"Cry! bless me," said Mrs. Theresa, "mighty odd! very extraordinary! but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread by their oddities. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder—what will you have? a glass of cowslip-wine?"

"Oh no, thank you, ma'am," said Frederick.

"Oh yes; indeed you must not leave me without taking something; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon. I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. "It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the cowslip-wine in a minute."

"But, Sophy! and papa and mamma, you know, will come home presently," said Marianne.

"Oh! Miss Sophy has her books and drawings. You know she's never afraid of being alone. Besides, to-night it was her own choice. And as to your papa and mamma, they won't be home to-night, I'm pretty sure; for a gentleman, who had it from their own authority, told me where they were going, which is further off than they think; but they did not consult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to sleep out; so you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles."

The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles and the cowslip-wine. "Christopher! Christopher!" said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door, when it opened, "Christopher! pray bring—Do you hear?" but no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent. It was so dark, that their forms could scarcely be discerned.

"In the name of heaven, who and what may you be? Speak, I conjure you! what are ye?"

"The chimney-sweepers, ma'am, an' please your ladyship."

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a- laughing.

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. "Chimney-sweepers! and could not you say so a little sooner? Pray, what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?"

"The bell rang, ma'am,", answered a squeaking voice.

"The bell rang! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or drunk."

"Ma'am," said the tallest of the chimney-sweepers, who had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt manner; "ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when the bell rang; so we did."

"My brother? I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. Theresa.

"Mr. Eden, madam."

"Ho, ho!" said Mrs. Tattle, in a more complacent tone, "the boy takes me for Miss Bertha Eden, I perceive"; and, flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney-sweeper for a young and handsome lady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and informed him "that they had mistaken the room; and they must go up another pair of stairs, and turn to the left."

The chimney-sweeper with the squeaking voice bowed, thanked her ladyship for this information, said, "Good night to ye, quality"; and they both moved towards the door.

"Stay," said Mrs. Tattle, whose curiosity was excited; "what can the Edens want with chimney-sweepers at this time o' night, I wonder? Christopher, did you hear anything about it?" said the lady to her footman, who was now lighting the candles.

"Upon my word, ma'am," said the servant, "I can't say; but I'll step down below and inquire. I heard them talking about it in the kitchen; but I only got a word here and there, for I was hunting for the snuff-dish, as I knew it must be for candles when I heard the bell ring, ma'am; so I thought to find the snuff-dish before I answered the bell, for I knew it must be for candles you rang. But, if you please, I'll step down now, ma'am, and see about the chimney-sweepers."

"Yes, step down, do; and, Christopher, bring up the cowslip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne."

Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her; for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman. She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in her father and mother, and she did not like them.

"Well," said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was now returned, "what is the news?"

"Ma'am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has been telling me the whole story. The other morning, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row. Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney. The other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry; but in his fright, and all, he did not know what to do, ma'am; for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make attend to his screech; the boy within almost stifling too. So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk."

"Ay," interrupted Mrs. Theresa, "friend Ephraim is one of your early risers."

"Well," said Marianne, impatiently.

"So, ma'am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep; and at once he understands the matter—"

"I'm sure he must have taken some time to understand it," interposed Mrs. Tattle, "for he's the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the sweep did make him hear."

"So he says, ma'am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma'am."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; "but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?

"Why, ma'am," said Christopher, with a look of great delight, "that was all as one, as the very 'dentical words I put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, ma'am, that was what I couldn't get out of him, neither, rightly, for he is a churl—the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean; for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he wouldn't take it laughing like at all; but would only make answer to us like a bear, 'He saved my life, that's all I know'; and this over again, ma'am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. But I finds him stupid and ill-mannered like, for I offered him a shilling, ma'am, myself, to tell about the wig; but he put it back in a way that did not become such as he, to no lady's butler, ma'am; whereupon I turns to the slim fellow (and he's smarterer, and more mannerly, ma'am, with a tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve me my question either; for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o' the time: and when he came down Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma'am."

"Poor Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Marianne.

"Oh, miss," continued the servant, "and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed."

"Well, well! but he's alive now; go on with your story, Christopher," said Mrs. T. "Chimney-sweepers get wedged in chimneys every day; it's part of their trade, and it's a happy thing when they come off with a few bruises.* To be sure," added she, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked displeased at this speech, "to be sure, if one may believe this story, there was some real danger."

*This atrocious practice is now happily superseded by the use of sweeping machines.

"Real danger! yes, indeed," said Marianne; "and I'm sure I think Mr. Eden was very good."

"Certainly it was a most commendable action, and quite providential. So I shall take an opportunity of saying, when I tell the story in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind stars, I'm sure, to the end of his days, for such an escape—But pray, Christopher," said she, persisting in her conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the cloth for supper, "pray, which house was it in Paradise Row? where the Eagles or the Miss Ropers lodge? or which?"

"It was at my Lady Battersby's, ma'am."

"Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, "I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent! This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly! Old Eden, I know, has long wanted to obtain an introduction into that house; and a charming charitable expedient hit upon! My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things."



CHAPTER III.

"Now," continued Mrs. Theresa, turning to Frederick, as soon as the servant had left the room, "now, Mr. Frederick Montague, I have a favour- -such a favour—to ask of you; it's a favour which only you can grant; you have such talents, and would do the thing so admirably; and my Lady Battersby would quite adore you for it. She will do me the honour to be here to spend an evening to-morrow. I'm convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themselves obliged to stay out another day, and I so long to show you off to her ladyship; and your Doctor Carbuncle, and your Counsellor Puff, and your Miss Croker, and all your charming characters. You must let me introduce you to her ladyship to-morrow evening. Promise me."

"Oh, ma'am," said Frederick, "I cannot promise you any such thing, indeed. I am much obliged to you; but indeed I cannot come."

"Why not, my dear sir? why not? You don't think I mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and mamma will be home."

"If they do come home, I will ask them about it," said Frederick, hesitating; for though he by no means wished to accept the invitation, he had not yet acquired the necessary power of decidedly saying No.

"Ask them!" repeated Mrs. Theresa. "My dear sir, at your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such things?"

"Must! no, ma'am," said Frederick; "but I said I would. I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself almost about everything."

"And about this, I am sure," cried Marianne. "Papa and mamma, you know, just as they were going away, said, 'If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best'"

"Well, then," said Mrs. Theresa, "you know it rests with yourselves, if you may do as you please."

"To be sure I may, madam," said Frederick, colouring from that species of emotion which is justly called false shame, and which often conquers real shame; "to be sure, ma'am, I may do as I please."

"Then I may make sure of you," said Mrs. Theresa; "for now it would be downright rudeness to tell a lady you won't do as she pleases. Mr. Frederick Montague, I'm sure, is too wellbred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a thing!"

The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old principles. From the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children act like fools. But all this they feel only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.

"Ma'am," Frederick began, "I don't mean to be rude; but I hope you'll excuse me from coming to drink tea with you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not acquainted with Lady Battersby, and maybe they might not like—"

"Take care, take care," said Mrs. Theresa, laughing at his perplexity: "you want to get off from obliging me, and you don't know how. You had very nearly made a most shocking blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. Now you know it's impossible that Mr. and Mrs. Montague could have in nature the slightest objection to introducing you to my Lady Battersby at my own house; for, don't you know, that, besides her ladyship's many unquestionable qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed, to the Trotters of Lancashire—your mother's great favourites? And there is not a person at the Wells, I'll venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go the balls, which it's to be supposed she will, some time or other; and as you are so good a brother, that's a thing to be looked to, you know. Besides, as to yourself, there's nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she'll quite adore you!"

"But I don't want her to adore me, ma'am," said Frederick, bluntly; then, correcting himself, added, "I mean for being a mimic."

"Why not, my love? Between friends, can there be any harm in showing one's talents? You that have such talents to show. She'll keep your secret, I'll answer for her; and," added she, "you needn't be afraid of her criticism; for, between you and me, she's no great critic; so you'll come. Well, thank you, that's settled. How you have made me beg and pray! but you know your own value, I see; as you entertaining people always do. One must ask a wit, like a fine singer, so often. Well, but now for the favour I was going to ask you."

Frederick looked surprised; for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant: but she explained herself farther.

"As to the old Quaker who lodges above, old Ephraim Eden—my Lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about him. He is the best character, the oddest creature! If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-brimmed hat! One knows him a mile off! But then his voice and way, and altogether, if one could get them to the life, they'd be better than anything on the stage; better even than anything I've seen to-night; and I think you'd make a capital Quaker for my Lady Battersby; but then the thing is, one can never get to hear the old quiz talk. Now you, who have so much invention and cleverness—I have no invention myself; but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so that you might get him by heart? I'm sure you, who are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him, for half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one with laughing. But I have no invention."

"Oh, as to the invention," said Frederick, "I know an admirable way of doing the thing, if that is all; but then remember, I don't say I will do the thing, for I will not. But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing him, without his knowing me to be there."

"Oh, tell it me, you charming, clever creature!"

"But, remember, I do not say I will do it."

"Well, well, let us hear it; and you shall do as you please afterwards. Merciful goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, "do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round, and thought I heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room!"

"So did I, Frederick, I declare," cried Marianne, laughing, "I never heard anything so like his voice in my life."

Frederick imitated the squeaking voice of this chimney-sweeper to great perfection.

"Now," continued he, "this fellow is just my height. The old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to change clothes with the chimney- sweeper, I'll answer for it, would never know me."

"Oh, it's an admirable invention! I give you infinite credit for it!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. "It shall, it must be done. I'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute."

"Oh, no; do not ring," said Frederick, stopping her hand, "I don't mean to do it. You know you promised that I should do as I pleased. I only told you my invention."

"Well, well; but only let me ring, and ask whether the chimney-sweepers are below. You shall do as you please afterwards."

"Christopher, shut the door. Christopher," said she to the servant who came up when she rang, "pray are the sweeps gone yet?"

"No, ma'am."

"But have they been up to old Eden yet?"

"Oh, no, ma'am; nor be not to go till the bell rings; for Miss Bertha, ma'am, was asleep a-lying down, and her brother wouldn't have her wakened on no account whatsomever. He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though; but wouldn't have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no account. But Miss Bertha's bell will ring when she wakens for the sweeps, ma'am. 'Twas she wanted to see the boy as her brother saved, and I suppose sent for him to give him something charitable, ma'am."

"Well, never mind your suppositions," said Mrs. Theresa; "run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney-sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don't let the other bear come up with him."

Christopher, who had curiosity, as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.

"That will do, Christopher! Christopher, that will do, I say," Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to say, "Christopher, you may go," before he would depart.

"Now," said she to Frederick, "step in here to the next room with this candle, and you'll be equipped in an instant. Only just change clothes with the boy; only just let me see what a charming chimney-sweeper you'd make. You shall do as you please afterwards."

"Well, I'll only change clothes with him, just to show you for one minute."

"But," said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa whilst Frederick was changing his clothes, "I think Frederick is right about—"

"About what, love?"

"I think he is in the right not to go up, though he can do it so easily, to see that gentleman; I mean on purpose to mimic and laugh at him afterwards. I don't think that would be quite right."

"Why, pray, Miss Marianne?"

"Why, because he is so good-natured to his sister. He would not let her be wakened."

"Dear, it's easy to be good in such little things; and he won't have long to be good to her neither; for I don't think she will trouble him long in this world, anyhow."

"What do you mean?" said Marianne.

"That she'll die, child."

"Die! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks! How sorry her poor, poor brother will be! But she will not die, I'm sure, for she walks about and runs upstairs so lightly! Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope."

"If I'm mistaken, Dr. Panado Cardamum's mistaken too, then, that's my comfort. He says, unless the waters work a miracle, she stands a bad chance; and she won't follow my advice, and consult the doctor for her health."

"He would frighten her to death, perhaps," said Marianne. "I hope Frederick won't go up to disturb her."

"Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden; how can your brother disturb her more than the real chimney-sweeper?"

"But I don't think it's right," persisted Marianne, "and I shall tell him so."

"Nay, Miss Marianne, I don't commend you now. Young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and I presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what's right as well as Miss Marianne. Hush! here he is. Oh, the capital figure!" cried Mrs. Theresa. "Bravo, bravo!" cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney- sweeper's dress; and as he spoke, saying, "I'm afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your ladyship's carpet," she broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him "her charming chimney-sweeper!" and repeating that she knew beforehand the character would do for him.

Mrs. Theresa instantly rang the bell, in spite of all expostulation— ordered Christopher to send up the other chimney-sweeper—triumphed in observing that Christopher did not know Frederick when he came into the room; and offered to lay any wager that the other chimney-sweeper would mistake him for his companion. And so he did; and when Frederick spoke, the voice was so very like, that it was scarcely possible that he should have perceived the difference.

Marianne was diverted by this scene; but she started, when in the midst of it they heard a bell ring.

"That's the lady's bell, and we must go," said the blunt chimney-sweeper.

"Go, then, about your business," said Mrs. Theresa, "and here's a shilling for you, to drink, my honest fellow. I did not know you were so much bruised when I first saw you. I won't detain you. Go," said she, pushing Frederick towards the door. Marianne sprang forward to speak to him; but Mrs. Theresa kept her off; and, though Frederick resisted, the lady shut the door upon him by superior force, and, having locked it, there was no retreat. Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frederick's return.

"I hear them," cried Marianne, "I hear them coming downstairs." They listened again, and all was silent. At length they suddenly heard a great noise of many steps in the hall.

"Merciful!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, "it must be your father and mother come back." Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall. The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people, all the servants in the house having gathered together.

As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face. His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. "Merciful! what will become of me?" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. "Bleeding! he'll bleed to death! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? A key, a large key down his back—a key—has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! cobwebs! a puff ball! for mercy's sake! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? Gracious me! he'll bleed to death, I believe."

"He'll bleed to death! Oh, my brother!" cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, "Sophy, oh, Sophy! come down this minute, or he'll be dead! My brother's bleeding to death! Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he'll be dead!"

"Let go the basin, you," said Christopher, pulling the basin out of the chimney-sweeper's hand, who had all this time stood in silence; "you are not fit to hold the basin for a gentleman."

"Let him hold it," said Frederick; "he did not mean to hurt me."

"That's more than he deserves. I'm certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he'd no business to go to fight—such a one as he—with a gentleman."

"I did not know he was a gentleman!" said the chimney-sweeper, "how could I?"

"How could he, indeed!" said Frederick; "he shall hold the basin."

"Gracious me! I'm glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate," cried Mrs. Theresa. "And here comes Miss Sophy, too."

"Sophy!" cried Frederick. "Oh, Sophy, don't you come—don't look at me; you'll despise me."

"My brother! where? where?" said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.

"It's Frederick," said Marianne: "that's my brother."

"Miss Sophy, don't be alarmed," Mrs. Theresa began; "but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha—"

At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. "Oh, Miss Bertha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. "Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven's sake." But she pressed forward.

"It's my brother, will he die?" cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. "Will he bleed to death?"

"No, my love!" answered a sweet voice: "do not frighten thyself."

"I've done bleeding," said Frederick.

"Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout," cried Mrs. Tattle. "Miss Bertha, it's nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma'am. You see he's stopped bleeding. I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his eye, but I see it's only his nose. All's well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we'll keep your counsel. Pray, ma'am, let us ask no questions; it's only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I'll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us."

"Do not be afraid of thy father and mother. They are surely thy best friends," said a voice. It was the voice of an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick.

"Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Eden," said Frederick, turning to him.

"Don't betray me! for goodness' sake!" whispered Mrs. Tattle, "say nothing about me."

"I'm not thinking about you. Let me speak," cried he, pushing away her hand, which stopped his mouth. "I shall say nothing about you, I promise you," said Frederick, with a look of contempt.

"No, but for your own sake, my dear sir, your papa and mamma. Bless me! is not that Mrs. Montague's carriage?"

"My brother, ma'am," said Sophy, "is not afraid of my father and mother's coming back. Let him speak; he was going to speak the truth."

"To be sure, Miss Sophia, I wouldn't hinder him from speaking the truth; but it's not proper, I presume, ma'am, to speak truth at all times, and in all places, and before everybody, servants and all. I only wanted, ma'am, to hinder your brother from exposing himself. A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanation."

"Here," said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, which was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle's. "Here is a place," said he to Frederick, "where thou mayst speak the truth at all times, and before everybody."

"Nay, my room's at Mr. Frederick Montague's service, and my door's open too. This way, pray," said she, pulling his arm. But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.

"Oh, sir, will you forgive me?" cried he.

"Forgive thee!—and what have I to forgive!"

"Forgive, brother, without asking what," said Bertha, smiling.

"He shall know all!" cried Frederick; "all that concerns myself, I mean. Sir, I disguised myself in this dress; I came up to your room to-night on purpose to see you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The chimney-sweeper, where is he?" said Frederick, looking round; and he ran into the hall to see for him. "May he come in? he may—he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful boy. He never guessed who I was. After we left you we went down to the kitchen together, and there, fool as I was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy said he would not stand by and hear you laughed at; that you had saved his life; that I ought to be ashamed of myself; that you had just given me half a crown; and so you had; but I went on, and told him I'd knock him down if he said another word. He did; I gave the first blow; we fought; I came to the ground; the servants pulled me up again. They found out, I don't know how, that I was not a chimney- sweeper. The rest you saw. And now can you forgive me, sir?" said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his hand.

"The other hand, friend," said the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which everybody now observed was much swelled, and putting it into his bosom again. "This, and welcome," offering his other hand to Frederick, and shaking his with a smile.

"Oh, that other hand!" said Frederick, "that was hurt, I remember. How ill I have behaved—extremely ill! But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman."

"And like a man—and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt," said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick's hand affectionately; "or I am much mistaken, friend, in that black countenance."

"You are not mistaken," cried Marianne. "Frederick will never be persuaded again by anybody to do what he does not think right: and now, brother, you may wash your black countenance."

Just when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague. "What will you do now?" whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.

"A chimney-sweeper covered with blood!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.

"Father, I am Frederick," said he, stepping forward towards them, as they stood in astonishment.

"Frederick! my son!"

"Yes, mother, I'm not hurt half so much as I deserve; I'll tell you—"

"Nay," interrupted Bertha, "let my brother tell the story this time. Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better."

"A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure," said Mrs. Theresa; "but Mr. Eden will certainly make the best of it."

Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words. "Your son," concluded he, "will quickly put off his dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper? He will want to go home," said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa. Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.

"Here is a catastrophe indeed! Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit of clothes!—the bare faced villain! gone! no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere. The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly. The wretch!—a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I never heard of such a thing! I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion," added Mrs. Theresa.

"Madam," replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much civil contempt, "I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this evening, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future. Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called 'The best mimic in the world.'"



THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.

"The mother of mischief," says an old proverb, "is no bigger than a midge's wing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well!" cried Archer, with affected gaiety, as soon as the doctor had left the room—"Well, I'm content with MY sentence. Genius alone! for me—industry for those who WANT it," added he, with a significant look at De Grey.

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

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

"Come then!" said De Grey, and he ran across the playground to a waste building at the farthest end of it, in which, at the earnest request of the whole community, and with the permission of Dr. Middleton, he had with much pain and ingenuity erected a theatre.

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

"FOLLOW THE MANAGER!" echoed very disagreeably in Archer's ear; but as he could not be LEFT ALONE, he was also obliged to follow the manager. The moment that the door was unlocked, the crowd rushed in: the delight and wonder expressed at the sight was great, and the applause and thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long and loud.

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

"And is THIS your famous playhouse?" cried he. "I wish you had, any of you, seen the playhouse I have been used to?"

These words made a great and visible change in the feelings and opinions of the public. "Who would be a servant of the public? or who would toil for popular applause?" A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators. All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of something better justified to the capricious multitude their disdain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent.

Everyone now began to criticise. One observed, "that the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up." Another attacked the scenes; "Scenes! they were not like real scenes—Archer must know best, because he was used to these things." So everybody crowded to hear something of the OTHER playhouse. They gathered round Archer to hear the description of his playhouse, and at every sentence insulting comparisons were made. When he had done, his auditors looked round, sighed and wished that Archer had been their manager. They turned from De Grey as from a person who had done them an injury. Some of his friends—for he had friends who were not swayed by the popular opinion—felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to express their feelings; but De Grey stopped them, and begged that he might speak for himself.

"Gentlemen," said he, coming forward, as soon as he felt that he had sufficient command of himself. "My friends, I see you are discontented with me and my playhouse. I have done my best to please you; but if anybody else can please you better, I shall be glad of it. I did not work so hard for the glory of being your manager. You have my free leave to tear down—" Here his voice faltered, but he hurried on—"You have my free leave to tear down all my work as fast as you please. Archer, shake hands first, however, to show that there's no malice in the case."

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," said De Grey. Her eye immediately turned upon Archer,—"YOU want something with me," said she, with emphasis.

"I—what do I want?" replied Archer.

"No," said she, changing her tone, "you want nothing—nothing will you ever want, or I am much mistaken in that FACE."

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

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

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

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

"There's good news for my friends!" cried Archer.

"And I'm one of them, remember that," cried Fisher. "And I," "And I," joined a number of voices.

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

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

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

Fisher, who like all weak people was extremely credulous, kept his post immovable in the front row all the time, his mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed upon the gipsy, in whom he felt implicit faith.

Those who have least confidence in their own powers, and who have least expectation from the success of their own exertions, are always most disposed to trust in fortune-tellers and fortune. They hope to WIN, when they cannot EARN; and as they can never be convinced by those who speak sense, it is no wonder they are always persuaded by those who talk nonsense.

"I have a question to put," said Fisher, in a solemn tone.

"Put it, then," said Archer, "what hinders you?"

"But they will hear me," said he, looking suspiciously at De Grey.

"I shall not hear you," said De Grey, "I am going." Everybody else drew back, and left him to whisper his question in the gipsy's ear.

"What is become of my Livy?"

"Your SISTER Livy, do you mean?" said the gipsy.

"No, my LATIN Livy."

The gipsy paused for information. "It had a leaf torn out in the beginning, and I HATE DR. MIDDLETON—"

"Written in it," interrupted the gipsy.

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

"Nobody COULD make it out but ME," replied the gipsy. "But never think to deceive me," said she, shaking her head at him in a manner that made him tremble.

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

"True."

"And when shall I find it?"

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

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

The watch-chain had not deceived the gipsy, for Archer was the richest person in the community. His friends had imprudently supplied him with more money than is usually trusted to boys of his age. Dr. Middleton had refused to give him a larger monthly allowance than the rest of his companions; but he brought to school with him secretly the sum of five guineas. This appeared to his friends and to himself an inexhaustible treasure.

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

It was put to the vote. About ten of the most reasonable of the assembly declared their gratitude and high approbation of their old friend, De Grey; but the numbers were in favour of the new friend. And as no metaphysical distinctions relative to the idea of a majority had ever entered their thoughts, the most numerous party considered themselves as now beyond dispute in the right. They drew off on one side in triumph, and their leader, who knew the consequence of a name in party matters, immediately distinguished his partisans by the gallant name of ARCHERS, stigmatizing the friends of De Grey by the odious epithet of Greybeards.

Amongst the Archers was a class not very remarkable for their mental qualifications; but who, by their bodily activity, and by the peculiar advantages annexed to their way of life, rendered themselves of the highest consequence, especially to the rich and enterprising.

The judicious reader will apprehend that I allude to the persons called day scholars. Amongst these, Fisher was distinguished by his knowledge of all the streets and shops in the adjacent town; and, though a dull scholar, he had such reputation as a man of business, that whoever had commissions to execute at the confectioner's, was sure to apply to him. Some of the youngest of his employers had, it is true, at times complained that he made mistakes of halfpence and pence in their accounts; but as these affairs could never be brought to a public trial, Fisher's character and consequence were undiminished, till the fatal day when his Aunt Barbara forbade his visits to the confectioner's; or, rather, till she requested the confectioner, who had his private reasons for obeying her, not TO RECEIVE her nephew's visits, as he had made himself sick at his house, and Mrs. Barbara's fears for his health were incessant.

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

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

To which the carpenter readily assented, and added, that "gentlemen of spirit never looked to the EXPENSE, but always to the EFFECT." Upon this principle Mr. Chip set to work with all possible alacrity. In a few hours' time he promised to produce a grand effect. High expectations were formed. Nothing was talked of but the new playhouse; and so intent upon it was every head, that no lessons could be got. Archer was obliged, in the midst of his various occupations, to perform the part of grammar and dictionary for twenty different people.

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

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

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

"Gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt your amusements; but, till you have contrary orders from me, no one, on pain of my serious displeasure, must go into THAT building" (pointing to the place where the theatre was erecting). "Mr. Archer, your carpenter is at the door. You will be so good as to dismiss him. I do not think proper to give my reasons for these orders; but you who KNOW me," said the doctor, and his eye turned towards De Grey, "will not suspect me of caprice. I depend, gentlemen, upon your obedience."

To the dead silence with which these orders were received, succeeded in a few minutes a universal groan. "So!" said Townsend, "all our diversion is over." "So," whispered Fisher in the manager's ear, "this is some trick of the Greybeard's. Did you not observe how he looked at De Grey?"

Fired by this thought, which had never entered his mind before, Archer started from his reverie, and striking his hand upon the table, swore that he "would not be outwitted by any Greybeard in Europe—no, nor by all of them put together. The Archers were surely a match for them. He would stand by them, if they would stand by him," he declared, with a loud voice, "against the whole world, and Dr. Middleton himself, with 'LITTLE PREMIUMS' at his right hand."

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

"Why not?" resumed the indignant manager. "Neither Dr. Middleton nor any doctor upon earth shall treat me with injustice. This, you see, is a stroke at me and my party, and I won't bear it."

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

"I'll make him know it, and I'll make YOU know it, too," said Archer. "Before I came here you reigned alone, now your reign is over, Mr. De Grey. Remember my majority this morning, and your theatre last night."

"He has remembered it," said Fisher. "You see, the moment he was not to be our manager, we were to have no theatre, no playhouse, no plays. We must all sit down with our hands before us—all for 'GOOD REASONS' of Dr. Middleton's, which he does not vouchsafe to tell us."

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

"Nonsense!" said De Grey. "WE SHALL NOT SUSPECT HIM OF CAPRICE!"

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Laugh on!" cried the other, furiously. "Come, ARCHERS, follow me. WE shall laugh by-and-by, I promise you." At the door Archer was stopped by Mr. Chip. "Oh, Mr. Chip, I am ordered to discharge you."

"Yes, sir; and here's a little bill—"

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

"Not much over, sir; but if you'll please to look into it, you'll see 'tis for a few things you ordered. The stuff is all laid out and delivered. The paper and the festoon-bordering for the drawing room scene is cut out, and left yAnder within."

"YAnder, within! I wish you had not been in such a confounded hurry— six-and-twenty shillings!" cried he; "but I can't stay to talk about it now. I'll tell you, Mr. Chip," said Archer, lowering his voice, "what you must do for me, my good fellow."

Then, drawing Mr. Chip aside, he begged him to pull down some of the wood work which had been put up, and to cut it into a certain number of wooden bars, of which he gave him the dimensions, with orders to place them all, when ready, under a haystack, which he pointed out.

Mr. Chip scrupled and hesitated, and began to talk of "THE DOCTOR." Archer immediately began to talk of the bill, and throwing down a guinea and a half, the conscientious carpenter pocketed the money directly, and made his bow.

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

"Ay, ay!" said Archer, knowing that he had been cheated, and yet proud of managing a carpenter, "ay, ay! I know the way to manage everybody. Let the things be ready in an hour's time, and hark'e! leave your tools by mistake behind you, and a thousand of twenty-penny nails. Ask no questions, and keep your own counsel like a wise man. Off with you, and take care of 'THE DOCTOR.'"

"Archers, Archers, to the Archers' tree! Follow your leader," cried he, sounding his well known whistle as a signal. His followers gathered round him, and he, raising himself upon the mount at the foot of the tree, counted his numbers, and then, in a voice lower than usual, addressed them thus:—"My friends, is there a Greybeard amongst us? If there is, let him walk off at once, he has my free leave." No one stirred. "Then we are all Archers, and we will stand by one another. Join hands, my friends." They all joined hands. "Promise me not to betray me, and I will go on. I ask no security but your honour." They all gave their honour to be secret and FAITHFUL, as he called it, and he went on. "Did you ever hear of such a thing as a 'BARRING OUT,' my friends?" They had heard of such a thing, but they had only heard of it.

Archer gave the history of a "Barring Out," in which he had been concerned at his school, in which the boys stood out against the master, and gained their point at last, which was a week's more holidays at Easter.* "But if WE should not succeed," said they, "Dr. Middleton is so steady; he never goes back from what he has said."

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

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

"All schoolmasters are tyrants—are not they?" replied Archer; "and is not he a schoolmaster?"

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

"Get!—everything!—what we want!—which is everything to lads of spirit- -victory and liberty! Bar him out till he repeals his tyrannical law; till he lets us into our own theatre again, or till he tells us his 'GOOD REASONS' against it."

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

"Impossible!" cried Archer, "that's the way we are always to be governed by a man in a wig, who says he has good reasons, and can't tell them. Are you fools? Go! go back to De Grey! I see you are all Greybeards. Go! Who goes first?" Nobody would go FIRST. "I will have nothing to do with ye, if ye are resolved to be slaves!" "We won't be slaves!" they all exclaimed at once. "Then," said Archer, "stand out in the right and be free."

*[This custom of "BARRING OUT" was very general (especially in the northern parts of England) during the 17th and 18th centuries, and it has been fully described by Brand and other antiquarian writers.

Dr. Johnson mentions that Addison, while under the tuition of Mr. Shaw, master of the Lichfield Grammar School, led, and successfully conducted, "a plan for BARRING OUT his master. A disorderly privilege," says the doctor, "which, in his time, prevailed in the principal seminaries of education."

In the Gentleman's Magazine of 1828, Dr. P. A. Nuttall, under the signature of II. A. N., has given a spirited sketch of a "BARRING OUT" at the Ormskirk Grammar School, which has since been republished at length (though without acknowledgment), by Sir Henry Ellis, in Bohn's recent edition of Brand's "Popular Antiquities." This operation took place early in the present century, and is interesting from its being, perhaps, the last attempt on record, and also from the circumstance of the writer himself having been one of the juvenile leaders in the daring adventure, "quo rum pars magna fuit,"—Ed.]

"THE RIGHT." It would have taken up too much time to examine what "THE RIGHT" was. Archer was always sure that "THE RIGHT" was what his party chose to do; that is, what he chose to do himself; and such is the influence of numbers upon each other, in conquering the feelings of shame and in confusing the powers of reasoning, that in a few minutes "the right" was forgotten, and each said to himself, "To be sure, Archer is a very clever boy, and he can't be mistaken"; or, "to be sure, Townsend thinks so, and he would not do anything to get us into a scrape"; or, "to be sure, everybody will agree to this but myself, and I can't stand out alone, to be pointed at as a Greybeard and a slave. Everybody thinks it is right, and everybody can't be wrong."

By some of these arguments, which passed rapidly through the mind without his being conscious of them, each boy decided, and deceived himself—what none would have done alone, none scrupled to do as a party. It was determined, then, that there should be a Barring Out. The arrangement of the affair was left to their new manager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience. Obedience, it seems, is necessary, even from rebels to their ringleaders; not reasonable, but implicit obedience.

Scarcely had the assembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, when Fisher, with an important length of face, came up to the manager, and desired to speak one word to him. "My advice to you, Archer, is, to do nothing in this till we have consulted, YOU KNOW WHO, about whether it's right or wrong."

"'YOU KNOW WHO!' Whom do you mean? Make haste, and don't make so many faces, for I'm in a hurry. Who is 'YOU KNOW WHO?'"

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

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

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

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

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

Archer knew too well how to govern fools, to attempt to reason with them; and, instead of laughing any longer at Fisher's ridiculous superstition, he was determined to take advantage of it. He affected to be persuaded of the wisdom of the measure; looked at his watch; urged him to be exact to a moment; conjured him to remember exactly the words of the oracle; and, above all things, to demand the lucky hour and minute when the Barring Out should begin. With these instructions Archer put his watch into the solemn dupe's hand, and left him to count the seconds, till the moment of his appointment, whilst he ran off himself to prepare the oracle.

At a little gate which looked into a lane, through which he guessed that the gipsy must pass, he stationed himself, saw her, gave her half a crown and her instructions, made his escape, and got back unsuspected to Fisher, whom he found in the attitude in which he had left him, watching the motion of the minute hand.

Proud of his secret commission, Fisher slouched his hat, he knew not why, over his face, and proceeded towards the appointed spot. To keep, as he had been charged by Archer, within the letter of the law, he stood BEHIND the forbidden building, and waited some minutes.

Through a gap in the hedge the old woman at length made her appearance, muffled up, and looking cautiously about her. "There's nobody near us!" said Fisher, and he began to be a little afraid. "What answer," said he, recollecting himself, "about my Livy?"

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

Fisher, astonished, put his hand upon his heart, told her all that she knew before, and received the answers that Archer had dictated: "That the Archers should be lucky as long as they stuck to their manager, and to one another; that the Barring Out should end in woe, if not begun precisely as the clock should strike nine on Wednesday night; but if begun in that LUCKY moment, and all obedient to their LUCKY leader, all should end well."

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

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

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

So, as Fisher thought it was possible that Archer, clever as he was, might be disappointed in his supplies, he determined to take secret measures for himself. His Aunt Barbara's interdiction had shut him out of the confectioner's shop; but he flattered himself that he could outwit his aunt; he therefore begged the gipsy to procure him twelve buns by Thursday morning, and bring them secretly to one of the windows of the schoolroom.

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

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

The ambassador having thus, in his opinion, concluded his own and the public business, returned well satisfied with the result, after receiving the gipsy's reiterated promise to tap THREE TIMES at the window on Thursday morning.

The day appointed for the Barring Out at length arrived; and Archer, assembling the confederates, informed them, that all was prepared for carrying their design into execution; that he now depended for success upon their punctuality and courage. He had, within the last two hours, got all their bars ready to fasten the doors and window shutters of the schoolroom; he had, with the assistance of two of the day scholars who were of the party, sent into the town for provisions, at his own expense, which would make a handsome supper for that night; he had also negotiated with some cousins of his, who lived in the town, for a constant supply in future. "Bless me," exclaimed Archer, suddenly stopping in this narration of his services, "there's one thing, after all, I've forgot, we shall be undone without it. Fisher, pray did you ever buy the candles for the playhouse?"

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

"Not for the playhouse, but for the Barring Out. We shall be in the dark, man. You must run this minute, run."

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

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

"For money!" said Fisher, colouring.

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

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

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

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

Away went Fisher. He returned; but not until a considerable time afterwards. They were at supper when he returned. "Fisher always comes in at supper-time," observed one of the Greybeards, carelessly.

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

"I've got the candles," whispered Fisher as he passed by Archer to his place.

"And the tinder-box?" said Archer.

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

A dunce always thinks it clever to cheat even by SOBER LIES. How Mr. Fisher procured the candles and the tinder box without money, and without credit, we shall discover further on.

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

Order and punctuality, it appears, are necessary even in a Barring Out; and even rebellion must have its laws.

The long expected moment at length arrived. De Grey and his friends, unconscious of what was going forward, walked out of the schoolroom as usual at bedtime. The clock began to strike nine. There was one Greybeard left in the room, who was packing up some of his books, which had been left about by accident. It is impossible to describe the impatience with which he was watched, especially by Fisher, and the nine who depended upon the gipsy oracle.

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

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

"Let you out! No, no, my little Greybeard," said Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the window bars. "Look ye here—touch these- -put your hand to them—pull, push, kick—put a little spirit into it, man—kick like an Archer, if you can; away with ye. It's a pity that the king of the Greybeards is not here to admire me. I should like to show him our fortifications. But come, my merry men all, now to the feast. Out with the table into the middle of the room. Good cheer, my jolly Archers! I'm your manager!"

Townsend, delighted with the bustle, rubbed his hands, and capered about the room, whilst the preparations for the feast were hurried forward. "Four candles!—Four candles on the table. Let's have things in style when we are about it, Mr. Manager," cried Townsend. "Places!—Places! There's nothing like a fair scramble, my boys. Let everyone take care of himself. Hallo! Greybeard, I've knocked Greybeard down here in the scuffle. Get up again, my lad, and see a little life."

"No, no," cried Fisher, "he sha'n't SUP with us."

"No, no," cried the manager, "he shan't LIVE with us; a Greybeard is not fit company for Archers."

"No, no," cried Townsend, "evil communication corrupts good manners."

So with one unanimous hiss they hunted the poor little gentle boy into a corner; and having pent him up with benches, Fisher opened his books for him, which he thought the greatest mortification, and set up a candle beside him—"There, now he looks like a Greybeard as he is!" cried they. "Tell me what's the Latin for cold roast beef?" said Fisher, exultingly, and they returned to their feast.

Long and loud they revelled. They had a few bottles of cider. "Give me the corkscrew, the cider sha'n't be kept till it's sour," cried Townsend, in answer to the manager, who, when he beheld the provisions vanishing with surprising rapidity, began to fear for the morrow. "Hang to- morrow!" cried Townsend, "let Greybeards think of to-morrow; Mr. Manager, here's your good health."

The Archers all stood up as their cups were filled to drink the health of their chief with a universal cheer. But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and as Archer bowed to thank the company, a sudden shower from above astonished the whole assembly. They looked up, and beheld the rose of a watering-engine, whose long neck appeared through a trap door in the ceiling. "Your good health, Mr. Manager!" said a voice, which was known to be the gardener's; and in the midst of their surprise and dismay the candles were suddenly extinguished; the trap-door shut down; and they were left in utter darkness.

"The DEVIL!" said Archer."

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

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

"Hold your tongue, blockhead!" said Archer. "Well, boys! were ye never in the dark before? You are not afraid of a shower of rain, I hope. Is anybody drowned?"

"No," said they, with a faint laugh, "but what shall we do here in the dark all night long, and all day to-morrow? We can't unbar the shutters."

"It's a wonder NOBODY ever thought of the trap-door!" said Townsend.

The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager's observation. As the house was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible. Vexed to be out-generalled, and still more vexed to have it remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent exclamations and reproaches against those who were thus so soon discouraged by a trifle; and groping for the tinder-box, he asked if anything could be easier than to strike a light again.* The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further service. Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground. And now for the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of a discontented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight than he was grieved at the disaster itself.

*Lucifer matches were then unknown.—Ed.

"Oh, my hair is all wet!" cried one, dolefully.

"Wring it, then," said Archer.

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

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

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

"It's all wet, and I don't like dry bread by itself; that's no feast."

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

"So you may still; what hinders you?" said Archer. "Sing, and we'll join you, and I should be glad those fellows overhead heard us singing. Begin, Townsend—

"'Come now, all ye social Powers, Spread your influence o'er us'—

Or else—

"'Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never will be slaves.'"

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

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

Archer, who had spent the night as a man who had the cares of government upon his shoulders, rose early in the morning, whilst everybody else was fast asleep. In the night he had resolved the affair of the trap-door, and a new danger had alarmed him. It was possible that the enemy might descend upon them through the trap-door. The room had been built high to admit a free circulation of air. It was twenty feet, so that it was in vain to think of reaching to the trap-door.

As soon as the daylight appeared, Archer rose softly, that he might RECONNOITRE, and devise some method of guarding against this new danger. Luckily there were round holes in the top of the window-shutters, which admitted sufficient light for him to work by. The remains of the soaked feast, wet candles, and broken glass spread over the table in the middle of the room, looked rather dismal this morning.

'A pretty set of fellows I have to manage!" said Archer, contemplating the group of sleepers before him. "It is well they have somebody to think for them. Now if I wanted—which, thank goodness, I don't—but if I did want to call a cabinet council to my assistance, whom could I pitch upon? not this stupid snorer, who is dreaming of gipsies, if he is dreaming of anything," continued Archer, as he looked into Fisher's open mouth. "This next chap is quick enough; but, then, he is so fond of having everything his own way. And this curl pated monkey, who is grinning in his sleep, is all tongue and no brains. Here are brains, though nobody would think it, in this lump," said he, looking at a fat, rolled up, heavy breathing sleeper; "but what signify brains to such a lazy dog? I might kick him for my football this half hour before I should get him awake. This lank jawed harlequin beside him is a handy fellow, to be sure; but, then, if he has hands, he has no head—and he'd be afraid of his own shadow too, by this light, he is such a coward! And Townsend, why, he has puns in plenty; but, when there's any work to be done, he's the worst fellow to be near one in the world—he can do nothing but laugh at his own puns. This poor little fellow that we hunted into the corner has more sense than all of them put together; but then he is a Greybeard."

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

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

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

"Diversion!" cried Townsend; "I'm your man! I'm up—UP TO ANYTHING."

So, under the name of DIVERSION, Archer set Townsend to work at four o'clock in the morning. They had nails, a few tools, and several spars, still left from the wreck of the playhouse. These, by Archer's directions, they sharpened at one end, and nailed them to the ends of several forms.

All hands were now called to clear away the supper things, to erect these forms perpendicularly under the trap-door; and with the assistance of a few braces, a chevaux-de-frise was formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend. At the farthest end of the room they likewise formed a penthouse of the tables, under which they proposed to breakfast, secure from the pelting storm, if it should again assail them through the trap- door. They crowded under the penthouse as soon as it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity paid the workmen for the job.

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

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

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

"It never came into my head that anybody would ever have thought of the ventilator but myself!" exclaimed Archer, in great perplexity. He listened and waited for his cousins; but no cousins came, and at a late hour the company were obliged to breakfast upon the scattered fragments of the last night's feast. That feast had been spread with such imprudent profusion, that little now remained to satisfy the hungry guests.

Archer, who well knew the effect which the apprehension of a scarcity would have upon his associates, did everything that could be done by a bold countenance and reiterated assertions to persuade them that his cousins would certainly come at last and that the supplies were only delayed. The delay, however, was alarming.

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

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

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

What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been employed to no purpose!

It may have surprised the intelligent reader that the gipsy was so punctual to her promise to Fisher, but we must recollect that her apparent integrity was only cunning; she was punctual that she might be employed again, that she might be intrusted with the contribution which, she foresaw, must be raised amongst the famishing garrison. No sooner had she received the money than her end was gained.

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

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

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

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

"Here," said he, striking his hand upon the little boy's shoulder, "here's the only one amongst you who has not uttered one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one bit of bread—a bit that I gave him myself this day. Here!" said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch, "take it—it's mine—I give it to you, though you are a Greybeard; you deserve it. Eat it, and be an Archer. You shall be my captain; will you?" said he, lifting him up in his arm above the rest.

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

Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands. He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it.

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

"Lord!" said Townsend; "it was an excellent joke!"

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

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

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

"I am not going to leave you," cried Archer. "No one shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I'll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment. But this little fellow—take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window. Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard!—this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I'll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his. Touch him who dares!"

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

No sound of merriment was now to be heard—no battledore and shuttlecock- -no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up. Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair. It was eight o'clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have. The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented.

Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding "How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?"

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

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

Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next morning, and when he awoke, he found his hands tied behind him! Three or four boys had just got hold of his feet, which they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were fastening the cord round them.

With all the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and roared to "HIS ARCHERS!"—his friends, his party—for help against the traitors. But all kept aloof. Townsend, in particular, stood laughing and looking on. "I beg your pardon, Archer, but really you look so droll. All alive and kicking! Don't be angry. I'm so weak, I cannot help laughing today."

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

"Ask my party," said Fisher, terrified; "they set me on; ask my party."

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

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

At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing. "Fishermen!" cried he, "FISHERMEN!"

"And why not Fishermen as well as Archers?" cried they. "One party is just as good as another; it is only a question which can get the upper hand; and we had your hands tied just now."

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

At this instant, Archer felt the difference between A GOOD COMPANION and a good friend, a difference which some people do not discover till late in life.

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

"We want something to eat," answered the Fishermen. "What signifies SUCH a party, indeed? and SUCH a manager, who can do nothing for one?"

"And have I done nothing?"

"Don't let's hear any more prosing," said Fisher; "we are too many for you. I've advised my party, if they've a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, as you were; and Dr. Middleton will not let us all off, I daresay." So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of "No, no, no! Don't tie him," was feebly raised.

Archer stood still, but the moment Fisher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, "Archers!" cried he. A voice at this instant was heard at the door. It was De Grey's voice. "I have got a large basket of provisions for your breakfast." A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious public. "Breakfast! Provisions! A large basket! De Grey for ever! Huzza!"

De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would unbar the door nobody should come in with him, and no advantage should be taken of them. This promise was enough even for Archer. "I will let him in," said he, "myself; for I'm sure he'll never break his word." He pulled away the bar; the door opened, and having bargained for the liberty of Melson, the little boy, who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey entered with his basket of provisions, when he locked and barred the door instantly.

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