They came with an intention, which they were much disappointed to find that the old harper had rendered vain—they came to lend the farmer and his good family the money to pay for his substitute.

"But, since we are here," said Sir Arthur, "let me do my own business, which I had like to have forgotten. Mr. Price, will you come out with me, and let me show you a piece of your land, through which I want to make a road. Look there," said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, "I am laying out a ride round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stops me."

"Why, sir," said Price, "the land's mine, to be sure, for that matter; but I hope you don't look upon me to be that sort of person that would be stiff about a trifle or so."

"The fact is," said Sir Arthur, "I had heard you were a litigious, pig- headed fellow; but you do not seem to deserve this character."

"Hope not, sir," said the farmer; "but about the matter of the land, I don't want to take any advantage of your wishing for it. You are welcome to it; and I leave it to you to find me out another bit of land convenient to me that will be worth neither more nor less; or else to make up the value to me some way or other. I need say no more about it."

"I hear something," continued Sir Arthur, after a short silence—"I hear something, Mr. Price, of a FLAW in your lease. I would not speak to you about it whilst we were bargaining about your land, lest I should over- awe you; but, tell me, what is this flaw?"

"In truth, and the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken at all times," said the farmer, "I didn't know myself what a flaw, as they call it, meant, till I heard of the word from Attorney Case; and, I take it, a flaw is neither more nor less than a mistake, as one should say. Now, by reason a man does not make a mistake on purpose, it seems to me to be the fair thing, that if a man finds out his mistake, he might set it right; but Attorney Case says this is not law; and I've no more to say. The man who drew up my lease made a mistake; and if I must suffer for it, I must," said the farmer. "However, I can show you, Sir Arthur, just for my own satisfaction and yours, a few lines of a memorandum on a slip of paper, which was given me by your relation, the gentleman who lived here before, and let me my farm. You'll see, by that bit of paper, what was meant; but the attorney says, the paper's not worth a button in a court of justice, and I don't understand these things. All I understand is the common honesty of the matter. I've no more to say."

"This attorney, whom you speak of so often," said Sir Arthur, "you seem to have some quarrel with. Now, would you tell me frankly what is the matter between—?"

"The matter between us, then," said Price, "is a little bit of ground, not worth much, that is there open to the lane at the end of Mr. Case's garden, sir, and he wanted to take it in. Now I told him my mind, that it belonged to the parish, and that I never would willingly give my consent to his cribbing it in that way. Sir, I was the more loath to see it shut into his garden, which, moreover, is large enough of all conscience without it, because you must know, Sir Arthur, the children in our village are fond of making a little play-green of it; and they have a custom of meeting on May day at a hawthorn that stands in the middle of it, and altogether I was very loath to see 'em turned out of it by those who have no right."

"Let us go and see this nook," said Sir Arthur. "It is not far off, is it?"

"Oh, no, sir, just hard by here."

When they got to the ground, Mr. Case, who saw them walking together, was in a hurry to join them, that he might put a stop to any explanations. Explanations were things of which he had a great dread; but, fortunately, he was upon this occasion a little too late.

"Is this the nook in dispute?" said Sir Arthur.

"Yes; this is the whole thing," said Price.

"Why, Sir Arthur," interposed the politic attorney, with an assumed air of generosity, "don't let us talk any more about it. Let it belong to whom it will, I give it up to you."

"So great a lawyer, Mr. Case, as you are," replied Sir Arthur, "must know, that a man cannot give up that to which he has no legal title; and in this case it is impossible that, with the best intentions to oblige me in the world, you can give up this bit of land to me, because it is mine already, as I can convince you effectually by a map of the adjoining land, which I have fortunately safe amongst my papers. This piece of ground belonged to the farm on the opposite side of the road, and it was cut off when the lane was made."

"Very possibly. I daresay you are quite correct; you must know best," said the attorney, trembling for the agency.

"Then," said Sir Arthur, "Mr. Price, you will observe that I now promise this little green to the children for a play-ground; and I hope they may gather hawthorn many a May day at this their favourite bush." Mr. Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a favour himself. "And now, Mr. Case," said Sir Arthur, turning to the attorney, who did not know which way to look, "you sent me a lease to look over."

"Ye-ye-yes," stammered Mr Case. "I thought it my duty to do so; not out of any malice or ill-will to this good man."

"You have done him no injury," said Sir Arthur, coolly. "I am ready to make him a new lease, whenever he pleases, of his farm, and I shall be guided by a memorandum of the original bargain, which he has in his possession. I hope I never shall take an unfair advantage of anyone."

"Heaven forbid, sir," said the attorney, sanctifying his face, "that I should suggest the taking an UNFAIR advantage of any man, rich or poor; but to break a bad lease is not taking an unfair advantage."

"You really think so?" said Sir Arthur.

"Certainly I do, and I hope I have not hazarded your good opinion by speaking my mind concerning the flaw so plainly. I always understood that there could be nothing ungentlemanlike, in the way of business, in taking advantage of a flaw in a lease."

"Now," said Sir Arthur, "you have pronounced judgment undesignedly in your own case. You intended to send me this poor man's lease; but your son, by some mistake, brought me your own, and I have discovered a fatal error in it."

"A fatal error!" said the alarmed attorney.

"Yes, sir," said Sir Arthur, pulling the lease out of his pocket. "Here it is. You will observe that it is neither signed nor sealed by the grantor."

"But, you won't take advantage of me, surely, Sir Arthur?" said Mr. Case, forgetting his own principles.

"I shall not take advantage of you, as you would have taken of this honest man. In both cases I shall be guided by memoranda which I have in my possession. I shall not, Mr. Case, defraud you of one shilling of your property. I am ready, at a fair valuation, to pay the exact value of your house and land; but upon this condition—that you quit the parish within one month!"

Attorney Case was thus compelled to submit to the hard necessity of the case, for he knew that he could not legally resist. Indeed he was glad to be let off so easily; and he bowed and sneaked away, secretly comforting himself with the hope, that when they came to the valuation of the house and land he should be the gainer, perhaps of a few guineas. His reputation he justly held very cheap.

"You are a scholar; you write a good hand; you can keep accounts, cannot you?" said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked home towards the cottage. "I think I saw a bill of your little daughter's drawing out the other day, which was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?"

"No, sir," said Price, "I can't say I did THAT; for she mostly taught it herself, but I taught her a little arithmetic, as far as I knew, on our winter nights, when I had nothing better to do."

"Your daughter shows that she has been well taught," said Sir Arthur; "and her good conduct and good character speak strongly in favour of her parents."

"You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this sort of way," said the delighted father.

"But I mean to do more than PAY YOU WITH WORDS," said Sir Arthur. "You are attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to me, when you come to know me, and we shall have frequent opportunities of judging of one another. I want no agent to squeeze my tenants, or do my dirty work. I only want a steady, intelligent, honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will have no objection to the employment."

"I hope, sir," said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his honest countenance, "that you'll never have cause to repent your goodness."

"And what are my sisters about here?" said Sir Arthur, entering the cottage, and going behind his sisters, who were busily engaged in measuring an extremely pretty coloured calico.

"It is for Susan, my dear brother," said they. "I know she did not keep that guinea for herself," said Miss Somers. "I have just prevailed upon her mother to tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father; but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hear that instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your sick mother's room. Your mother has a little colour in her cheeks now."

"Oh, ma'am," interrupted Mrs. Price, "I'm quite well. Joy, I think, has made me quite well."

"Then," said Miss Somers, "I hope you will be able to come out on your daughter's birthday, which, I hear, is the 25th of this month. Make haste and get quite well before that day; for my brother intends that all the lads and lassies of the village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday."

"Yes," said Sir Arthur, "and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be very happy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall tell them that it is your good conduct which has obtained it for them; and if you have anything to ask, any little favour for any of your companions, which we can grant, now ask, Susan. These ladies look as if they would not refuse you anything that is reasonable; and, I think, you look as if you would not ask anything unreasonable."

"Sir," said Susan, after consulting her mother's eyes, "there is, to be sure, a favour I should like to ask; it is for Rose."

"Well, I don't know who Rose is," said Sir Arthur, smiling; "but, go on."

"Ma'am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl, indeed," said Mrs. Price. "And works very neatly, indeed," continued Susan, eagerly, to Miss Somers; "and she and her mother heard you were looking out for someone to wait upon you."

"Say no more," said Miss Somers; "your wish is granted. Tell Rose to come to the Abbey, to-morrow morning, or, rather, come with her yourself; for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance; and she has good things ready looked out for it already, I know. It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the housekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as good as your bread. Fare ye well."

How happy are those who bid farewell to a whole family, silent with gratitude, who will bless them aloud when they are far out of hearing!

"How do I wish, now," said Farmer Price, "and it's almost a sin for one that has had such a power of favours done him, to wish for anything more; but how I DO wish, wife, that our good friend, the harper was only here at this time. It would do his old, warm heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks, being all the time, and for ever, as much obliged to him as if we kept it. I long, so I do, to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of Susan's mead, to her very good health."

"Yes," said Susan, "and the next time he comes, I can give him one of my guinea-hen's eggs, and I shall show my lamb, Daisy."

"True, love," said her mother, "and he will play that tune and sing that pretty ballad. Where is it? for I have not finished it."

"Rose ran away with it, mother, but I'll step after her, and bring it back to you this minute," said Susan.

Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowded circle of her companions, to whom she was reading "Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb."

"The words are something, but the tune—the tune—I must have the tune," cried Philip. "I'll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and find out which way that good old man went after the ball; and if he's above ground, we'll have him back by Susan's birthday, and he shall sit here— just exactly here by this, our bush, and he shall play—I mean, if he pleases—that same tune for us, and I shall learn it—I mean, if I can— in a minute."

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

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

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



THE WHITE PIGEON.

The little town of Somerville, in Ireland, has, within these few years, assumed the neat and cheerful appearance of an English village. Mr. Somerville, to whom this town belongs, wished to inspire his tenantry with a taste for order and domestic happiness, and took every means in his power to encourage industrious, well behaved people to settle in his neighbourhood. When he had finished building a row of good slated houses in his town, he declared that he would let them to the best tenants he could find, and proposals were publicly sent to him from all parts of the country.

By the best tenants, Mr. Somerville did not, however, mean the best bidders; and many, who had offered an extravagant price for the houses, were surprised to find their proposals rejected. Amongst these was Mr. Cox, an alehouse keeper, who did not bear a very good character.

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

"My honour did just so," replied Mr. Somerville, calmly.

"And please your honour, but I don't know what it is I or mine have done to offend you. I'm sure there is not a gentleman in all Ireland I'd go further to sarve. Would not I go to Cork to-morrow for the least word from your honour?"

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Cox, but I have no business at Cork at present," answered Mr. Somerville, drily.

"It is all I wish," exclaimed Mr. Cox, "that I could find out and light upon the man that has belied me to your honour."

"No man has belied you, Mr. Cox, but your nose belies you much, if you do not love drinking a little, and your black eye and cut chin belie you much if you do not love quarrelling a little."

"Quarrel! I quarrel, please your honour! I defy any man, or set of men, ten mile round, to prove such a thing, and I am ready to fight him that dares to say the like of me. I'd fight him here in your honour's presence, if he'd only come out this minute, and meet me like a man."

Here Mr. Cox put himself into a boxing attitude, but observing that Mr. Somerville looked at his threatening gesture with a smile, and that several people, who had gathered round him as he stood in the street, laughed at the proof he gave of his peaceable disposition, he changed his attitude, and went on to vindicate himself against the charge of drinking.

"And as to drink, please your honour, there's no truth in it. Not a drop of whisky, good or bad, have I touched these six months, except what I took with Jemmy M'Doole the night I had the misfortune to meet your honour coming home from the fair of Ballynagrish."

To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned away to look at the bow window of a handsome new inn, which the glazier was at this instant glazing. "Please your honour, that new inn is not let, I hear, as yet," resumed Mr. Cox; "if your honour recollects, you promised to make me a compliment of it last Seraphtide was twelvemonth."

"Impossible!" cried Mr. Somerville, "for I had no thoughts of building an inn at that time."

"Oh, I beg your honour's pardon but if you'd be just pleased to recollect, it was coming through the gap in the bog meadows, FORENENT Thady O'Connor, you made me the promise—I'll leave it to him, so I will."

"But I will not leave it to him, I assure you," cried Mr. Somerville; "I never made any such promise. I never thought of letting this inn to you."

"Then your honour won't let me have it?"

"No, you have told me a dozen falsehoods. I do not wish to have you for a tenant."

"Well, God bless your honour; I've no more to say, but God bless your honour," said Mr. Cox; and he walked away, muttering to himself, as he slouched his hat over his face, "I hope I'll live to be revenged on him!"

Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to look at the new inn, which he expected to see perfectly finished; but he was met by the carpenter, who, with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of glass in the large bow-window had been broken during the night.

"Ha! perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows, in revenge for my refusing to let him my house," said Mr. Somerville; and many of the neighbours, who knew the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like one of his tricks. A boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped forward and said, "I don't like Mr. Cox, I'm sure; for once he beat me when he was drunk; but, for all that, no one should be accused wrongfully. He could not be the person that broke these windows last night, for he was six miles off. He slept at his cousin's last night, and he has not returned home yet. So I think he knows nothing of the matter."

Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether he would like to go in and see the new house. "Yes, sir," said the boy, "I should like to go up those stairs, and to see what I should come to."

"Up with you, then!" said Mr. Somerville; and the boy ran up the stairs. He went from room to room with great expressions of admiration and delight. At length, as he was examining one of the garrets, he was startled by a fluttering noise over his head; and looking up, he saw a white pigeon, who, frightened at his appearance, began to fly round and round the room, till it found its way out of the door, and flew into the staircase.

The carpenter was speaking to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place of the stairs; but, the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off in the midst of a speech about THE NOSE of the stairs, and exclaimed, "There he is, please your honour! There's he that has done all the damage to our bow-window—that's the very same wicked white pigeon that broke the church windows last Sunday was se'nnight; but he's down for it now; we have him safe, and I'll chop his head off, as he deserves, this minute."

"Stay! O stay! don't chop his head off: he does not deserve it," cried the boy, who came running out of the garret with the greatest eagerness— "I broke your window, sir," said he to Mr. Somerville. "I broke your window with this ball; but I did not know that I had done it, till this moment, I assure you, or I should have told you before. Don't chop his head off," added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the white pigeon in his hands.

"No," said Mr. Somerville, "the pigeon's head shall not be chopped off, nor yours either, my good boy, for breaking a window. I am persuaded by your open, honest countenance, that you are speaking the truth; but pray explain this matter to us; for you have not made it quite clear. How happened it that you could break my windows without knowing it? and how came you to find it out at last?"

"Sir," said the boy, "if you'll come up here, I'll show you all I know, and how I came to know it."

Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed to a pane of glass that was broken in a small window that looked out upon a piece of waste ground behind the house. Upon this piece of waste ground the children of the village often used to play. "We were playing there at ball yesterday evening," continued the boy, addressing himself to Mr. Somerville, "and one of the lads challenged me to hit a mark in the wall, which I did; but he said I did not hit it, and bade me give him up my ball as the forfeit. This I would not do; and when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. He ran to look for it in the street, but could not find it, which I was very glad of; but I was very sorry just now to find it myself lying upon this heap of shavings, sir, under this broken window; for, as soon as I saw it lying there, I knew I must have been the person that broke the window; and through this window came the white pigeon. Here's one of his white feathers sticking in the gap."

"Yes," said the carpenter, "and in the bow-window room below there's plenty of his feathers to be seen; for I've just been down to look. It was the pigeon broke THEM windows, sure enough."

"But he could not have got in had I not broke this little window," said the boy, eagerly; "and I am able to earn sixpence a day, and I'll pay for all the mischief, and welcome. The white pigeon belongs to a poor neighbour, a friend of ours, who is very fond of him, and I would not have him killed for twice as much money."

"Take the pigeon, my honest, generous lad," said Mr. Somerville, "and carry him back to your neighbour. I forgive him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, for your sake. As to the rest, we can have the windows mended; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn for yourself."

"That's what he never did yet," said the carpenter. "Many's the sixpence he earns, but not a halfpenny goes into his own pocket: it goes every farthing to his poor father and mother. Happy for them to have such a son!"

"More happy for him to have such a father and mother," exclaimed the boy. "Their good days they took all the best care of me that was to be had for love or money, and would, if I would let them, go on paying for my schooling now, falling as they be in the world; but I must learn to mind the shop now. Good morning to you, sir; and thank you kindly," said he to Mr. Somerville.

"And where does this boy live, and who are his father and mother? They cannot live in town," said Mr. Somerville, "or I should have heard of them."

"They are but just come into the town, please your honour," said the carpenter. "They lived formerly upon Counsellor O'Donnel's estate; but they were ruined, please your honour, by taking a joint lease with a man, who fell afterwards into bad company, ran out all he had, so could not pay the landlord; and these poor people were forced to pay his share and their own too, which almost ruined them. They were obliged to give up the land; and now they have furnished a little shop in this town with what goods they could afford to buy with the money they got by the sale of their cattle and stock. They have the good-will of all who know them; and I am sure I hope they will do well. The boy is very ready in the shop, though he said only that he could earn sixpence a day. He writes a good hand, and is quick at casting up accounts, for his age. Besides, he is likely to do well in the world, because he is never in idle company, and I've known him since he was two foot high, and never heard of his telling a lie."

"This is an excellent character of the boy, indeed," said Mr. Somerville, "and from his behaviour this morning I am inclined to think that he deserves all your praises."

Mr. Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this poor family, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully determined to assist them if he should find them such as they had been represented.

In the meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O'Neill, went to return the white pigeon to its owner. "You have saved its life," said the woman to whom it belonged, "and I'll make you a present of it." Brian thanked her; and he from that day began to grow fond of the pigeon. He always took care to scatter some oats for it in his father's yard; and the pigeon grew so tame at last that it would hop about the kitchen, and eat off the same trencher with the dog.

Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse himself with reading some little books which the schoolmaster who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as to lend him. Amongst these he one evening met with a little book full of the history of birds and beasts; he looked immediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned amongst the birds, and, to his great joy, he found a full description and history of his favourite bird.

"So, Brian, I see your schooling has not been thrown away upon you; you like your book, I see, when you have no master over you to bid you read," said his father, when he came in and saw Brian reading his book very attentively.

"Thank you for having me taught to read, father," said Brian. "Here I've made a great discovery: I've found out in this book, little as it looks, father, a most curious way of making a fortune; and I hope it will make your fortune, father; and if you'll sit down, I'll tell it to you."

Mr. O'Neill, in hopes of pleasing his son rather than in the expectation of having his fortune made, immediately sat down to listen; and his son explained to him, that he had found in his book an account of pigeons who carried notes and letters: "and, father," continued Brian, "I find my pigeon is of this sort; and I intend to make my pigeon carry messages. Why should not he? If other pigeons have done so before him, I think he is as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as any pigeon in the world. I shall begin to teach him to-morrow morning; and then, father, you know people often pay a great deal for sending messengers; and no boy can run, no horse can gallop, so fast as a bird can fly; therefore the bird must be the best messenger, and I should be paid the best price. Hey, father?"

"To be sure, to be sure, my boy," said his father, laughing; "I wish you may make the best messenger in Ireland of your pigeon; but all I beg, my dear boy, is that you won't neglect our shop for your pigeon; for I've a notion we have a better chance of making a fortune by the shop than by the white pigeon."

Brian never neglected the shop; but in his leisure hours he amused himself with training his pigeon; and after much patience he at last succeeded so well, that one day he went to his father and offered to send him word by his pigeon what beef was a pound in the market of Ballynagrish, where he was going.

"The pigeon will be home long before me, father; and he will come in at the kitchen window, and light upon the dresser; then you must untie the little note which I shall have tied under his left wing, and you'll know the price of beef directly."

The pigeon carried his message well; and Brian was much delighted with his success. He soon was employed by the neighbours, who were aroused by Brian's fondness of his swift messenger; and soon the fame of the white pigeon was spread amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs of Somerville.

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

Whilst these men were talking over their scheme, one of them observed, that one of their companions was not arrived. Another said, "No." "He's six miles off," said another; and a third wished that he could make him hear at that distance. This turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending messages secretly and quickly. Cox's son, a lad of about nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier-pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession. Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O'Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion and afterwards by threats, to prevail upon him to give up the pigeon. Brian was resolute in his refusal, more especially when the petitioner began to bully him.

"If we can't have it by fair means, we will by foul," said Cox; and a few days afterwards the pigeon was gone. Brian searched for it in vain— inquired from all the neighbours if they had seen it, and applied, but to no purpose, to Cox. He swore that he knew nothing about the matter. But this was false, for it was he who during the night-time had stolen the white pigeon. He conveyed it to his employers, and they rejoiced that they had gotten it into their possession, as they thought it would serve them for a useful messenger.

Nothing can be more shortsighted than cunning. The very means which these people took to secure secrecy were the means of bringing their plots to light. They endeavoured to teach the pigeon, which they had stolen, to carry messages for them in a part of the country at some distance from Somerville; and when they fancied that it had forgotten its former habits, and its old master, they thought that they might venture to employ him nearer home. The pigeon, however, had a better memory than they imagined. They loosed him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrish in hopes that he would stop at the house of Cox's cousin, which was on its road between Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though he had been purposely fed at this house for a week before this trial, did not stop there, but flew on to his old master's house in Somerville, and pecked at the kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do. His father, fortunately, was within hearing, and poor Brian ran with the greatest joy to open the window and to let him in.

"O, father, here's my white pigeon come back of his own accord," exclaimed Brian; "I must run and show him to my mother." At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wings a small and very dirty looking billet. He opened it in his father's presence. The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were at length deciphered:—

"Thare are eight of uz sworn; I send yo at botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate 'ouse. Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite—kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever yours, MURTAGH COX, JUN."

Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and son exclaimed, "Let us go and show it to Mr. Somerville." Before they set out, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by anyone but themselves. Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house. When they were all safely lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O'Neill and his father; and after thanking them for the service they had done him, he counted out ten bright guineas upon a table, and pushed them towards Brian, saying, "I suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas was offered some weeks ago for the discovery of John Mac Dermod, one of the eight men whom we have just taken up?"

"No, sir," said Brian; "I did not know it, and I did not bring that note to you to get ten guineas, but because I thought it was right. I don't want to be paid for doing it."

"That's my own boy," said his father. "We thank you, sir; but we'll not take the money; I DON'T LIKE TO TAKE THE PRICE OF BLOOD."

"I know the difference, my good friends," said Mr. Somerville, "between vile informers and courageous, honest men."

"Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we are honest."

"And, what is more," said Mr. Somerville, "I have a notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you were rich. Will you, my good lad," continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment's pause—"will you trust me with your pigeon a few days?"

"O, and welcome, sir," said the boy, with a smile; and he brought the pigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, and nobody saw him.

A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O'Neill's house, and bid him and his son follow him. They followed till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn. The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.

"Go up the ladder, will you?" said Mr. Somerville to Brian, "and pull that sign straight, for it hangs quite crooked. There, now it is straight. Now pull off the carpet, and let us see the new sign."

The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted upon the sign, and the name of O'Neill in large letters underneath.

"Take care you do not tumble down and break your neck upon this joyful occasion," said Mr. Somerville, who saw that Brian's surprise was too great for his situation. "Come down from the ladder, and wish your father joy of being master of the new inn called the 'White Pigeon.' And I wish him joy of having such a son as you are. Those who bring up their children well, will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor or rich."



THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

"Mamma," said Rosamond, after a long silence, "do you know what I have been thinking of all this time?"

"No, my dear.—What?"

"Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell's birthday; do you know what day it is?"

"No, I don't remember."

"Dear mother! don't you remember it's the 22nd of December; and her birthday is the day after to-morrow? Don't you recollect now? But you never remember about birthdays, mamma. That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura's birthday, or-or-or MINE, mamma."

"What do you mean my dear? I remember your birthday perfectly well."

"Indeed! but you never KEEP it, though."

"What do you mean by keeping your birthday?"

"Oh, mamma, you know very well—as Bell's birthday is kept. In the first place, there is a great dinner."

"And can Bell eat more upon her birthday than upon any other day?"

"No; nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the mince-pies. But Bell has a great many nice things—I don't mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her health, and she's so happy."

"But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! Is it everybody's drinking her health that makes her so happy? or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies? I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does everybody's drinking her health at dinner make her happy?"

Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. "But," added she, "the NICE NEW playthings, mother!"

"But why the nice new playthings? Do you like them only because they are NEW?"

"Not ONLY—I do not like playthings ONLY because they are new; but Bell DOES, I believe—for that puts me in mind—Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of OLD playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing, because they were OLD; but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma; I'll tell you all that was in the drawer."

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

"Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show you the drawer. I want you to judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right. And, mother," added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, "will you—not now, but when you've time—will you tell me why you never keep my birthday—why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?"

"And will you, Rosamond—not now, but when you have time to think about it—tell me why I should make any difference between your birthday and any other day?"

Rosamond thought, but she could not find out any reason; besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not time to think any longer; for there was a certain work-basket to be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a present upon her birthday. The work was at a stand for want of some filigree-paper, and, as her mother was going out, she asked her to take her with her, that she might buy some. Her sister Laura went with them.

"Sister," said Rosamond, as they were walking along, "what have you done with your half-guinea?"

"I have it in my pocket."

"Dear! you will keep it for ever in your pocket. You know, my godmother when she gave it to you, said you would keep it longer than I should keep mine; and I know what she thought by her look at the time. I heard her say something to my mother."

"Yes," said Laura, smiling; "she whispered so loud that I could not help hearing her too. She said I was a little miser."

"But did not you hear her say that I was very GENEROUS? and she'll see that she was not mistaken. I hope she'll be by when I give my basket to Bell—won't it be beautiful? There is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions—"

"Stay," interrupted her sister, for Rosamond, anticipating the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the filigree-paper was to be bought. They turned back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane. A coach full of ladies stopped at the door, just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the window where she saw her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.

Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked up from her work. "Is not she very industrious?" said Laura; "and very honest, too?" added she in a minute afterwards; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl. She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him. Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery, laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her surprise and sorrow to find it spoiled. She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, "Sit still, child."

"I must go to my mother, sir," said the child; "besides, you have spoiled all my lace. I can't stay."

"Can't you?" said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, "I'll teach you to complain of me." And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress' coach, and was out of sight in an instant.

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

At this instant her mother said to Rosamond—"Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper, buy it."

"Yes, madam," said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the "Poor little girl!" she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In the meantime, she that was called the "little miser" beckoned to the poor girl, and, opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, "Is it quite spoiled?"

"Quite! quite spoiled! and I can't, nor mother neither, buy another; and I can't do anything else for my bread." A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.

"How much would another cost?" said Laura.

"Oh, a great—GREAT deal."

"More than that?" said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.

"Oh, no."

"Then you can buy another with that," said Laura, dropping the half- guinea into her hand; and she shut the window before the child could find words to thank her, but not before she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more pleasure probably than all the praise which could have been bestowed upon her generosity.

Late on the morning of her cousin's birthday, Rosamond finished her work- basket. The carriage was at the door—Laura came running to call her; her father's voice was heard at the same instant; so she was obliged to go down with her basket but half wrapped up in silver paper—a circumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted; for the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.

"It will never do, my dear," said her father, who had been watching her operations. "I am afraid you will never make a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as large as itself."

"It is not a box, father," said Rosamond, a little peevishly; "it's a basket."

"Let us look at this basket," said he, taking it out of her unwilling hands, for she knew of what frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her father's examination. He took hold of the handle rather roughly; when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, "Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!" said she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle wreathed handle. "Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle."

"But what is the use of THE POOR HANDLE," said her father, "if we are not to take hold of it? And pray," continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner, "pray, is this the thing you have been about all this week? I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags; I could not conceive what you were about. Is this the thing?"

"Yes, sir. You think, then, that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use; but then it is a present for my Cousin Bell."

"Your Cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for a present that is of no use. You had better have given her the purple jar."

"Oh, father! I thought you had forgotten that—it was two years ago; I'm not so silly now. But Bell will like the basket, I know, though it is of no use."

"Then you think Bell is sillier now than you were two years ago,—well, perhaps that is true; but how comes it, Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly person?"

"I, father?" said Rosamond, hesitating, "I don't think I am VERY fond of her."

"I did not say VERY fond."

"Well, but I don't think I am at all fond of her."

"But you have spent a whole week in making this thing for her."

"Yes, and all my half guinea besides."

"Yet you think her silly, and you are not fond of her at all; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to her."

"But it is her birthday, sir; and I am sure she will EXPECT something, and everybody else will give her something."

"Then your reason for giving is because she expects you to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should you, always give, merely because others EXPECT, or because somebody else gives?"

"Always?—no, not always."

"Oh, only on birthdays."

Rosamond, laughing: "Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous,—my godmother said that she did."

"So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous."

"Why is it not generous to make presents?" said Rosamond.

"That is the question which it would take up a great deal of time to answer. But, for instance, to make a present of a thing that you know can be of no use to a person you neither love nor esteem, because it is her birthday, and because everybody gives her something, and because she expects something, and because your godmother says she likes that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosamond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than generosity."

Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent. "Then I am a fool, am I?" said she looking up at last.

"Because you have made ONE mistake? No. If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool."

Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.

Now we must observe, that Rosamond's father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl. From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child. She was idle, fretful, and selfish; so that nothing could make her happy. On her birthday she expected, however, to be perfectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these fits no one could discover: but the last, and most lamentable, was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin frock; and accordingly, at dressing time, her maid brought it to her, exclaiming, "See here, miss, what your mamma has sent you on your birthday. Here's a frock fit for a queen—if it had but lace round the cuffs."

"And why has not it lace around the cuffs? mamma said it should."

"Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace; it is not come home."

"Not come home, indeed! and didn't they know it was my birthday? But then I say I won't wear it without the lace—I can't wear it without the lace, and I won't."

The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on.

"Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes," said the maid who educated her; "dry your eyes, and I'll tell you something that will please you."

"What, then?" said the child, pouting and sobbing.

"Why—but you must not tell that I told you."

"No,—but if I am asked?"

"Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be sure. So I'll hold my tongue, miss."

"Nay, tell me, though, and I'll never tell—if I AM asked."

"Well, then," said the maid, "your cousin Rosamond is come, and has brought you the most BEAUTIFULLEST thing you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know anything about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you; and mistress has put it into her wardrobe till after dinner."

"Till after dinner!" repeated Bell, impatiently; "I can't wait till then; I must see it this minute." The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with HER, if Bell's eyes were red at dinner time, consented to show her the basket.

"How pretty!—but let me have it in my own hands," said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her reach.

"Oh, no, you must not touch it; for if you should spoil it, what would become of me?"

"Become of you, indeed!" exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered anything but her own immediate gratification—"Become of YOU, indeed! what signifies that—I sha'n't spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands. If you don't hold it down for me directly, I'll tell that you showed it to me."

"Then you won't snatch it?"

"No, no, I won't indeed," said Bell; but she had learned from her maid a total disregard of truth. She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach. A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses.

Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts, the handle and lid were replaced; the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child, "TO LOOK AS IF NOTHING WAS THE MATTER."

We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect. The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.

After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand. "What's your business?" said the maid.

"I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for the young lady."

"Oh, you have, have you, at last?" said Bell; "and pray why didn't you bring it sooner?" The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying—"Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle, good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let us look at it!"

The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see anybody, BECAUSE she was in a room full of company.

"May I call again, madam, this afternoon?" said the child, timidly.

"Lord bless my stars!" replied the maid, "what makes people so poor, I WONDERS! I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks. Call again! yes, to be sure. I believe you'd call, call, call twenty times for twopence."

However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude. The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance; and Bell teazed her maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon her cuffs.

Unfortunate Bell!—All dinner time passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery. Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said, "You have no lace upon your cuffs. Look how beautiful mine is!—is not it? Don't you wish your mamma could afford to give some like it? But you can't get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it."

"But cannot the person who made it," said Laura, "make any more like it?"

"No, no, no!" cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure. "Nobody can get any like it, I say," repeated Bell; "nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am sure. Mamma won't let her, if I ask her not."

"Very well," said Laura, coolly, "I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don't want any of it."

"Yes, but you do, though," said Bell, more angrily.

"No, indeed," said Laura, smiling.

"You do, in the bottom of your heart; but you say you don't to plague me, I know," cried Bell, swelling with disappointed vanity. "It is pretty for all that, and it cost a great deal of money too, and nobody shall have any like it, if they cried their eyes out."

Laura received this declaration in silence—Rosamond smiled; and at her smile the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which had yet been heard on her birthday.

"What's the matter, my pet?" cried her mother; "come to me, and tell me what's the matter." Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine lace with frantic gestures from her cuffs, and throwing the fragments into her mother's lap. "Oh! the lace, child!—are you mad?" said her mother, catching hold of both her hands. "Your beautiful lace, my dear love—do you know how much it cost?"

"I don't care how much it cost—it is not beautiful, and I'll have none of it," replied Bell, sobbing; "for it is not beautiful."

"But it is beautiful," retorted her mother; "I chose the pattern myself. Who has put it into your head, child, to dislike it? Was it Nancy?"

"No, not Nancy, but THEM, mamma," said Bell, pointing to Laura and Rosamond.

"Oh, fie! don't POINT," said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger; "nor say THEM, like Nancy; I am sure you misunderstood. Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any such thing."

"No, madam; and I did not say any such thing, that I recollect," said Laura, gently. "Oh, no, indeed!" cried Rosamond, warmly, rising in her sister's defence.

No defence or explanation, however, was to be heard, for everybody had now gathered round Bell, to dry her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done to her own cuffs. They succeeded so well, that in about a quarter of an hour the young lady's eyes, and the reddened arches over her eyebrows came to their natural colour; and the business being thus happily hushed up, the mother, as a reward to her daughter for her good humour, begged that Rosamond would now be so good as to produce her "charming present."

Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom, to her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing room. "Now I am sure," thought she, "Bell will be surprised, and my godmother will see she was right about my generosity."

The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory. "Well, this is a charming present, indeed!" said the godmother, who was one of the company; "MY Rosamond knows how to make presents." And as she spoke, she took hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience. Scarcely had she touched it, when, lo! the basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained in her hand. All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and "Who can have done this?" was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the midst of the inquiries that were made about the disaster.

At length the servants were summoned, and amongst them, Nancy, Miss Bell's maid and governess. She affected much surprise when she saw what had befallen the basket, and declared that she knew nothing of the matter, but that she had seen her mistress in the morning put it quite safe into the wardrobe; and that, for her part, she had never touched it, or thought of touching it, in her born days. "Nor Miss Bell, neither, ma'am,—I can answer for her; for she never knew of its being there, because I never so much as mentioned it to her, that there was such a thing in the house, because I knew Miss Rosamond wanted to surprise her with the secret; so I never mentioned a sentence of it—did I, Miss Bell?"

Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had taught her, answered boldly, "NO;" but she had hold of Rosamond's hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood she squeezed it terribly. "Why do you squeeze my hand so?" said Rosamond, in a low voice; "what are you afraid of?"

"Afraid of!" cried Bell, turning angrily; "I'm not afraid of anything,— I've nothing to be afraid about."

"Nay, I did not say you had," whispered Rosamond; "but only if you did by accident—you know what I mean—I should not be angry if you did—only say so."

"I say I did not!" cried Bell, furiously; "Mamma, mamma! Nancy! my cousin Rosamond won't believe me! That's very hard. It's very rude, and I won't bear it—I won't."

"Don't be angry, love. Don't," said the maid.

"Nobody suspects you, darling," said her mother; "but she has too much sensibility. Don't cry, love; nobody suspected you. But you know," continued she, turning to the maid, "somebody must have done this, and I must know how it was done. Miss Rosamond's charming present must not be spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper notice of it. I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosamond."

Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts—"I WAS VERY FOOLISH—" she began and stopped.

"Ma'am," cried the maid, suddenly, "I'll venture to say I know who did it."

"Who?" said everyone, eagerly. "Who?" said Bell, trembling."

"Why, miss, don't you recollect that little girl with the lace, that we saw peeping about in the passage? I'm sure she must have done it; for here she was by herself half an hour or more, and not another creature has been in mistress' dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morning. Those sort of people have so much curiosity. I'm sure she must have been meddling with it," added the maid.

"Oh, yes, that's the thing," said the mistress, decidedly. "Well, Miss Rosamond, for your comfort she shall never come into my house again."

"Oh, that would not comfort me at all," said Rosamond; "besides, we are not sure that she did it, and if—" A single knock at the door was heard at this instant. It was the little girl, who came to be paid for her lace.

"Call her in," said the lady of the house; "let us see her directly."

The maid, who was afraid that the girl's innocence would appear if she were produced, hesitated; but upon her mistress repeating her commands, she was forced to obey. The girl came in with a look of simplicity; but when she saw a room full of company she was a little abashed. Rosamond and Laura looked at her and one another with surprise, for it was the same little girl whom they had seen weaving lace.

"Is not it she?" whispered Rosamond to her sister.

"Yes, it is; but hush," said Laura, "she does not know us. Don't say a word, let us hear what she will say."

Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so that the little girl could not see her.

"Vastly well!" said Bell's mother; "I am waiting to see how long you will have the assurance to stand there with that innocent look. Did you ever see that basket before?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the girl.

"YES, MA'AM!" cried the maid; "and what else do you know about it? You had better confess it at once, and mistress, perhaps, will say no more about it."

"Yes, do confess it," added Bell, earnestly.

"Confess what, madam?" said the little girl; "I never touched the basket, madam."

"You never TOUCHED it; but you confess," interrupted Bell's mother, "that you DID SEE it before. And, pray, how came you to see it? You must have opened my wardrobe."

"No, indeed, ma'am," said the little girl; "but I was waiting in the passage, ma'am, and this door was partly open; and looking at the maid, you know, I could not help seeing it."

"Why, how could you see through the doors of my wardrobe?" rejoined the lady.

The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve.

"Answer me," said the lady, "where did you see this basket?" Another stronger pull.

"I saw it, madam, in her hands," looking at the maid; "and—"

"Well, and what became of it afterwards?"

"Ma'am"—hesitating—"miss pulled, and by accident—I believe, I saw, ma'am—miss, you know what I saw."

"I do not know—I do not know; and if I did, you had no business there; and mamma won't believe you, I am sure." Everybody else, however, did believe; and their eyes were fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.

"What do you all look at me so for? Why do you all look so? And am I to be put to shame on my birthday?" cried she, bursting into a roar of passion; "and all for this nasty thing!" added she, pushing away the remains of the basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond.

"Bell! Bell! O, fie! fie!—Now I am ashamed of you; that's quite rude to your cousin," said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter's want of politeness than at her falsehood. "Take her away, Nancy, till she has done crying," added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil.

Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. A smile from her father, who stood by, a silent spectator of the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections; nor were they entirely dissipated by the condolence of the rest of the company, nor even by the praises of her godmother, who, for the purpose of condoling with her, said, "Well, my dear Rosamond, I admire your generous spirit. You know I prophesied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest. Did I not, Laura?" said she, appealing, in a sarcastic tone, to where she thought Laura was. "Where is Laura? I don't see her." Laura came forward. "You are too PRUDENT to throw away your money like your sister. Your half-guinea, I'll answer for it, is snug in your pocket—Is it not?"

"No, madam," answered she, in a low voice.

But low as the voice of Laura was, the poor little lace-girl heard it; and now, for the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her benefactress. "Oh, that's the young lady!" she exclaimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude, "the good, good young lady, who gave me the half- guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it; but I WILL thank her now."

"The half-guinea, Laura!" said her godmother. "What is all this?"

"I'll tell you, madam, if you please," said the little girl.

It was not in expectation of being praised for it, that Laura had been generous, and therefore everybody was really touched with the history of the weaving-pillow; and whilst they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums. RESPECT is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura's age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.

"Ah, madam!" said Rosamond to her godmother, "now you see—you see she is NOT a little miser. I'm sure that's better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket; is it not, ma'am?" said she, with an eagerness which showed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister. "This is being REALLY GENEROUS, father, is it not?"

"Yes, Rosamond," said her father, and he kissed her; "this IS being really generous. It is not only by giving away money that we can show generosity; it is by giving up to others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore," added he, smiling, "it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others."

"The thing I like the best of all others, father," said Rosamond, half pleased, half vexed. "What is that, I wonder? You don't mean PRAISE, do you, sir?"

"Nay, you must decide that yourself, Rosamond."

"Why, sir," said she, ingenuously, "perhaps it WAS ONCE the thing I liked best; but the pleasure I have just felt makes me like something else much better."



ETON MONTEM.

[Extracted from the "Courier" of May, 1799.]

"Yesterday this triennial ceremony took place, with which the public are too well acquainted to require a particular description. A collection, called Salt, is taken from the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of the School in his studies at Cambridge. This collection is made by the Scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round the country.

"At eleven o'clock, the youths being assembled in their habiliments at the College, the Royal Family set off from the Castle to see them, and, after walking round the Courtyard, they proceeded to Salt Hill in the following order:—

"His Majesty, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and the Earl of Uxbridge.

"Their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and Cumberland, Earl Morton, and General Gwynne, all on horseback, dressed in the Windsor uniform, except the Prince of Wales, who wore a suit of dark blue, and a brown surtout over.

"Then followed the Scholars, preceded by the Marechal Serjeant, the Musicians of the Staffordshire Band, and Mr. Ford, Captain of the Seminary, the Serjeant Major, Serjeants, Colonels, Corporals, Musicians, Ensign, Lieutenant, Steward, Salt Bearers, Polemen, and Runners.

"The cavalcade was brought up by her Majesty and her amiable daughters in two carriages, and a numerous company of equestrians and pedestrians, all eager to behold their Sovereign and his family. Among the former, Lady Lade was foremost in the throng; only two others dared venture their persons on horseback in such a multitude.

"The King and Royal Family were stopped on Eton Bridge by Messrs. Young and Mansfield, the Salt Bearers, to whom their Majesties delivered their customary donation of fifty guineas each.

"At Salt Hill, his Majesty, with his usual affability, took upon himself to arrange the procession round the Royal carriages; and even when the horses were taken off, with the assistance of the Duke of Kent, fastened the traces round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any inconvenience.

"An exceeding heavy shower of rain coming on, the Prince took leave, and went to the 'Windmill Inn,' till it subsided. The King and his attendants weathered it out in their great-coats.

"After the young gentlemen walked round the carriage, Ensign Vince and the Salt Bearers proceeded to the summit of the hill; but the wind being boisterous, he could not exhibit his dexterity in displaying his flag, and the space being too small before the carriages, from the concourse of spectators, the King kindly acquiesced in not having it displayed under such inconvenience.

"Their Majesties and the Princesses then returned home, the King occasionally stopping to converse with the Dean of Windsor, the Earl of Harrington, and other noblemen.

"The Scholars partook of an elegant dinner at the 'Windmill Inn,' and in the evening walked on Windsor Terrace.

"Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Duke of Cumberland, after taking leave of their Majesties, set off for town, and honoured the Opera House with their presence in the evening.

"The profit arising from the Salt collected, according to account, amounted to 8OO pounds.

"The Stadtholder, the Duke of Gordon, Lord and Lady Melbourne, Viscount Brome, and a numerous train of fashionable nobility, were present.

"The following is an account of their dresses, made as usual, very handsomely, by Mrs. Snow, milliner, of Windsor:—

"Mr. Ford, Captain, with eight Gentlemen to attend him as servitors. "Mr. Sarjeant, Marechal. "Mr. Bradith, Colonel. "Mr. Plumtree, Lieutenant. "Mr. Vince, Ensign. "Mr. Young, College Salt Bearer; white and gold dress, rich satin bag, covered with gold netting. "Mr. Mansfield, Oppidan, white, purple, and orange dress, trimmed with silver; rich satin bag, purple and silver: each carrying elegant poles, with gold and silver cord. "Mr. Keity, yellow and black velvet; helmet trimmed with silver. "Mr. Bartelot, plain mantle and sandals, Scotch bonnet, a very Douglas. "Mr. Knapp, flesh-colour and blue; Spanish hat and feathers. "Mr. Ripley, rose-colour; helmet. "Mr. Islip (being in mourning), a scarf; helmet, black velvet; and white satin. "Mr. Tomkins, violet and silver; helmet. "Mr. Thackery, lilac and silver; Roman Cap. "Mr. Drury, mazarin blue; fancy cap. "Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw. "Mr. Routh, pink and silver, Spanish hat. "Mr. Curtis, purple, fancy cap. "Mr. Lloyd, blue; ditto.

"At the conclusion of the ceremony the Royal Family returned to Windsor, and the boys were all sumptuously entertained at the tavern at Salt Hill. About six in the evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and, marching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed. The captain then paid his respects to the Royal Family, at the Queen's Lodge, Windsor, previously to his departure for King's College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the produce of the Montem was presented to him.

"The day concluded by a brilliant promenade of beauty, rank, and fashion, on Windsor Terrace, enlivened by the performance of several bands of music.

"The origin of the procession is from the custom by which the Manor was held.

"The custom of hunting the Ram belonged to Eton College, as well as the custom of Salt; but it was discontinued by Dr. Cook, late Dean of Ely. Now this custom we know to have been entered on the register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, in Normandy, as one belonging to the Manor of East or Great Wrotham, in Norfolk, given by Ralph de Toni to the Abbey of Bec, and was as follows:—When the harvest was finished the tenants were to have half an acre of barley, and a ram let loose; and if they caught him he was their own to make merry with; but if he escaped from them he was the Lord's. The Etonians, in order to secure the ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked him with great clubs. The cruelty of this proceeding brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer.—See Register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, folio 58.

"After the dissolution of the alien priories, in 1414, by the Parliament of Leicester, they remained in the Crown till Henry VI., who gave Wrotham Manor to Eton College; and if the Eton Fellows would search, they would perhaps find the Manor in their possession, that was held by the custom of Salt."

MEN.

Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal.

Lord John, ) Talbot, ) Wheeler, ) Young Gentlemen of Eton, from 17 to 19 years of age. Bursal, ) Rory O'Ryan )

Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill. Farmer Hearty. A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.

WOMEN.

The Marchioness of Piercefield, Mother of Lord John. Lady Violetta—her Daughter, a Child of six or seven years old. Mrs. Talbot. Lousia Talbot, her Daughter. Miss Bursal, Daughter to the Alderman. Mrs. Newington, Landlady of the Inn at Salt Hill. Sally, a Chambermaid. Patty, a Country Girl.

Pipe and Tabor, and Dance of Peasants.



SCENE I.

The Bar of the "Windmill Inn" at Salt Hill.

MR. and MRS. NEWINGTON, the Landlord and Landlady.

Landlady. 'Tis an unpossibility, Mr. Newington; and that's enough. Say no more about it; 'tis an unpossibility in the natur of things. (She ranges jellies, etc., in the Bar.) And pray, do you take your great old fashioned tankard, Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.

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

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

Landlord. Heyday! Why, what a plague would you have me call you? The other day you quarrelled with me for calling you Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I did, and very proper in me I should. I've turned off three waiters and five chambermaids already, for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! But 'tis all your ill manners.

Landlord. Ill manners! Why, if I may be so bold, if you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what are you?

Landlady. Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington.

Landlord (drinks). Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks your health; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more in my own house (shrugs).

Landlady. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments to your being called LANDLORD. You look it, and become it very proper.

Landlord. Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it; but everyone to their mind, as you, wife, don't fancy the being called Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I don't. Why, when folks hear the old fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! who do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, featherbed of a woman, coming waddling along with her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o' this fashion? Now, to see me coming, nobody would take me to be a landlady.

Landlord. Very true, indeed, wife—Mrs. Newington, I mean—I ask pardon; but now to go on with what we were saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady, and the civil-spoken young lady there above, have them there rooms for another day.

Landlady. Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more about that old gentlewoman, and that civil-spoken young lady. Fair words cost nothing; and I've a notion that's the cause they are so plenty with the young lady. Neither o' them, I take it, by what they've ordered since their coming into the house, are such grand folk, that one need be so petticular about them.

Landlord. Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to be sure; I can't deny that.

Landlady. But, bless my stars! what signifies talking? Don't you know, as well as I do, Mr. Newington, that to-morrow is Eton Montem, and that if we had twenty times as many rooms and as many more to the back of them, it would not be one too many for all the company we've a right to expect, and those the highest quality of the land? Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow? isn't my Lady Piercefield and suite expected? and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal's to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon. So, Mr. Newington, if you don't think proper to go up and inform the ladies above, that the Dolphin rooms are not for them, I must SPEAK myself, though 'tis a thing I never do when I can help it.

Landlord (aside). She not like to speak! (Aloud.) My dear, you can speak a power better than I can; so take it all upon yourself, if you please; for, old-fashioned as I and my tankard here be, I can't make a speech that borders on the uncivil order, to a lady like, for the life and lungs of me. So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. Newington.

Landlady. And so I will, Mr. Newington. Help ye! Civilities and rarities are out o' season for them that can't pay for them in this world; and very proper. [Exit Landlady.]

Landlord. And very proper! Ha! who comes yonder? The Eton chap who wheedled me into lending him my best hunter last year, and was the ruination of him; but that must be paid for, wheedle or no wheedle; and, for the matter of wheedling, I'd stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is making up to me, do you see, against e'er a boy, or hobbledehoy, in all Eton, London, or Christendom, let the other be who he will.

Enter WHEELER.

Wheeler. A fine day, Mr. Newington.

Landlord. A fine day, Mr. Wheeler.

Wheel. And I hope, for YOUR sake, we may have as fine a day for the Montem to-morrow. It will be a pretty penny in your pocket! Why, all the world will be here; and (looking round at the jellies, etc.) so much the better for them; for here are good things enough, and enough for them. And here's the best thing of all, the good old tankard still; not empty, I hope.

Landlord. Not empty, I hope. Here's to you, Mr. Wheeler.

Wheel. Mr. Wheeler!—CAPTAIN Wheeler, if you please.

Landlord. YOU, Captain Wheeler! Why, I thought in former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that was Captain at the Montems; and didn't Mr. Talbot come afore you?

Wheel. Not at all; we came on the same day. Some say I came first; some say Talbot. So the choice of which of us is to be captain is to be put to the vote amongst the lads—most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so I shall be captain, to-morrow, and a pretty deal of salt* I reckon I shall pocket. Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand! No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge—hey?

*Salt, the cant name given by the Eton lads to the money collected at Montem.

Landlord. And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge or Oxford, 'twould be for a young gentleman to pay his debts.

Wheel. Debts! Oh, time enough for that. I've a little account with you in horses, I know; but that's between you and me, you know—mum.

Landlord. Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler. Between you and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed; and I can't afford to be mum. So you'll take no offence if I speak; and as you'll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem's over, you'll be pleased to settle with me some way or other to-day, as we've no other time.

Wheel. No time so proper, certainly. Where's the little account?—I have money sent me for my Montem dress, and I can squeeze that much out of it. I came home from Eton on purpose to settle with you. But as to the hunter, you must call upon Talbot—do you understand? to pay for him; for though Talbot and I had him the same day, 'twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay. I spoke to him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I never forget to speak a good word for my friends.

Landlord. So I perceive.

Wheel. I'll make bold just to give you my opinion of these jellies whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.

(He swallows down a jelly or two—Landlord is going.)

Enter TALBOT.

Talbot. Hallo, Landlord! where are making off so fast? Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.

Wheel. (aside). Talbot!—I wish I was a hundred miles off.

Landlord. You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot. A good morning to you, sir; I'm glad to see you—very glad to see you, Mr. Talbot.

Talb. Then shake hands, my honest landlord.

(Talbot, in shaking hands with him, puts a purse into the landlord's hands.)

Landlord. What's here? Guineas?

Talb. The hunter, you know; since Wheeler won't pay, I must—that's all. Good morning.

Wheel. (aside). What a fool!

(Landlord, as Talbot is going, catches hold of his coat.)

Landlord. Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won't do!

Talb. Won't it? Well, then, my watch must go.

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

Wheel. But Bursal's my witness—

Talb. Oh, say no more about witnesses; a man's conscience is always his best witness, or his worst. Landlord, take your money, and no more words.

Wheel. This is very genteel of you, Talbot. I always thought you would do the genteel thing as I knew you to be so generous and considerate.

Talb. Don't waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise you, this election time. Keep them for Bursal or Lord John, or some of those who like them. They won't go down with me. Good morning to you. I give you notice, I'm going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop; and who knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads? I may be captain yet, Wheeler. Have a care! Is my horse ready there?

Landlord. Mr. Talbot's horse, there! Mr. Talbot's horse, I say.

Talbot sings.

"He carries weight—he rides a race— 'Tis for a thousand pound!" (Exit Talbot.)

Wheel. And, dear me! I shall be left behind. A horse for me, pray; a horse for Mr. Wheeler! (Exit Wheeler.)

Landlord (calls very loud). Mr. Talbot's horse! Hang the hostler! I'll saddle him myself. (Exit Landlord.)



SCENE II.

A Dining room in the Inn at Salt Hill.

MRS. TALBOT and LOUISA.

Louisa (laughing). With what an air Mrs. Landlady made her exit!

Mrs. Talbot. When I was young, they say, I was proud; but I am humble enough now: these petty mortifications do not vex me.

Louisa. It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. Landlady made her entree; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would at least have given her the retort courteous.

Mrs. Talb. Now tell me honestly, my Louisa—You were, a few days ago, at Bursal House. Since you have left it and have felt something of the difference that is made in this world between splendour and no splendour, you have never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal's little airs?

Louisa. Never for a moment. At first Miss Bursal paid me a vast deal of attention; but, for what reason I know not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright rude. I could not guess the cause of these variations.

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

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

Mrs. Talb. Fine talking, dear Louisa!

Louisa. Don't you believe me to be in earnest, mother! To be sure, you cannot know what I would do, unless I were put to the trial.

Mrs. Talb. Nor you either, my dear. (She sighs, and is silent.)

Louisa (takes her mother's hand). What is the matter, dear mother? You used to say, that seeing my brother always made you feel ten years younger; yet even while he was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those sudden fits of sadness.

Mrs. Talb. The Montem—is not it to-morrow? Ay, but my boy is not sure of being captain.

Louisa. No; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is most likely to be chosen captain. He has taken prodigious pains to flatter and win over many to his interest. My brother does not so much care about it; he is not avaricious.

Mrs. Talb. I love your generous spirit and his! but, alas! my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without being avaricious. I would not say a word to Talbot; full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a word to him, till after the Montem, of what has happened.

Louisa. And what has happened, dear mother? Sit down,—you tremble.

Mrs. Talb. (sits down and puts a letter into Louisa's hand.) Read that, love. A messenger brought me that from town a few hours ago.

Louisa (reads). "By an express from Portsmouth, we hear the Bombay Castle East Indiaman is lost, with all your fortune on board." ALL! I hope there is something left for you to live upon.

Mrs. Talb. About 15O pounds a year for us all.

Louisa. That is enough, is it not, for YOU?

Mrs. Talb. For me, love? I am an old woman, and want but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it.

Louisa (kneels down beside her). Do not speak so, dearest mother.

Mrs. Talb. Enough for me, love! Yes, enough, and too much for me. I am not thinking of myself.

Louisa. Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for himself, most certainly.

Mrs. Talb. But his education is not completed. How shall we provide him with money at Cambridge?

Louisa. This Montem. The last time the captain had eight hundred, the time before a thousand, pounds. Oh, I hope—I fear! Now, indeed, I know that, without being avaricious, we may want, and wish for money.

(Landlady's voice heard behind the scenes.)

Landlady. Waiter!—Miss Bursal's curricle, and Mr. Bursal's vis-a-vis. Run! see that the Dolphin's empty. I say run!—run!

Mrs. Talb. I will rest for a few moments upon the sofa, in this bedchamber, before we set off.

Louisa (goes to open the door). They have bolted or locked it. How unlucky! (She turns the key, and tries to unlock the door.)

Enter WAITER.

Waiter. Ladies, I'm sorry—Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal are come—just coming upstairs.

Mrs. Talb. Then, will you be so good, sir, as to unlock this door? (Waiter tries to unlock the door.)

Waiter. It must be bolted on the inside. Chambermaid! Sally! Are you within there? Unbolt this door.

Mr. Bursal's voice behind the scenes.

Mr. Burs. Let me have a basin of good soup directly.

Waiter. I'll go round and have the door unbolted immediately, ladies. (Exit Waiter.)

Enter MISS BURSAL, in a riding dress, and with a long whip.

Miss Bursal. Those creatures, the ponies, have a'most pulled my 'and off. Who 'ave we 'ere? Ha! Mrs. Talbot! Louisa, 'ow are ye? I'm so vastly glad to see you; but I'm so shocked to 'ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle. Mrs. Talbot, you look but poorly; but this Montem will put everybody in spirits. I 'ear everybody's to be 'ere; and my brother tells me, 'twill be the finest ever seen at HEton. Louisa, my dear, I'm sorry I've not a seat for you in my curricle for to-morrow; but I've promised Lady Betty; so, you know, 'tis impossible for me.

Louisa. Certainly; and it would be impossible for me to leave my mother at present.

Chambermaid (opens the bedchamber door). The room's ready now, ladies.

Mrs. Talb. Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer.

Miss Burs. Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot? I 'ad a thousand things to say to you, Louisa; but am so tired and so annoyed—

(Seats herself. Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa and Chambermaid.)

Enter MR. BURSAL, with a basin of soup in his hand.

Mr. Burs. Well, thank my stars the Airly Castle is safe in the Downs.

Miss Burs. Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe, my groom, does not make his appearance?

Mr. Burs. (eating and speaking). Yes, that I can, child; because he is with his 'orses, where he ought to be. 'Tis fit they should be looked after well; for they cost me a pretty penny—more than their heads are worth, and yours into the bargain; but I was resolved, as we were to come to this Montem, to come in style.

Miss Burs. In style, to be sure; for all the world's to be here—the King, the Prince of WHales, and Duke o' York, and all the first people; and we shall cut a dash! Dash! dash! will be the word to-morrow!— (playing with her whip).

Mr. Burs. (aside). Dash! dash! ay, just like her brother. He'll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he's her age. Well, well, he can afford it; and I do love to see my children make a figure for their money. As Jack Bursal says, what's money for, if it e'nt to make a figure. (Aloud). There's your, brother Jack, now. The extravagant dog! he'll have such a dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem. Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John's the son of a marchioness.

Miss Burs. Oh, that makes no difference nowadays. I wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem. The only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an introduction to their friend Lady Piercefield. What she could find to like in the Talbots, heaven knows. I've a notion she'll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the Bombay Castle.

Enter a WAITER, with a note.

Waiter. A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir.

Miss B. Charming woman! Is she here, pray, sir?

Waiter. Just come. Yes, ma'am. (Exit Waiter.)

Miss B. Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it?

Mr. B. (reads). "Business of importance to communicate—" Hum! what can it be?—(going).

Miss B. (aside). Perhaps some match to propose for me! (Aloud). Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do send my OOMAN to me to make me presentable. (Exit Miss Bursal at one door.)

Mr. B. (at the opposite door). "Business of importance!" Hum! I'm glad I'm prepared with a good basin of soup. There's no doing business well upon an empty stomach. Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I've no great stomach for that. But it will be an honour, to be sure. (Exit.)



SCENE III.

Landlady's Parlour.

LANDLADY—MR. FINSBURY, a man-milliner, with bandboxes—a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady's hand—a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner's hand—a mantle hanging over his arm. A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.

Landlady. Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon'on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap—

Finsbury. Why, as you observe, ma'm, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all. That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton's fancy cap, ma'm; and here, ma'm, is Mr. Saul's rich satin bag, covered with gold net. He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress. But, in my humble opinion, ma'm, the marshal's white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn't say that,—for the colonel's and lieutenant's, and ensign's, are beautiful in the extreme. And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough's lilac and silver, with a Roman cap. And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake's flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma'm, you see.

(The farmer looks over his shoulder from time to time during this speech, with contempt.)

Farmer (reads the newspaper). French fleet at sea—Hum!

Landlady. O gemini: Mr. Drake's Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing! Mr. Finsbury, I protest—

Finsb. Why, ma'm, I knew a lady of your taste couldn't but approve of it. My own invention entirely, ma'm. But it's nothing to the captain's cap, ma'm. Indeed, ma'm, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress. To be sure, his sandals were my suggestion; but the mantle he has the entire credit of, to do him justice; and when you see it, ma'm, you will be really surprised; for (for contrast, and elegance, and richness, and lightness, and propriety, and effect, and costume) you've never yet seen anything at all to be compared to Captain Wheeler's mantle, ma'm.

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

Landlady (aside to Farmer). Lord, Mr. Hearty, hush! This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner.

Farm. The great man-milliner! This is a sight I never thought to see in Old England.

Finsb. (packing up band boxes). Well, ma'm, I'm glad I have your approbation. It has ever been my study to please the ladies.

Farm. (throws a fancy mantle over his frieze coat). And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?

Finsb. (taking off the mantle). Sir, with your leave—I ask pardon—but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands—

Farm. 'Tis my way to eat cheese with my mouth, man.

Finsb. MAN!

Farm. I ask pardon—man-milliner, I mean.

Enter LANDLORD.

Landlord. Why, wife!

Landlady. Wife!

Landlord. I ask pardon—Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?

Landlady (alarmed). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it's no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? 'Tis no fault of mine. Why didn't you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the 'versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who's who, I say?

Farm. Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord. Clapper! clapper! clapper!—enough to stun a body.

Landlord. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.

Landlady. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington? Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?—and what's become on them?