

Now, the message which Grant really sent about the Brobdingnag raspberries was somewhat different from that which Mr. Oakly received. The message was, that the raspberries were not Mr. Grant’s; that therefore he had no right to give them away; that they belonged to his son Maurice, and that this was not the right time of year for planting them. This message had been unluckily misunderstood. Grant gave his answer to his wife; she to a Welsh servant-girl, who did not perfectly comprehend her mistress’ broad Scotch; and she in her turn could not make herself intelligible to Mrs. Oakly, who hated the Welsh accent, and whose attention, when the servant-girl delivered the message, was principally engrossed by the management of her own horse. The horse, on which Mrs. Oakly rode this day being ill-broken, would not stand still quietly at the gate, and she was extremely impatient to receive her answer, and to ride on to market.

Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his neighbour Grant, could not long remain without finding out fresh causes of complaint. There was in Grant’s garden a plum-tree, which was planted close to the loose stone wall that divided the garden from the nursery. The soil in which the plum tree was planted happened not to be quite so good as that which was on the opposite side of the wall, and the plum-tree had forced its way through the wall, and gradually had taken possession of the ground which it liked best.

Oakly thought the plum-tree, as it belonged to Mr. Grant, had no right to make its appearance on his ground: an attorney told him that he might oblige Grant to cut it down; but Mr. Grant refused to cut down his plum- tree at the attorney’s desire, and the attorney persuaded Oakly to go to law about the business, and the lawsuit went on for some months.

The attorney, at the end of this time, came to Oakly with a demand for money to carry on his suit, assuring him that, in a short time, it would be determined in his favour. Oakly paid his attorney ten golden guineas, remarked that it was a great sum for him to pay, and that nothing but the love of justice could make him persevere in this lawsuit about a bit of ground, “which, after all,” said he, “is not worth twopence. The plum- tree does me little or no damage, but I don’t like to be imposed upon by a Scotchman.”

The attorney saw and took advantage of Oakly’s prejudice against the natives of Scotland; and he persuaded him, that to show the SPIRIT of a true-born Englishman it was necessary, whatever it might cost him, to persist in this law suit.

It was soon after this conversation with the attorney that Mr. Oakly walked, with resolute steps, towards the plum-tree, saying to himself, “If it cost me a hundred pounds I will not let this cunning Scotchman get the better of me.”

Arthur interrupted his father’s reverie, by pointing to a book and some young plants which lay upon the wall. “I fancy, father,” said he, “those things are for you, for there is a little note directed to you, in Maurice’s handwriting. Shall I bring it to you?”

“Yes, let me read it, child, since I must.” It contained these words:

“DEAR MR. OAKLY,–I don’t know why you have quarrelled with us; I am very sorry for it. But though you are angry with me, I am not angry with you. I hope you will not refuse some of my Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, which you asked for a great while ago, when we were all good friends. It was not the right time of the year to plant them, which was the reason they were not sent to you; but it is just the right time to plant them now; and I send you the book, in which you will find the reason why we always put seaweed ashes about their roots; and I have got some seaweed ashes for you. You will find the ashes in the flower-pot upon the wall. I have never spoken to Arthur, nor he to me, since you bid us not. So, wishing your Brobdingnag raspberries may turn out as well as ours, and longing to be all friends again, I am, with love to dear Arthur and self, “Your affectionate neighbour’s son, “MAURICE GRANT.
“P.S.–It is now about four months since the quarrel began, and that is a very long while.”

A great part of the effect of this letter was lost upon Oakly, because he was not very expert in reading writing, and it cost him much trouble to spell it and put it together. However, he seemed affected by it, and said, “I believe this Maurice loves you well enough, Arthur, and he seems a good sort of boy; but as to the raspberries, I believe all that he says about them is but an excuse; and, at anyrate, as I could not get ’em when I asked for them, I’ll not have ’em now. Do you hear me, I say, Arthur? What are you reading there?”

Arthur was reading the page that was doubled down in the book, which Maurice had left along with the raspberry-plants upon the wall. Arthur read aloud as follows:–

(Monthly Magazine, Dec. ’98, p. 421.)

“There is a sort of strawberry cultivated at Jersey, which is almost covered with seaweed in the winter, in like manner as many plants in England are with litter from the stable. These strawberries are usually of the largeness of a middle-sized apricot, and the flavour is particularly grateful. In Jersey and Guernsey, situate scarcely one degree farther south than Cornwall, all kinds of fruit, pulse, and vegetables are produced in their seasons a fortnight or three weeks sooner than in England, even on the southern shores; and snow will scarcely remain twenty-four hours on the earth. Although this may be attributed to these islands being surrounded with a salt, and consequently a moist atmosphere, yet the ashes (seaweed ashes) made use of as manure, may also have their portion of influence.”*

*It is necessary to observe that this experiment has never been actually tried upon raspberry-plants.

“And here,” continued Arthur, “is something written with a pencil, on a slip of paper, and it is Maurice’s writing. I will read it to you.

“‘When I read in this book what is said about the strawberries growing as large as apricots, after they had been covered over with seaweed, I thought that perhaps seaweed ashes might be good for my father’s raspberries; and I asked him if he would give me leave to try them. He gave me leave, and I went directly and gathered together some seaweed that had been cast on shore; and I dried it, and burned it, and then I manured the raspberries with it, and the year afterwards the raspberries grew to the size that you have seen. Now, the reason I tell you this is, first, that you may know how to manage your raspberries, and next, because I remember you looked very grave, as if you were not pleased with my father, Mr. Grant, when he told you that the way by which he came by his Brobdingnag raspberries was a secret. Perhaps this was the thing that has made you so angry with us all; for you never have come to see father since that evening. Now I have told you all I know; and so I hope you will not be angry with us any longer.'”

Mr. Oakly was much pleased by this openness, and said, “Why now, Arthur, this is something like, this is telling one the thing one wants to know, without fine speeches. This is like an Englishman more than a Scotchman. Pray, Arthur, do you know whether your friend Maurice was born in England or in Scotland?”

“No, indeed, sir, I don’t know–I never asked–I did not think it signified. All I know is, that wherever he was born, he is VERY good. Look, papa, my tulip is blowing.”

“Upon my word,” said his father, “this will be a beautiful tulip!”

“It was given to me by Maurice.”

“And did you give him nothing for it?” was the father’s inquiry.

“Nothing in the world; and he gave it to me just at the time when he had good cause to be angry with me, just when I had broken his bell-glass.”

“I have a great mind to let you play together again,” said Arthur’s father.

“Oh, if you would,” cried Arthur, clapping his hands, “how happy we should be! Do you know, father, I have often sat for an hour at a time up in that crab-tree, looking at Maurice at work in his garden, and wishing that I was at work with him.”

Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, who came to ask Mr. Oakly some question about the lawsuit concerning the plum-tree. Oakly showed him Maurice’s letter; and to Arthur’s extreme astonishment, the attorney had no sooner read it, than he exclaimed, “What an artful little gentleman this is! I never, in the course of all my practice, met with anything better. Why, this is the most cunning letter I ever read.”

“Where’s the cunning?” said Oakly, and he put on his spectacles.

“My good sir, don’t you see, that all this stuff about Brobdingnag raspberries is to ward off your suit about the plum-tree? They know– that is, Mr. Grant, who is sharp enough, knows–that he will be worsted in that suit; that he must, in short, pay you a good round sum for damages, if it goes on–“

“Damages!” said Oakly, staring round him at the plum-tree; “but I don’t know what you mean. I mean nothing but what’s honest. I don’t mean to ask for any good round sum; for the plum-tree has done me no great harm by coming into my garden; but only I don’t choose it should come there without my leave.”

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

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

Maurice had put his tulip, which was beginning to blow, in a flower-pot, on the top of the wall, in hopes that his friend Arthur would see it from day to day. Alas! he knew not in what a dangerous situation he had placed it. One of his own Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, swung by the angry arm of Oakly, struck off the head of his precious tulip! Arthur, who was full of the thought of convincing his father that the attorney was mistaken in his judgment of poor Maurice, did not observe the fall of the tulip.

The next day, when Maurice saw his raspberry-plants scattered upon the ground, and his favourite tulip broken, he was in much astonishment, and, for some moments, angry; but anger, with him, never lasted long. He was convinced that all this must be owing to some accident or mistake. He could not believe that anyone could be so malicious as to injure him on purpose–“And even if they did all this on purpose to vex me,” said he to himself, “the best thing I can do, is, not to let it vex me. Forgive and forget.” This temper of mind Maurice was more happy in enjoying than he could have been made, without it, by the possession of all the tulips in Holland.

Tulips were, at this time, things of great consequence in the estimation of the country several miles round where Maurice and Arthur lived. There was a florist’s feast to be held at the neighbouring town, at which a prize of a handsome set of gardening-tools was to be given to the person who could produce the finest flower of its kind. A tulip was the flower which was thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently numbers of people afterwards endeavoured to procure tulip-roots, in hopes of obtaining the prize this year. Arthur’s tulip was beautiful. As he examined it from day to day, and every day thought it improving, he longed to thank his friend Maurice for it; and he often mounted into his crab-tree, to look into Maurice’s garden, in hopes of seeing his tulip also in full bloom and beauty. He never could see it.

The day of the florist’s feast arrived, and Oakly went with his son and the fine tulip to the place of meeting. It was on a spacious bowling- green. All the flowers of various sorts were ranged upon a terrace at the upper end of the bowling-green; and, amongst all this gay variety, the tulip which Maurice had given to Arthur appeared conspicuously beautiful. To the owner of this tulip the prize was adjudged; and, as the handsome garden-tools were delivered to Arthur, he heard a well known voice wish him joy. He turned, looked about him, and saw his friend Maurice.

“But, Maurice, where is your own tulip?” said Mr. Oakly; “I thought, Arthur, you told me that he kept one for himself.”

“So I did,” said Maurice; “but somebody (I suppose by accident) broke it.”

“Somebody! who?” cried Arthur and Mr. Oakly at once.

“Somebody who threw the raspberry-plants back again over the wall,” replied Maurice.

“That was me–that somebody was me,” said Oakly. “I scorn to deny it; but I did not intend to break your tulip, Maurice.”

“Dear Maurice,” said Arthur–“you know I may call him dear Maurice–now you are by, papa; here are all the garden-tools; take them, and welcome.”

“Not one of them,” said Maurice, drawing back.

“Offer them to the father–offer them to Mr. Grant,” whispered Oakly; “he’ll take them, I’ll answer for it.”

Mr. Oakly was mistaken: the father would not accept of the tools. Mr. Oakly stood surprised–“Certainly,” said he to himself, “this cannot be such a miser as I took him for”; and he walked immediately up to Grant, and bluntly said to him, “Mr. Grant, your son has behaved very handsomely to my son; and you seem to be glad of it.”

“To be sure I am,” said Grant

“Which,” continued Oakly, “gives me a better opinion of you than ever I had before–I mean, than ever I had since the day you sent me the shabby answer about those foolish, what d’ye call em, cursed raspberries.”

“What shabby answer?” said Grant, with surprise; and Oakly repeated exactly the message which he received; and Grant declared that he never sent any such message. He repeated exactly the answer which he really sent, and Oakly immediately stretched out his hand to him, saying “I believe you: no more need be said. I’m only sorry I did not ask you about this four months ago; and so I should have done if you had not been a Scotchman. Till now, I never rightly liked a Scotchman. We may thank this good little fellow,” continued he, turning to Maurice, “for our coming at last to a right understanding. There was no holding out against his good nature. I’m sure, from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry I broke his tulip. Shake hands, boys; I’m glad to see you, Arthur, look so happy again, and hope Mr. Grant will forgive–“

“Oh, forgive and forget,” said Grant and his son at the same moment. And from this time forward the two families lived in friendship with each other.

Oakly laughed at his own folly, in having been persuaded to go to law about the plum-tree; and he, in process of time, so completely conquered his early prejudice against Scotchmen, that he and Grant became partners in business. Mr. Grant’s book-LARNING and knowledge of arithmetic he found highly useful to him; and he, on his side, possessed a great many active, good qualities, which became serviceable to his partner.

The two boys rejoiced in this family union; and Arthur often declared that they owed all their happiness to Maurice’s favourite maxim, “Forgive and Forget.”

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT; or TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW.

Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable industry and economy, accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy. He did not propose to live in idleness and extravagance; for such a life would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles. He was fond of children; and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt one of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham’s nephews, were about ten years old. They had been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branch of the family. His father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father’s family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that “gentlemen should be above being careful and saving”: and he had unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance was the sign of a generous disposition, and economy of an avaricious one.

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight. His father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son should early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous.

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle’s they were eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and exclamations.

“Oh! what an excellent motto!” exclaimed Ben, when he read the following words, which were written in large characters over the chimney-piece, in his uncle’s spacious kitchen–

“WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.”

“‘Waste not, want not!'” repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous tone; “I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman’s servants, cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring them in the face.” Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and gentlemen’s servants, made no reply to these observations.

Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his nephews were looking at the other rooms in the house. Some time afterwards, he heard their voices in the hall.

“Boys,” said he, “what are you doing there?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Hal; “you were called away from us and we did not know which way to go.”

“And have you nothing to do?” said Mr. Gresham.

“No, sir, nothing,” answered Hal, in a careless tone, like one who was well content with the state of habitual idleness. “No, sir, nothing!” replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.

“Come,” said Mr. Gresham, “if you have nothing to do, lads, will you unpack those two parcels for me?”

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good whip cord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the sealing wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, and tried first at one corner, and then at another, to pull the string off by force. “I wish these people wouldn’t tie up their parcels so tight, as if they were never to be undone,” cried he, as he tugged at the cord; and he pulled the knot closer instead of loosening it.

“Ben! why, how did you get yours undone, man? what’s in your parcel?–I wonder what is in mine! I wish I could get this string off–I must cut it.”

“Oh, no,” said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, and who drew out the length of string with exultation, “don’t cut it, Hal,– look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same: it’s a pity to cut it; ‘WASTE NOT, WANT NOT!’ you know.”

“Pooh!” said Hal, “what signifies a bit of packthread?”

“It is whip cord,” said Ben.

“Well, whip cord! what signifies a bit of whip cord! you can get a bit of whip cord twice as long as that for twopence; and who cares for twopence! Not I, for one! so here it goes,” cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and he cut the cord, precipitately, in sundry places.

“Lads! have you undone the parcels for me?” said Mr. Gresham, opening the parlour door as he spoke.

“Yes, sir,” cried Hal; and he dragged off his half cut, half entangled string–“here’s the parcel.” “And here’s my parcel, uncle; and here’s the string,” said Ben.

“You may keep the string for your pains,” said Mr. Gresham.

“Thank you, sir,” said Ben: “what an excellent whip cord it is!”

“And you, Hal,” continued Mr. Gresham, “you may keep your string too, if it will be of any use to you.”

“It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir,” said Hal.

“No, I am afraid not, if this be it,” said his uncle, taking up the jagged knotted remains of Hal’s cord.

A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new top.

“But how’s this?” said Hal; “these tops have no strings; what shall we do for strings?”

“I have a string that will do very well for mine,” said Ben; and he pulled out of his pocket the fine, long, smooth string, which had tied up the parcel. With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.

“Oh, how I wish I had but a string,” said Hal. “What shall I do for a string? I’ll tell you what, I can use the string that goes round my hat!”

“But then,” said Ben, “what will you do for a hat-band?”

“I’ll manage to do without one,” said Hal, and he took the string of his hat for his top. It soon was worn through, and he split his top by driving the pea too tightly into it. His cousin Ben let him set up his the next day; but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he meddled with other people’s things than when he managed his own. He had scarcely played half an hour before he split it, by driving the peg too violently.

Ben bore this misfortune with good humour. “Come,” said he, “it can’t be helped; but give me the string because THAT may still be of use for something else.”

It happened some time afterwards that a lady, who had been intimately acquainted with Hal’s mother at Bath–that is to say, who had frequently met her at the card-table during the winter–now arrived at Clifton. She was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham’s, and her sons, who were FRIENDS of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the next day with them.

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or at least something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think it was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for that was the name of his mother’s acquaintance) was a very fine lady, and her two sons intended to be very great gentlemen. He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his uncle’s door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door, little Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped his pocket- handkerchief.

“Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can’t you, child,” cried Hal, “for Lady Di’s sons are waiting for me?”

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di’s sons; but as she was very good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or other, in a desperate hurry, she ran downstairs as fast as she possibly could towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay; but, alas! before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down a whole flight of stairs, and when her fall was at last stopped by the landing- place, she did not cry out, she writhed, as if she was in great pain.

“Where are you hurt, my love?” said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly, on hearing the noise of someone falling downstairs. “Where are you hurt, my dear?”

“Here, papa,” said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she had decently covered with her gown. “I believe I am hurt here, but not much,” added she, trying to rise; “only it hurts me when I move.”

“I’ll carry you; don’t move then,” said her father, and he took her up in his arms.

“My shoe! I’ve lost one of my shoes,” said she.

Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whip cord, which was entangled round one of the bannisters. When this cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with running up and downstairs, whipping the bannisters with it, as he thought he could convert it to no better use; and, with his usual carelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he happened to throw it when the dinner bell rang. Poor little Patty’s ankle was terribly strained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes’ sons had not hurried him away.

In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat upon the sofa, and she said, that she did not feel the pain of her ankle SO MUCH, whilst Ben was so good as to play at JACK STRAWS with her.

“That’s right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those who are younger and weaker than yourself,” said his uncle, smiling at seeing him produce his whip cord, to indulge his little cousin with a game at her favourite cat’s cradle. “I shall not think you one bit less manly, because I see you playing at cat’s cradle with a little child of six years old.”

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle’s opinion: for when he returned in the evening, and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing at cat’s cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries after Patty’s sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes’–news which he thought would make him appear a person of vast importance.

“Do you know, uncle–do you know, Ben,” said he–“there’s to be the most FAMOUS doings that ever were heard of upon the Downs here, the first day of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars! I wish the fortnight was over; I shall think of nothing else, I know, till that happy day comes!”

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much happier than any other day in the year.

“Why,” replied Hal, “Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a famous rider, and archer, and ALL THAT–“

“Very likely,” said Mr. Gresham, soberly; “but what then?”

“Dear uncle!” cried Hal, “but you shall hear. There’s to be a race upon the Downs on the first of September, and after the race, there’s to be an archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one of THEM. And after the ladies have done shooting–now, Ben, comes the best part of it! we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a prize to the best marksman amongst us, of a very handsome bow and arrow! Do you know, I’ve been practising already, and I’ll show you, to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the FAMOUS bow and arrow that Lady Diana has given me; but, perhaps,” added he, with a scornful laugh, “you like a cat’s cradle better than a bow and arrow.”

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

“Ben,” said his uncle, “you seem to be a good marksman, though you have not boasted of yourself. I’ll give you a bow and arrow, and, perhaps, if you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be over, for you will have something to do.”

“Oh, sir,” interrupted Hal, “but if you mean that Ben should put in for the prize, he must have a uniform.”

“Why MUST he?” said Mr. Gresham.

“Why, sir, because everybody has–I mean everybody that’s anybody; and Lady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner time, and it’s settled, all about it, except the buttons: the young Sweepstakes are to get theirs made first for patterns–they are to be white, faced with green, and they’ll look very handsome, I’m sure; and I shall write to mamma to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine; and I shall tell her to be sure to answer my letter, without fail, by return of post; and then, if mamma makes no objection, which I know she won’t, because she never thinks much about expense, and ALL THAT–then I shall bespeak my uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Diana and the young Sweepstakes.”

“Mercy upon us!” said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced. “I don’t pretend to understand these things,” added he, with an air of simplicity; “but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case; and if it is necessary–or, if you think it necessary, that you shall have a uniform–why, I’ll give you one.”

“YOU, uncle? Will you, INDEED?” exclaimed Hal, with amazement painted in his countenance. “Well, that’s the last thing in the world I should have expected! You are not at all the sort of person I should have thought would care about a uniform; and now I should have supposed you’d have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for one day; and I’m sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do; for when I told her of that motto over your kitchen chimney, ‘WASTE NOT, WANT NOT,’ she laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and that my mother was the proper person to write to about my uniform: but I’ll tell Lady Diana, uncle, how good you are, and how much she was mistaken.”

“Take care how you do that,” said Mr. Gresham: “for perhaps the lady was not mistaken.”

“Nay, did not you say, just now, you would give poor Ben a uniform?”

“I said I would, if he thought it necessary to have one.”

“Oh, I’ll answer for it, he’ll think it necessary, ” said Hal, laughing, “because it is necessary.”

“Allow him, at least, to judge for himself,” said Mr. Gresham.

“My dear uncle, but I assure you,” said Hal, earnestly, “there’s no judging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana said distinctly, that her sons were to have uniforms, white faced with green, and a green and white cockade in their hats.”

“May be so,” said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calm simplicity; “put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know a gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will inquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seen him (it is not eleven o’clock yet) we shall have time enough to walk on to Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben’s uniform, if it is necessary.”

“I cannot tell what to make of all he says,” whispered Hal, as he reached down his hat; “do you think, Ben, he means to give you this uniform, or not?”

“I think,” said Ben, “that he means to give me one, if it is necessary; or, as he said, if I think it is necessary.”

“And that to be sure you will; won’t you? or else you’ll be a great fool, I know, after all I’ve told you. How can anyone in the world know so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but yesterday, and heard all about it from beginning to end? And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I’m sure, if he knows anything about the matter, he’ll say exactly the same as I do.”

“We shall hear,” said Ben, with a degree of composure which Hal could by no means comprehend when a uniform was in question.

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons, who were all to be at this archery meeting; and they unanimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, that they had never thought of buying uniforms for this grand occasion, and that, amongst the number of their acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to be at such an UNNECESSARY expense. Hal stood amazed.

“Such are the varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life,” said Mr. Gresham, looking at his nephews. “What amongst one set of people you hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear from another set of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my dear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves, which opinions, and which people, are the most reasonable.”

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable, than of what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense of what his uncle said to him, replied, with childish petulance, “Indeed, sir, I don’t know what other people think; but I only know what Lady Diana Sweepstakes said.” The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress all present with respect; he was highly astonished, when, as he looked round, he saw a smile of contempt upon everyone’s countenance: and he was yet further bewildered, when he heard her spoken of as a very silly, extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would ask upon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned, instead of being imitated.

“Ay, my dear Hal,” said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement, “these are some of the things that young people must learn from experience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters: you will hear the same person admired in one company, and blamed in another; so that we must still come round to the same point, ‘Judge for yourself.'”

Hal’s thoughts were, however, at present too full of the uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as their visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from Prince’s Building’s towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the same arguments, which he had formerly used, respecting necessity, the uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply, and longer had the young gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon his imagination, had not his senses been forcibly assailed at this instant by the delicious odours and tempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a pastrycook’s shop. “Oh, uncle,” said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner to pursue the road to Bristol, “look at those jellies!” pointing to a confectioner’s shop. “I must buy some of those good things, for I have got some halfpence in my pocket.”

“Your having halfpence in your pocket is an excellent reason for eating,” said Mr. Gresham, smiling.

“But I really am hungry,” said Hal; “you know, uncle, it is a good while since breakfast.”

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as they pleased.

“Come, then, Ben, if you’ve any halfpence in your pocket.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Ben.

“I suppose THAT means that you’ve no halfpence,” said Hal, laughing, with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think the RICH might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty or economy.

“Waste not, want not,” said Ben to himself. Contrary to his cousin’s surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of halfpence actually in his pocket.

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastrycook’s shop, a poor, industrious man, with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner’s well worn broom, instantly produced his twopence. “I wish I had more halfpence for you, my good man,” said he; “but I’ve only twopence.”

Hal came out of Mr. Millar’s, the confectioner’s shop, with a hatful of cakes in his hand. Mr. Millar’s dog was sitting on the flags before the door, and he looked up with a wistful, begging eye at Hal, who was eating a queen cake. Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a whole queen cake to the dog, who swallowed it for a single mouthful.

“There goes twopence in the form of a queen cake,” said Mr. Gresham.

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but they thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were not hungry; so he ate and ate as he walked along, till at last he stopped, and said, “This bun tastes so bad after the queen cakes, I can’t bear it!” and he was going to fling it from him into the river.

“Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet,” said Ben; “give it me rather than throw it away.”

“Why, I thought you said you were not hungry,” said Hal.

“True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never be hungry again.”

“Well, there is the cake for you. Take it; for it has made me sick, and I don’t care what becomes of it.”

Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin’s bun in a piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

“I’m beginning to be exceeding tired or sick or something,” said Hal; “and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had not we better take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?”

“For a stout archer,” said Mr. Gresham, “you are more easily tired than one might have expected. However, with all my heart, let us take a coach, for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday; and I believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I am not sick with eating good things.”

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

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal’s countenance as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a dream, which made both his uncle and his cousin burst out a-laughing.

“Why,” said Hal, who was now piqued, “I’m sure you did say, uncle, you would go to Mr. Hall’s to choose the cloth for the uniform.”

“Very true, and so I will,” said Mr. Gresham; “but we need not make a whole morning’s work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot we see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?”

They went first to the cathedral. Hal’s head was too full of the uniform to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben’s embarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on the Gothic window, and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor and walls.

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome.

“Come! come! we shall be late indeed,” said Hal; “surely you’ve looked long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window.”

“I’m only thinking about these coloured shadows,” said Ben.

“I can show you when we go home, Ben,” said his uncle, “an entertaining paper upon such shadows.”*

*Vide “Priestley’s History of Vision,” chapter on coloured shadows.

“Hark!” cried Ben, “did you hear that noise?” They all listened; and they heard a bird singing in the cathedral.

“It’s our old robin, sir,” said the lad who had opened the cathedral door for them.

“Yes,” said Mr. Gresham, “there he is, boys–look–perched upon the organ; he often sits there, and sings, whilst the organ is playing.”

“And,” continued the lad who showed the cathedral, “he has lived here these many, many winters. They say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame, poor fellow! that if I had a bit of bread he’d come down and feed in my hand.”

“I’ve a bit of bun here,” cried Ben, joyfully, producing the remains of the bun which Hal but an hour before would have thrown away. “Pray, let us see the poor robin eat out of your hand.”

The lad crumbled the bun, and called to the robin, who fluttered and chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.

“He is afraid of US,” said Ben; “he is not used to eat before strangers, I suppose.”

“Ah, no, sir,” said the young man, with a deep sigh, “that is not the thing. He is used enough to eat afore company. Time was he’d have come down for me before ever so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs out of my hand, at my first call; but, poor fellow! it’s not his fault now. He does not know me now, sir, since my accident, because of this great black patch.” The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a huge black patch. Ben asked what ACCIDENT he meant; and the lad told him that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone, which reached him as he was passing under the rocks at Clifton unluckily when the workmen were blasting. “I don’t mind so much for myself, sir,” said the lad; “but I can’t work so well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, who has had a STROKE of the palsy; and I’ve a many little brothers and sisters not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be as willing as willing can be.”

“Where does your mother live?” said Mr. Gresham.

“Hard by, sir, just close to the church here: it was HER that always had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poor limbs.”

“Shall we, may we, uncle, go that way? This is the house; is not it?” said Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.

They went into the house; it was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it. The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four meagre, ill- clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker.

“What a horrid place it is!” said Hal, sighing; “I did not know there were such shocking places in the world. I’ve often seen terrible- looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in mamma’s carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them; and I never saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that people are forced to live in this way. I wish mamma would send me some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. I had half a crown; but,” continued he, feeling in his pockets, “I’m afraid I spent the last shilling of it this morning upon those cakes that made me sick. I wish I had my shilling now, I’d give it to these poor people.”

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative cousin for all these poor people. But there was some difference between the sorrow of these two boys.

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattled through the busy streets of Bristol, for a few minutes quite forgot the spectacle of misery which he had seen; and the gay shops in Wine Street and the idea of his green and white uniform wholly occupied his imagination.

“Now for our uniforms!” cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper’s door.

“Uncle,” said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of the carriage, “I don’t think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I’m very much obliged to you; but I would rather not have one. I have a very good coat, and I think it would be waste.”

“Well, let me get out of the carriage, and we will see about it,” said Mr. Gresham; “perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and the epaulettes (have you ever considered the epaulettes?) may tempt you to change your mind.”

“Oh, no,” said Ben, laughing; “I shall not change my mind,”

The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulettes were produced, to Hal’s infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated for a few minutes; then, showing the back of the letter, upon which he was writing, to his nephews, “Cast up these sums, boys,” said he, “and tell me whether I am right.”

“Ben, do you do it,” said Hal, a little embarrassed; “I am not quick at figures.” Ben WAS, and he went over his uncle’s calculation very expeditiously.

“It is right, is it?” said Mr. Gresham.

“Yes, sir, quite right.”

“Then, by this calculation, I find I could, for less than half the money your uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warm great- coat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon the Downs.”

“Oh, sir,” said Hal, with an alarmed look; “but it is not winter YET; it is not cold weather YET. We sha’n’t want greatcoats YET.”

“Don’t you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, in that sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the Downs? and winter will come, though it is not come yet–I am sure, I should like to have a good warm great-coat very much.”

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse and he placed three of them before Hal, and three before Ben. “Young gentlemen,” said he, “I believe your uniforms would come to about three guineas a piece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as you please. Hal, what say you?”

“Why, sir,” said Hal, “a great-coat is a good thing, to be sure; and then, after the great-coat, as you said it would only cost half as much as the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?”

“Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings.”

“Five-and-twenty shillings?–I could buy and do a great many things, to be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, THE THING IS, I must go without the uniform, if I have the great-coat.”

“Certainly,” said his uncle.

“Ah!” said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulettes, “uncle, if you would not be displeased, if I choose the uniform–“

“I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,” said Mr. Gresham.

“Well, then, thank you, sir,” said Hal; “I think I had better have the uniform, because, if I have not the uniform, now, directly, it will be of no use to me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know; and, as to the great-coat, perhaps between this time and the VERY cold weather, which, perhaps, won’t be till Christmas, papa will buy a great- coat for me; and I’ll ask mamma to give me some pocket money to give away, and she will, perhaps.” To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which depended upon the word PERHAPS, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes’ son’s tailor, to be made up. The measure of Hal’s happiness was now complete.

“And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?” said Mr. Gresham; “speak, what do you wish for first?”

“A great-coat, uncle, if you please.” Gresham bought the coat; and, after it was paid for, five-and-twenty shillings of Ben’s three guineas remained.

“What next, my boy?” said his uncle.

“Arrows, uncle, if you please; three arrows.”

“My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows.”

“No, uncle, you only said a bow.”

“Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I’m glad you are so exact, however. It is better to claim less than more than what is promised. The three arrows you shall have. But go on; how shall I dispose of these five-and- twenty shillings for you?”

“In clothes, if you will be so good, uncle, for that poor boy who has the great black patch on his eye.”

“I always believed,” said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, “that economy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies, as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose the poor, blind boy’s coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There’s no occasion for my praising you about the matter. Your best reward is in your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I’m mistaken. Now, jump into the coach, boys, and let’s be off. We shall be late, I’m afraid,” continued he, as the coach drove on: “but I must let you stop, Ben, with your goods, at the poor boy’s door.”

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with his parcel under his arm.

“Stay, stay! you must take me with you,” said his pleased uncle; “I like to see people made happy, as well as you do.”

“And so do I, too,” said Hal; “let me come with you. I almost wish my uniform was not gone to the tailor’s, so I do.” And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor boy received the clothes which Ben gave him; and when he heard the mother and children thank him, he sighed, and said, “Well, I hope mamma will give me some more pocket money soon.”

Upon his return home, however, the sight of the FAMOUS bow and arrow, which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination all the joys of his green and white uniform; and he no longer wished that it had not been sent to the tailor’s.

“But I don’t understand, Cousin Hal,” said little Patty, “why you call this bow a FAMOUS bow. You say famous very often; and I don’t know exactly what it means; a famous uniform–famous doings. I remember you said there are to be famous doings, the first of September, upon the Downs. What does famous mean?”

“Oh, why, famous means–now, don’t you know what famous means? It means- -it is a word that people say–it is the fashion to say it–it means–it means famous.” Patty laughed, and said, “This does not explain it to me.”

“No,” said Hal, “nor can it be explained: if you don’t understand it, that’s not my fault. Everybody but little children, I suppose, understands it; but there’s no explaining THOSE SORT of words, if you don’t TAKE THEM at once. There’s to be famous doings upon the Downs, the first of September; that is grand, fine. In short, what does it signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow, for I must go out upon the Downs and practise.”

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle had now given to him; and, every day, these two boys went out upon the Downs and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Where equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly equal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen; and before the day of trial, they were so exactly matched in point of dexterity, that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.

The long expected lst of September at length arrived. “What sort of a day is it?” was the first question that was asked by Hal and Ben the moment that they wakened. The sun shone bright, but there was a sharp and high wind. “Ha!” said Ben, “I shall be glad of my good great-coat to-day; for I’ve a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we are standing still, as we must, whilst all the people are shooting.”

“Oh, never mind! I don’t think I shall feel it cold at all,” said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new green and white uniform; and he viewed himself with much complacency.

“Good morning to you, uncle; how do you do?” said he, in a voice of exultation, when he entered the breakfast-room. How do you do? seemed rather to mean, “How do you like me in my uniform?” And his uncle’s cool, “Very well, I thank you, Hal,” disappointed him, as it seemed only to say, “Your uniform makes no difference in my opinion of you.”

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talked of the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all the little things which interested her; so that Hal’s epaulettes were not the principal object in anyone’s imagination but his own.

“Papa,” said Patty, “as we go up the hill where there is so much red mud, I must take care to pick my way nicely; and I must hold up my frock, as you desired me, and, perhaps, you will be so good, if I am not troublesome, to lift me over the very bad place where are no stepping- stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I’m glad of that, or else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How good you were to me, Ben, when I was in pain the day I sprained my ankle! You played at jack straws and at cat’s-cradle with me. Oh, that puts me in mind–here are your gloves which I asked you that night to let me mend. I’ve been a great while about them; but are not they not very neatly mended, papa? Look at the sewing.”

“I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little girl,” said Mr. Gresham, examining the work with a close and scrupulous eye; “but, in my opinion, here is one stitch that is rather too long. The white teeth are not quite even.”

“Oh, papa, I’ll take out that long tooth in a minute,” said Patty, laughing; “I did not think that you would observe it so soon.”

“I would not have you trust to my blindness,” said her father, stroking her head, fondly; “I observe everything. I observe, for instance, that you are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use to those who have been kind to you; and for this I forgive you the long stitch.”

“But it’s out, it’s out, papa,” said Patty; “and the next time your gloves want mending, Ben, I’ll mend them better.”

“They are very nice, I think,” said Ben, drawing them on; “and I am much obliged to you. I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep my fingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands are benumbed. Look, Hal; you know how ragged these gloves were; you said they were good for nothing but to throw away; now look, there’s not a hole in them,” said he, spreading his fingers.

“Now, is it not very extraordinary,” said Hal to himself, “that they should go on so long talking about an old pair of gloves, without saying scarcely a word about my new uniform? Well, the young Sweepstakes and Lady Diana will talk enough about it; that’s one comfort. Is not it time to think of setting out, sir?” said Hal to his uncle. “The company, you know, are to meet at the Ostrich at twelve, and the race to begin at one, and Lady Diana’s horses, I know were ordered to be at the door at ten.”

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentleman in his calculations. “There’s a poor lad, sir, below, with a great black patch on his right eye, who is come from Bristol, and wants to speak a word with the young gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were just going out with you; but he says he won’t detain them more than half a minute.”

“Show him up, show him up,” said Mr. Gresham.

“But, I suppose,” said Hal, with a sigh, “that Stephen mistook, when he said the young GENTLEMEN; he only wants to see Ben, I daresay; I’m sure he has no reason to want to see me.”

“Here he comes–Oh, Ben, he is dressed in the new coat you gave him,” whispered Hal, who was really a good-natured boy, though extravagant. “How much better he looks than he did in the ragged coat! Ah! he looked at you first, Ben–and well he may!”

The boy bowed, without any cringing servility, but with an open, decent freedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, but that he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation. He made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the two cousins.

“As I was sent with a message, by the clerk of our parish, to Redland chapel out on the Downs, to-day, sir,” said he to Mr. Gresham, “knowing your house lay in my way, my mother, sir, bid me call, and make bold to offer the young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she has worked for them,” continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two worsted balls worked in green and orange-coloured stripes. “They are but poor things, sir, she bid me say, to look at; but, considering she has but one hand to work with, and that her left hand, you’ll not despise ’em, we hopes.” He held the balls to Ben and Hal. “They are both alike, gentlemen,” said he. “If you’ll be pleased to take ’em they’re better than they look, for they bound higher than your head. I cut the cork round for the inside myself, which was all I could do.”

“They are nice balls, indeed: we are much obliged to you,” said the boys as they received them, and they proved them immediately. The balls struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr. Gresham’s head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully. But now a thundering double rap at the door was heard.

“The Master Sweepstakes, sir,” said Stephen, “are come for Master Hal. They say that all the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms are to walk together, in a body, I think they say, sir; and they are to parade along the Well Walk, they desired me to say, sir, with a drum and fife, and so up the hill by Prince’s Place, and all to go upon the Downs together, to the place of meeting. I am not sure I’m right, sir; for both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at the street door; so that I could not well make out all they said; but I believe this is the sense of it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hal, eagerly, “it’s all right. I know that is just what was settled the day I dined at Lady Diana’s; and Lady Diana and a great party of gentlemen are to ride–“

“Well, that is nothing to the purpose,” interrupted Mr. Gresham. “Don’t keep these Master Sweepstakes waiting. Decide–do you choose to go with them or with us?”

“Sir–uncle–sir, you know, since all the UNIFORMS agreed to go together- -“

“Off with you, then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go,” said Mr. Gresham.

Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows. Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own; and the lad from Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before he proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin’s bow and arrows. “I know,” said Ben, “he will be sorry not to have his bow with him, because here are the green knots tied to it, to match his cockade: and he said that the boys were all to carry their bows, as part of the show.”

“If you’ll give me leave, sir,” said the poor Bristol lad, “I shall have plenty of time; and I’ll run down to the Well Walk after the young gentleman, and take him his bow and arrows.”

“Will you? I shall be much obliged to you,” said Ben; and away went the boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.

The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent’s Parade were crowded with well dressed ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession. Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were seen moving backwards and forwards, under the rocks, on the opposite side of the water. A barge, with coloured streamers flying, was waiting to take up a party who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upon their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity upon the busy scene that appeared upon the public walk.

The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the semicircular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley’s library. A little band of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes’ SPIRITED EXERTIONS, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. The drummer only waited for her ladyship’s signal; and the archers’ corps only waited for her ladyship’s word of command to march.

“Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?” said her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. “You can’t march, man, without your arms?”

Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger returned not. He looked from side to side in great distress–“Oh, there’s my bow coming, I declare!” cried he; “look, I see the bow and the ribands. Look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hotwell Walk; it is coming!”

“But you’ve kept us all waiting a confounded time,” said his impatient friend.

“It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it me; I’m sure I don’t deserve it from him,” said Hal, to himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, towards him, with his bow and arrows.

“Fall back, my good friend–fall back,” said the military lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow to Hal; “I mean, stand out of the way, for your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don’t follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray.”

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he FELL BACK as soon