Landlord. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you'd be sorry not to treat 'em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.

Landlady. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life!

Finsb. For nothing in life, as you say, ma'm; that is, nothing in high life, I'm sure, ma'm; nay, I dare a'most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?

Landlady. There, Mr. Newington; there's your Talbot for you! and there's your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.

Landlord. Scrubs, I don't, nor can't, nor won't call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don't, nor won't, nor can't, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.

Finsb. Dear me! 'Twas not I said SCRUB. Did I say scrub?

Farm. No matter if you did.

Finsb. No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I'm confident I wouldn't for the world leave it in anyone's power to say that I said— that I called—any young gentleman of Eton a SCRUB! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!

Farm. And a pretty figure you'd make in a riot!

Landlady. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.

Farm. Nor about scrubs.

Finsb. But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen. All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot's being captain to-morrow, I didn't conceive how he could well appear without any dress. That was all, upon my word and honour. A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off. Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton. (Finsbury bows and exit.)

Farm. A good day to you and your bandboxes. There's a fellow for you now! Ha! ha! ha!—A man-milliner, forsooth!

Landlord. Mrs. Talbot's coming—stand back.

Landlady. Lord! why does Bob show them through this way?

Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA; Waiter showing the way.

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

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

Landlord. I say nothing, for it is vain to say more. But isn't it a pity she can't stay for the Montem, poor old lady! Her son—as good and fine a lad as ever you saw—they say, has a chance, too, of being captain. She may never live to see another such a sight.

(As Mrs. Talbot walks slowly on, the Farmer puts himself across her way, so as to stop her short.)

Farm. No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you'd be so good to take a night's lodging, you and the young lady with you, you'd have a hearty welcome. That's all I can say and you'd make my wife very happy; for she's a good woman, to say nothing of myself.

Landlord. If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you'd have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e'er a house at Salt Hill.

Mrs. Talb. I am very much obliged—

Farm. O, say nothing o' that, madam. I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come. Do, miss, speak for me.

Louisa. Pray, dear mother—

Farm. She will. (Calls behind the scenes.) Here, waiter! hostler! driver! what's your name? drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close. Lean on my arm, madam, and we'll have you in and home in a whiff. (Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa, Farmer, Landlord and Waiter.)

Landlady (sola). What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes! and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t'other. The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe. (Aloud.) A good morning to you, ladies.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.



ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A field near Eton College;—several boys crossing backwards and forwards in the back-ground. In front, TALBOT, WHEELER, LORD JOHN and BURSAL.

Talbot. Fair play, Wheeler! Have at 'em, my boy! There they stand, fair game! There's Bursal there, with his dead forty-five votes at command; and Lord John with his—how many live friends?

Lord John (coolly). Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.

Talb. Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes—Wheeler inclusive, no doubt.

Lord J. That's as hereafter may be.

Wheeler. Hereafter! Oh, fie, my LUD! You know your own Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.

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

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

Talb. Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust: but then there's enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for; hey, Wheeler?

Bursal (aside to Wheeler). A pretty electioneerer. So much the better for you, Wheeler. Why, unless he bought a vote, he'd never win one, if he talked from this to the day of judgment.

Wheeler (aside to Bursal). And as he has no money to buy votes—he! he! he!—we are safe enough.

Talb. That's well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle there with Bursal. Now you are sure of the main with Lord John.

Lord J. Sure! I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise yet.

Wheel. O; I ask no promise from his lordship; we are upon honour: I trust entirely to his lordship's good nature and generosity, and to his regard for his own family; I having the honour, though distantly, to be related.

Lord J. Related! How, Wheeler?

Wheel. Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may say, to being related. Related slipped out by mistake; I beg pardon, my Lord John.

Lord J. Related!—a strange mistake, Wheeler.

Talb. Overshot yourself, Wheeler; overshot yourself, by all that's awkward. And yet, till now, I always took you for "a dead-shot at a yellow-hammer."*

*Young noblemen at Oxford wear yellow tufts at the tops of their caps. Hence their flatterers are said to be dead-shots at yellow-hammers.

Wheel. (taking Bursal by the arm). Bursal, a word with you. (Aside to Bursal.) What a lump of family pride that Lord John is.

Talb. Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should spoil sport. But never fear: you'll please Bursal sooner than I shall. I can't, for the soul of me, bring myself to say that Bursal's not purse-proud, and you can. Give you joy.

Burs. A choice electioneerer!—ha! ha! ha!

Wheel. (faintly). He! he! he!—a choice electioneerer, as you say. (Exeunt Wheeler and Bursal; manent Lord J. and Talbot.)

Lord J. There was a time, Talbot—

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

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

Talb. Yes, because you have used other people's understandings instead of your own. Be yourself, my lord. See with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then you'll find me still, what I've been these seven years; not your understrapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but your friend! If you choose to have me for a friend, here's my hand. I am your friend, and you'll not find a better.

Lord J. (giving his hand). You are a strange fellow, Talbot; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said last night.

Talb. What? for I don't keep a register of my sayings. Oh, it was something about gaming—Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion—I forget what I said. But, whatever it was, I'm sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.

Lord J. But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.

Talb. Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?

Lord. J. But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at. Listen to me, and don't fumble in your pockets while I'm talking to you.

Talb. I'm fumbling for—oh, here it is. Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what's droll enough, it was at your back I laughed. Here's a caricature I drew of you—I really am sorry I did it; but 'tis best to show it to you myself.

Lord J. (aside). It is all I can do to forgive this. (After a pause, he tears the paper.) I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this. Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.

Talb. Oh, hang it! I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.

Enter RORY O'RYAN.

Rory (claps Talbot on the back). Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot? Say seven—fifty-seven, I mean; for I'll lay you a wager, you've forget me; and that's a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O'Ryan. And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman. Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all. But don't let's be talking sintimint; for, for my share I'd not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.

Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?

Rory. Phoo! don't be playing the innocent, now. Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my LARD) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it? (Turns to Talbot.) But what are ye standing idling here for? Sure, there's Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate. And haven't I been huzzaing for you there till I'm hoarse? So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice—(sucks an orange.) I am a THOROUGH GOING friend, at anyrate.

Talb. Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a THOROUGH GOING friend; but have a care, or you'll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent THOROUGH GOING work.

Rory. Never fear! never fear, man!—a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that's my maxim.

Talb. Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter enemy.

Rory. Oh, never fear me! I'm as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they tink I'm tinking of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as—now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you plase.

Talb. I do please.

Rory. I call it Rory's song. Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody— o' the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put 'em in or lave 'em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind. So you comprehend it will be Rory's song, with variations.

Talbot and Lord John. Let's have it; let's have it without further preface.

Rory sings.

"I'm true game to the last, and no WHEELER for me."

Rory. There's a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler,—you take it?

Talb. O yes, yes, we take it; go on.

Rory sings.

"I'm true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me. Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea, Webb'd or finn'd, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory, None but Talbot, O, Talbot's the dog for Rory."

Talb. "Talbot the dog" is much obliged to you.

Lord J. But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O'Ryan.

Rory. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind. Slur it in the singing, and don't be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you know. Only let me go on, and you'll come to something that will plase you.

Rory sings.

"Then there's he with the purse that's as long as my arm."

Rory. That's Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.

Lord J. If the allusion's good, we shall probably find out your meaning.

Talb. On with you, Rory, and don't read us notes on a song.

Lord J. Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.

Rory sings.

"Then there's he with the purse that's as long as my arm; His father's a tanner,—but then where's the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?"

Lord J. Encore! encore! Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.

Rory. Sure 'twas none of I made it—'twas Talbot here.

Talb. I!

Rory. (aside). Not a word: I'll make you a present of it: sure, then, it's your own.

Talb. I never wrote a word of it.

Rory. (to Lord J.). Phoo, Phoo! he's only denying it out of false modesty.

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

Rory. Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it. (Winking at Talbot aside.) You shall have the credit of all. (Aloud.) Put me in when I'm out, Talbot, and you (to Lord John) join—join.

Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him.

"Then there's he with the purse that's as long as my arm; His father's a tanner,—but then where's the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree? There's my lord with the back that never was bent—"

(Lord John stops singing; Talbot makes signs to Rory to stop; but Rory does not see him, and sings on.)

"There's my lord with the back that never was bent; Let him live with his ancestors, I am content."

(Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows.)

Rory. Join, join, both of ye—why don't you join? (Sings.)

"Who'll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried, A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride."

Rory. But join or ye spoil all.

Talb. You have spoiled all, indeed.

Lord J. (making a formal low bow). Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you.

Rory. Lord John! blood and thunder! I forgot you were by—quite and clean.

Lord J. (puts him aside and continues speaking to Talbot). Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature. Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship—Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.

Rory. No reason in life now. Don't be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it's me you ought to thank.

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

Talb. (warmly). Unmasking, my lord—

Rory (holding them asunder). Phoo! phoo! phoo! be easy, can't ye?— there's no unmasking at all in the case. My Lord John, Talbot's writing the song was all a mistake.

Lord J. As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume—

Rory. Just as much. 'Twas all a mistake. So now don't you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding. It was I made every word of the song out o' the face*—that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster, and all. He did not waste a word of it; upon my conscience, I wrote it all—though I'll engage you didn't think I could write a good thing. (Lord John turns away.) I'm telling you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and yet you won't believe me.

*From beginning to end.

Lord J. You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two contradictory assertions within two minutes. Mr. Talbot, I thank you (going).

(Rory tries to stop Lord John from going, but cannot.—Exit Lord John.)

Rory. Well, if he WILL go, let him go then, and much good may it do him. Nay, but don't you go too.

Talb. O Rory, what have you done?—(Talbot runs after Lord J.) Hear me, my lord. (Exit Talbot.)

Rory. Hear him! hear him! hear him!—Well, I'm point blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how could I help it? As sure as ever I am meaning to do the best thing on earth, it turns out the worst.

Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.

Rory (joins.) Huzza! huzza!—Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?

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

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

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

lst Boy. And that turns the scale.

Rory. Oh, the scale may turn back again.

3rd Boy. Impossible! Lord John has just given his promise to Wheeler. I heard him with my own ears.

(Several speak at once.) And I heard him; and I! and I! and I!—Huzza! Wheeler for ever!

Rory. Oh, murder! murder! murder! (Aside.) This goes to my heart! it's all my doing. O, my poor Talbot!— murder! murder! murder! But I won't let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events. Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza! (Exit.)

Enter WHEELER and BURSAL.

Wheel. Who was that huzzaing for Talbot?

(Rory behind the scenes, "Huzza for Talbot! Talbot for ever! huzza!")

Burs. Pooh, it is only Rory O'Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him. Ha! ha! ha! Rory O'Ryan, alias O'Ryan, the roaring lion; that's a good one; put it about—Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion, ha! ha! ha! but you don't take it—you don't laugh, Wheeler.

Wheeler. Ha! ha! ha! O, upon my honour I do laugh; ha! ha! ha! (Aside). It is the hardest work to laugh at his wit. (Aloud.) Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion—ha! ha! ha! You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes—he! he! he!—ready to kill myself.

Burs. (sullenly). You are easily killed, then, if that much laughing will do the business.

Wheel. (coughing). Just then—something stuck in my throat; I beg your pardon.

Burs. (still sullen). Oh, you need not beg my pardon about the matter. I don't care whether you laugh or no—not I. Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose.

Wheel. No, upon my word and honour, I DID laugh.

Burs. (aside). A fig for your word and honour. (Aloud.) I know I'm of no consequence now; but you'll remember, that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must have the honour to pay for your captain's accoutrements; for I sha'n't pay the piper, I promise you, since I'm of no consequence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wheel. Are you? Why, aren't you twice as rich as he!

Burs. Very true, but I'm not purse-proud.

Wheel. You purse-proud! I should never have thought of such a thing.

Burs. Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word.

Wheel. But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has a purse.

Burs. (aside). Well, this Wheeler does put one into a good humour with one's self in spite of one's teeth. (Aloud.) Talbot says blunt things; but I don't think he's what you can call clever—hey, Wheeler?

Wheel. Clever? Oh, not he.

Burs. I think I could walk round him.

Wheel. To be sure you could. Why, do you know, I've quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour!

Burs. Indeed! I wish I had been by.

Wheel. So do I, 'faith! It was the best thing. I wanted, you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the field clear for electioneering to-day. So I bowls up to him with a long face—such a face as this. Mr. Talbot, do you know—I'm sorry to tell you, here's Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill. Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has BROKE her leg, and there she's lying at a farmhouse, two miles off. Is not it true, Jack? said I. I saw the farmer helping her in with my own eyes, cries Jack. Off goes Talbot like an arrow. Quizzed him, quizzed him! said I.

Burs. Ha! ha! ha! quizzed him indeed, with all his cleverness; that was famously done.

Wheel. Ha! ha! ha! With all his cleverness he will be all the evening hunting for the farmhouse and the mother that has broke her leg; so he is out of our way.

Burs. But what need have you to want him out of your way, now Lord John has come over to your side? You have the thing at a dead beat.

Wheel. Not so dead either; for there's a great independent party, you know; and if YOU don't help me, Bursal, to canvass them, I shall be no captain. It is you I depend upon after all. Will you come and canvass them with me? Dear Bursal, pray—all depends upon you.

(Pulls him by the arm—Bursal follows.)

Burs. Well, if all depends upon me, I'll see what I can do for you. (Aside.) Then I am of some consequence! Money makes a man of some consequence, I see; at least with some folks.



SCENE II.

In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned. In front, a party of country lads and lasses, gaily dressed, as in sheep-shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc., are dancing and singing.

Enter PATTY, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb in her arms. The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her.

1st Peasant. Oh, here comes Patty! Here comes the Queen o' the day. What has kept you from us so long, Patty?

2nd Peasant. "Please your Majesty," you should say.

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

1st Peasant. Pretty creature—or, your Majesty, whichever you choose to be called—come and dance with them, and I'll carry your lamb. (Exeunt, singing and dancing.)

Enter FARMER HEARTY and TALBOT.

Farmer. Why, young gentleman, I'm glad I happened to light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther astray, and set your heart at ease like.

Talb. Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease, indeed. But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly—more fool I.

Farm. No fool at all, to my notion. I should, at your age, ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, that way, of my own mother's having broke her leg or so. And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that frighted you, than for you to be frighted. How young gentlemen, now, can bring themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can't noways get over.

Talb. Oh, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and I don't just now like the wit of them. This is fun, this is quizzing; but you don't know what we young gentlemen mean by quizzing.

Farm. Ay, but I do though, to my cost, ever since last year. Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat. Well, it was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jackanapes—

Talb. Take care what you say, farmer; for I am a young Eton jackanapes.

Farm. No; but you be not the young Eton jackanapes that I'm a-thinking on. I tell you it was this time last year, man; he was a-horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting, like.

Talb. I tell you it was this time last year, man, that I was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting.

Farm. Zooks! would you argufy a man out of his wits? You won't go for to tell me that you are that impertinent little jackanapes!

Talb. No! no! I'll not tell you that I am an impertinent little jackanapes!

Farm (wiping his forehead). Well, don't then, for I can't believe it; and you put me out. Where was I?

Talb. Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.

Farm. Ay, so he was. "Here, YOU," says he, meaning me—"open this gate for me." Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have gainsaid him: but he falls to swearing, so I bid him open the gate for himself. "There's a bull behind you, farmer," says he. I turns. "Quizzed him!" cries my jackanapes, and off he gallops him, through the very thick of my corn; but he got a fall, leaping the ditch out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the minute. So I goes up to see whether he was killed; but he was not a whit the worse for his tumble. So I should ha' fell into a passion with him then, to be sure, about my corn; but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I couldn't say anything to him; for I was a- pitying the poor animal. As fine a hunter as ever you saw! I am sartain sure he could never come to good after.

Talb. (aside). I do think, from the description, that this was Wheeler; and I have paid for the horse which he spoiled! (Aloud.) Should you know either the man or the horse again, if you were to see them?

Farm. Ay, that I should, to my dying day.

Talb. Will you come with me, then, and you'll do me some guineas' worth of service?

Farm. Ay, that I will, with a deal of pleasure; for you be a civil spoken young gentleman; and, besides, I don't think the worse on you for being FRIGHTED a little about your mother; being what I might ha' been, at your age, myself; for I had a mother myself once. So lead on, master. (Exeunt.)

END OF THE SECOND ACT.



ACT THE THIRD.



SCENE I.

The garden of the "Windmill Inn," at Salt Hill.

MISS BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY, the Chambermaid.

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

Miss Bursal. Where am I? Where am I?

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

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

Miss B. Better! Oh, I shall never be better! (Leans her head on hand, and rocks herself backwards and forwards.)

Landlady. My dear young lady, don't take on so. (Aside.) Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said to this one, and what's the matter at the bottom of affairs. Sally, did you hear anything at the doors?

Sally (aside). No, indeed, ma'am; I never BE'S at the doors.

Landlady (aside). Simpleton! (Aloud.) But, my dear Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold—if you'd only disembosom your mind of what's on it—

Miss B. Disembosom my mind! Nonsense! I've nothing on my mind. Pray leave me, madam.

Landlady (aside). Madam, indeed! madam, forsooth! Oh, I'll make her pay for that! That MADAM shall go down in the bill, as sure as my name's Newington. (Landlady, in a higher tone.) Well, I wish you better, ma'am. I suppose I'd best send your own servant?

Miss B. (sullenly). Yes, I suppose so. (To Sally.) You need not wait, child, nor look so curious.

Sally. CUR'OUS! Indeed, miss, if I look a little CUR'OUS, or so (looking at her dress), 'tis only because I was FRIGHTED to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, when I came out; and this apron- -

Miss B. Hush! Hush! child. Don't tell me about clean aprons, nor run on with your vulgar talk. Is there ever a seat one can set on in that Harbour yonder?

Sally. O dear 'ART, yes, miss; 'tis the pleasantest Harbour on Hearth. Be pleased to lean on my Harm, and you'll soon be there.

Miss B. (going). Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody INTERUDE on me—do you 'EAR? (Aside.) Oh, what will become of me? and the Talbots will soon know it! And the ponies, and the curricle, and the vis-a-vis—what will become of them? and how shall I make my appearance at the Montem, or any WARE else?



SCENE II.

LORD JOHN—WHEELER—BURSAL.

Wheeler. Well, but my lord—Well, but Bursal—though my Lady Piercefield—though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won't leave us all at sixes and sevens. What can we do without you?

Lord J. You can do very well without me.

Bursal. You can do very well without me.

Wheel. (to Burs.). Impossible!—impossible! You know Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and we have to try them on.

Burs. And to pay for them.

Wheel. And to settle about the procession. And then, my lord, the election is to come on this evening. You won't go till that's over, as your lordship has PROMISED me your lordship's vote and interest.

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

Burs. (whistling). Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Wheeler, the principal's nothing without the interest.

Wheel. Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of course; for I'm persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord's friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the contrary.

Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them to themselves.

Burs. (still whistling). Well, I'll do my best to make that father of mine send me off to Oxford. I'm sure I'm fit to go—along with Wheeler. Why, you'd best be my tutor, Wheeler!—a devilish good thought.

Wheel. An excellent thought.

Burs. And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford, with your Montem money and all!—Money's THE GO after all. I wish it was come to my making you my last bow, "ye distant spires, ye ANTIC towers!"

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

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

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

Wheel. 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."