CHAPTER I.

TALES AND NOVELS,

VOLUME I (of X)

MORAL TALES

By Maria Edgeworth

PREFACE.

It has been somewhere said by Johnson, that merely to invent a story is

no small effort of the human understanding. How much more difficult is

it to construct stories suited to the early years of youth, and, at

the same time, conformable to the complicate relations of modern

society--fictions, that shall display examples of virtue, without

initiating the young reader into the ways of vice--narratives, written

in a style level to his capacity, without tedious detail, or vulgar

idiom! The author, sensible of these difficulties, solicits indulgence

for such errors as have escaped her vigilance.

In a former work the author has endeavoured to add something to the

increasing stock of innocent amusement and early instruction, which

the laudable exertions of some excellent modern writers provide for the

rising generation; and, in the present, an attempt is made to provide

for young people, of a more advanced age, a few Tales, that shall

neither dissipate the attention, nor inflame the imagination.

In a work upon education, which the public has been pleased to notice,

we have endeavoured to show that, under proper management, amusement and

instruction may accompany each other through many paths of literature;

whilst, at the same time, we have disclaimed and reprehended all

attempts to teach in play. Steady, untired attention is what alone

produces excellence. Sir Isaac Newton, with as much truth as modesty,

attributed to this faculty those discoveries in science, which brought

the heavens within the grasp of man, and weighed the earth in a balance.

To inure the mind to athletic vigour is one of the chief objects of

good education; and we have found, as far as our limited experience has

extended, that short and active exertions, interspersed with frequent

agreeable relaxation, form the mind to strength and endurance, better

than long-continued feeble study.

Hippocrates, in describing the robust temperament, tells us that the

_athletae_ prepare themselves for the _gymnasium_ by strong exertion,

which they continued till they felt fatigue; they then reposed till they

felt returning strength and aptitude for labour: and thus, by alternate

exercise and indulgence, their limbs acquire the firmest tone of health

and vigour. We have found, that those who have tasted with the keenest

relish the beauties of Berquin, Day, or Barbauld, pursue a demonstration

of Euclid, or a logical deduction, with as much eagerness, and with more

rational curiosity, than is usually shown by students who are nourished

with the hardest fare, and chained to unceasing labour.

"Forester" is the picture of an eccentric character--a young man who

scorns the common forms and dependencies of civilized society; and

who, full of visionary schemes of benevolence and happiness, might, by

improper management, or unlucky circumstances, have become a fanatic and

a criminal.

The scene of "The Knapsack" is laid in Sweden, to produce variety; and

to show that the rich and poor, the young and old, in all countries, are

mutually serviceable to each other; and to portray some of those virtues

which are peculiarly amiable in the character of a soldier.

"Angelina" is a female Forester. The nonsense of _sentimentality_ is

here aimed at with the shafts of ridicule, instead of being combated

by serious argument. With the romantic eccentricities of Angelina are

contrasted faults of a more common and despicable sort. Miss Burrage is

the picture of a young lady who meanly flatters persons of rank; and

who, after she has smuggled herself into good company, is ashamed to

acknowledge her former friends, to whom she was bound by the strongest

ties of gratitude.

"Mademoiselle Panache" is a sketch of the necessary consequences of

imprudently trusting the happiness of a daughter to the care of those

who can teach nothing but accomplishments.

"The Prussian Vase" is a lesson against imprudence, and on exercise of

judgment, and an eulogium upon our inestimable trial by jury. This tale

is designed principally for young gentlemen who are intended for the

bar.

"The Good Governess" is a lesson to teach the art of giving lessons.

In "The Good Aunt," the advantages which a judicious early education

confers upon those who are intended for public seminaries are pointed

out. It is a common error to suppose that, let a boy be what he may,

when sent to Eton, Westminster, Harrow, or any great school, he will

be moulded into proper form by the fortuitous pressure of numbers; that

emulation will necessarily excite, example lead, and opposition polish

him. But these are vain hopes: the solid advantages which may be

attained in these large nurseries of youth must be, in a great measure,

secured by previous domestic instruction.

These Tales have been written to illustrate the opinions delivered in

"Practical Education." As their truth has appeared to me to be confirmed

by increasing experience, I sat down with pleasure to write this preface

for my daughter. It is hoped that the following stories will afford

agreeable relaxation from severer studies, and that they will be

thought--what they profess to be--_Moral_ Tales.

R.L. EDGEWORTH

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

FORESTER

THE PRUSSIAN VASE

THE GOOD AUNT

ANGELINA; OR, L'AMIE INCONNUE.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS

MADEMOISELLE PANACHE.

THE KNAPSACK

FORESTER

Forester was the son of an English gentleman, who had paid some

attention to his education, but who had some singularities of opinion,

which probably influenced him in his conduct toward his children.

Young Forester was frank, brave, and generous, but he had been taught to

dislike politeness so much, that the common forms of society appeared to

him either odious or ridiculous; his sincerity was seldom restrained by

any attention to the feelings of others. His love of independence was

carried to such an extreme, that he was inclined to prefer the life

of Robinson Crusoe in his desert island, to that of any individual in

cultivated society. His attention had been early fixed upon the follies

and vices of the higher classes of people; and his contempt for selfish

indolence was so strongly associated with the name of gentleman, that

he was disposed to choose his friends and companions from amongst his

inferiors: the inequality between the rich and the poor shocked him; his

temper was enthusiastic as well as benevolent; and he ardently wished to

be a man, and to be at liberty to act for himself, that he might reform

society, or at least his own neighbourhood. When he was about nineteen

years old, his father died, and young Forester was sent to Edinburgh, to

Dr. Campbell, the gentleman whom his father had appointed his guardian.

In the choice of his mode of travelling his disposition appeared. The

stage-coach and a carrier set out nearly at the same time from Penrith.

Forester, proud of bringing his principles immediately into action, put

himself under the protection of the carrier, and congratulated himself

upon his freedom from prejudice. He arrived at Edinburgh in all the

glory of independence, and he desired the carrier to set him down at Dr.

Campbell's door.

"The doctor is not at home," said the footman, who opened the door.

"He _is_ at home," exclaimed Forester with indignation; "I see him at

the window."

"My master is just going to dinner, and can't see any body now," said

the footman; "but if you will call again at six o'clock, maybe he may

see you, my good lad."

"My name is Forester--let me in," said Forester, pushing-forwards.

"Forester!--Mr. Forester!" said the footman; "the young gentleman that

was expected in the coach to-day?" Without deigning to give the footman

any explanation, Forester took his own portmanteau from the carrier;

and Dr. Campbell came down-stairs just when the footman was officiously

struggling with the young gentleman for his burden. Dr. Campbell

received his pupil very kindly; but Forester would not be prevailed upon

to rub his shoes sufficiently upon the mat at the bottom of the stairs,

or to change his disordered dress before he made his appearance in the

drawing-room. He entered with dirty shoes, a threadbare coat, and hair

that looked as if it never had been combed; and he was much surprised

by the effect which his singular appearance produced upon the risible

muscles of some of the company.

"I have done nothing to be ashamed of," said he to himself; but,

notwithstanding all his efforts to be and to appear at ease, he was

constrained and abashed. A young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, seemed

to enjoy his confusion with malignant, half-suppressed merriment, in

which Dr. Campbell's son was too good-natured, and too well-bred, to

participate. Henry Campbell was three or four years older than Forester,

and _though_ he looked like a gentleman, Forester could not help being

pleased with the manner in which he drew him into conversation. The

secret magic of politeness relieved him insensibly from the torment of

false shame.

"It is a pity this lad was bred up a gentleman," said Forester to

himself, "for he seems to have some sense and goodness."

Dinner was announced, and Forester was provoked at being interrupted in

an argument concerning carts and coaches, which he had begun with Henry

Campbell. Not that Forester was averse to eating, for he was at this

instant ravenously hungry: but eating in company he always found equally

repugnant to his habits and his principles. A table covered with a clean

table-cloth; dishes in nice order; plates, knives, and forks, laid at

regular distances, appeared to our young Diogenes absurd superfluities,

and he was ready to exclaim, "How many things I do not want!" Sitting

down to dinner, eating, drinking, and behaving like other people,

appeared to him difficult and disagreeable ceremonies. He did not

perceive that custom had rendered all these things perfectly easy to

every one else in company; and as soon as he had devoured his food his

own way, he moralized in silence upon the good sense of Sancho Panza,

who preferred eating an egg behind the door to feasting in public; and

he recollected his favourite traveller Le Vaillant's{1} enthusiastic

account of his charming Hottentot dinners, and of the disgust that he

afterwards felt, on the comparison of European etiquette and African

_simplicity_.

{Footnote 1: Le Vaillant's Travels in Africa, vol. i. p. 114.}

"Thank God, the ceremony of dinner is over," said Forester to Henry

Campbell, as soon as they rose from table.

All these things, which seemed mere matter of course in society,

appeared to Forester strange ceremonies. In the evening there were cards

for those who liked cards, and there was conversation for those who

liked conversation. Forester liked neither; he preferred playing with a

cat; and he sat all night apart from the company in a corner of a sofa.

He took it for granted that the conversation could not be worth his

attention, because he heard Lady Catherine Mackenzie's voice amongst

others; he had conceived a dislike, or rather a contempt for this lady,

because she showed much of the pride of birth and rank in her manners.

Henry Campbell did not think it necessary to punish himself for her

ladyship's faults, by withdrawing from entertaining conversation; he

knew that his father had the art of managing the frivolous subjects

started in general company, so as to make them lead to amusement and

instruction; and this Forester would probably have discovered this

evening, had he not followed his own thoughts, instead of listening to

the observations of others. Lady Catherine, it is true, began with a

silly history of her hereditary antipathy for pickled cucumbers; and she

was rather tiresome in tracing the genealogy of this antipathy through

several generations of her ancestry; but Dr. Campbell said "that he had

heard, from an ingenious gentleman of her ladyship's family, that her

ladyship's grandfather, and several of his friends, nearly lost their

lives by pickled cucumbers;" and thence the doctor took occasion to

relate several curious circumstances concerning the effects of different

poisons.

Dr. Campbell, who plainly saw both the defects and the excellent

qualities of his young ward, hoped that, by playful raillery, and by

well-timed reasoning, he might mix a sufficient portion of good sense

with Forester's enthusiasm, might induce him gradually to sympathize in

the pleasures of cultivated society, and might convince him that virtue

is not confined to any particular class of men; that education, in the

enlarged sense of the word, creates the difference between individuals

more than riches or poverty. He foresaw that Forester would form a

friendship with his son, and that this attachment would cure him of his

prejudices against _gentlemen_, and would prevent him from indulging his

taste for vulgar company. Henry Campbell had more useful energy,

though less apparent enthusiasm, than his new companion: he was always

employed; he was really independent, because he had learned how to

support himself either by the labours of his head or of his hands; but

his independence did not render him unsociable; he was always ready

to sympathize with the pleasures of his friends, and therefore he was

beloved: following his father's example, he did all the good in his

power to those who were in distress; but he did not imagine that

he could reform every abuse in society, or that he could instantly

new-model the universe. Forester became, in a few days, fond of

conversing, or rather of holding long arguments, with Henry; but his

dislike to the young laird, Archibald Mackenzie, hourly increased.

Archibald and his mother, Lady Catherine Mackenzie, were relations

to Mrs. Campbell, and they were now upon a visit at her house. Lady

Catherine, a shrewd woman, fond of precedence, and fully sensible of the

importance that wealth can bestow, had sedulously inculcated into the

mind of her son all the maxims of worldly wisdom which she had collected

in her intercourse with society; she had inspired him with family pride,

but at the same time had taught him to pay obsequious court to his

superiors in rank or fortune: the art of rising in the world, she knew,

did not entirely depend upon virtue or ability; she was consequently

more solicitous about her son's manners than his morals, and was more

anxious that he should form high connexions, than that he should apply

to the severe studies of a profession. Archibald was nearly what might

be expected from his education, alternately supple to his superiors, and

insolent to his inferiors: to insinuate himself into the favour of young

men of rank and fortune, he affected to admire extravagance; but his

secret maxims of parsimony operated even in the midst of dissipation.

Meanness and pride usually go together. It is not to be supposed that

young Forester had such quick penetration, that he could discover the

whole of the artful Archibald's character in the course of a few days'

acquaintance; but he disliked him for good reasons, because he was a

laird, because he had laughed at his first entrée, and because he was

learning to dance.

THE SKELETON.

About a week after our hero's arrival at Dr. Campbell's, the doctor was

exhibiting some chemical experiments, with which Henry hoped that his

young friend would be entertained; but Forester had scarcely been five

minutes in the laboratory, before Mackenzie, who was lounging about the

room, sneeringly took notice of a large hole in his shoe. "It is

easily mended," said the independent youth; and he immediately left the

laboratory, and went to a cobbler's, who lived in a narrow lane, at the

back of Dr. Campbell's house. Forester had, from his bed-chamber window,

seen this cobbler at work early every morning; he admired his industry,

and longed to be acquainted with him. The good-humoured familiarity of

Forester's manner pleased the cobbler, who was likewise diverted by the

eagerness of _the young gentleman_ to mend his own shoe. After spending

some hours at the cobbler's stall, the shoe was actually mended, and

Forester thought that his morning's work was worthy of admiration. In

a court (or, as such places are called in Edinburgh, a close) near the

cobbler's, he saw some boys playing at ball: he joined them; and, whilst

they were playing, a dancing-master with his hair powdered, and who

seemed afraid of spattering his clean stockings, passed through the

court, and interrupted the ball players for a few seconds. The boys,

as soon as the man was out of hearing, declared that he passed through

_their_ court regularly twice a day, and that he always kicked their

marbles out of the ring. Without staying to weigh this evidence

scrupulously, Forester received it with avidity, and believed all that

had been asserted was true, because the accused was a dancing-master;

from his education he had conceived an antipathy to dancing-masters,

especially to such as wore silk stockings, and had their heads well

powdered. Easily fired at the idea of any injustice, and eager to

redress the grievances of _the poor,_ Forester immediately concerted

with these boys a scheme to deliver them from what he called the

insolence of the dancing-master, and promised that he would compel him

to go round by another street.

In his zeal for the liberty of his new companions, our hero did not

consider that he was infringing upon the liberties of a man who had

never done him any injury, and over whom he had no right to exercise any

control.

Upon his return to Dr. Campbell's, Forester heard the sound of a violin;

and he found that his enemy, M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master, was

attending Archibald Mackenzie: he learnt, that he was engaged to give

another lesson the next evening; and the plans of the confederates

in the ball-alley were arranged accordingly. In Dr. Campbell's room

Forester remembered to have seen a skeleton in a glass case; he seized

upon it, carried it down to his companions, and placed it in a niche in

the wall, on the landing-place of a flight of stone stairs down which

the dancing-master was obliged to go. A butcher's son (one of Forester's

new companions) he instructed to stand at a certain hour behind the

skeleton, with two rushlights, which he was to hold up to the eye-holes

in the skull.

The dancing-master's steps were heard approaching at the expected hour;

and the boys stood in ambush to enjoy the diversion of the sight. It was

a dark night; the fiery eyes of the skeleton glared suddenly upon the

dancing-master, who was so terrified at the spectacle, and in such haste

to escape, that his foot slipped, and he fell down the stone steps: his

ankle was sprained by the fall, and he was brought to Dr. Campbell's.

Forester was shocked at this tragical end of his intended comedy. The

poor man was laid upon a bed, and he writhed with pain. Forester, with

vehement expressions of concern, explained to Dr. Campbell the cause

of this accident, and he was much touched by the dancing-master's good

nature, who, between every twinge of pain, assured him that he should

soon be well, and endeavoured to avert Dr. Campbell's displeasure.

Forester sat beside the bed, reproaching himself bitterly; and he was

yet more sensible of his folly, when he heard, that the boys, whose

part he had hastily taken, had frequently amused themselves with playing

mischievous tricks upon this inoffensive man, who declared, that he had

never purposely kicked their marbles out of the ring, but had always

implored them to make way for him with all the civility in his power.

Forester resolved, that before he ever again attempted to do justice, he

would, at least, hear both sides of the question.

THE ALARM.

Forester would willingly have sat up all night with M. Pasgrave, to

foment his ankle from time to time, and, if possible, to assuage the

pain: but the man would not suffer him to sit up, and about twelve

o'clock he retired to rest. He had scarcely fallen asleep, when his

door opened, and Archibald Mackenzie roused him, by demanding, in

a peremptory tone, how he could sleep when the whole family were

frightened out of their wits by his pranks?

"Is the dancing-master worse? What's the matter?" exclaimed Forester in

great terror.

Archihald replied, that he was not talking or thinking about the

dancing-master, and desired Forester to make haste and dress himself,

and that he would then soon hear what was the matter.

Forester dressed himself as fast as he could, and followed Archibald

through a long passage, which led to a back staircase. "Do you hear the

noise?" said Archibald.

"Not I," said Forester.

"Well, you'll hear it plain enough presently," said Archibald: "follow

me down-stairs."

He followed, and was surprised, when he got into the hall, to find all

the family assembled. Lady Catherine had been awakened by a noise, which

she at first imagined to be the screaming of an infant. Her bedchamber

was on the ground floor, and adjoining to Dr. Campbell's laboratory,

from which the noise seemed to proceed. She awakened her son Archibald

and Mrs. Campbell; and, when she recovered her senses a little, she

listened to Dr. Campbell, who assured her, that what her ladyship

thought was the screaming of an infant was the noise of a cat: the

screams of this cat were terrible; and, when the light approached the

door of the laboratory, the animal flew at the door with so much fury,

that nobody could venture to open it. Every body looked at Forester, as

if they suspected that he had confined the cat, or that he was in some

way or other the cause of the disturbance. The cat, which, from his

having constantly fed and played with it, had grown extremely fond of

him, used to follow him often from room to room; and he now recollected,

that it followed him the preceding evening into the laboratory, when he

went to replace the skeleton. He had not observed whether it came out

of the room again, nor could he now conceive the cause of its yelling

in this horrible manner. The animal seemed to be mad with pain. Dr.

Campbell asked his son whether all the presses were locked. Henry said

he was sure they were all locked. It was his business to lock them every

evening; and he was so exact, that nobody doubted his accuracy.

Archibald Mackenzie, who all this time knew, or at least suspected the

truth, held himself in cunning silence. The preceding evening he, for

want of something to do, had strolled into the laboratory, and, with

the pure curiosity of idleness, peeped into the presses, and took the

stoppers out of several of the bottles. Dr. Campbell happened to come

in, and carelessly asked him if he had been looking in the presses; to

which question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive for telling a

falsehood, immediately replied in the negative. As the doctor turned his

head, Archibald put aside a bottle, which he had just before taken out

of the press; and, fearing that the noise of replacing the glass stopper

would betray him, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. How

much useless cunning! All this transaction was now fully present to

Archibald's memory: and he was well convinced that Henry had not seen

the bottle when he afterwards went to lock the presses; that the cat

had thrown it down; and that this was the cause of all the yelling that

disturbed the house. Archibald, however, kept his lips fast closed; he

had told one falsehood; he dreaded to have it discovered; and he hoped

the blame of the whole affair would rest upon Forester. At length the

animal flew with diminished fury at the door; its screams became feebler

and feebler, till, at last, they totally ceased. There was silence: Dr.

Campbell opened the door: the cat was seen stretched upon the ground,

apparently lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor animal, he

saw a twitching motion in one of its hind legs; Dr. Campbell said, that

it was the convulsion of death. Forester was just going to lift up his

cat, when his friend Henry stopped his hand, telling him, that he would

burn himself, if he touched it. The hair and flesh of the cat on one

side were burnt away, quite to the bone. Henry pointed to the broken

bottle, which, he said, had contained vitriolic acid.

Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the bottle of vitriolic acid

had been taken out of its place. Suspicion naturally fell upon Forester,

who, by his own account, was the last person in the room before

the presses had been locked for the night. Forester, in warm terms,

asserted, that he knew nothing of the matter. Dr. Campbell coolly

observed, that Forester ought not to be surprised at being suspected

upon this occasion; because every body had the greatest reason to

suspect the person, whom they had detected in one _practical joke,_ of

planning another.

"Joke!" said Forester, looking down upon his lifeless favourite; "do

you think me capable of such cruelty? Do you doubt my truth?" exclaimed

Forester, haughtily. "You are unjust. Turn me out of your house this

instant. I do not desire your protection, if I have forfeited your

esteem."

"Go to bed for to-night in my house," said Dr. Campbell; "moderate your

enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has passed."

Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a benevolent

smile, as he looked after him, "He wants nothing but a little common

sense. Henry, you must give him a little of yours."

In the morning, Forester first went to inquire how the dancing-master

had slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. Campbell's door.

"My father is not awake," said Henry; but Forester marched directly up

to the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain with no gentle

hand, cried, with a loud voice, "Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your

pardon. I was angry when I said you were unjust."

"And I was asleep when you begged my pardon," said Dr. Campbell, rubbing

his eyes.

"The dancing-master's ankle is a great deal better; and I have buried

the poor cat," pursued Forester: "and I hope now, doctor, you'll at

least tell me, that you do not really suspect me of any hand in her

death."

"Pray let me go to sleep," said Dr. Campbell, "and _time_ your

explanations a little better."

THE GERANIUM.

The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain; and Forester

spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin for him, as his had

been broken in his fall; his watch had likewise been broken against the

stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch as a useless bauble,

yet he determined to get this mended; and his friend Henry went with him

for this purpose to a watchmaker's.

Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with the watchmaker

upon the internal state of the bruised watch, Archibald Mackenzie, who

followed them _for a lounge_, was looking over some new watches, and

ardently wished for the finest that he saw. As he was playing with this

fine watch, the watchmaker begged that he would take care not to break

it.

Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak to a

_tradesman_, replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was able to

pay for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, "he had no doubt of that,

but that the watch was not his property; it was Sir Philip Gosling's,

who would call for it, he expected, in a quarter of an hour."

At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly changed his tone:

he had a great ambition to be of Sir Philip's acquaintance, for Sir

Philip was a young man who was to have a large fortune when he should

come of age, and who, in the meantime, spent as much of it as possible,

with great _spirit_ and little judgment. He had been sent to Edinburgh

for his education; and he spent his time in training horses, laying

bets, parading in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own

phrase, _quizzing_ every sensible young man, who applied to literature

or science. Sir Philip, whenever he frequented any of the professor's

classes, took care to make it evident to every body present, that he did

not come there to learn, and that he looked down with contempt upon

all who were _obliged_ to study; he was the first always to make any

disturbance in the classes, or, in his elegant language, _to make a

row_.

This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archibald Mackenzie was

ambitious. He stayed in the shop, in hopes that Sir Philip would arrive:

he was not disappointed; Sir Philip came, and, with address which

Lady Catherine would perhaps have admired, Archibald entered into

conversation with the young baronet, if conversation that might be

called, which consisted of a species of fashionable dialect, devoid of

sense, and destitute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect

was absolutely unintelligible: after he had listened to it with sober

contempt for a few minutes, he pulled Henry away, saying, "Come, don't

let us waste our time here; let us go to the brewery that you promised

to show me."

Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of his indignant

friend, for at this instant the door of a little back parlour behind

the watchmaker's shop opened slowly, and a girl of about seven years old

appeared, carrying, with difficulty, a flower-pot, in which there was

a fine large geranium in full flower. Henry, who saw that the child

was scarcely able to carry it, took it out of her hands, and asked her,

"Where she would like to have it put?"

"Here, for to-day!" said the little girl, sorrowfully; "but to-morrow it

goes away for ever."

The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, because "she had

watched it all the winter," and said, "that she was very fond of it;

but that she was willing to part with it, though it was just come into

flower, because the apothecary had told her, that it was the cause of

her grandmother's having been taken ill. Her grandmother lodged," she

said, "in _that_ little room, and the room was very close, and she was

taken ill in the night--so ill, that she could hardly speak or stir; and

when the apothecary came, he said," continued the little girl, "it was

no wonder any body was ill, who slept in such a little close room, with

such a great geranium in it, _to poison the air_. So my geranium must

go!" concluded she with a sigh: "but, as it is for grandmother, I shall

never think of it again."

Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with the modest simplicity

of this child's countenance and manner, and they were pleased with the

unaffected generosity with which she gave up her favourite geranium.

Forester noted this down in his mind as a fresh instance in favour of

his _exclusive_ good opinion of the poor. This little girl looked

poor, though she was decently dressed; she was so thin, that her little

cheek-bones could plainly be seen; her face had not the round, rosy

beauty of cheerful health: she was pale and sallow, and she looked in

patient misery. Moved with compassion, Forester regretted that he had no

money to give where it might have been so well bestowed. He was always

_extravagant_ in his generosity; he would often give five guineas where

five shillings would have been enough, and by these means he reduced

himself to the necessity sometimes of refusing assistance to deserving

objects. On his journey from his father's house to Edinburgh, he

lavished, in undistinguishing charity, a considerable sum of money; and

all that he had remaining of this money he spent in purchasing the new

violin for M. Pasgrave. Dr. Campbell absolutely refused to advance his

ward any money till his next quarterly allowance should become due.

Henry, who always perceived quickly what passed in the minds of others,

guessed at Forester's thoughts by his countenance, and forebore to

produce his own money, though he had it just ready in his hand: he knew

that he could call again at the watchmaker's, and give what he pleased,

without ostentation.

Upon questioning the little girl further, concerning her grandmother's

illness, Henry discovered, that the old woman had sat up late at night

knitting, and that, feeling herself extremely cold, she got a pan of

charcoal into her room; that, soon afterwards, she felt uncommonly

drowsy; and when her little grand-daughter spoke to her, and asked her

why she did not come to bed, she made no answer: a few minutes after

this, she dropped from her chair. The child was extremely frightened,

and though she felt it very difficult to rouse herself, she said,

she got up as fast as she could, opened the door, and called to the

watchmaker's wife, who luckily had been at work late, and was now raking

the kitchen fire. With her assistance the old woman was brought into the

air, and presently returned to her senses: the pan of charcoal had been

taken away before the apothecary came in the morning; as he was in a

great hurry when he called, he made but few inquiries, and consequently

condemned the geranium without sufficient evidence. As he left the

house, he carelessly said, "My wife would like that geranium, I think."

And the poor old woman, who had but a very small fee to offer, was eager

to give any thing that seemed to please the _doctor_.

Forester, when he heard this story, burst into a contemptuous

exclamation against the meanness of this and of all other apothecaries.

Henry informed the little girl, that the charcoal had been the cause of

her grandmother's illness, and advised them never, upon any account, to

keep a pan of charcoal again in her bedchamber; he told her, that many

people had been killed by this practice. "Then," cried the little girl,

joyfully, "if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that made

grandmother ill, I may keep my beautiful geranium:" and she ran

immediately to gather some of the flowers, which she offered to Henry

and to Forester. Forester, who was still absorbed in the contemplation

of the apothecary's meanness, took the flowers, without perceiving that

he took them, and pulled them to pieces as he went on thinking. Henry,

when the little girl held the geraniums up to him, observed, that the

back of her hand was bruised and black; he asked her how she had hurt

herself, and she replied innocently, "that she had not hurt _herself_,

but that her schoolmistress was a very _strict_ woman." Forester,

roused from his reverie, desired to hear what the little girl meant by a

_strict_ woman, and she explained herself more fully: she said, that,

as a favour, her grandmother had obtained leave from some great lady to

send her to a charity school: that she went there every day to learn

to read and work, but that the mistress of the charity school used her

scholars very severely, and often kept them for hours, after they had

done their own _tasks_, to spin for her; and that she beat them if they

did not spin as much as she expected. The little girl's grandmother then

said, that she knew all this, but that she did not dare to complain,

because the schoolmistress was under the patronage of some of "the

grandest ladies in Edinburgh," and that, as she could not afford to pay

for her little lass's schooling, she was forced to have her taught as

well as she could _for nothing_.

Forester, fired with indignation at this history of injustice, resolved,

at all events, to stand forth immediately in the child's defence; but,

without staying to consider how the wrong could be redressed, he thought

only of the quickest, or, as he said, the most manly means of doing the

business: he declared, that if the little girl would show him the way to

the school, he would go that instant and speak to the woman in the midst

of all her scholars. Henry in vain represented that this would not be a

prudent mode of proceeding.

Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely to the power of his

own eloquence, he set out with the child, who seemed rather afraid to

come to open war with her tyrant. Henry was obliged to return home to

his father, who had usually business for him to do about this time. The

little girl had stayed at home on account of her grandmother's illness,

but all the other scholars were hard at work, spinning in a close room,

when Forester arrived.

He marched directly into the schoolroom. The wheels stopped at once on

his appearance, and the schoolmistress, a raw-boned, intrepid-looking

woman eyed him with amazement: he broke silence in the following

words:--

"Vile woman, your injustice is come to light! How can you dare to

tyrannize over these poor children? Is it because they are poor? Take my

advice, children, resist this tyrant, put by your wheels, and spin for

her no more."

The children did not move, and the schoolmistress poured out a torrent

of abuse in broad Scotch, which, to the English ear of Forester,

was unintelligible. At length she made him comprehend her principal

questions--Who he was? and by whose authority he interfered between her

and her scholars? "By nobody's authority," was Forester's answer; "I

want no authority to speak in the cause of injured innocence." No sooner

had the woman heard these words, than she called to her husband, who was

writing in an adjoining room: without further ceremony, they both seized

upon our hero, and turned him out of the house.

The woman revenged herself without mercy upon the little girl whom

Forester had attempted to defend, and dismissed her, with advice never

more to complain of being obliged to spin for her mistress.

Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise, Forester returned home,

attributing the failure of his eloquence chiefly to his ignorance of the

Scotch dialect.

THE CANARY BIRD

At his return, Forester heard, that all Dr. Campbell's family were

going that evening to visit a gentleman who had an excellent cabinet of

minerals. He had some desire to see the fossils; but when he came to

the gentleman's house, he soon found himself disturbed at the praises

bestowed by some ladies in company upon a little canary bird, which

belonged to the mistress of the house. He began to kick his feet

together, to hang first one arm and then the other over the back of his

chair, with the obvious expression of impatience and contempt in

his countenance. Henry Campbell, in the meantime, said, without any

embarrassment, just what he thought about the bird. Archibald Mackenzie,

with artificial admiration, said a vast deal more than he thought, in

hopes of effectually recommending himself to the lady of the house.

The lady told him the history of three birds, which had successively

inhabited the cage before the present occupier. "They all died,"

continued she, "in a most _extraordinary_ manner, one after another, in

a short space of time, in convulsions."

"Don't listen," whispered Forester, pulling Henry away from the crowd

who surrounded the bird-cage; "how can you listen, like that polite

hypocrite, to this foolish woman's history of her _extraordinary_

favourites? Come down-stairs with me, I want to tell you my adventure

with the schoolmistress; we can take a turn in the hall, and come back

before the cabinet of minerals is opened, and before these women have

finished the ceremony of tea. Come."

"I'll come presently," said Henry; "I really want to hear this."

Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of the lady's favourite

birds like a polite hypocrite, but like a good-natured sensible person;

the circumstances recalled to his memory the conversation that we

formerly mentioned, which began about pickled cucumbers, and ended with

Dr. Campbell's giving an account of the effects of some poisons. In

consequence of this conversation, Henry's attention had been turned to

the subject, and he had read several essays, which had informed him of

many curious facts. He recollected, in particular, to have met with

the account{2} of a bird that had been poisoned, and whose case bore a

strong resemblance to the present. He begged leave to examine the cage,

in order to discover whether there were any lead about it, with which

the birds could have poisoned themselves. No lead was to be found: he

next examined whether there were any white or green paint about it;

he inquired whence the water came which the birds had drunk; and he

examined the trough which held their seeds. The lady, whilst he was

pursuing these inquiries, said she was sure that the birds could not

have died either for want of air or exercise, for that she often left

the cage open on purpose, that they might fly about the room. Henry

immediately looked round the room, and at length he observed in an

inkstand, which stood upon a writing table, a number of wafers, which

were many of them chipped round the edges; upon sweeping out the

bird-cage, he found a few very small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds

and dust; he was now persuaded that the birds had eaten the wafers, and

that they had been poisoned by the red lead which they contained; he

was confirmed in this opinion, by being told, that the wafers had lately

been missed very frequently, and it had been imagined that they had been

used by the servants. Henry begged the lady would try an experiment,

which might probably save the life of her new favourite; the lady,

though she had never before tried an experiment, was easily prevailed

upon. She promised Henry that she would lock up the wafers; and he

prophesied that her bird would not, like his predecessors, come to an

untimely end. Archibald Mackenzie was vexed to observe, that knowledge

had in this instance _succeeded_ better, even with a lady, than

flattery. As for Forester, he would certainly have admired his friend

Henry's ingenuity, if he had been attending to what had passed; but he

had taken a book, and had seated himself in an arm-chair, which had been

placed on purpose for an old gentleman in company, and was deep in the

history of a man who had been cast away, some hundred years ago, upon a

desert island.

{Footnote 2: Falconer, on the Poison of Lead and Copper.}

He condescended, however, to put down his book when the fossils were

produced: and, as if he had just awakened from a dream, rubbed his eyes,

stretched himself, and joined the rest of the company. The malicious

Archibald, who observed that Forester had seated himself, through

absence of mind, in a place which prevented some of the ladies from

seeing the fossils, instantly made a parade of his own politeness,

to contrast himself advantageously with the rude negligence of his

companion; but Archibald's politeness was always particularly directed

to the persons in company whom he thought of the most importance. "You

can't see there," said Forester, suddenly rousing himself, and observing

that Dr. Campbell's daughter, Miss Flora Campbell, was standing behind

him; "had you not better sit down in this chair? I don't want it,

because I can see over your head; sit down." Archibald smiled at

Forester's simplicity, in paying his awkward compliment to the

young lady, who had, according to his mode of estimating, the least

pretensions to notice of any one present. Flora Campbell was neither

rich nor beautiful, but she had a happy mixture in her manners of

Scottish sprightliness and English reserve. She had an eager desire to

improve herself, whilst a nice sense of propriety taught her never to

intrude upon general notice, or to recede from conversation with airs

of counterfeit humility. Forester admired her abilities, because he

imagined that he was the only person who had ever discovered them; as

to her manners, he never observed these, but even whilst he ridiculed

politeness he was anxious to find out what she thought polite. After

he had told her all that he knew concerning the fossils, as they were

produced from the cabinet--and he was far from ignorant--he at length

perceived that she knew full as much of natural history as he did, and

he was surprised that a young lady should know so much, and should not

be conceited. Flora, however, soon sunk many degrees in his opinion;

for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was shut, some of the company

talked of a ball, which was to be given in a few days, and Flora, with

innocent gaiety, said to Forester, "Have you learnt to dance a Scotch

reel since you came to Scotland?" "_I!_" cried Forester with contempt;

"do you think it the height of human perfection to dance a Scotch

reel?--then that fine young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, will suit

you much better than I shall." And Forester returned to his arm-chair

and his desert island.

THE KEY.

It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company in such abrupt

displeasure at Flora Campbell's question, for had he borne the idea of

a Scotch reel more like a philosopher, he would have heard of something

interesting relative to the intended ball, if any thing relative to a

ball could be interesting to him. It was a charity-ball, for the benefit

of the mistress of the very charity-school{3} to which the little girl

with the bruised hand belonged. "Do you know," said Henry to Forester,

when they returned home, "that I have great hopes we shall be able

to get justice done to the poor children? I hope the tyrannical

schoolmistress may yet be punished. The lady, with whom we drank tea

yesterday is one of the patronesses of the charity-school."

{Footnote 3: There is no charity-school of this description in

Edinburgh; this cannot, therefore, be mistaken for private satire.}

"Lady patronesses!" cried Forester; "we need not expect justice from a

lady patroness, depend upon it, especially at a ball; her head will be

full of feathers, or some such things. I prophesy you will not succeed

better than I have."

The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter Henry from pursuing

a scheme which he had formed. The lady, who was the mistress of the

canary bird, came in a few days to visit his mother, and she told him

that his experiment had succeeded, that she had regularly locked up the

wafers, and that her favourite bird was in perfect health. "And what

fee, doctor," said she, smiling, "shall I give you for saving his life?"

"I will tell you in a few minutes," replied Henry; and in a few minutes

the little girl and her geranium were sent for, and appeared. Henry told

the lady all the circumstances of her story with so much feeling, and at

the same time with so much propriety, that she became interested in

the cause: she declared that she would do every thing in her power

to prevail upon the other ladies to examine into the conduct of the

schoolmistress, and to have her dismissed immediately, if it should

appear that she had behaved improperly.

Forester, who was present at this declaration, was much astonished, that

a lady, whom he had seen caressing a canary-bird, could speak with

so much decision and good sense. Henry obtained his fee: he asked

and received permission to place the geranium in the middle of the

supper-table at the ball; and he begged that the lady would take an

opportunity, at supper, to mention the circumstances which he had

related to her; but this she declined, and politely said, that she was

sure Henry would tell the story much better than she could.

"Come out and walk with me," said Forester to Henry, as soon as the lady

was gone. Henry frequently left his occupations with great good-nature,

to accompany our hero in his rambles, and he usually followed the

subjects of conversation which Forester started. He saw, by the gravity

of his countenance, that he had something of importance revolving in his

mind. After he had proceeded in silence for some time along the walk,

under the high rock called Arthur's Seat, he suddenly stopped, and,

turning to Henry, exclaimed, "I esteem you; do not make me despise you!"

"I hope I never shall," said Henry, a little surprised by his friend's

manner; "what is the matter?"

"Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty artifices, and supple

address, to such people as Archibald Mackenzie," pursued Forester, with

enthusiasm:

"Who noble ends by noble means pursues--"

"Will scorn canary birds, and _cobble shoes_,"

replied Henry, laughing; "I see no meanness in my conduct: I do not know

what it is you disapprove."

"I do not approve," said Forester, "of your having recourse to _mean

address_ to obtain justice."

Henry requested to know what his severe friend meant by _address_; but

this was not easily explained. Forester, in his definition of _mean

address_, included all that attention to the feelings of others, all

those honest arts of pleasing, which make society agreeable. Henry

endeavoured to convince him, that it was possible for a person to wish

to please, nay, even to succeed in that wish, without being insincere.

Their argument and their walk continued, till Henry, who, though very

active, was not quite so robust as his friend, was completely tired,

especially as he perceived that Forester's opinions remained unshaken.

"How effeminate you _gentlemen_ are!" cried Forester: "see what it is to

be brought up in the lap of luxury. Why, I am not at all tired; I could

walk a dozen miles further, without being in the least fatigued!"

Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to walk a number of

miles without being fatigued, but he did not consider it as the highest

perfection of human nature. In his friend's present mood, nothing less

could content him, and Forester went on to demonstrate to the weary

Henry, that all fortitude, all courage, and all the manly virtues, were

inseparably connected with _pedestrian indefatigability_. Henry, with

good-natured presence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have

called _mean address_, diverted our hero's rising indignation by

proposing that they should both go and look at the large brewery which

was in their way home, and with which Forester would, he thought, be

entertained.

The brewery fortunately turned the course of Forester's thoughts, and,

instead of quarrelling with his friend for being tired, he condescended

to postpone all further debate. Forester had, from his childhood, a

habit of twirling a key, whenever he was thinking intently: the key had

been produced, and had been twirling upon its accustomed thumb during

the argument upon address; and it was still in Forester's hand when they

went into the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was essential

to his power of attending; at length, as he stopped to view a large

brewing vat, the key unluckily slipped from his thumb, and fell to the

bottom of the vat: it was so deep, that the tinkling sound of the key,

as it touched the bottom, was scarcely heard. A young man who belonged

to the brewery immediately descended by a ladder into the vat, to get

the key, but scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down

senseless. Henry Campbell was speaking to one of the clerks of the

brewery when this accident happened: a man came running to them with the

news, "The vat has not been cleaned; it's full of bad air." "Draw him

up, let down a hook and cords for him instantly, or he's a dead man,"

cried Henry, and he instantly ran to the place. What was his terror,

when he beheld Forester descending the ladder! He called to him to stop;

he assured him that the man could be saved without his hazarding his

life: but Forester persisted; he had one end of a cord in his hand,

which he said he could fasten in an instant round the man's body. There

was a skylight nearly over the vat, so that the light fell directly upon

the bottom.

Henry saw his friend reach the last step of the ladder. As Forester

stooped to put the rope round the shoulders of the man, who lay

insensible at the bottom of the vat, a sudden air of idiocy came over

his animated countenance; his limbs seemed no longer to obey his will;

his arms dropped, and he fell insensible.

The spectators, who were looking down from above, were so much

terrified, that they could not decide to do any thing; some cried,

"It's all over with him! Why would he go down?" Others ran to procure

a hook--others called to him to take up the rope again, if he possibly

could: but Forester could not hear or understand them, Henry Campbell

was the only person who, in this scene of danger and confusion, had

sufficient presence of mind to be of service.

Near the large vat, into which Forester had descended, there was a

cistern of cold water. Henry seized a bucket, which was floating in

the cistern, filled it with water, and emptied the water into the vat,

dashing it against the sides, to disperse the water, and to displace

the mephitic air{4}, He called to the people, who surrounded him,

for assistance; the water expelled the air; and, when it was safe to

descend, Henry instantly went down the ladder himself, and fastened the

cord round Forester, who was quite helpless.

{Footnote 4: Carbonic acid gas.}

"Draw him up!" said Henry, They drew him up. Henry fastened another cord

round the body of the other man, who lay at the bottom of the vessel,

and he was taken up in the same manner. Forester soon returned to his

senses, when he was carried into the air; it was with more difficulty

that the other man, whose animation had been longer suspended, was

recovered; at length, however, by proper application, his lungs played

freely, he stretched himself, looked round upon the people who were

about him with an air of astonishment, and was some time before he

could recollect what had happened to him. Forester, as soon as he had

recovered the use of his understanding, was in extreme anxiety to know

whether the poor man, who went down for his key, had been saved. His

gratitude to Henry, when he heard all that had passed, was expressed in

the most enthusiastic manner.

"I acted like a madman, and you like a man of sense," said Forester.

"You always know how to do good: I do mischief, whenever I attempt to

do good. But now, don't expect, Henry, that I should give up any of my

opinions to you, because you have saved my life. I shall always argue

with you just as I did before. Remember, I despise _address_, I don't

yield a single point to you. Gratitude shall never make me a sycophant."

THE FLOWERPOT.

Eager to prove that he was not a sycophant, Forester, when he returned

home with his friend Henry, took every possible occasion to contradict

him, with even more than his customary rigidity; nay, he went further

still, to vindicate his sincerity.

Flora Campbell had never entirely recovered our hero's esteem, since she

had unwittingly expressed her love for Scotch reels; but she was happily

unconscious of the crime she had committed, and was wholly intent upon

pleasing her father and mother, her brother Henry, and herself. She had

a constant flow of good spirits, and the charming domestic talent of

making every trifle a source of amusement to herself and others: she

was sprightly, without being frivolous; and the uniform sweetness of

her temper showed, that she was not in the least in want of flattery, or

dissipation, to support her gaiety. But Forester, as the friend of her

brother, thought it incumbent upon him to discover faults in her which

no one else could discover, and to assist in her education, though she

was only one year younger than himself. She had amused herself, the

morning that Forester and her brother were at the brewery, with painting

a pasteboard covering for the flower-pot which held the poor little

girl's geranium. Flora had heard from her brother of his intention

to place it in the middle of the supper-table, at the ball; and she

flattered herself, that he would like to see it ornamented by her hands

at his return. She produced it after dinner. Henry thanked her, and

her father and mother were pleased to see her eagerness to oblige her

brother. The cynical Forester alone refused his sympathy. He looked at

the flower-pot with marked disdain. Archibald, who delighted to contrast

himself with the unpolished Forester, and who remarked that Flora and

her brother were both somewhat surprised at his unsociable silence,

slyly said, "There's something in this flower-pot Miss Campbell, which

does not suit Mr. Forester's correct taste; I wish he would allow us to

profit by his criticisms."

Forester vouchsafed not a reply.

"Don't you like it, Forester?" said Henry.

"No, he does not like it," said Flora, smiling; "don't force him to say

that he does."

"Force me to say I like what I don't like!" repeated Forester; "no, I

defy any body to do that."

"But why," said Dr. Campbell, laughing, "why such a waste of energy

and magnanimity about a trifle? If you were upon your trial for life or

death, Mr. Forester, you could not look more resolutely guarded--more as

if you had 'worked up each corporal agent' to the terrible feat!"

"Sir," said Forester, who bore the laugh that was raised against him

with the air of a martyr, "I can bear even your ridicule in the cause

of truth." The laugh continued at the solemnity with which he pronounced

these words. "I think," pursued Forester, "that those who do not respect

truth in trifles, will never respect it in matters of consequence."

Archibald Mackenzie laughed more loudly, and with affectation, at this

speech: Henry and Dr. Campbell's laughter instantly ceased.

"Do not mistake us," said Dr. Campbell; "we did not laugh at your

principles, we only laughed at your manner."

"And are not principles of rather more consequence than manners?"

"Of infinitely more consequence," said Dr. Campbell: "but why, to

excellent principles, may we not add agreeable manners? Why should not

truth be amiable, as well as respectable? You, who have such enlarged

views for the good of the whole human race, are, I make no doubt,

desirous that your fellow-creatures should love truth, as well as you

love it yourself."

"Certainly, I wish they did," said Forester.

"And have your observations upon the feelings of others, and upon your

own, led you to conclude, that we are most apt to like those things

which always give us pain? And do you, upon this principle, wish to make

truth as painful as possible, in order to increase our love for it?"

"I don't wish to make truth painful," said Forester; "but, at the same

time, it is not my fault if people can't bear pain. I think people who

can't bear pain, both of body and mind, cannot be good for any thing;

for, in the first place, they will always," said Forester, glancing his

eye at Flora and her flower-pot,--"they will always prefer flattery to

truth, as all weak people do."

At this sarcastic reflection, which seemed to be aimed at the sex, Lady

Catherine, Mrs. Campbell, and all the ladies present, except Flora,

began to speak at once in their own vindication.

As soon as there was any prospect of peace, Dr. Campbell resumed his

argument in the calmest voice imaginable.

"But, Mr. Forester, without troubling ourselves for the present with

the affairs of the ladies, or of weak people, may I ask what degree

of unnecessary pain you think it the duty of a strong person, a moral

Samson, to bear?"

"Unnecessary pain! I do not think it is any body's duty to bear

_unnecessary_ pain."

"Nor to make others bear it?"

"Nor to make others bear it."

"Then we need argue no further. I congratulate you, Mr. Forester, upon

your becoming so soon a proselyte to politeness."

"To politeness!" said Forester, starting back.

"Yes, my good sir; real politeness only teaches us to save others

from _unnecessary pain_; and _this_ you have just allowed to be your

wish.--And now for the grand affair of Flora's flower-pot. You are not

bound by politeness to tell any falsehoods; weak as she is, and a woman,

I hope she can bear to hear the painful truth upon such an important

occasion."

"Why," said Forester, who at last suffered his features to relax into a

smile, "the truth then is, that I don't know whether the flower-pot be

pretty or ugly, but I was determined not to say it was pretty."

"But why," said Henry, "did you look so heroically severe about the

matter?"

"The reason I looked grave," said Forester, "was, because I was afraid

your sister Flora would be spoiled by all the foolish compliments that

were paid to her and her flower-pot."

"You are very considerate; and Flora, I am sure, is much obliged to

you," said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "for being so clear-sighted to the

dangers of female vanity. You would not then, with a safe conscience,

trust the completion of her education to her mother, or to myself?"

"I am sure, sir," said Forester, who now, for the first time, seemed

sensible that he had not spoken with perfect propriety, "I would not

interfere impertinently for the world. You are the best judges; only I

thought parents were apt to be partial. Henry has saved my life, and I

am interested for every thing that belongs to him. So I hope, if I

said any thing rude, you will attribute it to a good motive. I wish the

flower-pot had never made its appearance, for it has made me appear very

impertinent."

Flora laughed with so much good humour at this odd method of expressing

his contrition, that even Forester acknowledged the influence of

engaging manners and sweetness of temper. He lifted up the flower-pot,

so as completely to screen his face, and, whilst he appeared to be

examining it, he said, in a low voice, to Henry, "She is above the

foibles of her sex."

"Oh, Mr. Forester, take care!" cried Flora.

"Of what?" said Forester, starting.

"It is too late now," said Flora.

And it was too late. Forester, in his awkward manner of lifting the

flower-pot and its painted case, had put his thumbs into the mould, with

which the flower-pot had been newly filled. It was quite soft and wet.

Flora, when she called to him, saw the two black thumbs just ready to

stamp themselves upon her work, and her warning only accelerated its

fate; for, the instant she spoke, the thumbs closed upon the painted

covering, and Forester was the last to perceive the mischief that he had

done.

There was no possibility of effacing the stains, nor was there time

to repair the damage, for the ball was to commence in a few hours, and

Flora was obliged to send her disfigured work, without having had the

satisfaction of hearing the ejaculation which Forester pronounced in her

praise behind the flower-pot.

THE BALL.

Henry seized the moment when Forester was softened by the mixed effect

of Dr. Campbell's raillery and Flora's good humour, to persuade him,

that it would be perfectly consistent with sound philosophy to dress

himself for a ball, nay, even to dance a country-dance. The word _reel_,

to which Forester had taken a dislike, Henry prudently forbore to

mention; and Flora, observing, and artfully imitating her brother's

prudence, substituted the word _hays_ instead of _reels_ in her

conversation. When all the party were ready to go to the ball, and the

carriages at the door, Forester was in Dr. Campbell's study, reading the

natural history of the elephant.

"Come," said Henry, who had been searching for him all over the house,

"we are waiting for you; I'm glad to see you dressed--come!"

"I wish you would leave me behind," said Forester, who seemed to have

relapsed into his former unsociable humour, from having been left

half an hour in his beloved solitude; nor would Henry probably have

prevailed, if he had not pointed to the print of the elephant{5}. "That

mighty animal, you see, is so docile, that he lets himself be guided by

a young boy," said Henry; "and so must you."

{Footnote 5: Cabinet of Quadrupeds.}

As he spoke he pulled Forester gently, who thought he could not

show less docility than his favourite animal. When they entered the

ball-room, Archibald Mackenzie asked Flora to dance, whilst Forester was

considering where he should put his hat. "Are you going to dance without

me? I thought I had asked you to dance with me. I intended it all the

time we were coming in the coach."

Flora thanked him for his kind intentions; whilst Archibald, with a look

of triumph, hurried his partner away, and the dance began. Forester saw

this transaction in the most serious light, and it afforded him subject

for meditation till at least half a dozen country-dances had been

finished. In vain the Berwick Jockey, the Highland Laddie, and the

Flowers of Edinburgh, were played; "they suited not the gloomy habit" of

his soul. He fixed himself behind a pillar, proof against music, mirth,

and sympathy: he looked upon the dancers with a cynical eye. At length

he found an amusement that gratified his present splenetic humour; he

applied both his hands to his ears, effectually to stop out the sound of

the music, that he might enjoy the ridiculous spectacle of a number of

people capering about, without any apparent motive. Forester's attitude

caught the attention of some of the company; indeed, it was strikingly

awkward. His elbows stuck out from his ears, and his head was sunk

beneath his shoulders. Archibald Mackenzie was delighted beyond measure

at his figure, and pointed him out to his acquaintance with all possible

expedition. The laugh and the whisper circulated with rapidity. Henry,

who was dancing, did not perceive what was going on till his partner

said to him, "Pray, who is that strange mortal?"

"My friend," cried Henry: "will you excuse me for one instant?" And he

ran up to Forester, and roused him from his singular attitude. "He is,"

continued Henry, as he returned to his partner, "an excellent young

man, and he has superior abilities; we must not quarrel with him for

trifles."

With what different eyes different people behold the same objects!

Whilst Forester had been stopping his ears, Dr. Campbell, who had more

of the nature of the laughing than of the weeping philosopher, had found

much benevolent pleasure in contemplating the festive scene. Not that

any folly or ridicule escaped his keen penetration; but he saw every

thing with an indulgent eye, and, if he laughed, laughed in such a

manner, that even those who were the objects of his pleasantry could

scarcely have forborne to sympathize in his mirth. Folly, he thought,

could be as effectually corrected by the tickling of a feather, as by

the lash of the satirist. When Lady Margaret M'Gregor, and Lady Mary

Macintosh, for instance, had almost forced their unhappy partners into a

quarrel to support their respective claims to precedency, Dr. Campbell,

who was appealed to as the relation of both the furious fair ones,

decided the difference expeditiously, and much to the amusement of the

company, by observing, that, as the pretensions of each of the ladies

were incontrovertible, and precisely balanced, there was but one

possible method of adjusting their precedency--by their age. He was

convinced, he said, that the youngest lady would with pleasure yield

precedency to the elder. The contest was now, which should stand the

lowest, instead of which should stand the highest, in the dance: and

when the proofs of seniority could not be settled, the fair ones drew

lots for their places, and submitted that to chance which could not be

determined by prudence.

Forester stood beside Dr. Campbell whilst all this passed, and wasted

a considerable portion of virtuous indignation upon the occasion. "And

look at that absurd creature!" exclaimed Forester, pointing out to Dr.

Campbell a girl who was footing and pounding for fame at a prodigious

rate. Dr. Campbell turned from the pounding lady to observe his own

daughter Flora, and a smile of delight came over his countenance:

for "_parents are apt to be partial_"--especially those who have such

daughters as Flora. Her light figure and graceful agility attracted the

attention even of many impartial spectators; but she was not intent upon

admiration: she seemed to be dancing in the gaiety of her heart; and

that was a species of gaiety in which every one sympathized, because it

was natural, and of which every one approved, because it was innocent.

There was a certain delicacy mixed with her sportive humour, which

seemed to govern, without restraining, the tide of her spirits. Her

father's eye was following her as she danced to a lively Scotch tune,

when Forester pulled Dr. Campbell's cane, on which he was leaning,

and exclaimed, "Doctor, I've just thought of an excellent plan for a

tragedy!"

"A tragedy!" repeated Dr. Campbell, with unfeigned surprise; "are you

sure you don't mean a comedy?"

Forester persisted that he meant a tragedy, and was proceeding to open

the plot. "Don't force me to your tragedy now," said Dr. Campbell, "or

it will infallibly be condemned. I cannot say that I have my _buskin_

on! and I advise you to take yours off. Look, is that the tragic muse?"

Forester was astonished to find, that so great a man as Dr. Campbell

had so little the power of abstraction; and he retired to muse upon the

opening of his tragedy in a recess under the music gallery. But here he

was not suffered long to remain undisturbed; for, near this spot, Sir

Philip Gosling presently stationed himself; Archibald Mackenzie, who

left off dancing as soon as Sir Philip entered the room, came to the

half-intoxicated baronet; and they, with some other young men, worthy

of their acquaintance, began so loud a contest concerning the number

of bottles of claret which a man might, could, or should drink at a

sitting, that even Forester's powers of abstraction failed, and his

tragic muse took her flight.

"Supper! Supper! thank God!" exclaimed Sir Philip, as supper was now

announced. "I'd never set my foot in a ballroom," added he, with several

suitable oaths, "if it were not for the supper."

"Is that a rational being?" cried Forester to Dr. Campbell, after Sir

Philip had passed them.

"Speak a little lower," said Dr. Campbell, "or he will infallibly prove

his title to rationality by shooting you, or by making you shoot him,

through the head."

"But, sir," said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, whilst all the

rest of the company were going down to supper, "how can you bear such a

number of foolish, disagreeable people with patience?"

"What would you have me do?" said Dr. Campbell. "Would you have me get

up and preach in the middle of a ball-room? Is it not as well, since we

are here, to amuse ourselves with whatever can afford us any amusement,

and to keep in good humour with all the world, especially with

ourselves?--and had we not better follow the crowd to supper?"

Forester went down-stairs; but, as he crossed an antechamber, which

led to the supper-room, he exclaimed, "If I were a legislator, I would

prohibit balls."

"And if you were a legislator," said Dr. Campbell, pointing to a

tea-kettle, which was on the fire in the antechamber, and from the spout

of which a grey cloud of vapour issued--"if you were a legislator, would

not you have stoppers wedged tight into the spouts of all tea-kettles in

your dominions?"

"No, sir," said Forester; "they would burst."

"And do you think that folly would not burst, and do more mischief than

a tea-kettle in the explosion, if you confined it so tight?"

Forester would willingly have stayed in the antechamber, to begin a

critical dissection of this allusion; but Dr. Campbell carried him

forwards into the supper-room. Flora had kept a seat for her father; and

Henry met them at the door.

"I was just coming to see for you, sir," said he to his father. "Flora

began to think you were lost."

"No," said Dr. Campbell, "I was only detained by a would-be Cato, who

wanted me to quarrel with the whole world, instead of eating my supper.

What would you advise me to eat, Flora?" said he, seating himself beside

her.

"Some of this trifle, papa;" and as she lightly removed the flowers with

which it was ornamented, her father said, "Yes, give me some trifle,

Flora. Some characters are like that trifle--flowers and light froth at

the top, and solid, good sweetmeat, beneath."

Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some trifle. "But I

don't see any use in the flowers, sir," said he.

"Nor any beauty," said Dr. Campbell.

Forester picked the _troublesome_ flowers out of his trifle, and ate a

quantity of it sufficient for a Stoic. Towards the end of the supper, he

took some notice of Henry, who had made several ineffectual efforts to

amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as seemed to suit the time and

place. Time and place were never taken into Forester's consideration: he

was secretly displeased with his friend Henry for having danced all the

evening instead of sitting still; and he looked at Henry's partner with

a scrutinizing eye. "So," said he, at last, "I observe I have not been

thought worthy of your conversation to-night: this is what _gentlemen,

polite gentlemen_, who dance _reels_, call friendship!"

"If I had thought that you would have taken it ill I should dance

reels," said Henry, laughing, "I would have made the sacrifice of a

reel at the altar of friendship; but we don't come to a ball to make

sacrifices to friendship, but to divert ourselves."

"If we can," said Forester, sarcastically: here he was prevented from

reproaching his friend any longer, for a party of gentlemen began to

sing catches, at the desire of the rest of the company.

Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsensical words that were

sung; and he was composing an essay upon the power of the ancient bards,

and the effect of national music, when Flora's voice interrupted him:

"Brother," said she, "I have won my wager." The wager was, that Forester

would not during supper observe the geranium that was placed in the

middle of the table.

As soon as the company were satisfied, both with their supper and their

songs, Henry, whose mind was always _present_, seized the moment when

there was silence to turn the attention of the company towards the

object upon which his own thoughts were intent. The lady-patroness, the

mistress of the canary-bird, had performed her promise: she had spoken

to several of her acquaintance concerning the tyrannical schoolmistress;

and now, fixing the attention of the company upon the geranium, she

appealed to Henry Campbell, and begged him to explain its history. A

number of eager eyes turned upon him instantly; and Forester felt, that

if he had been called upon in such a manner he could not have uttered

a syllable. He now felt the great advantage of being able to speak,

without hesitation or embarrassment, before numbers. When Henry related

the poor little girl's story, his language and manner were so unaffected

and agreeable, that he interested every one who heard him in his

cause. A subscription was immediately raised; every body was eager to

contribute something to the child, who had been so ready, for her old

grandmother's sake, to part with her favourite geranium. The lady who

superintended the charity-school agreed to breakfast the next morning at

Dr. Campbell's, and to go from his house to the school precisely at the

hour when the schoolmistress usually set her unfortunate scholars to

their extra task of spinning.

Forester was astonished at all this; he did not consider that negligence

and inhumanity are widely different. The lady-patronesses had,

perhaps, been rather negligent in contenting themselves with seeing the

charity-children _show well_ in procession to Church, and they had not

sufficiently inquired into the conduct of the schoolmistress; but, as

soon as the facts were properly stated, the ladies were eager to exert

themselves, and candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in

trusting so much to the reports of the superficial visitors, who had

always declared that the school was going on perfectly well.

"More people who are in the wrong," said Dr. Campbell to Forester,

"would be corrected, if some people who are in the right had a little

candour and patience joined to their other virtues."

As the company rose from the supper-table, several young ladies gathered

round the geranium to admire Flora's pretty flower-pot. The black

stains, however, struck every eye. Forester was standing by rather

embarrassed. Flora, with her usual good-nature, refrained from all

explanation, though the exclamations of "How was that done?"--"Who could

have done that?" were frequently repeated.

"It was an accident," said Flora; and, to change the conversation, she

praised the beauty of the geranium; she gathered one of the fragrant

leaves, but, as she was going to put it amongst the flowers in her

bosom, she observed she had dropped her moss-rose. It was a rarity at

this time of year: it was a rose which Henry Camphell had raised in a

conservatory of his own construction.

"Oh, my brother's beautiful rose!" exclaimed Flora.

Forester, who had been much pleased by her good-nature about the stains

on the flower-pot, now, contrary to his habits, sympathized with her

concern for the loss of her brother's moss-rose. He even exerted himself

so far as to search under the benches and under the supper-table. He

was fortunate enough to find it; and eager to restore the prize, he

with more than his usual gallantry, but not with less than his customary

awkwardness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his body

over a bench, pushed his arm between two young ladies into the midst

of the group which surrounded Flora. As his arm extended his wrist

appeared, and at the sight of that wrist all the young ladies shrank

back, with unequivocal tokens of disgust. They whispered--they tittered;

and many expressive looks were lost upon our hero, who still resolutely

held out the hand upon which every eye was fixed. "Here's your rose! Is

not this the rose?" said he, still advancing the dreaded hand to Flora,

whose hesitation and blushes surprised him. Mackenzie burst into a loud

laugh; and in a whisper, which all the ladies could hear, told Forester,

that "Miss Campbell was afraid to take the rose out of his hands, lest

she should catch from him what he had caught from the carter who

had brought him to Edinburgh, or from some of his companions at the

cobbler's."

Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the bench, rushed

between Flora and another lady, made towards the door in a straight

line, pushing every thing before him, till a passage was made for him by

the astonished crowd, who stood out of his way as if he had been a mad

dog.

"Forester!" cried Henry and Dr. Campbell, who were standing upon the

steps before the door, speaking about the carriages, "what's the matter?

where are you going? The carriage is coming to the door."

"I had rather walk--don't speak to me," said Forester; "I've been

insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command myself. I did not knock

him down. Pray let me pass!"

Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the strength of an

enraged animal from his keepers; and he must have found his way home by

instinct, for he ran on without considering how he went. He snatched the

light from the servant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell's--hurried

to his own apartment--locked, double-locked, and bolted the door--flung

himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, "Thank God! I've

done no mischief. Thank God! I didn't knock him down. Thank God! he

is out of my sight, and I am cool now--quite cool: let me recollect it

all."

Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile his pride to

his present circumstances. "Archibald spoke the truth--why am I angry?

why _was_ I angry, I mean!" He reasoned much with himself upon the

nature of true and false shame: he represented to himself that the

disorder which disfigured his hands was thought shameful only because it

was _vulgar_; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral; that the

young tittering ladies who shrunk back from him were not supreme judges

of right and wrong; that he ought to despise their opinions, and he

despised them with all his might for two or three hours, as he walked

up and down his room with unremitting energy. At length our peripatetic

philosopher threw himself upon his bed, determined that his repose

should not be disturbed by such trifles: he had by this time worked

himself up to such a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could

with composure meet the disapproving eyes of millions of his

fellow-creatures; but he was alone when he formed this erroneous

estimate of the strength of the human mind. Wearied with passion and

reason, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was continually presenting

flowers, which nobody would accept; awakened at the imaginary repetition

of Archibald's laugh, composed himself again to sleep, and dreamed that

he was in a glover's shop, trying on gloves, and that, amongst a hundred

pair which he pulled on, he could not find one that would fit him.

Just as he tore the last pair in his hurry, he awakened, shook off his

foolish dream, saw the sun rising between two chimneys many feet below

his windows, recollected that in a short time he should be summoned to

breakfast, that all the lady-patronesses were to be at this breakfast,

that he could not breakfast in gloves, that Archibald would perhaps

again laugh, and Flora perhaps again shrink back. He reproached himself

for his weakness in foreseeing and dreading this scene: his aversion to

lady-patronesses and to balls was never at a more formidable height; he

sighed for liberty and independence, which he persuaded himself were

not to be had in his present situation. In one of his long walks he

remembered to have seen, at some miles' distance from the town of

Edinburgh, a gardener and his boy, who were singing at their work.

These men appeared to Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler, who

formerly was the object of his admiration; and he was persuaded that he

should be much happier at the gardener's cottage than he could ever be

at Dr. Campbell's house.

"I am not fit," said he to himself, "to live amongst _idle gentlemen_

and _ladies_; I should be happy if I were a useful member of society;

a gardener is a useful member of society, and I will be a gardener, and

live with gardeners."

Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn the preceding night at

the fatal ball, dressed himself in his old coat, tied up a small bundle

of linen, and took the road to the gardener's.

BREAKFAST.

When Henry found that Forester was not in his room in the morning, he

concluded that he had rambled out towards Salisbury Craigs, whither he

talked the preceding day of going to botanize.

"I am surprised," said Dr. Campbell, "that the young gentleman is out

so early, for I have a notion that he has not had much sleep since we

parted, unless he walks in his sleep, for he has been walking over my

poor head half the night."

Breakfast went on--no Forester appeared. Lady Catherine began to fear

that he had broken his neck upon Salisbury Craigs, and related all the

falls she had ever had, or had ever been near having, in carriages,

on horseback, or otherwise. She then entered into the geography of

Salisbury Craigs, and began to dispute upon the probability of his

having fallen to the east or to the west.

"My dear Lady Catherine," said Dr. Campbell, "we are not sure that he

has been upon Salisbury Craigs; whether he has fallen to the east or to

the west, we cannot, therefore, conveniently settle."

But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination travelled fast, went on

to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to whom the great Forester estate would

go in case of any accident having happened or happening to the young

gentleman before he should come of age.

Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satisfaction upon this

point, when a servant put a letter into his hands. Henry looked in great

anxiety. Dr. Campbell glanced his eye over the letter, put it into

his pocket, and desired the servant to show the person who brought the

letter into his study.

"It's only a little boy," said Archibald; "I saw him as I passed through

the hall."

"Cannot a little boy go into my study?" said Dr. Campbell, coolly.

Archibald's curiosity was strongly excited, and he slipped out of the

room a few minutes afterward, resolved to speak to the boy, and to

discover the purpose of his embassy. But Dr. Campbell was behind him

before he was aware of his approach, and just as Archibald began to

cross-examine the boy in these words, "So you came from a young man who

is about my size?" Dr. Campbell put both his hands upon his shoulders,

saying, "He came from a young man who does not in the least resemble

you, believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie."

Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed by the civilly

contemptuous look with which Dr. Campbell pronounced these words, that

he retired from the study without even attempting any of his usual

equivocating apologies for his intrusion. Dr. Campbell now read

Forester's letter. It was as follows:--

"Dear Sir,

"Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I am not insensible of

your kindness. For the step I have taken, I can offer no apology merely

to my guardian; but you have treated me, Dr. Campbell, as your friend,

and I shall lay my whole soul open to you.

"Notwithstanding your kindness,--notwithstanding the friendship of

your son Henry, whose excellent qualities I know how to value,--I most

ingenuously own to you that I have been far from happy in your house. I

feel that I cannot be at ease in the vortex of dissipation; and the more

I see of the higher ranks of society, the more I regret that I was _born

a gentleman_. Neither my birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain

me from pursuing that line of life which, I am persuaded, leads to

virtue and tranquillity. Let those who have no virtuous indignation obey

the voice of fashion, and at her commands let her slaves eat the bread

of idleness till it palls upon the sense! I reproach myself with having

yielded, as I have done of late, my opinions to the persuasions of

friendship; my mind has become enervated, and I must fly from the

fatal contagion. Thank Heaven, I have yet the power to fly: I have yet

sufficient force to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the mental

degeneracy of the base monarch, who hugged his fetters because they were

of gold.

"I am conscious of powers that fit me for something better than to waste

my existence in a ball-room; and I will not sacrifice my liberty to

the absurd ceremonies of daily dissipation. I, that have been the

laughing-stock of the mean and frivolous, have yet sufficient manly

pride, unextinguished in my breast, to assert my claim to your esteem:

to assert, that I never have committed, or shall designedly commit, any

action unworthy of the friend of your son.

"I do not write to Henry, lest I should any way involve him in my

misfortunes: he is formed to shine in the _polite_ world, and his

connexion with me might tarnish the lustre of his character in the eyes

of the '_nice-judging fair_.' I hope, however, that he will not utterly

discard me from his heart, though I cannot dance a reel. I beg that he

will break open the lock of the trunk that is in my room, and take out

of it my Goldsmith's Animated Nature, which he seemed to like.

"In my table-drawer there are my Martyn's Letters on Botany, in which

you will find a number of plants that I have dried for Flora--_Miss_

Flora Campbell, I should say. After what passed last night, I can

scarcely _hope_ they will be accepted. I would rather have them burned

than refused; therefore please to burn them, and say nothing more upon

the subject. Dear sir, do not judge harshly of me; I have had a severe

conflict with myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would

rather that you should judge of me with severity than that you should

extend to me the same species of indulgence with which you last night

viewed the half-intoxicated baronet.

"I can bear any thing but contempt.

"Yours, &c.

"P.S. I trust that you will not question the bearer; he knows where I

am; I therefore put you on your guard. I mean to earn my own bread as

a gardener; I have always preferred the agricultural to the commercial

system."

To this letter, in which the mixture of sense and extravagance did not

much surprise Dr. Campbell, he returned the following answer:--

"My dear cobbler, gardener, orator, or by whatever other name you choose

to be addressed, I am too old to be surprised at any thing, otherwise I

might have been rather surprised at some things in your eloquent letter.

You tell me that you have the power to fly, and that you do not hug your

chains, though they are of gold! Are you an alderman, or Daedalus? or

are these only figures of speech? You inform me, that you cannot live

in the vortex of dissipation, or eat the bread of idleness, and that you

are determined to be a gardener. These things seem to have no necessary

connexion with each other. Why you should reproach yourself so bitterly

for having spent one evening of your life in a ball-room, which I

suppose is what you allude to when you speak of a vortex of dissipation,

I am at a loss to discover. And why you cannot, with so much honest

pride yet unextinguished in your breast, find any occupation more worthy

of your talents, and as useful to society, as that of a gardener, I own,

puzzles me a little. Consider these things coolly; return to dinner, and

we will compare at our leisure the advantages of the mercantile and

the agricultural system. I forbear to question your messenger, as you

desire; and I shall not show your letter to Henry till after we have

dined. I hope by that time you will insist upon my burning it; which,

at your request, I shall do with pleasure, although it contains several

good sentences. As I am not yet sure you have _departed this life_, I

shall not enter upon my office of executor; I shall not break open the

lock of your trunk (of which I hope you will some time, when your mind

is less exalted, find the key), nor shall I stir in the difficult case

of Flora's legacy. When next you write your will, let me, for the sake

of your executor, advise you to be more precise in your directions; for

what can be done if you order him to give and burn the same thing in

the same sentence? As you have, amongst your other misfortunes, the

misfortune to be born heir to five or six thousand a year, you should

learn a little how to manage your own affairs, lest you should, amongst

your _poor_ or _rich_ companions, meet with some who are not quite so

honest as yourself.

"If, instead of returning to dine with us, you should persist in your

gardening scheme, I shall have less esteem for your good sense, but I

shall forbear to reproach you. I shall leave you to learn by your own

experience, if it be not in my power to give you the advantages of mine

gratis. But, at the same time, I shall discover where you are, and shall

inform myself exactly of all your proceedings. This, as your guardian,

is my duty. I should further warn you, that I shall not, whilst you

choose to live in a rank below your own, supply you with your customary

yearly allowance. Two hundred guineas a year would be an extravagant

allowance in your present circumstances. I do not mention money with any

idea of influencing your generous mind by mercenary motives; but it

is necessary that you should not deceive yourself by inadequate

experiments: you cannot be rich and poor at the same time. I gave you

the day before yesterday five ten-pound notes for your last quarterly

allowance; I suppose you have taken these with you, therefore you cannot

be in any immediate distress for money. I am sorry, I own, that you are

so well provided, because a man who has fifty guineas in his pocket-book

cannot distinctly feel what it is to be compelled to earn his own bread.

"Do not, my dear ward, think me harsh; my friendship for you gives me

courage to inflict present pain, with a view to your future advantage.

You must not expect to see any thing of your friend Henry until you

return to us. I shall, as his father and your guardian, request that he

will trust implicitly to my prudence upon this occasion; that he will

make no inquiries concerning you; and that he will abstain from all

connexion with you whilst you absent yourself from your friends. You

cannot live amongst the vulgar (by the vulgar I mean the ill-educated,

the ignorant, those who have neither noble sentiments nor agreeable

manners), and at the same time enjoy the pleasures of cultivated

society. I shall wait, not without anxiety, till your choice be decided.

"Believe me to be

"Your sincere friend and guardian,

"H. CAMPBELL."

As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter, he returned to the

company. The ladies, after breakfast, proceeded to the charity-school;

but Henry was so anxious to learn what was become of his friend

Forester, that he could scarcely enjoy the effects of his own benevolent

exertions. It was with difficulty, such as he had never before

experienced, that Dr. Campbell obtained from him the promise to suspend

all intercourse with Forester. Henry's first impulse, when he read the

letter, which his father now found it prudent to show him, was to search

for his friend instantly. "I am sure," said he, "I shall be able to

find him out; and if I can but see him, and speak to him, I know I could

prevail upon him to return to us."

"Yes," said Dr. Campbell, "perhaps you might persuade him to return;

but that is not the object: unless his understanding be convinced, what

should we gain?"

"It should be convinced. I _could_ convince him," cried Henry.

"I have, my dear son," said Dr. Campbell, smiling, "the highest opinion

of your logic and eloquence; but are your reasoning powers stronger

to-day than they were yesterday? Have you any new arguments to produce?

I thought you had exhausted your whole store without effect."

Henry paused.

"Believe me," continued his father, lowering his voice, "I am not

insensible to your friend's good, and, I will say, _great_ qualities; I

do not leave him to suffer evils, without feeling as much perhaps as you

can do; but I am convinced, that the solidity of his character, and the

happiness of his whole life, will depend upon the impression that is now

made upon his mind by _realities_. He will see society as it is. He

has abilities and generosity of mind which will make him a first-rate

character, if his friends do not spoil him out of false kindness."

Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his father, and gave him the

promise which he desired.

"But," added he, "I still have hopes from your letter--I should not be

surprised to see Forester at dinner to-day."

"I should," said Dr. Campbell.

Dr. Campbell, alas! was right. Henry looked eagerly towards the door

every time it opened, when they were at dinner: but he was continually

disappointed. Flora, whose gaiety usually enlivened the evenings, and

agreeably relieved her father and brother after their morning studies,

was now silent.

Whilst Lady Catherine's volubility overpowered even the philosophy

of Dr. Campbell, she wondered--she never ceased wondering--that Mr.

Forester did not appear, and that the doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and

Henry and Flora, were not more alarmed. She proposed sending twenty

different messengers after him. She was now convinced, that he had not

fallen from Salisbury Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her ladyship,

that he had a letter from him in his pocket, and that he was safe; but

she thought that there was imminent danger of his enlisting in a frolic,

or, perhaps, marrying some cobbler's daughter in a pet. She turned to

Archibald Mackenzie, and exclaimed, "He was at a cobbler's; it could

not be merely to mend his shoes. What sort of a lassy is the cobbler's

daughter? or has the cobbler a daughter?"

"She is hump-backed, luckily," said Dr. Campbell, coolly.

"That does not signify," said Lady Catherine; "I'm convinced she is at

the bottom of the whole mystery; for I once heard Mr. Forester say--and

I'm sure you must recollect it, Flora, my dear, for he looked at you at

the time--I once heard him say, that personal beauty was no merit, and

that ugly people ought to be liked--or some such thing--out of humanity.

Now, out of humanity, with his odd notions, it's ten to one, Dr.

Campbell, he marries this cobbler's hump-backed daughter. I'm sure, if I

were his guardian, I could not rest an instant with such a thought in my

head."

"Nor I," said Dr. Campbell, quietly; and in spite of her ladyship's

astonishment, remonstrances, and conjectures, he maintained his resolute

composure.

THE GARDENER.

The gardener who had struck Forester's fancy, was a square, thick,

obstinate-eyed, hard-working, ignorant, elderly man, whose soul was

intent upon his petty daily gains, and whose honesty was of that

"coarse-spun, vulgar sort{6}," which alone can be expected from men of

uncultivated minds. Mr. M'Evoy, for that was the gardener's name, was

both good-natured and selfish; his views and ideas all centered in

his own family; and his affection was accumulated and reserved for two

individuals, his son and his daughter. The son was not so industrious

as the father; he was ambitious of seeing something of the world, and

he consorted with all the young 'prentices in Edinburgh, who would

condescend to forget that he was a country boy, and to remember that

he expected, when his father should die, _to be rich_. Mr. M'Evoy's

daughter was an ugly, cross-looking girl, who spent all the money that

she could either earn or save upon ribands and fine gowns, with which

she fancied she could supply all the defects of her person.

{Footnote 6: Mrs. Barbauld'a Essay on the Inconsistency of Human

Expectations.}

This powerful motive for her economy operated incessantly upon her mind,

and she squeezed all that could possibly be squeezed for her private use

from the frugal household. The boy, whose place Forester thought himself

so fortunate to supply, had left the gardener, because he could not bear

to work and be scolded without eating or drinking.

The gardener willingly complied with our hero's first request; he gave

him a spade, and he set him to work. Forester dug with all the energy

of an enthusiast, and dined like a philosopher upon long kail; but long

kail did not charm him so much the second day as it had done the first;

and the third day it was yet less to his taste; besides, he began to

notice the difference between oaten and wheaten bread. He, however,

recollected that Cyrus lived, when he was a lad, upon water-cresses--the

black broth of the Spartans he likewise remembered, and he would not

complain. He thought, that he should soon accustom himself to his

scanty, homely fare. A number of the disagreeable circumstances of

poverty he had not estimated when he entered upon his new way of life;

and though at Dr. Campbell's table he had often said to himself, "I

could do very well without all these things," yet, till he had actually

tried the experiment, he had not _clear_ ideas upon the subject. He

missed a number of little pleasures and conveniences, which he had

scarcely noticed, whilst they had every day presented themselves as

matters of course. The occupation of digging was laborious, but it

afforded no exercise to his mind, and he felt most severely the want of

Henry's agreeable conversation; he had no one to whom he could now talk

of the water-cresses of Cyrus, or the black broth of the Spartans;

he had no one with whom he could dispute concerning the Stoic or the

Epicurean doctrines, the mercantile or the agricultural system. Many

objections to the agricultural system, which had escaped him, occurred

now to his mind; and his compassion for the worms, whom he was obliged

to cut in pieces continually with his spade, acted every hour more

forcibly upon his benevolent heart. He once attempted to explain his

feelings for the worms to the gardener, who stared at him with all

the insolence of ignorance, and bade him mind his work, with a tone of

authority which ill suited Forester's feelings and love of independence.

"Is ignorance thus to command knowledge? Is reason thus to be silenced

by boorish stupidity?" said Forester to himself, as he recollected the

patience and candour with which Dr. Campbell and Henry used to converse

with him. He began to think, that in cultivated society he had enjoyed

more liberty of mind, more freedom of opinion, than he could taste in

the company of an illiterate gardener. The gardener's son, though his

name was Colin, had no Arcadian simplicity, nothing which could please

the classic taste of Forester, or which could recall to his mind the

Eclogues of Virgil, or the golden age; the Gentle Shepherd, or the

Ayrshire Ploughman. Colin's favourite holiday's diversion was playing at

_goff_; this game, which is played with a bat loaded with lead, and with

a ball, which is harder than a cricket-ball, requires much strength and

dexterity. Forester used, sometimes, to accompany the gardener's son to

the _Links_,{7} where numbers of people, of different descriptions are

frequently seen practising this diversion. Our hero was ambitious of

excelling at the game of _goff_; and, as he was not particularly adroit,

he exposed himself, in his first attempts, to the derision of the

spectators, and he likewise received several severe blows. Colin laughed

at him without mercy; and Forester could not help comparing the rude

expressions of his new companion's untutored vanity with the unassuming

manners and unaffected modesty of Henry Campbell. Forester soon took an

aversion to the game of _goff_, and recollected Scotch reels with less

contempt.

{Footnote 7: A lea or common near Edinburgh.}

One evening, after having finished his task of digging (for digging was

now become a task), he was going to take a walk to Duddingstone lake,

when Colin, who was at the same instant setting out for the Links,

roughly insisted upon Forester's accompanying him. Our hero, who was

never much disposed to yield to the taste of others, positively refused

the gardener's son, with some imprudent expressions of contempt.

From this moment Colin became his enemy, and, by a thousand malicious

devices, contrived to show his vulgar hatred.

Forester now, to his great surprise, discovered that hatred could exist

in a cottage. Female vanity, he likewise presently perceived, was not

confined to the precincts of a ball-room; he found that Miss M'Evoy

spent every leisure moment in the contemplation of her own coarse image

in a fractured looking-glass. He once ventured to express his dislike

of a many-coloured plaid in which Miss M'Evoy had arrayed herself _for

a dance_; and the fury of her looks, and the loud-toned vulgarity of

her conceit, were strongly contrasted with the recollection of

Flora Campbell's gentle manners and sweetness of temper. The painted

flower-pot was present to his imagination, and he turned from the lady

who stood before him with an air of disgust, which he had neither

the wish nor the power to conceal. The consequences of offending this

high-spirited damsel our hero had not sufficiently considered: the

brother and sister, who seldom agreed in any thing else, now agreed,

though from different motives, in an eager desire to torment Forester.

Whenever he entered the cottage, either to rest himself, or to partake

of those "savoury messes, which the _neat-handed_ Phillis dresses," he

was received with sullen silence, or with taunting reproach. The old

gardener, stupid as he was, Forester thought an agreeable companion,

compared with his insolent son and his vixen daughter. The happiest

hours of the day, to our hero, were those which he spent at his work;

his affections, repressed and disappointed, became a source of misery to

him.

"Is there nothing in this world to which I can attach myself?" said

Forester, as he one day leaned upon his spade in a melancholy mood.

"Must I spend my life in the midst of absurd altercations? Is it for

this that I have a heart and an understanding? No one here comprehends

one word I say--I am an object of contempt and hatred, whilst my soul

is formed for the most benevolent feelings, and capable of the most

extensive views. And of what service am I to my fellow-creatures? Even

this stupid gardener, even a common labourer, is as useful to society as

I am. Compared with Henry Campbell, what am I? Oh, Henry!--Flora!--could

you see me at this instant, you would pity me."

But the fear of being an object of pity wakened Forester's pride; and

though he felt that he was unhappy, he could not bear to acknowledge

that he had mistaken the road to happiness. His imaginary picture of

rural felicity was not, to be sure, realized; but he resolved to bear

his disappointment with fortitude, to fulfil his engagements with

his master, the gardener, and then to seek some other more eligible

situation. In the meantime, his benevolence tried to expand itself upon

the only individual in this family who treated him tolerably well: he

grew fond of the old gardener, because there was nothing else near him

to which he could attach himself, not even a dog or a cat. The old man,

whose temper was not quite so enthusiastical as Forester's, looked

upon him as an industrious simple young man, above the usual class of

servants, and rather wished to keep him in his service, because he gave

him less than the current wages. Forester, after his late reflections

upon digging, began to think, that, by applying his understanding to

the business of gardening, he might perhaps make some discoveries, which

should excite his master's everlasting gratitude, and immortalize

his own name. He pledged a shirt and a pair of stockings at a poor

bookseller's stall, for some volumes upon gardening; and these, in spite

of the ridicule of Colin and Miss M'Evoy, he studied usually at his

meals. He at length met with an account of some experiments upon

fruit-trees, which he thought would infallibly make the gardener's

fortune.

"Did you not tell me," said Forester to the gardener, "that cherries

were sometimes sold very high in Edinburgh?"

"Five a penny," said the gardener; and he wished, from the bottom of his

heart, that he had a thousand cherry-trees, but he possessed only one.

He was considerably alarmed, when Forester proposed to him, as the

certain means of making his fortune, to strip the bark off this

cherry-tree, assuring him, that a similar experiment had been tried and

had succeeded; that his cherry-tree would bear twice as many cherries,

if he would only strip the bark from it. "Let me try one branch for an

experiment--I _will try_ one branch!"

But the gardener peremptorily forbade all experiments, and, shutting

Forester's book, bade him leave such nonsense, and mind his business.

Provoked by this instance of tyrannical ignorance, Forester forgot

his character of a _servant boy_, and at length called his master an

obstinate fool.

No sooner were these words uttered, than the gardener emptied the

remains of his watering-pot coolly in Forester's face, and, first paying

him his wages, dismissed him from his service.

Miss M'Evoy, who was at work, seated at the door, made room most

joyfully for Forester to pass, and observed, that she had long since

prophesied he would not _do_ for them.

Forester was now convinced, that it was impossible to reform a positive

old gardener, to make him try new experiments upon cherry-trees, or to

interest him for the progress of science. He deplored the perversity

of human nature, and he began, when he reflected upon the characters of

Miss M'Evoy and her brother, to believe, that they were beings distinct

from the rest of their species; he was, at all events, glad to have

parted with such odious companions. On his road to Edinburgh he had time

for various reflections.

"Thirty shillings, then, with hard bodily labour, I have earned for one

month's service!" said Forester to himself. "Well, I will keep to my

resolution. I will live upon the money I earn, and upon that alone; I

will not have recourse to my bank notes till the last extremity." He

took out his pocket-book, however, and looked at them, to see that

they were safe. "How wretched," thought he, "must be that being, who

is obliged to purchase, in his utmost need, the assistance of his

fellow-creatures with such vile trash as this! I have been unfortunate

in my first experiment; but all men are not like this selfish gardener

and his brutal son, incapable of disinterested friendship."

Here Forester was interrupted in his meditations by a young man, who

accosted him with--"Sir, if I don't mistake, I believe I have a key of

yours."

Forester looked up at the young man's face, and recollected him to be

the person who had nearly lost his life in descending for his key into

the brewing-vat.

"I knew you again, sir," continued the brewer's clerk, "by your twirling

those scissors upon your finger, just as you were doing that day at the

brewery."

Forester was not conscious, till this moment, that he had a pair of

scissors in his hand: whilst the gardener was paying him his wages, to

relieve his _mauvaise honte_, our hero took up Miss M'Evoy's scissors,

which lay upon the table, and twirled them upon his fingers, as he used

to do with a key. He was rather ashamed to perceive, that he had not yet

cured himself of such a silly habit. "I thought the lesson I got at the

brewery," said he, "would have cured me for ever of this foolish trick;

but the diminutive chains of habit{8}, as somebody says, are scarcely

ever heavy enough to be felt, till they are too strong to be broken."

{Footnote 8: Dr. Johnson's Vision of Theodore.}

"_Sir!_" said the astonished clerk.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said our hero, who now perceived by his

countenance that his observation on the peculiar nature of the chains

of habit was utterly unintelligible to him; "pray, sir, can you tell me

what o'clock it is?"

"Half after four--I am--sir," said the clerk, producing his watch, with

the air of a man who thought a watch a matter of some importance. "Hum!

He can't be a gentleman; he has no watch!" argued he with himself; and

he looked at Forester's rough apparel with astonishment. Forester had

turned back, that he might return Miss M'Evoy her scissors. The brewer's

clerk was going in the same direction to collect some money for his

master. As they walked on, the young man talked to our hero with

good-nature, but with a species of familiarity, which was strikingly

different from the respectful manner in which he formerly addressed

Forester, when he had seen him in a better coat, and in the company of a

young gentleman.

"You have left Dr. Campbell's, then?" said he, looking with curiosity.

Forester replied, that he had left Dr. Campbell's, because he preferred

earning his own bread to living an idle life among gentlemen and ladies.

The clerk, at this speech, looked earnestly in Forester's face, and

began to suspect that he was deranged in his mind.

As the gravity of our hero's looks, and the sobriety of his demeanour,

did not give any strong indications of insanity, the clerk, after a few

minutes' consideration, inclined to believe, that Forester concealed the

truth from him; that probably he was some dependant of Dr. Campbell's

family; that he had displeased his friends, and had been discarded in

disgrace. He was confirmed in these suppositions by Forester's telling

him, that he had just left the service of a gardener; that he did not

know where to find a lodging for the night; and that he was in want of

some employment, by which he might support himself independently.

The clerk, who remembered with gratitude the intrepidity with which

Forester had hazarded his life to save him the morning that he was at

the brewery, and who had also some compassion for a young gentleman

reduced to poverty, told him that if he could write a good hand, knew

any thing of accounts, and could get a character for _punctuality_

(meaning to include honesty in this word) from any creditable people,

he did not doubt that his master, who had large concerns, might find

employment for him as an under-clerk. Forester's pride was not agreeably

soothed by the manner of this proposal, but he was glad to hear of a

_situation_, to use the clerk's genteel expression; and he moreover

thought, that he should now have an opportunity of comparing the

commercial and agricultural systems.

The clerk hinted, that he supposed Forester would choose to "make

himself smart," before he called to offer himself at the brewery, and

advised him to call about six, as by that time in the evening his master

was generally at leisure.

A dinner at a public-house (for our hero did not know where else to

dine), and the further expense of a new pair of shoes, and some other

articles of dress, almost exhausted his month's wages: he was very

unwilling to make any of these purchases, but the clerk assured him,

that they were indispensable; and, indeed, at last, his appearance was

scarcely upon a par with that of his friendly adviser.

THE BET.

Before we follow Forester to the brewery, we must request the attention

of our readers to the history of a bet of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie's.

We have already noticed the rise and progress of this young gentleman's

acquaintance with Sir Philip Gosling. Archibald,

"Whose ev'ry frolic had some end in view,

Ne'er played the fool, but played the rascal too,"

--Anonymous

cultivated assiduously the friendship of this weak, dissipated, vain

young baronet, in hopes that he might, in process of time, make some

advantage of his folly. Sir Philip had an unfortunately high opinion of

his own judgment; an opinion which he sometimes found it difficult to

inculcate upon the minds of others, till he hit upon the compendious

method of laying high wagers in support of all his assertions. Few

people chose to venture a hundred guineas upon the turn of a straw. Sir

Philip, in all such contests, came off victorious; and he plumed himself

much upon the success of his purse. Archibald affected the greatest

deference for Sir Philip's judgment; and, as he observed that the

baronet piqued himself upon his skill as a jockey, he flattered him

indefatigably upon this subject. He accompanied Sir Philip continually

in his long visits to the livery-stables; and he made himself familiarly

acquainted with the keeper of the livery-stables, and even with the

hostlers. So low can interested pride descend! All this pains Archibald

took, and more, for a very small object. He had set his fancy upon

Sawney, one of his friend's horses; and he had no doubt, but that he

should either induce Sir Philip to make him a present of this horse, or

that he should jockey him out of it, by some well-timed bet.

In counting upon the baronet's generosity, Archibald was mistaken. Sir

Philip had that species of _good-nature_ which can lend, but not

that which can give. He offered to lend the horse to Archibald

most willingly; but the idea of giving it was far distant from his

imagination. Archibald, who at length despaired of his friend's

generosity, had recourse to his other scheme of the wager. After having

judiciously lost a few guineas to Sir Philip in wagers, to confirm him

in his extravagant opinion of his own judgment, Archibald, one evening,

when the fumes of wine and vanity, operating together, had somewhat

exalted the man of judgment's imagination, urged him, by artful,

hesitating contradiction, to assert the most incredible things of one of

his horses, to whom he had given the name of Favourite. Archibald knew,

from the _best authority_--from the master of the livery-stables, who

was an experienced jockey--that Favourite was by no means a match for

Sawney; he therefore waited quietly till Sir Philip Gosling laid a

very considerable wager upon the head of his "Favourite." Archibald

immediately declared, he could not, in conscience--that he could not,

for the honour of Scotland, give up his friend Sawney.

"Sawney!" cried Sir Philip; "I'll bet fifty guineas, that Favourite

beats him hollow at a walk, trot, or gallop, whichever you please."

Archibald artfully affected to be startled at this defiance, and,

seemingly desirous to draw back, pleaded his inability to measure purses

with such a rich man as Sir Philip.

"Nay, my boy," replied Sir Philip, "that excuse shan't stand you in

stead. You have a pretty little pony there, that Lady Catherine has just

given you; if you won't lay me fifty guineas, will you risk your pony

against my judgment?"

Archibald had now brought his friend exactly to the point at which

he had been long aiming. Sir Philip staked his handsome horse Sawney

against Archibald's sorry pony, upon this wager, that Favourite should,

at the first trials, beat Sawney at a walk, a trot, and a gallop.

Warmed with wine, and confident in his own judgment, the weak baronet

insisted upon having the bet immediately decided. The gentlemen ordered

out their horses, and the wager was to be determined upon the sands of

Leith.

Sir Philip Gosling, to his utter astonishment, found himself for once

mistaken in his judgment. The treacherous Archibald coolly suffered him

to exhale his passion in unavailing oaths, and at length rejoiced to

hear him consoling himself with the boast, that this was the first wager

upon horse-flesh that he had ever lost in his life. The master of the

livery-stables stared with well-affected incredulity, when Sir Philip,

upon his return from the sands of Leith, informed him, that Favourite

had been beat hollow by Sawney; and Archibald, by his additional

testimony, could scarcely convince him of the fact, till he put two

guineas into his hand, when he recommended _his_ new horse Sawney to his

particular care. Sir Philip, who was not gifted with quick observation,

did not take notice of this last convincing argument. Whilst this

passed, he was talking eagerly to the hostler, who confirmed him in his

opinion, which he still repeated as loud as ever, "that Favourite ought

to have won." This point Archibald prudently avoided to contest; and he

thus succeeded in duping and flattering his friend at once.

"Sawney for ever!" cried Archibald, as soon as Sir Philip had left

the stables. "Sawney for ever!" repeated the hostler, and reminded

Mackenzie, that he had promised him half a guinea. Archibald had no

money in his pocket; but he assured the hostler, that he would remember

him the next day. The next day, however, Archibald, who was expert in

parsimonious expedients, considered that he had better delay giving the

hostler his half-guinea, till it had been earned by his care of Sawney.

It is the usual error of cunning people to take it for granted, that

others are fools. This hostler happened to be a match for our young

laird in cunning, and, as soon as he perceived that it was Archibald's

intention to cheat him of the interest of his half-guinea, he determined

to revenge himself in his _care_ of Sawney. We shall hereafter see the

success of his devices.

THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE.

Scarcely had Archibald Mackenzie been two days in possession of the

long-wished-for object of his mean soul, when he became dissatisfied

with his own saddle and bridle, which certainly did not, as Sir Philip

observed, suit his new horse. The struggles in Archibald's mind, betwixt

his taste for expense and his habits of saving, were often rather

painful to him. He had received from Lady Catherine a ten-guinea

note, when he first came to Dr. Campbell's; and he had withstood many

temptations to change it. One morning (the day that he had accompanied

Henry and Forester to the watchmaker's) he was so strongly charmed

by the sight of a watch-chain and seals, that he actually took his

bank-note out of his scrutoire at his return home, put it into his

pocket, when he dressed for dinner, and resolved to call that evening

at the watchmaker's to indulge his fancy, by purchasing the watch-chain,

and to gratify his family pride, by getting his coat of arms splendidly

engraven upon the seal. He called at the watchmaker's, in company with

Sir Philip Gosling, but he could not agree with him respecting the

price of the chain and seals; and Archibald consoled himself with the

reflection, that his bank-note would still remain. He held the note in

his hand, whilst he higgled about the price of the watch-chain.

"Oh, d--n the expense!" cried Sir Philip.

"Oh, I mind ten guineas as little as any man," said Archibald, thrusting

the bank-note, in imitation of the baronet, with affected carelessness,

into his waistcoat-pocket. He was engaged that night to go to the

play with Sir Philip, and he was much hurried in dressing. His servant

observed that his waistcoat was stained, and looked out another for him.

Now this man sometimes took the liberty of wearing his master's clothes;

and, when Archibald went to the play, the servant dressed himself in the

stained waistcoat, to appear at a ball, which was given that night in

the neighbourhood, by some "gentleman's gentleman." The waistcoat was

rather too tight for the servant: he tore it, and instead of sending it

to the washerwoman's, to have the stain washed out, as his master

had desired, he was now obliged to send it to the tailor's to have it

mended.

Archibald's sudden wish for a new saddle and bridle for Sawney could not

be gratified without changing the bank-note; and, forgetting that he

had left it in the pocket of his waistcoat the night that he went to the

play, he searched for it in the scrutoire, in which he was accustomed to

keep his treasures. He was greatly disturbed, when the note was not

to be found in the scrutoire; he searched over and over again; not

a pigeon-hole, not a drawer, remained to be examined. He tried to

recollect when he had last seen it, and at length remembered, that he

put it into his waistcoat-pocket, when he went to the watchmaker's; that

he had taken it out to look at, whilst he was in the shop; but whether

he had brought it home safely or not he could not precisely ascertain.

His doubts upon this subject, however, he cautiously concealed,

resolved, if possible, to make somebody or other answerable for his

loss. He summoned his servant, told him that he had left a ten-guinea

bank-note in his waistcoat-pocket the night that he went to the play,

and that, as the waistcoat was given into his charge, he must be

answerable for the note. The servant boldly protested, that he neither

could nor would be at the loss of a note which he had never seen.

Archibald now softened his tone; for he saw, that he had no chance of

bullying the servant. "I desired you to send it to the washerwoman's,"

said he.

"And so I did, sir," said the man.

This was true, but not the whole truth. He had previously sent the

waistcoat to the tailor's to have the rent repaired, which it received

the night he wore it at the ball. These circumstances the servant

thought proper to suppress; and he was very ready to agree with his

master in accusing the poor washerwoman of having stolen the note. The

washerwoman was extremely industrious, and perfectly honest; she had a

large family, that depended upon her labour, and upon her character, for

support. She was astonished and shocked at the charge that was brought

against her, and declared, that if she were able, she would rather pay

the whole money at once, than suffer any suspicion to go abroad against

her. Archibald rejoiced to find her in this disposition; and he assured

her, that the only method to avoid disgrace, a lawsuit, and ruin, was

instantly to pay, or to promise to pay, the money. It was out of her

power to pay it; and she would not promise what she knew she could not

perform.

Archibald redoubled his threats; the servant stood by his master. The

poor woman burst into tears; but she steadily declared that she was

innocent; and no promise could be extorted from her, even in the

midst of her terror. Though she had horrible, perhaps not absolutely

visionary, ideas of the dangers of a lawsuit, yet she had some

confidence in the certainty that justice was on her side. Archibald

said, that she might _talk_ about justice as much as she pleased, but

that she must prepare to submit to _the law_. The woman trembled at the

sound of these words; but, though ignorant, she was no fool, and she had

a friend in Dr. Campbell's family, to whom she resolved to apply in her

distress. Henry Campbell had visited her little boy when he was ill,

and had made him some small present; and, though she did not mean to

encroach upon Henry's good-nature, she thought, that he had so much

_learning_, that he certainly could, without its costing her any thing,

put her in the right way to avoid the _law_, with which she had been

threatened by Archibald Mackenzie and his servant.

Henry heard the story with indignation, such as Forester would have

felt in similar circumstances; but prudence tempered his enthusiastic

feelings; and prudence renders us able to assist others, whilst

enthusiasm frequently defeats its own purposes, and injures those whom

it wildly attempts to serve. Henry, knowing the character of Archibald,

governed himself accordingly; he made no appeal to his feelings; for

he saw that the person must be deficient in humanity, who could have

threatened a defenceless woman with such severity; he did not speak of

justice to the tyrannical laird, but spoke of _law_. He told Archibald,

that being thoroughly convinced of the woman's innocence, he had drawn

up a statement of her case, which she, in compliance with his advice,

was ready to lay before an advocate, naming the first counsel in

Edinburgh.

The young laird repeated, with a mixture of apprehension and suspicion,

"Drawn up a case! No; you can't know how to draw up cases; you are not a

lawyer--you only say this to bully me."

Henry replied, that he was no lawyer; that he could, notwithstanding,

state plain facts in such a manner, he hoped, as to make a case

intelligible to any sensible lawyer; that he meant to show what he had

written to his father.

"You'll show it to me, first, won't you?" said Archibald, who wished to

gain time for consideration.

Henry put the paper, which he had drawn up, into his hands, and waited

with a determined countenance beside him, whilst he perused the case.

Archibald saw that Henry had abilities and steadiness to go through with

the business; the facts were so plainly and forcibly stated, that

his hopes even from law began to falter. He therefore talked about

humanity--said, he pitied the poor woman; could not bear to think of

distressing her; but that, at the same time, he had urgent occasion for

money; that, if he could even recover five guineas of it, it would be

something. He added, that he had debts, which he could not, in honour,

delay to discharge.

Now Henry had five guineas, which he had reserved for the purchase of

some additions to his cabinet of mineralogy, and he offered to lend

this money to Archibald, to pay _the debts that he could not, in honour,

delay to discharge_, upon express condition, that he should say nothing

more to the poor woman concerning the bank-note.

To this condition Archibald most willingly acceded; and as Henry, with

generous alacrity, counted the five guineas into his hand, this mean,

incorrigible being said to himself, "What fools these bookish young men

are, after all! Though he can draw up cases so finely, I've taken him in

at last; and I wish it were ten guineas instead of five!"

Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices of this

avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall now relieve ourselves,

by turning from the history of meanness to that of enthusiasm. The

faults of Forester we hope and wish to see corrected; but who can be

interested for the selfish Archibald Mackenzie?

FORESTER, A CLERK.

We left Forester when he was just going to offer himself as clerk to

a brewer. The brewer was a prudent man; and he sent one of his porters

with a letter to Dr. Campbell, to inform him that a young lad, whom

he had formerly seen in company with Mr. Henry Campbell, and who, he

understood, was the doctor's ward, had applied to him, and that he

should be very happy to take him into his service, if his friends

approved of it, and could properly recommend him. In consequence of Dr.

Campbell's answer to the brewer's letter, Forester, who knew nothing of

the application to his friends, obtained the vacant clerkship. He did

not, however, long continue in his new _situation_. At first he felt

happy, when he found himself relieved from the vulgar petulance of Miss

M'Evoy and her brother Colin: in comparison with their rude ill-humours,

the clerks who were his companions appeared patterns of civility. By

hard experience, Forester was taught to know, that obliging manners in

our companions add something to the happiness of our lives. "My mind

to me a kingdom is," was once his common answer to all that his friend

Henry could urge in favour of the pleasures of society; but he began now

to suspect, that separated from social intercourse, his mind, however

enlarged, would afford him but a dreary kingdom.

He flattered himself, that he could make a friend of the clerk who

had found his key: this young man's name was Richardson; he was

good-natured, but ignorant; and neither his education nor his abilities

distinguished him from any other clerk in similar circumstances.

Forester invited him to walk to Arthur's Seat, after the _monotonous_

business of the day was over, but the clerk preferred walking on

holidays in Prince's-street; and, after several ineffectual attempts to

engage him in moral and metaphysical arguments, our hero discovered

the depth of his companion's ignorance with astonishment. Once, when he

found that two of the clerks, to whom he had been talking of Cicero and

Pliny, did not know any thing of these celebrated personages, he said,

with a sigh,

"But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of their soul."

The word _penury_, in this stanza, the clerks at least understood, and

it excited their "noble rage;" they hinted, that it ill became a person,

who did not dress nearly as well as themselves, to give himself such

airs, and to taunt his betters with poverty; they said that they

supposed, because he was an Englishman, as they perceived by his accent,

he thought he might insult Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him

to attempt any explanation; their pride and their prejudices combined

against him: and, though their dislike to him was not so outrageous as

that of the gardener, gentle Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to

make him uneasy in his situation. Richardson was as steady as could

reasonably be expected; but he showed so little desire to have "_the

ample page, rich with the spoils of time_," unrolled to him, that he

excited our young scholar's contempt. No friendships can be more unequal

than those between ignorance and knowledge. We pass over the journal of

our hero's hours, which were spent in casting up and verifying accounts;

this occupation, at length he decided, must be extremely injurious to

the human understanding: "All the higher faculties of my soul," said he

to himself, "are absolutely useless at this work, and I am reduced to

a mere machine." But there were many other circumstances in the

_mercantile system_, which Forester had not foreseen, and which shocked

him extremely. The continual attention to petty gain, the little

artifices which a tradesman thinks himself justifiable in practising

upon his customers, could not be endured by his ingenuous mind. One

morning the brewery was in an uncommon bustle; the clerks were all in

motion. Richardson told Forester that they expected a visit in a few

hours from the gauger and the supervisor, and that they were preparing

for their reception. When the nature of these preparations was explained

to Forester; when he was made to understand that the business and duty

of a brewer's clerk was to assist his master in evading certain clauses

in certain acts of parliament; when he found, that to trick a gauger

was thought an excellent joke, he stood in silent moral astonishment. He

knew about as much of the revenue laws as the clerks did of Cicero and

Pliny; but his sturdy principles of integrity could not bend to any

of the arguments, founded on expediency, which were brought by his

companions in their own and their master's justification. He declared

that he must speak to his master upon the subject immediately. His

master was as busy as he could possibly be; and, when Forester insisted

upon seeing him, he desired that he would speak as quickly as he could,

for that he expected the supervisor every instant. Our hero declared,

that he could not, consistently with his principles, assist in evading

the laws of his country. The brewer stared, and then laughed; assured

him that he had as great a respect for the laws as other people; that he

did nothing but what every person in his situation was obliged to do in

their own defence. Forester resolutely persisted in his determination

against all clandestine practices. The brewer cut the matter short, by

saying, he had not time to argue; but that he did not choose to keep

a clerk who was not in his interests; that he supposed the next thing

would be, to betray him to his supervisor.

"I am no traitor!" exclaimed Forester; "I will not stay another instant

with a master who suspects me."

The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance; but what

exasperated Forester the most was the composure of his friend Richardson

during this scene, who did not even offer to shake hands with him, when

he saw him going out of the house: for Richardson had a good place,

and did not choose to quarrel with his master, for a person whom he now

verily believed to be, as he had originally suspected, insane.

"This is the world!--this is friendship!" said Forester to himself.

His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied him with eloquent

invectives against human nature, even while he ardently desired to serve

his fellow-creatures. He wandered through the streets of Edinburgh,

indulging himself alternately in misanthropic reflections and benevolent

projects. One instant, he resolved to study the laws, that he might

reform the revenue laws; the next moment, he recollected his own passion

for a desert island, and he regretted that he could not be shipwrecked

in Edinburgh.

The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester from his reverie; he

looked up, and saw a thin, pale man fiddling to a set of dancing dogs,

that he was exhibiting upon the flags, for the amusement of a crowd

of men, women, and children. It was a deplorable spectacle; the dogs

appeared so wretched, in the midst of the merriment of the spectators,

that Forester's compassion was moved, and he exclaimed--

"Enough, enough!--They are quite tired; here are some halfpence!"

The showman took the halfpence; but several fresh spectators were yet to

see the sight; and though the exhausted animals were but little inclined

to perform their antic feats, their master twitched the rope, that was

fastened round their necks, so violently, that they were compelled to

renew their melancholy dance.

Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler's hand, and began an

expostulation, not one word of which was understood by the person to

whom it was addressed. A stout lad, who was very impatient at this

interruption of his diversion, began to abuse Forester, and presently

from words he proceeded to blows.

Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a boxer as

his opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on both sides; but, at

length, our young Quixote received what has no name in heroic language,

but in the vulgar tongue is called a black eye; and, covered with blood

and bruises, he was carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring

house. It was a printer and bookseller's shop. The bookseller treated

him with humanity; and, after advising him not to be so hastily engaged

to be the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he was, and whether he

had any friends in Edinburgh, to whom he could send.

This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with a variety of

people, was a good judge of the language of gentlemen; and, though there

was nothing else in Forester's manners which could have betrayed him, he

spoke in such good language, that the bookseller was certain that he had

received a liberal education.

Our hero declined telling his history; but the printer was so well

pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to give him

employment; and, as soon as he recovered from his bruises, Forester was

eager to learn the art of printing.

"The art of printing," said he, "has emancipated mankind, and printers

ought to be considered as the most respectable benefactors of the human

race."

Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that struck his

imagination, he was now persuaded that printers' devils were angels, and

that he should be supremely blessed in a printer's office.

"What employment so noble!" said he, as he first took the

composing-stick in his hand; "what employment so noble, as that of

disseminating knowledge over the universe!"

FORESTER, A PRINTER.

It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity in his new trade:

his companions formed, with amazing celerity, whole sentences, while he

was searching for letters, which perpetually dropped from his awkward

hands: but he was ashamed of his former versatility, and he resolved to

be steady to his present way of life. His situation, at this printer's,

was far better suited to him than that which he had quitted, with so

much disgust, at the brewer's. He rose early, and, by great industry,

overcame all the difficulties which at first so much alarmed him. He

soon became the most useful journeyman in the office. His diligence and

good behaviour recommended him to his master's employers. Whenever any

work was brought, Forester was sent for. This occasioned him to be much

in the shop, where he heard the conversation of many ingenious men who

frequented it; and he spent his evenings in reading. His understanding

had been of late uncultivated; but the fresh seeds that were now

profusely scattered upon the vigorous soil took root, and flourished.

Forester was just at that time of life when opinions are valued for

being _new_: he heard varieties of the most contradictory assertions in

morals, in science, in politics. It is a great advantage to a young

man to hear opposite arguments, to hear all that can be said upon every

subject.

Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of notions which he

had acquired from his education; he heard many, whom he could not

think his inferiors in abilities, debating questions which he formerly

imagined scarcely admitted of philosophic doubt. His mind became more

humble; but his confidence in his own powers, after having compared

himself with numbers, if less arrogant, was more secure and rational: he

no longer considered a man as a fool the moment he differed with him in

opinion; but he was still a little inclined to estimate the abilities of

authors by the party to which they belonged. This failing was increased,

rather than diminished, by the company which he now kept.

Amongst the young students who frequented Mr.----'s, the bookseller, was

Mr. Thomas ----, who, from his habit of _blurting_ out strange opinions

in conversation, acquired the name of Tom Random. His head was confused

between politics and poetry; his arguments were paradoxical, his diction

florid, and his gesture something between the spouting action of a

player, and the threatening action of a pugilist.

Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from the first day he

heard him speak.

Tom Random asserted, that "this great globe, and all that it inhabits,"

must inevitably be doomed to destruction, unless certain ideas of

his own, in the government of the world, were immediately adopted by

universal acclamation.

It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Forester felt for

his new friend it was for the first week blind, enthusiastic

admiration--every thing that he had seen or heard before appeared to

him trite and obsolete; every person who spoke temperate common sense

he heard with indifference or contempt; and all who were not zealots

in literature, or in politics, he considered as persons whose

understandings were so narrow, or whose hearts were so depraved, as to

render them "unfit to hear themselves convinced."

Those who read and converse have a double chance of correcting their

errors.

Forester most fortunately, about this time, happened to meet with a book

which in some degree counteracted the inflammatory effects of Random's

conversation, and which had a happy tendency to sober his enthusiasm,

without lessening his propensity to useful exertions: this book was the

Life of Dr. Franklin.

The idea that this great man began by being a _printer_ interested our

hero in his history; and whilst he followed him, step by step, through

his instructive narrative, Forester sympathized in his feelings, and

observed how necessary the smaller virtues of order, economy, industry,

and patience were to Franklin's great character and splendid success.

He began to hope that it would be possible to do good to his

fellow-creatures, without overturning all existing institutions.

About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in Forester's

education. One evening his friend, Tom Random, who was printing a

pamphlet, came, with a party of his companions, into Mr.----, the

bookseller's shop, enraged at the decision of a prize in a literary

society to which they belonged.

All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly declared that

he had been treated with the most flagrant injustice; and the author

himself was too angry to affect any modesty upon the occasion.

"Would you believe it?" said he to Forester--"my essay has not been

thought worthy of the prize! The medal has been given to the most

wretched, tame, commonplace performance you ever saw. Every thing in

this world is done by corruption, by party, by secret influence!"

At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and Forester

sympathized in his feelings.

In the midst of the author's exclamations, a messenger came with the

manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of the society

to have a certain number of copies printed off with all possible

expedition.

Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury of criticism,

began to read aloud some of the passages which he disliked.

Though it was marred in the reading, Forester could not agree with his

angry friend in condemning the performance. It appeared to him excellent

writing and excellent sense.

"Print it--print it then, as fast as you can--that is your

business--that's what you are paid for. Every one for himself," cried

Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at Forester; and, as he

flung out of the shop with his companions, he added, with a contemptuous

laugh, "A printer's devil setting up for a critic! He may be a capital

judge of pica and brevier, perhaps--but let not the compositor go beyond

his stick."

"Is this the man," said Forester, "whom I have heard so eloquent in the

praise of candour and liberality? Is this the man who talks of universal

toleration and freedom of opinion, and who yet cannot bear that any one

should differ from him in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who

would have equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls

a compositor a printer's devil? Is this the man who cants about the

_pre-eminence of mind_ and the _perfections of intellect_, and yet now

takes advantage of his rank, of his _supporters_, of the cry of his

partisans, to bear down the voice of reason?--'Let not the compositor go

beyond his composing-stick!'--And why not? Why should not he be a

judge of writing?" At this reflection, Forester eagerly took up the

manuscript, which had been flung at his feet. All his indignant feelings

instantly changed into delightful exultation--he saw the hand--he read

the name of Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, "_An Essay

on the best Method of reforming Abuses_." This was the subject proposed

by the society; and Henry had written upon the question with so much

moderation, and yet with such unequivocal decision had shown himself the

friend of rational liberty, that all the members of the society who were

not borne away by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of

this performance.

Random's declamation only inflamed the minds of his own partisans. Good

judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it, "This is all very fine;

but what would this man be at? His violence hurts the cause he wishes to

support."

Forester read Henry Campbell's essay with all the avidity of friendship;

he read it again and again--his generous soul was incapable of envy; and

whilst he admired, he was convinced by the force of reason.

His master desired that he would set about the essay early in the

morning; but his eagerness for his friend Henry's fame was such, that he

sat up above half the night hard at work at it. He was indefatigable the

next day at the business; and as all hands were employed on the essay,

it was finished that evening.

Forester rubbed his hands with delight, when he had set the name of

Henry Campbell in the title-page--but an instant afterwards he sighed

bitterly.

"I am only a printer," said he to himself. "These just arguments, these

noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds of my fellow-creatures: no

one will ever ask, 'Who set the types?'"

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Tom Random and two

of his partisans: he was extremely displeased to find that the printers

had not been going on with his pamphlet; his personal disappointments

seemed to increase the acrimony of his zeal for the public good:

he declaimed upon politics--upon the necessity for the immediate

publication of his sentiments, for the salvation of the state. His

action was suited to his words: violent and blind to consequences,

with one sudden kick, designed to express his contempt for the opposite

party, this political Alnaschar unfortunately overturned the form which

contained the types for the newspaper of the next day, which was

just going to the press--a newspaper in which he had written splendid

paragraphs.

Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account which

Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the patience with

which he once bore a similar accident. The printers, with secret

imprecations against oratory, or at least against those orators who

think that action is every thing, set to work again to repair the

mischief.

Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon having

finished his hard day's work, when a man from the shop came to inquire

whether three hundred cards, which had been ordered the week before to

be printed off, were finished. The man to whom the order was given had

forgotten it, and he was going home: he decidedly answered, "No; the

cards can't be done till to-morrow: we have left work for this night,

thank God."

"The gentleman says he must have them," expostulated the messenger.

"He _must_ not, he cannot have them. I would not print a card for his

majesty at this time of night," replied the sullen workman, throwing his

hat upon his head, in token of departure.

"What are these cards?" said Forester.

"Only a dancing-master's cards for his ball," said the printer's

journeyman. "I'll not work beyond my time for any dancing-master that

wears a head."

The messenger then said, that he was desired to ask for the manuscript

card.

This card was hunted for all over the room; and, at last, Forester found

it under a heap of refuse papers: his eye was caught with the name

of his old friend, Monsieur Pasgrave, the dancing-master, whom he had

formerly frightened by the skeleton with the fiery eyes.

"I will print the cards for him myself; I am not at all tired," cried

Forester, who was determined to make some little amends for the injury

which he had formerly done to the poor dancing-master. He resolved to

print the cards for nothing, and he stayed up very late to finish them.

His companions all left him, for they were in a great hurry to see, what

in Edinburgh is a rare sight, the town illuminated.

These illuminations were upon account of some great naval victory.

Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave's cards, did what no other workman

would have done; he finished for him, on this night of public joy, his

three hundred cards. Every now and then, as he was quietly at work,

he heard the loud huzzas in the street: his waning candle sunk in the

socket, as he had just packed up his work.

By the direction at the bottom of the cards, he learned where M.

Pasgrave lodged, and, as he was going out to look at the illuminations,

he resolved to leave them himself at the dancing-master's house.

THE ILLUMINATIONS.

The illuminations were really beautiful. He went up to the Castle,

whence he saw a great part of the Old Town, and all Prince's-street,

lighted up in the most splendid manner. He crossed the Earth-mound into

Prince's-street. Walking down Prince's-street, he saw a crowd of people

gathered before the large illuminated window of a confectioner's shop.

As he approached nearer, he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random,

who was haranguing the mob. The device and motto which the confectioner

displayed in his window displeased this gentleman, who, beside his

public-spirited abhorrence of all men of a party opposite to his own,

had likewise private cause of dislike to this confectioner, who had

refused him his daughter in marriage.

It was part of Random's new system of political justice to revenge his

own quarrels.

The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, made the instruments

of private malice, when they think they are acting in a public cause,

readily joined in Tom Random's cry of "Down with the motto! Down with

the motto!"

Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing dogs, had learned a little

prudence, and who had just printed Henry Campbell's Essay on the best

Means of reforming Abuses, did not mix with the rabble, but joined in

the entreaties of some peaceable passengers, who prayed that the poor

man's windows might be spared. The windows were, notwithstanding,

demolished with a terrible crash, and the crowd, then alarmed at the

mischief they had done, began to disperse. The constables, who had been

sent for, appeared. Tom Random was taken into custody. Forester was

pursuing his way to the dancing-master's, when one of the officers of

justice exclaimed, "Stop!--stop him!--he's one of 'em: he's a great

friend of Mr. Random: I've seen him often parading arm in arm in

High-street with him."

This, alas! was too true: the constables seized Forester, and put

him, with Tom Random, and the ringleader of the riot, into a place of

confinement for the night.

Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of his former friend and

present enemy, had, during this long night, leisure for much wholesome

reflection upon the danger of forming imprudent intimacies. He resolved

never to walk again in High-street arm in arm with such a man as Tom

Random.

The constables were rather hasty in the conclusion they drew from this

presumptive evidence.

Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was not a little

astonished at Tom Random's consoling himself with drinking instead

of philosophy. The sight of this enthusiast, when he had completely

intoxicated himself, was a disgusting but useful spectacle to our

indignant hero. Forester was shocked at the union of gross vice and

rigid pretensions to virtue: he could scarcely believe that the reeling,

stammering idiot whom he now beheld was the same being from whose lips

he had heard declamations upon the _omnipotence of intellect_--from

whose pen he had seen projects for the government of empires.

The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illuminations, had

regretted that his cards could not be printed, went early in the morning

to inquire about them at the printer's.

The printer had learnt that one of his boys was taken up amongst the

rioters: he was sorry to find that Forester had gotten himself into such

a scrape: but he was a very cautious snug man, and he did not choose to

interfere: he left him quietly to be dealt with according to law.

The dancing-master, however, was interested in finding him out, because

he was informed that Forester had sat up almost all night to print his

cards, and that he had them now in his pocket.

M. Pasgrave at length gained admittance to him in his confinement:

the officers of justice were taking him and Random before Mr. W----, a

magistrate, with whom informations had been lodged by the confectioner,

who had suffered in his windows.

Pasgrave, when he beheld Forester, was surprised to such a degree, that

he could scarcely finish his bow, or express his astonishment, either in

French or English. "Eh, monsieur! mon Dieu! bon Dieu! I beg ten million

pardons--I am come to search for a printer who has my cards in his

pocket."

"Here are your cards," said Forester: "let me speak a few words to

you." He took M. Pasgrave aside. "I perceive," said he, "that you have

discovered who I am. Though in the service of a printer, I have still as

much the feelings and principles of a gentleman as I had when you saw me

in Dr. Campbell's house. I have particular reasons for being anxious

to remain undiscovered by Dr. Campbell, or any of his family: you may

depend upon it that my reasons are not dishonourable. I request that you

will not, upon any account, betray me to that family. I am going before

a magistrate, and am accused of being concerned in a riot, which I did

every thing in my power to prevent."

"Ah! monsieur," interrupted the dancing-master, "but you see de grand

inconvenience of concealing your _rank_ and name. You, who are comme il

faut, are confounded with the mob: permit me at least to follow you to

Mr. W----, the magistrate: I have de honneur to teach les demoiselles

his daughters to dance; dey are to be at my ball--dey take one half

dozen tickets. I must call dere wid my cards; and I shall, if you will

give me leave, accompany you now, and mention dat I know you to be

un homme comme il faut, above being guilty of an unbecoming action. I

flatter myself I have some interest wid de ladies of de family, and dat

dey will do me de favour to speak to monsieur leur cher père sur votre

compte."

Forester thanked the good-natured dancing-master, but he proudly said,

that he should trust to his own innocence for his defence.

M. Pasgrave, who had seen something more of the world than our hero, and

who was interested for him, because he had once made him a present of an

excellent violin, and because he had sat up half the night to print the

ball cards, resolved not to leave him entirely to his innocence for a

defence: he followed Forester to Mr. W----'s. The magistrate was a slow,

pompous man, by no means a good physiognomist, much less a good judge of

character. He was proud of his authority, and glad to display the

small portion of legal knowledge which he possessed. As soon as he

was informed that some young men were brought before him, who had been

engaged the preceding night in a _riot_, he put on all his magisterial

terrors, and assured the confectioner, who had a private audience

of him, that he should have justice, and that the person or persons

concerned in breaking his window or windows should be punished with the

utmost severity that the law would allow. Contrary to the humane spirit

of the British law, which supposes every man to be innocent till it is

proved that he is guilty, this harsh magistrate presumed that every man

who was brought before him was guilty till he was proved to be innocent.

Forester's appearance was not in his favour: he had been up all night;

his hair was dishevelled; his linen was neither fine nor white; his

shoes were thick-soled and dirty; his coat was that in which he had been

at work at the printer's the preceding day; it was in several places

daubed with printers' ink; and his unwashed hands bespoke his trade. Of

all these circumstances the slow circumspect eye of the magistrate took

cognizance one by one. Forester observed the effect which this survey

produced upon his judge; and he felt that appearances were against

him, and that appearances are sometimes of consequence. After having

estimated his poverty by these external symptoms, the magistrate looked,

for the first time, in his face, and pronounced that he had one of the

worst countenances he ever beheld. This judgment once pronounced, he

proceeded to justify, by wresting to the prisoner's disadvantage every

circumstance that appeared. Forester's having been frequently seen

in Tom Random's company was certainly against him: the confectioner

perpetually repeated that they were constant companions; that they were

intimate friends; that they were continually walking together every

Sunday; and that they often had come arm in arm into his shop, talking

politics; that he believed Forester to be of the same way of thinking

with Mr. Random; and that he saw him close behind him, at the moment the

stones were thrown that broke the windows. It appeared that Mr. Random

was at that time active in encouraging the mob. To oppose the angry

confectioner's conjectural evidence, the lad who threw the stone, and

who was now produced, declared that Forester held back his arm, and

said, "My good lad, don't break this man's windows: go home quietly;

here's a shilling for you." The person who gave this honest testimony,

in whom there was a strange mixture of the love of mischief and the

spirit of generosity, was the very lad who fought with Forester, and

beat him, about the dancing dogs. He whispered to Forester, "Do you

remember me? I hope you don't bear malice." The magistrate, who heard

this whisper, immediately construed it to the prisoner's disadvantage.

"Then, sir," said he, addressing himself to our hero, "this gentleman,

I understand, claims acquaintance with you; his acquaintance really

does you honour, and speaks, strongly in favour of your character. If

I mistake not, this is the lad whom I sent to the Tolbooth, some little

time ago, for a misdemeanour; and he is not, I apprehend, a stranger to

the stocks."

Forester commanded his temper as well as he was able, and observed, that

whatever might be the character of the young man who had spoken in his

favour, his evidence would, perhaps, be thought to deserve some credit,

when the circumstances of his acquaintance with the witness were known.

He then related the adventure of the dancing dogs, and remarked, that

the testimony of an enemy came with double force in his favour. The

language and manner in which Forester spoke surprised all who were

present; but the history of the dancing dogs appeared so ludicrous and

so improbable, that the magistrate decidedly pronounced it to be "a

fabrication, a story invented to conceal the palpable collusion of the

witnesses." Yet, though he one moment declared that he did not believe

the story, he the next inferred from it, that Forester was disposed to

riot and sedition, since he was ready to fight with a vagabond in the

streets for the sake of a parcel of dancing dogs.

M. Pasgrave, in the meantime, had, with great good-nature, been

representing Forester in the best light he possibly could to the young

ladies, the magistrate's daughters. One of them sent to beg to speak

to their father. M. Pasgrave judiciously dwelt upon his assurances of

Forester's being a gentleman: he told Mr. W---- that he had met him in

one of the best families in Edinburgh; that he knew he had some private

reasons for concealing that he was a gentleman: "perhaps the young

gentleman was reduced to temporary distress," he said; but whatever

might be these reasons, M. Pasgrave vouched for his having very

respectable friends and connexions. The magistrate wished to know the

family in which M. Pasgrave had met Forester; but he was, according

to his promise, impenetrable on this subject. His representations had,

however, the desired effect upon Mr. W----: when he returned to the

examination of our hero, his opinion of his countenance somewhat varied;

he despatched his other business; bailed Tom Random on high sureties;

and, when Forester was the only person that remained, he turned to him

with great solemnity; bade him sit down; informed him that he knew him

to be a gentleman; that he was greatly concerned that a person like him,

who had respectable friends and connexions, should involve himself in

such a disagreeable affair; that it was a matter of grief and surprise

to him, to see a young gentleman in such apparel; that he earnestly

recommended to him to accommodate matters with his friends; and, above

all things, to avoid the company of seditious persons. Much good advice,

but in a dictatorial tone, and in cold, pompous language, he bestowed

upon the prisoner, and at length dismissed him. "How different," said

Forester to himself, "is this man's method of giving advice from Dr.

Campbell's!"

This lesson strongly impressed, however, upon our hero's mind the

belief, that external appearance, dress, manners, and the company we

keep, are the usual circumstances by which the world judge of character

and conduct. When he was dismissed from Mr. W----'s august presence,

the first thing he did was to inquire for Pasgrave: he was giving the

magistrate's daughters a lesson, and could not be interrupted; but

Forester left a note for him, requesting to see him at ten o'clock the

next day, at Mr. ----, the bookseller's. New mortifications awaited our

hero: on his return to his master's, he was very coldly received; Mr.

---- let him know, in unqualified terms, that he did not like to

employ any one in his work who got into quarrels at night in the public

streets. Forester's former favour with his master, his industry and

talents, were not considered without envy by the rest of the journeymen

printers; and they took advantage of his absence to misrepresent him to

the bookseller: however, when Forester came to relate his own story,

his master was convinced that he was not to blame; that he had worked

extremely hard the preceding day; and that, far from having been

concerned in a riot, he had done every thing in his power to prevent

mischief. He desired to see the essay, which was printed with so much

expedition: it was in the hands of the corrector of the press. The

sheets were sent for, and the bookseller was in admiration at the

extraordinary correctness with which it was printed; the corrector of

the press scarcely had occasion to alter a word, a letter, or a stop.

There was a quotation in the manuscript from Juvenal. Henry Campbell

had, by mistake, omitted to name the satire and line, and the author

from which it was taken, though he had left a blank in which they were

to be inserted. The corrector of the press, though a literary gentleman,

was at a stand. Forester immediately knew where to look for the passage

in the original author: he found it, and inserted the book and line in

their proper place. His master did not suffer this to pass unobserved;

he hinted to him, that it was a pity a young man of his abilities

and knowledge should waste his time in the mere technical drudgery of

printing. "I should be glad now," continued the bookseller, "to employ

you as a corrector of the press, and to advance you, according to your

merits, in the world; _but_," glancing his eye at Forester's dress, "you

must give me leave to say, that some attention to outward appearance

is necessary in our business. Gentlemen call here, as you well know,

continually, and I like to have the people about me make a creditable

appearance. You have earned money since you have been with me--surely

you can afford yourself a decent suit of clothes and a cleaner shirt. I

beg your pardon for speaking so freely; but I really have a regard for

you, and wish to see you get forward in life."

FORESTER, A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS.

Forester had not, since he left Dr. Campbell's, been often spoken to

in a tone of friendship. The bookseller's well-meant frank remonstrance

made its just impression; and he resolved to make the necessary

additions to his wardrobe; nay, he even went to a hair-dresser, to

have his hair cut and brought into decent order. His companions, the

printers, had not been sparing in their remarks upon the meanness of

his former apparel, and Forester pleased himself with anticipating

the respect they would feel for him, when he should appear in better

clothes. "Can such trifles," said he to himself, "make such a change

in the opinion of my fellow-creatures? And why should I fight with the

world for trifles? My real merit is neither increased nor diminished by

the dress I may happen to wear; but I see, that unless I waste all my

life in combating the prejudices of superficial observers, I should

avoid all those pecuiliarities in my external appearance which prevent

whatever good qualities I have from obtaining their just respect." He

was surprised at the blindness of his companions, who could not discover

his merit through the roughness of his manners and the disadvantages

of his dress; but he determined to shine out upon them in the superior

dress and character of a corrector of the press. He went to a tailor's,

and bespoke a suit of clothes. He bought new linen; and our readers

will perhaps hear with surprise, that he actually began to consider very

seriously whether he should not take a few lessons in dancing. He had

learned to dance formerly, and was not naturally either inactive or

awkward: but his contempt for the art prevented him, for some years,

from practising it; and he had nearly forgotten his wonted agility.

Henry Campbell once, when Forester was declaiming against dancing,

told him, that if he had learned to dance, and excelled in the art, his

contempt for the trifling accomplishment would have more effect upon the

minds of others, because it could not be mistaken for envy. This remark

made a deep impression upon our hero, especially as he observed that his

friend Henry was not in the least vain of his personal graces, and

had cultivated his understanding, though he could dance a Scotch reel.

Scotch reels were associated in Forester's imagination with Flora

Campbell; and in balancing the arguments for and against learning to

dance, the recollection of Archibald Mackenzie's triumphant look, when

he led her away as his partner at the famous ball, had more influence

perhaps upon Forester's mind than his pride and philosophy apprehended.

He began to have some confused design of returning, at some distant

period, to his friends; and he had hopes that he should appear in a

more amiable light to Flora, after he had perfected himself in an

accomplishment which he fancied she admired prodigiously. His esteem for

that lady was rather diminished by this belief; but still a sufficient

quantity remained to excite in him a strong ambition to please. The

agony he felt the night he left the ball-room was such, that he could

not even now recollect the circumstances without confusion and anguish

of mind. His hands were now such as could appear without gloves; and he

resolved to commence the education of his feet.

M. Pasgrave called upon him, in consequence of the message which he

left at the magistrate's: his original design in sending for the

dancing-master was to offer him some acknowledgment for his obliging

conduct. "M. Pasgrave," said he, "you have behaved towards me like a

man of honour; you have kept my secret; I am convinced that you will

continue to keep it inviolate." As he spoke, he produced a ten-guinea

bank-note, for at length he had prevailed upon himself to have recourse

to his pocket-book, which, till this day, had remained unopened.

Pasgrave stared at the sight of the note, and withdrew his hand at

first, when it was offered; but he yielded at length, when Forester

assured him that he was not in any distress, and that he could perfectly

well afford to indulge his feelings of gratitude. "Nay," continued

Forester, who, if he had not always practised the maxims of politeness,

notwithstanding possessed that generosity of mind and good sense

on which real politeness must depend--"you shall not be under any

obligation to me, M. Pasgrave: I am just going to ask a favour from you.

You must teach me to dance." "Wid de utmost pleasure," exclaimed the

delighted dancing-master; and the hours of his attendance were soon

settled. Whatever Forester attempted, he pursued with energy. M.

Pasgrave, after giving him a few lessons, prophesied that he would do

him infinite credit; and Forester felt a secret pride in the idea

that he should surprise his friends, some time or other, with his new

accomplishment.

He continued in the bookseller's service, correcting the press for him,

much to his satisfaction; and the change in his personal appearance

pleased his master, as it showed attention to his advice. Our hero, from

time to time, exercised his talents in writing; and, as he inserted his

compositions under a fictitious signature, in his master's newspaper,

he had an opportunity of hearing the most unprejudiced opinions of a

variety of critics, who often came to read the papers at their house.

He stated, in short essays, some of those arguments concerning the

advantages and disadvantages of politeness, luxury, the love of society,

misanthropy, &c., which had formerly passed between him and Henry

Campbell; and he listened to the remarks that were made upon each side

of the question. How it happened, we know not; but after he had taken

lessons for about six weeks from M. Pasgrave, he became extremely

solicitous to have a solution of all his Stoical doubts, and to furnish

himself with the best possible arguments in favour of civilized society.

He could not bear the idea that he yielded his opinions to any thing

less than strict demonstration: he drew up a list of queries,

which concluded with the following question:--"What should be the

distinguishing characteristics of the higher classes of people in

society?" This query was answered in one of the public papers, a few

days after it appeared in Mr. ----'s paper, and the answer was signed

_H.C., a Friend to Society_. Even without these initials, Forester would

easily have discovered it to be Henry Campbell's writing; and several

strokes seemed to be so particularly addressed to him, that he could not

avoid thinking Henry had discovered the querist. The impression which

arguments make upon the mind varies with time and change of situation.

Those arguments in favour of subordination in society, in favour of

agreeable manners, and attention to the feelings of others in the small

as well as in the great concerns of life, which our hero had heard with

indifference from Dr. Campbell and Henry in conversation, struck him,

when he saw them in a printed essay, with all the force of conviction;

and he wondered how it had happened that he never before perceived them

to be conclusive.

He put the newspaper, which contained this essay, in his pocket; and,

after he had finished his day's work, and had taken his evening lesson

from M. Pasgrave, he went out with an intention of going to a favourite

spot upon Arthur's Seat, to read the essay again at his leisure.

But he was stopped at the turn from the North Bridge, into High-street,

by a scavenger's cart. The scavenger, with his broom which had just

swept the High-street, was clearing away a heap of mud. Two gentlemen

on horseback, who were riding like postilions, came up during this

operation--Sir Philip Gosling and Archibald Mackenzie. Forester had his

back towards them, and he never looked round, because he was too intent

upon his own thoughts. Archibald was mounted upon Sawney, the horse

which he had so _fairly_ won from his friend Sir Philip. The half-guinea

which had been promised to the hostler had not yet been paid; and the

hostler, determined to revenge himself upon Archibald, invented an

ingenious method of gratifying his resentment. He taught Sawney to rear

and plunge whenever his legs were touched by the broom with which the

stables were swept. When Sawney was perfectly well trained to this

trick, the cunning hostler communicated his design, and related his

cause of complaint against Archibald, to a scavenger, who was well

known at the livery stables. The scavenger entered into his friend the

hostler's feeling, and promised to use his broom in his cause,

whenever a convenient and public opportunity should offer. The hour of

retribution was now arrived: the scavenger saw his young gentleman in

full glory, mounted upon Sawney; he kept his eye upon him, whilst, in

company with the baronet, he came over the North Bridge: there was a

stop, from the meeting of carts and carriages. The instant Archibald

came within reach of the broom, the scavenger slightly touched Sawney's

legs; Sawney plunged and reared, and reared and plunged. The scavenger

stood grinning at the sight. Forester attempted to seize the horse's

bridle; but Sawney, who seemed determined upon the point, succeeded.

When Forester snatched at his bridle, he reared, then plunged; and

Archibald Mackenzie was fairly lodged in the scavenger's cart. Whilst

the well-dressed laird floundered in the mud, Forester gave the horse

to the servant, who had now ridden up; and, satisfied that Mackenzie had

received no material injury, inquired no further. He turned to assist a

poor washerwoman, who was lifting a large basket of clean linen into her

house, to get it out of the way of the cart. As soon as he had helped

her to lift the basket into her passage, he was retiring, when he heard

a voice at the back-door, which was at the other end of the passage. It

was the voice of a child; and he listened, for he thought he had heard

it before. "The door is locked," said the washerwoman. "I know who it is

that is knocking; it is only a little girl who is coming for a cap which

I have there in the basket." The door was unlocked, and Forester saw the

little girl to whom the fine geranium belonged. What a number of ideas

she recalled to his mind! She looked at him, and hesitated, courtesied,

then turned away, as if she was afraid she was mistaken, and asked the

washerwoman if she had plaited her grandmother's cap. The woman searched

in her basket, and produced the cap nicely plaited. The little girl, in

the meantime, considered Forester with anxious attention. "I believe,"

said she, timidly, "you are, or you are very like, the gentleman who was

so good as to--" "Yes," interrupted Forester, "I know what you mean.

I am the man who went with you to try to obtain justice from your

tyrannical schoolmistress: I did not do you any good. Have you

seen--have you heard any thing of--?" Such a variety of recollections

pressed upon Forester's heart, that he could not pronounce the name of

Henry Campbell; and he changed his question. "Is your old grandmother

recovered?"

"She is quite well, thank you, sir; and she is grown young again, since

you saw her: perhaps you don't know how good Mr. Henry and the young

lady have been to us. We don't live now in that little, close, dark room

at the watchmaker's. We are as happy, sir, as the day is long." "But

what of Henry? what of--?" "Oh, sir! but if you are not very busy, or in

a great hurry--it is but a little way off--if you _could_ come and look

at our new house--I don't mean _our_ house, for it is not ours; but

we take care of it, and we have two little rooms to ourselves; and Mr.

Henry and Miss Flora very often come to see us. I wish you could come to

see how nice our rooms are! The house is not far off, only at the back

of the Meadows." "Go, show me the way--I'll follow you," said Forester,

after he had satisfied himself that there was no danger of his meeting

any of Dr. Campbell's family.

THE MEADOWS.

Our hero accompanied the little girl with eager, benevolent curiosity.

"There," said she, when they came to the Meadows, "do you see that white

house, with the paling before it?" "But that cannot be your house!" "No,

no, sir: Dr. Campbell and several gentlemen have the large room,

and they come there twice a-week to teach something to a great many

children. Grandmother can explain all that better to you, sir, than I

can; but all I know is, that it is our business to keep the room aired

and swept, and to take care of the glass things which you'll see; and

you shall see how clean it is: it was _I_ swept it this morning."

They had now reached the gate which was in the paling before the

house. The old woman came to the door, clean, neat, and cheerful; she

recollected to have seen Forester in company with Henry Campbell at the

watchmaker's; and this was sufficient to make him a welcome guest. "God

bless the family, and all that belongs to them, for ever and ever!" said

the woman. "This way, sir." "Oh, don't look into our little rooms yet:

look at the great room first, if you please, sir," said the child.

There was a large table in the middle of this long room, and several

glass retorts, and other chemical vessels, were ranged upon shelves;

wooden benches were placed on each side of the table. The grandmother,

to whom the little girl had referred for a clear explanation, could

not, however, tell Forester very exactly the use of the retorts; but she

informed him that many of the manufacturers in Edinburgh sent their sons

hither twice a-week; and Dr. Campbell, and Mr. Henry Campbell, and some

other gentlemen, came by turns to instruct them. Forester recollected

now that he once heard Henry talking to his father about a scheme for

teaching the children of the manufacturers of Edinburgh some knowledge

of chemistry, such as they might afterwards apply advantageously to the

arts and every-day business of life.

"I have formed projects, but what good have I ever actually done to my

fellow-creatures?" said Forester to himself. With melancholy steps he

walked to examine every thing in the room. "Dr. Campbell sits in this

arm-chair, does not he? And where does Henry sit?" The old woman placed

the chairs for him as they usually were placed. Upon one of the shelves

there was a slate, which, as it had been written upon, the little girl

had put by very carefully; there were some calculations upon the weight

of different gases, and the figures Forester knew to be Henry's: he

looked at every thing that was Henry's with pleasure. "Because I used to

be so rough in my manner to him," said Forester to himself, "I dare say

that he thinks I have no feeling, and I suppose he has forgotten me by

this time: I deserve, indeed, to be forgotten by every body! How could

I leave such friends!" On the other side of the slate poor Forester saw

his own name written several times over, in his friend's hand-writing,

and he read two lines of his own poetry, which he remembered to have

repeated to Henry the day that they walked to Arthur's Seat. Forester

felt much pleasure from this little proof of his friend's affection.

"Now won't you look at our nice rooms?" said the child, who had waited

with some patience till he had done pondering upon the slate.

The little rooms were well arranged, and their neatness was not now as

much lost upon our hero as it would have been some time before. The old

woman and her grand-daughter, with all the pride of gratitude, exhibited

to him several little presents of furniture which they had received

from Dr. Campbell's family. "Mr. Henry gave me this! Miss Flora gave me

that!" was frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door of her

own room. On a clean white deal bracket, which "_Mr. Henry lad put

up with his own hands_," stood the well-known geranium in its painted

flower-pot. Forester saw nothing else in the room, and it was in vain

that both the old woman and her grand-daughter talked to him at once;

he heard not a word that was said to him. The flowers were all gone, and

the brown calyces of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of

time which had elapsed since he had first seen them. "I am sorry there

are no flowers to offer you," said the little girl, observing Forester's

melancholy look; "but I thought you did not like geraniums; for I

remember when I gave you a fine flower in the watchmaker's shop you

pulled it to pieces, and threw it on the ground." "I should not do so

now," said Forester. The black marks on the painted flower-pot had been

entirely effaced: be turned away, endeavoured to conceal his emotion,

and took leave of the place as soon as the grateful inhabitants would

suffer him to depart. The reflection that he had wasted his time,

that he had never done any good to any human being, that he had lost

opportunities of making both himself and others happy, pressed upon his

mind; but his Stoical pride still resisted the thought of returning

to Dr. Campbell's. "It will be imagined that I yield my opinions from

meanness of spirit," said he to himself. "Dr. Campbell certainly has

no further regard or esteem for me; neither he nor Henry have troubled

themselves about my fate: they are doing good to more deserving objects;

they are intent upon literary pursuits, and have not time to bestow a

thought upon me. And Flora, I suppose, is as gay as she is good. I alone

am unhappy,--a wanderer,--an outcast,--a useless being."

Forester, whilst he was looking at the geranium, or soon afterwards,

missed his handkerchief; the old woman and her grand-daughter searched

for it all over the house, but in vain: he then thought he must have

left it at the washerwoman's, where he met the little girl; he called to

inquire for it, upon his return to Edinburgh. When he returned to this

woman's house for his handkerchief, he found her sitting upon a low

stool, in her laundry, weeping bitterly; her children stood round her.

Forester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she told him that

a few minutes after he left her, the young gentleman who had been thrown

from his horse into the scavenger's cart was brought into her house,

whilst his servant went home for another suit of clothes for him. "I

did not at first guess that I had ever seen the young gentleman before,"

continued she; "but when the mud was cleared from his face I knew him to

be Mr. Archibald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his face

then or at any time. He was in a very bad humour after his tumble, and

he began again to threaten me about a ten-guinea bank-note, which he and

his servant declare they sent in his waistcoat pocket to be washed: I'm

sure I never saw it. Mr. Henry Campbell quieted him about it for awhile;

but just now he began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a

lawyer, and that he will make me pay the whole note; and he swore at me

as if I had been the worst creature in the world; and, God knows, I work

hard for my children, and never wronged any one in my days!"

Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections as soon as he

could assist any one who was in distress, bade the poor woman dry

her tears, and assured her that she had nothing to fear; for he would

instantly go to Dr. Campbell, and get him to speak to Mackenzie. "If

it is necessary," said he, "I'll pay the money myself." She clasped

her hands joyfully as he spoke, and all her children joined in an

exclamation of delight. "I'll go to Dr. Campbell's this instant," said

our hero, whose pride now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this

injured woman; he totally forgot himself, and thought only of her: "I'll

go to Dr. Campbell's, and I will speak to Mr. Mackenzie immediately."

A SUMMONS

Whilst Forester was walking through the streets, with that energy which

the hope of serving his fellow-creatures always excited in his generous

mind, he even forgot a scheme which he had, in spite of his Stoical

pride and his dread of being thought to give up his opinions from

meanness, resolved in his imagination. He had formed the design of

returning to his friends an altered being in his external appearance: he

had ordered a fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. He had

laid aside the dress and manners of a gentleman from the opinion that

they were degrading to the character of a man: as soon as this prejudice

had been conquered, he began to think he might resume them. Many were

the pleasing anticipations in which he indulged himself: the looks of

each of his friends, the generous approving eye of Henry, the benevolent

countenance of Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all painted

by his fancy; and he invented every circumstance that was likely to

happen--every word that would probably be said by each individual. We

are sure that our readers will give our enthusiastic hero credit for

his forgetting these pleasing reveries--for his forgetting himself,

nay, even Flora Campbell--when humanity and justice called upon him for

exertion.

When he found himself in George's-square, within sight of Dr. Campbell's

house, his heart beat violently, and he suddenly stopped to

recollect himself. He had scarcely stood a few instants, when a hard,

stout-looking man came up to him, and asked him if his name were

Forester: he started, and answered, "Yes, sir, what is your business

with me?" The stranger replied by producing a paper, and desiring him

to read it. The paper, which was half printed, half written, began with

these words:--"You are hereby required to appear before me--"

"What is all this?" exclaimed our hero. "It is a summons," replied the

stranger: "I am a constable, and you will please to come with me before

Mr. W----. This is not the first time you have been before him, I am

told." To this last insolent taunt Forester made no reply, but in a firm

tone said that he was conscious of no crime, but that he was ready

to follow the constable, and to appear before Mr. W----, or any other

magistrate, who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though he summoned

all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he was much astonished by

this proceeding; he could not help reflecting, that an individual in

society who has friends, an established character, and a _home_, is in

a more desirable situation than an unconnected being, who has no one

to answer for his conduct,--no one to rejoice in his success, or to

sympathize in his misfortunes. "Ah, Dr. Campbell! happy father! in the

midst of your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent ward!" said

Forester to himself, while his mind revolted from seeking his friend's

assistance in this discreditable situation. "You do not know how near he

is to you! you do not know that he was just returning to you! you do not

see that he is, at this moment, perhaps, on the brink of disgrace!"

THE BANK-NOTES.

Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell had forgotten him;

but we shall not yet explain further upon this subject; we only throw

out this hint, that our readers may not totally change their good

opinion of the doctor. We must now beg their attention to the

continuation of the history of Archibald Mackenzie's bank-note.

Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the colours were changed

in one spot on the right-hand pocket of her son's waistcoat. "My dear

Archibald," said she, "what has happened to your smart waistcoat? What

is that terrible spot?" "Really, ma'am, I don't know," said Archibald,

with his usual soft voice and deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed

that it seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some acid. "Did

you wear that waistcoat, Mr. Mackenzie," said he, "the night the large

bottle of vitriolic acid was broken--the night that poor Forester's cat

was killed: don't you remember?" "Oh, I did not at first recollect; I

cannot possibly remember, indeed,--it is so long ago,--what waistcoat I

wore on that particular night." The extreme embarrassment in Archibald's

manner surprised Henry. "I really don't perceive your _drift_,"

continued Mackenzie: "what made you ask the question so earnestly?" He

was relieved when Henry answered, that he only wished to know whether

it was probable that it was stained with vitriolic acid; "because,"

said he, "I think _that_ is the pocket in which you said you left

your ten-guinea note; then, perhaps, the note may have been stained."

"Perhaps so," replied Mackenzie dryly. "And if it were, you could

identify the note: you have forgotten the number; but if the note has

been stained with vitriolic acid, we should certainly be able to know

it again: the acid would have changed the colour of the ink." Mackenzie

eagerly seized this idea; and immediately, in pursuance of Henry's

advice, went to several of the principal bankers in Edinburgh, and

requested that if a note, stained in such a manner, should be presented

to them, they would stop payment of it till Mackenzie should examine it.

Some time elapsed, and nothing was heard of the note. Mackenzie gave up

all hopes of recovering it; and in proportion as these hopes diminished,

his old desire of making the poor washerwoman answerable for his loss

increased. We have just heard this woman's account of his behaviour to

her, when he came into her house to be refitted, after his tumble from

Sawney into the scavenger's cart. All his promises to Henry he

thought proper to disregard: promises appeared to him mere matters of

convenience; and the idea of "_taking in_" such a young man as Henry

Campbell was to him an excellent joke. He resolved to keep the five

guineas quietly which Henry lent him; and, at the same time, to frighten

this innocent industrious woman into paying him the value of his

bank-note.

Upon Mackenzie's return to Dr. Campbell's, after his fall from Sawney,

the first thing he heard was that his note was found; that it had been

stopped at the bank of Scotland; and that one of the clerks of the bank,

who brought it for his examination, had been some time waiting for his

return from riding. When the note was produced, Henry saw that two or

three of the words which had been written in ink, the name of the person

to whom it was payable, and the date of the month and year, were so pale

as to be scarcely visible; and that there was a round hole through one

corner of the paper. This round hole puzzled Henry, but he had no doubt

that the ink had been thus nearly obliterated by vitriolic acid. He

poured a few drops, diluted with water, upon some printing, and the ink

was quickly turned to nearly the same pale colour as that in Mackenzie's

note. The note was easily traced, as it had not passed through many

hands--our readers will be sorry to hear it--to M. Pasgrave, the

dancing-master. Mackenzie and the clerk went directly to his house,

found him at home, and without much preface, informed him of their

business. The dancing-master trembled from head to foot, and, though

innocent, exhibited all the signs of guilt; he had not the slightest

knowledge of business, and the manner and language of the banker's clerk

who accompanied Mackenzie terrified him beyond measure, because he did

not comprehend one word in ten that he said about checks, entries,

and day-books; and he was nearly a quarter of an hour before he could

recover sufficient presence of mind to consider from whom he received

the note. At length, after going over, in an unintelligible manner, all

the puzzled accounts of monies received and paid which he kept in his

head, he declared that he clearly recollected to have received the

ten-guinea note at Mr. Macpherson's, the tailor; that he went a few

weeks ago to settle his year's account with him; and that in change

for a twenty-pound note, he received that which the banker's clerk

now produced. To Mackenzie it was perfectly indifferent who was found

guilty, so that he could recover his money. "Settle it as you will

amongst you," said he, "the money must be refunded, or I must have you

all before a magistrate directly." Pasgrave, in great perturbation, set

out for Mr. Macpherson's, showed him the note, and reminded him of the

day when he paid his account. "If you received the note from us, sir,"

said the master-tailor, very calmly, "it must be entered in our books,

for we keep regular accounts." The tailor's foreman, who knew much more

of the affair than his master, appealed, with assumed security, to the

entry in the books. By this entry it appeared that M. Pasgrave

settled his account the 17th of October; that he paid the balance by a

twenty-pound note, and that he received in change a ten-guinea note on

Sir William Forbes's bank. "You see, sir," said the tailor, "this cannot

possibly be Mr. Mackenzie's; for his note is on the bank of Scotland.

Our entry is as full as possible; and I am ready to produce my books,

and to abide by them, in any court of justice in the world." M. Pasgrave

was totally at a loss; he could only repeat, that he remembered to have

received Mackenzie's note from one of the tailor's men, who brought it

to him from an inner room. The foreman boldly asserted, that he brought

the change exactly as his master gave it to him, and that he knew

nothing more of the matter. But, in fact, he knew a great deal more:

he had found the note in the pocket of Mackenzie's waistcoat, which his

servant had left to be mended, after he had torn it furtively, as has

been already related. When his master called him into the inner room,

to give him the change for Pasgrave, he observed that there was a

ten-guinea note wrapped up with some halfpence; and he thought that it

would be a prudent thing to substitute Mackenzie's note, which he had

by him, in the place of this. He accordingly gave Pasgrave Mackenzie's

note, and thrust the note which he had received from his master into a

corner of his trunk, where he usually kept little windfalls, that came

to him by the negligence of customers--toothpick-cases, loose silver,

odd gloves, &c., all which he knew how to dispose of. But this bank-note

was a higher prize than usual, and he was afraid to pass it till all

inquiry had blown over. He knew his master's regularity; and he thought

that if the note was stopped afterwards at any of the banks, it could

never be traced further than to M. Pasgrave. He was rejoiced to see that

this poor man was in such trepidation of mind that he could not, in the

least, use his understanding; and he saw, with much satisfaction, that

his master, who was a positive man, and proud of the accuracy of his

books, was growing red in the face in their defence. Mackenzie, in the

meantime, who had switched his boots with great impatience during their

debate, interfered at last with, "Come, gentlemen, we can't stand here

all day to hear you give one another the lie. One of you, it's plain,

must shell out your corianders; but, as you can't settle which, we must

put you to your oath, I see." "Mr. W----'s is not far off, and I am

ready to go before him with my books this instant," said the fiery

master-tailor. "My books were never called in question since I was in

trade till this instant; and nobody but a French dancing-master, who

understands no more of debtor and creditor than my goose, would stand

out against such an entry as this." To Mr. W----'s the tailor, his

foreman, the dancing-master, the banker's clerk, and Mackenzie,

repaired. Pasgrave turned paler than ever dancer turned before; and gave

himself, his character, and his wife and children, all up for lost,

when he heard that he was to be put upon his oath. He drew back when Mr.

W---- held the book to him, and demanded whether he would swear to the

person from whom he received the note. He said he could not swear; but

to the best of his belief--en conscience--en honneur--foi d'honnête

homme--he was convinced he received it from Mr. Macpherson's foreman.

The foreman, who, from one step in villany, found himself hurried on to

another and another, now scrupled not to declare that he was ready to

take his oath that he delivered the note and change, just as his master

gave it to him, to M. Pasgrave. The magistrate turned to the paler,

conscientious, incapacitated dancing-master, and in a severe tone

said--"Appearances are strangely against you, M. Pasgrave. Here's a

young gentleman has lost a bank-note--it is stopped at the bank

of Scotland--it is traced home to you--you say you got it from Mr.

Macpherson or his foreman--his books are produced--the entry in them is

clearly against you; for it states that the note given to you in change

was one of Sir William Forbes's bank; and this which I hold now in my

hand is of the Bank of Scotland. Please now to tell how this note of

the Bank of Scotland, which has been proved to be the property of Mr.

Mackenzie, came into your possession? From whom did you receive it? or

how did you come by it? I am not surprised that you decline taking an

oath upon this occasion." "Ah, monsieur, ayez pitié de moi!" cried

the innocent, but terrified man, throwing himself upon one knee, in

an attitude, which, on the stage, would have produced a sublime

effect--"Ah, monsieur, ayez pitié de moi! I have no more dan de child

no sense in affairs." Mackenzie interrupted him with a brutal laugh. The

more humane banker's clerk was moved by the simplicity of this avowed

ignorance of business. He went up to the distracted dancer, and said,

"It is not to be expected that every body should understand business as

_we_ do, sir: if you are innocent, only give yourself time to recollect;

and though it's unfortunate that you never keep any regular accounts,

maybe we shall be able to make out this affair of the entry. If Mr.

W---- will give me leave to take this pen and ink, and if you will try

to recollect all the persons from whom you have received money lately--"

"Ah, mon Dieu! dat is impossible." Then he began to name the quarterly

and half-yearly payments that he had received from his various pupils.

"Did any of them lately give you a ten-guinea note?" "Ah, oui, je

me rappelle--un jeune monsieur--un certain monsieur, qui ne veut pas

que--qui est là incognito--who I would not betray for the world; for he

has behave wid de most parfaite générosité to me." "But did he give

you a ten-guinea bank-note? that is all we want to know," said the

magistrate. "Mais--oui--yes." "About what time?" said the clerk. It was

about the beginning of October: and this was so near the time when he

settled accounts with Mr. Macpherson, the tailor, that he even himself

began to believe it possible that he had mistaken one note for the

other. "When the young gentleman gave you the note," said the banker's

clerk, "surely you must have looked at it--you must have observed

these remarkable stains?" Pasgrave replied, that he did look at it, he

supposed; that he saw it was a ten-guinea note; it might be stained, it

might not be stained; he could not pretend to be certain about it. He

repeated his assurances that he was ignorant of business, and of every

thing in this world but dancing. "Pour la danse, je m'y connois--pour

les affaires, je n'en sais rien, moi." He, with his usual simplicity,

added, that if Mr. W---- would give him leave, he would go to the young

gentleman, his friend, and learn from him exactly the number of the note

which he had given him; that he was sure he could recollect his own note

immediately. Mackenzie, who thought that this was merely pretence, in

order to escape, told him that he could not be suffered to go out upon

his parole. "But," said Mr. W----, "tell us the name of this young

gentleman who has so much generosity, and who lives incognito. I don't

like gentlemen who live incognito. I think I had a young man here before

me, about two months ago, charged with breaking a confectioner's windows

in a riot, the night of the great illuminations--Hey? don't I remember

some such thing? And you, M. Pasgrave, if I mistake not, interested

yourself mightily about this young man, and told me and my daughters,

sir, that he was a young gentleman incognito. I begin to see through

this affair. Perhaps this is the same young gentleman from whom you

received the note. And pray what value did you give for it?" Pasgrave,

whose fear of betraying Forester now increased his confusion, stammered,

and first said the note was a present, but afterwards added, "I have

been giving de young person lessons in dancing for des six week."

"Well, then, we must summon this young person," said Mr. W----. "Tell us

his name, if you please," said Mackenzie; "I have some suspicion that

I know your gentleman incognito." "You need not trouble him," said the

magistrate; "I know the name already, and I know where the bird is to

be found: his name, if he has not changed it since he was last in this

room, is Forester." "Forester!" exclaimed Mackenzie; "I thought so! I

always thought how he would turn out. I wonder what his friends, the

Campbells, will have to say for him now!"

Mr. W----'s pen stopped. "His friends, the Campbells--humph! So the

Campbells are his friends, are they?" repeated he. "They _were_ his

friends," answered Mackenzie; "but Mr. Forester thought proper, nobody

knows why, to run away from them, some months ago; the only reason I

could ever learn was that he did not like to live amongst gentlemen: and

he has been living ever since incognito, amongst blackguards, and we see

the fruits of it." Mackenzie eagerly handed the summons, as soon as it

was signed, to a constable; and Mr. W---- directed the constable to Mr.

----'s, the bookseller, adding, "Book-sellers and printers are dangerous

persons." The constable, who had seen Forester the night that he was

confined with Tom Random, knew his face and person; and we have told

our readers that he met Forester in George's-square, going to Dr.

Campbell's, to vindicate the innocence of the poor washerwoman.

The tailor's foreman was not a little alarmed when the summons was sent

for our hero; he dreaded that the voice of truth should be heard, and he

skulked behind the rest of the company. What astonishment did Forester

feel when he entered the room, and saw the group that surrounded the

justice's table!--Archibald Mackenzie, with an insulting sneer on his

lips--Pasgrave, with eyes fixed upon him in despair--Mr. Macpherson,

the tailor, pointing to an entry in his book--his foreman shrinking

from notice--the banker's clerk, with benevolent scepticism in his

countenance--and the justice, with a portentous scowl upon his brow.

"Come forward, Mr. Forester," said the magistrate, as our hero made a

sudden pause of astonishment; "come forward, sir!" Forester advanced

with calm intrepidity. "You are better dressed than when I had the

honour of seeing you here some time ago, sir. Are you a printer

still, or a gentleman? Your dress certainly bespeaks a change in your

condition." "I am sure I should hardly know Mr. Forester again, he has

grown such a beau--comparatively speaking, I mean," said Mackenzie. "But

certainly, M. Pasgrave, you must have made some mistake; I don't know

how to believe my senses! Is this the young gentleman to whom you

alluded? do you know him--?" "Give me leave, Mr. Mackenzie," interrupted

the justice: "I shall examine this young incognito myself. I think I

know how to come at the truth. Will you do me the favour, sir, to inform

me whether you recollect any thing of a ten-guinea bank-note which you

gave or paid, some time in last October, to this gentleman?" pointing

to M. Pasgrave. "I do," replied Forester, in a distinct, unembarrassed

voice, "perfectly well remember giving M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea

bank-note." "Ah, monsieur, je ne suis pas un ingrat. Ne pensez pas

que--" "Oh, M. Pasgrave," interrupted Mackenzie, "this is no time for

compliments and fine speeches: for God's sake, let us get to the bottom

of this affair without further ceremony!" "Sir," said the banker's

clerk, "all we want to know is the number of your note, and the firm of

the house. Was your note one of Sir William Forbes's, or of the Bank

of Scotland?" Forester was silent. "I do not recollect," said he, after

some pause. "You don't recollect, sir," said the justice, "is something

like an evasive answer. You must have a vast number of bank-notes then,

we must presume, if you cannot recollect to what bank your ten-guinea

note belonged." Forester did not understand this logic; but he simply

repeated his assertion. "Pray, sir," said the tailor, who could no

longer restrain his impatience--"Pray, sir," said the magistrate, in a

solemn manner, "be silent. I shall find out the truth. So, Mr. Forester,

you cannot possibly recollect the house of your note? You will tell us

next, I dare say, that you cannot possibly recollect how you came by

it." "Sir," said Forester, "if it is necessary, I can readily tell you

how I came by it." "It is very necessary, sir, for your own credit." "I

received it from Dr. Campbell." "Dr. Campbell!" repeated the magistrate,

changing his tone. "And I have some idea that the doctor gave me a list

of the numbers of that and four other notes, with which I fortunately

have not parted." "Some idea means nothing in a court of justice, sir;

if you have any such paper, you can do us the favour to produce it." Now

this list was locked up in the trunk, of which the key was dropped into

the brewing-vat. Richardson, the clerk, had returned the key to him;

but, such is the force of habit, he had not cured himself of the foolish

trick of twirling it upon his thumb; and about two months ago he dropped

it in one of his walks to Arthur's Seat. He long searched for it amongst

the rocky fragments, but at last gave it up--he little imagined of how

much consequence it might be to him. Dr. Campbell had once refused to

break open the lock, and he felt very unwilling to apply to him in his

present circumstances. However, he wrote a few lines to Henry Campbell;

but, as soon as he had written them, his pride again revolted from

the thoughts of supplicating the assistance of his friend in such

a disgraceful situation. "If you don't choose to write," said the

officious malevolence of Archibald, "I can, however, speak; I'll desire

Dr. Campbell to open your trunk, and search for the paper." He left the

room before Forester could make any further opposition.

"I have answered, I hope, both distinctly and respectfully, all the

questions that you have asked me," said Forester, turning to Mr. W----.

"I hope you will no longer keep me in the dark. Of what am I suspected?"

"I will tell you, sir," replied the deliberate, unfeeling magistrate;

"you are suspected of having, I will not say _stolen_, but you are

more than suspected of having come unfairly by a certain ten-guinea

bank-note, which the young gentleman who has just left the room lost

a few months ago." Forester, as this speech was slowly pronounced,

sat down, folded his arms, and appeared totally insensible--quite

unconscious that he was in the presence of a magistrate, or that any

human being was observing him. "Ah, mon cher monsieur, pardonnez!" cried

Pasgrave, bursting into tears. "N'en parlons plus," added he, turning

to the magistrate. "Je payerai tout ce qu'il faut. I will pay de ten

guineas. I will satisfy every body. I cannot never forgive myself if I

bring him into any disgrace." "Disgrace!" exclaimed Forester, starting

up, and repeating the word in a tone which made every person in the

room, not excepting the phlegmatic magistrate, start and look up to him,

with a sudden feeling of inferiority. His ardent eye spoke the language

of his soul. No words could express his emotion. The master-tailor

dropped his day-book. "Constable--call a constable!" cried the justice.

"Sir, you forget in whose presence you are--you think, I suppose, that

your friends, the Campbells, will bear you out. Sir, I would have you

to know that all the Campbells in Scotland can't bail you for a felony.

Sir, philosophers should know these things. If you cannot clear yourself

to my entire satisfaction, Mr. Forester, I shall commit you--in one

word--to gaol: yes--look as you please, sir--to gaol. And if the doctor

and his son, and all his family, come up to bail you, I shall, _meo

periculo_, refuse their bail. The law, sir, is no respecter of persons.

So none of your rhodomontades, young gentleman, in my presence; but step

into this closet, if you please; and, I advise you, bring your mind into

a becoming temperament, whilst I go to dinner. Gentlemen," continued

he to Macpherson and Pasgrave, "you'll be so good to wait here in this

apartment. Constable, look to your prisoner," pointing to the door of

the closet. "John, let me know when Dr. Campbell arrives; and tell them

to send up dinner directly," said the justice to his butler.

Whilst he dines, we must leave the tailor complaining that he was

wasting precious time; the foreman in the panic of guilt; and the

good-natured dancing-master half distracted betwixt his fears and his

ignorance. He looked from time to time through the key-hole of the

closet in which Forester was confined, and exclaimed, "Grand Dieu! comme

il a l'air noble à cet instant! Ah! lui coupable! he go to gaol! it is

impossible!"

"We shall see how that will be presently," said the foreman, who had

hitherto preserved absolute silence. "I abide by my books," said the

master-tailor; "and I wish Dr. Campbell would make haste. _I have lost a

day!_"

In spite of the tailor's imperial exclamation, he was obliged to wait

some time longer. When Mackenzie arrived at Dr. Campbell's, Henry was

not at home: he was gone to the house at the back of the meadows, to

prepare some chemical experiments for the next day's lecture. Mackenzie,

however, found Dr. Campbell at home in his study; and, in a soft

hypocritical voice, lamented that he was obliged to communicate some

disagreeable circumstances relating to young Mr. Forester. "You do

not, I presume, know where that unfortunate, misguided youth is at

present--at this moment, I mean." "I do not know where he is at this

moment," said Dr. Campbell, calmly; "but I know where he has been for

some time--at Mr. ----'s, the bookseller. I have had my eye upon him

ever since he left this house. I have traced him from place to place.

Though I have said little about him, Mr. Mackenzie, I have a great

regard for my unfortunate ward." "I am sorry for it, sir," said

Mackenzie: "I fear I must wound your feelings the more deeply." "What is

the matter? pray speak at once," cried Dr. Campbell, who now forgot all

his usual calmness. "Where is Forester?" "He is at this moment before

Mr. W----, the magistrate, sir, charged with--but, I own, I cannot

believe him guilty--" "Charged with what? For God's sake, speak plainly,

Mr. Mackenzie!" "Then, in one word, sir, my lost bank-note is traced

home to Mr. Forester. M. Pasgrave says he received it from him."

"Surely, sir," said Dr. Campbell, with indignation, "you would not

insinuate that Forester has stolen your bank-note?" "I insinuate

nothing, doctor," said Archibald; "but, I fear, the thing is too

plainly proved. My bank-note has certain stains, by which it has been

identified. All that I know is, that Mr. W---- says he can take no

bail; and that he must commit Mr. Forester to gaol, unless he can clear

himself. He says, that a few days before he left your house, you

paid him his quarterly allowance of fifty guineas, in five ten-guinea

bank-notes." "He says true--I did so," said Dr. Campbell eagerly. "And

he says that you gave them to him wrapped in a piece of paper, on which

the numbers of the notes were written." "I remember it distinctly: I

desired him to take care of that paper." "He is not famous for taking

care, you know, sir, of any thing. He says, he believes he threw it

into his trunk; but he has lost the key of the trunk, I understand." "No

matter; we can break it open this instant, and search for the paper,"

cried Dr. Campbell, who was now extremely alarmed for his ward.

Mackenzie stood by without offering any assistance, whilst Dr. Campbell

broke open the trunk, and searched it with the greatest anxiety. It was

in terrible disorder. The coat and waistcoat which Forester wore at the

ball were crammed in at the top; and underneath appeared unfolded linen,

books, boots, maps, shoes, cravats, fossils, and heaps of little

rumpled bits of paper, in which the fossils had once been contained. Dr.

Campbell opened every one of these. The paper he wanted was not amongst

them. He took every thing out of the box, shook and searched all the

pockets of the coat, in which Forester used, before his reformation,

to keep hoards of strange papers. No list of bank-notes appeared. At

length, Dr. Campbell espied the white corner of a paper-mark in a volume

of Goldsmith's Animated Nature, He pulled out this mark, and to his

great joy, he found it to be the very paper he wanted. "So it's found,

is it?" said Mackenzie, disappointed; whilst Dr. Campbell seized his

hat, left every thing upon the floor, and was very near locking the door

of the room upon Mackenzie. "Don't lock me in here, doctor--I am going

back with you to Mr. W----'s" said Arcibald. "Won't you stay? dinner's

going up--Mr. W---- was going this dinner when I came away." Without

listening to him, Dr. Campbell just let him out, locked the door, and

hurried away to his poor ward.

"I have let things go to far," said he to himself. "As long as

Forester's credit was not in danger, as long as he was unknown, it was

very well; but now his character is at stake; he may pay too dear for

his experience."

"Dr. Campbell," said the pompous magistrate, who hated philosophers,

rising from table as Dr. Campbell entered, "do not speak to me of

bailing this ward of yours--it is impossible, sir; I know my duty." "I

am not come to offer bail for my ward," said Dr. Campbell, "but to prove

his innocence." "We must hope the best," said Mr. W----; and, having

forced the doctor to pledge him in a bumper of port, "Now I am ready to

proceed again to the examination of all parties concerned."

Dr. Campbell was now shown into the room where Mr. Macpherson, his

foreman and Pasgrave, were waiting. "Ah, monsieur, Dieu merci, vous

voila!" exclaimed Pasgrave. "You may go," said Mr. W---- to the

constable: "but wait below stairs." He unlocked the closet-door.

Forester, at the sight of Dr. Campbell, covered his face with his hands;

but, an instant afterwards, advanced with intrepidity. "You cannot, I am

sure, believe me to be guilty of any meanness, Dr. Campbell," said he.

"Imprudent I have been, and I suffer for my folly." "Guilty!" cried

Dr. Campbell; "no: I could almost as soon suspect my own son of such an

action. But my belief is nothing to the purpose. We must _prove_ your

innocence." "Ah, oui, monsieur--and mine too; for I am innocent, I can

assure you," cried M. Pasgrave.

"The whole business, sir," said the banker's clerk, who had, by this

time, returned to hear the termination of the affair--"the whole thing

can be settled in two minutes, by a gentleman like you, who understands

business. Mr. Forester cannot recollect the number or the firm of a

ten-guinea bank-note which he gave to M. Pasgrave. M. Pasgrave cannot

recollect either; and he is in doubt whether he received this

stained note, which Mr. Mackenzie lost, from Mr. Forester or from

Mr. Macpherson, the tailor." "There can be no doubt about me," said

Macpherson. "Dr. Campbell, will you be so good to look at the entry? I

acknowledge, I gave M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea note; but here's the number

of it, 177, of Forbes's bank. Mr. Mackenzie's note, you see, is of the

bank of Scotland; and the stains upon it are so remarkable, that, if I

had ever seen it before, I should certainly remember it. I'll take

my oath I never saw it before." "Sir," said Forester eagerly to Dr.

Campbell, "you gave me five ten-guinea notes: here are four of them in

this pocket-book; the fifth I gave to M. Pasgrave. Can you tell me the

number of that note?" "I can," said Dr. Campbell, producing the paper

which he found in Goldsmith's Animated Nature. "I had the precaution

to write down the numbers of all your notes myself: here they are."

Forester opened his pocket-book: his four remaining notes were compared,

and perfectly agreed with the numbers in the list. The fifth, the number

of the note which he gave to Pasgrave, was 1260, of the New Bank. "One

of your ten-guinea notes," said Dr. Campbell to Pasgrave, "you paid

into the bank of Scotland; and this gentleman," pointing to the banker's

clerk, "stopped it this morning. Now you have had another ten-guinea

note; what became of that?" Pasgrave, who understood Dr. Campbell's

plain method of questioning him, answered immediately, "I did give the

other to my hair-dresser, not long ago, who lives in ---- street." Dr.

Campbell instantly went himself to the hair-dresser, found that he had

the note still in his possession, brought him to Mr. W----'s, and, when

the note was examined, it was found to be 1260 of the New Bank, which

exactly corresponded with the entry in the list of notes which Dr.

Campbell had produced.

"Then all is right," said Dr. Campbell. "Ah, oui!--Ah, non!" exclaimed

Pasgrave. "What will become of me?" "Compose yourself, my good sir,"

said Dr. Campbell. "You had but two ten-guinea notes, you are sure of

that?" "But two--but two: I will swear but two." "You are now certain

which of these two notes you had from my ward. The other, you say, you

received from ----" "From dis gentleman, I will swear," cried Pasgrave,

pulling the tailor's foreman forwards. "I can swear now I am in no

embarras: I am sure I did get de oder note from dis gentleman." The

master-tailor was astonished to see all the pallid marks of guilt in his

foreman's countenance. "Did you change the note that I gave you in

the inner room?" said Mr. Macpherson. The foreman, as soon as he could

command his voice, denied the charge; and persisted in it that he gave

the note and change, which his master wrapped up, exactly as it was, to

the dancing-master. Dr. Campbell proposed that the tailor's shop, and

the foreman's room, should be searched. Mr. W---- sent proper people

to Mr. Macpherson's; and whilst they are searching his house, we may

inquire what has become of Henry Campbell.

THE CATASTROPHE.

Henry Campbell, the last time we heard of him, was at the house at the

back of the meadows. When he went into the large room to his chemical

experiments, the little girl, who was proud of having arranged it

neatly, ran on before him, and showed him the places where all his

things were put. "The writing and the figures are not rubbed off your

slate--there it is, sir," said she, pointing to a high shelf. "But whose

handkerchief is this?" said Henry, taking up a handkerchief which

was under the slate. "Gracious! that must be the good gentleman's

handkerchief; he missed it just as he was going out of the house. He

thought he had left it at the washerwoman's, where I met him; and

he's gone back to look for it there. I'll run with it to the

washerwoman's,--maybe she knows where to find him." "But you have not

told me who he is. Whom do you mean by the good gentleman?" "The good

gentleman, sir, that I saw with you at the watchmaker's, the day that

you helped me to carry the great geranium out of my grandmother's room."

"Do you mean that Forester has been here?" exclaimed Henry. "I never

heard his name, sir; but I mean that the gentleman has been here, whom I

call the good gentleman, because it was he who went with me to my cross

schoolmistress, to try to persuade her to use me well. She beat me, to

be sure, after he was gone, for what he had said; but I'm not the less

obliged to him, because he did every thing as he thought for the best.

And so I'll run with his handkerchief to the woman's, who will give it

safe to him."

Henry recollected his promise to his father. It required all his power

over himself to forbear questioning the child, and endeavouring to

find out something more of his friend. He determined to mention the

circumstance to his father, and to Flora, as soon as he returned home.

He was always impatient to tell any thing to his sister that interested

himself or his friends; for Flora's gaiety was not of that unfeeling

sort which seeks merely for amusement, and which, unmixed with sympathy

for others, may divert in a companion, but disgusts in a friend.

Whilst Henry was reflecting upon the manner in which he might most

expeditiously arrange his chemical experiments and return home, the

little girl came running back, with a face of great distress. As soon

as she had breath to speak, she told Henry that when she went to the

washerwoman's with the handkerchief, she was told a sad piece of news;

that Mr. Forester had been taken up, and carried before Mr. W----, the

magistrate. "We don't know what he has done: I'm sure I don't think he

can have done any thing wrong." Henry no sooner heard these words than

he left all his retorts, rushed out of the house, hurried home to his

father, and learned from Flora, with great surprise, that his father had

already been sent for, and was gone to Mr. W----'s. She did not know the

circumstances that Mackenzie related to Dr. Campbell, but she told him

that her father seemed much alarmed; that she met him crossing the hall,

and that he could not stop to speak to her. Henry proceeded directly to

Mr. W----'s, and he arrived there just as the people returned from the

search of the tailor's house. His opinion of Forester's innocence was

so strong, that when he entered the room, he instantly walked up to

him, and embraced him, with a species of frank confidence in his manner

which, to Forester, was more expressive than any thing that he could

have said. The whole affair was quickly explained to him; and the people

who had been sent to Mr. Macpherson's now came up-stairs to Mr. W----,

and produced a ten-guinea bank-note, which was found in the foreman's

box. Upon examination, this note was discovered to be the very note

which Mr. Macpherson sent with the change to Pasgrave. It was No. 177,

of Sir William Forbes's bank, as mentioned in the circumstantial entry

in the day-book. The joy of the poor dancing-master at this complete

proof of his innocence was rapturous and voluble. Secure of the sympathy

of Forester, Henry, and Dr. Campbell, he looked at them by turns, whilst

he congratulated himself upon this "_éclaircissement_," and assured the

banker's clerk that he would in future keep accounts. We are impatient

to get rid of the guilty foreman: he stood a horrible image of despair.

He was committed to gaol; and was carried away by the constables,

without being pitied by any person present. Every body, however, was

shocked. Mackenzie broke silence first, by exclaiming, "Well, now, I

presume, Mr. W----, I may take possession of my bank-note again." He

took up all the notes which lay upon the table to search amongst them

for his own. "Mine, you know, is stained," said Archibald. "But it is

very singular," said Henry Campbell, who was looking over his shoulder,

"that here are two stained notes. That which was found in the foreman's

box is stained in one corner, exactly as yours was stained, Mr.

Mackenzie." Macpherson, the tailor, now stooped to examine it. "Is this

No. 177, the note that I sent in change, by my foreman, to M. Pasgrave?

I'll take my oath it was not stained in that manner when I took it out

of my desk. It was a new and quite clean note: it must have been stained

since." "And it must have been stained with vitriolic acid," continued

Henry. "Ay, there's cunning for you," cried Archibald. "The foreman, I

suppose, stained it, that it might not be known again." "Have you any

vitriolic acid in your house?" pursued Henry, addressing himself to

the master-tailor. "Not I, indeed, sir; we have nothing to do with such

things. They'd be very dangerous to us." "Pray," said Henry, "will you

give me leave, Mr. W----, to ask the person who searched the foreman's

box a few questions?" "Certainly sir," said Mr. W----; "though, I

protest, I cannot see what you are driving at." Henry inquired what was

found in the box with the bank-note. The man who searched it enumerated

a variety of things. "None of these," said Henry, "could have stained

the note: are you sure that there was nothing else?" "Nothing in the

world; nothing but an old glass stopper, I believe." "I wish I could

see that stopper," said Henry. "This note was rolled round it," said the

man: "but I threw it into the box again. I'll go and fetch it, sir, if

you have any curiosity to see it." "Curiosity to see an old stopper?

No!" cried Archibald Mackenzie, with a forced laugh; "what good would

that do us? We have been kept here long enough. I move that we go

home to our dinners." But Dr. Campbell, who saw that Henry had some

particular reason for wishing to see this glass stopper, seconded his

son. The man went for it; and when he brought it into the room, Henry

Campbell looked at it very carefully, and then decidedly said, fixing

his eyes upon Archibald Mackenzie, who in vain struggled to keep his

countenance from changing. "This glass stopper, Mr. Mackenzie, is the

stopper of my father's vitriolic acid bottle, that was broken the night

the cat was killed. This stopper has stained both the bank-notes. And

it must have been in the pocket of your waistcoat." "My pocket!"

interrupted Archibald: "how should it come into my pocket? It never was

in _my_ pocket, sir." Henry pointed to the stain on his waistcoat. He

wore the very waistcoat in question. "Sir," said Archibald, "I don't

know what you mean by pointing at my waistcoat. It is stained, it is

true, and very likely by vitriolic acid; but, as I have been so often in

the doctor's laboratory, when your chemical experiments have been going

on, is it not very natural to suppose that a drop of one of the acids

might have fallen on my clothes? I have seen your waistcoats stained,

I am sure. Really, Mr. Campbell, you are unfriendly, uncharitable; your

partiality for Mr. Forester should not blind you, surely. I know you

want to exculpate him from having any hand in the death of that cat: but

that should not, my dear sir, make you forget what is due to justice.

You should not, permit me to say, endeavour to criminate an innocent

person." "This is all very fine," said Henry; "and you may prove your

innocence to me at once, Mr. Mackenzie, if you think proper, by showing

that the waistcoat was really, as you assert, stained by a drop of

vitriolic acid falling upon the outside of it. Will you show us the

inside of the pocket?" Mackenzie, who was now in too much confusion to

know distinctly what Henry meant to prove, turned the pocket inside out,

and repeated, "That stopper was never in my pocket, I'll swear." "Don't

swear to that, for God's sake," said Henry. "Consider what you are

saying. You see that there is a hole burnt in this pocket. Now if a drop

of acid had fallen, as you said, upon the outside of the waistcoat, it

must have been more burnt on the outside than on the inside." "I

don't know--I can't pretend to be positive," said Archibald; "but what

signifies all this rout about the stopper?" "It signifies a great deal

to me," said Dr. Campbell, turning away from Mackenzie with contempt,

and addressing himself to his ward, who met his approving eye with proud

delight--"it signifies a great deal to me. Forgive me, Mr. Forester,

for having doubted your word for a moment." Forester held his guardian's

hand, without being able for some instants to reply. "You are coming

home with us, Forester?" said Henry. "No," said Dr. Campbell, smiling;

"you must not ask him to come home with us to-night. We have a little

dance at our house to-night. Lady Catherine Mackenzie wished to take

leave of her Edinburgh friends. She goes from us to-morrow. We must not

expect to see Forester at a ball; but to-morrow morning--" "I see," said

Forester, smiling, "you have no faith in my reformation. Well, I have

affairs to settle with my master, the printer. I must go home, and take

leave of him. He has been a good master to me; and I must go and finish

my task of correcting. Adieu." He abruptly left Dr. Campbell and Henry,

and went to the bookseller's, to inform him of all that had passed, and

to thank him for his kindness. "You will be at a loss to-morrow for a

corrector of the press," said he. "I am determined you shall not suffer

for my vagaries. Send home the proof-sheets of the work in hand to me,

at Dr. Campbell's, and I will return them to you punctually corrected.

Employ me till you have provided yourself with another, I will not say a

better hand. I do not imagine," continued Forester, "that I can pay

you for your kindness to me by presents; indeed, I know you are in such

circumstances that you disdain money. But I hope you will accept of a

small mark of my regard--a complete font of new types."

Whilst Forester's generous heart expanded with joy at the thoughts of

returning once more to his friends, we are sorry to leave him, to finish

the history of Archibald Mackenzie. He sneaked home after Dr. Campbell

and Henry, whose silent contempt he well understood. Dr. Campbell

related all that had passed to Lady Catherine. Her ladyship showed

herself more apprehensive that her son's meanness should be made known

to the world, than indignation or sorrow for his conduct. Archibald,

whilst he was dressing for the ball, began to revolve in his mind

certain words which his mother had said to him _about his having

received the lie direct from Henry Campbell--his not having the spirit

of a gentleman._ "She certainly meant," said he to himself, "that I

ought to fight him. It's the only way I can come off, as he spoke so

plainly before Mr. W----, and all those people: the banker's clerk

too was by; and, as my mother says, it will be talked of. I'll get Sir

Philip Gosling to go with my message. I think I've heard Dr. Campbell

say, he disapproved of duels. Perhaps Henry won't fight. Has Sir Philip

Gosling sent to say, whether he would be with us at the ball to-night?"

said Archibald to the servant who was dressing his hair. "No, sir,"

replied the servant: "Sir Philip's man has not been here: but Major

O'Shannon has been here twice since you were away, to see you. He said

he had some message to deliver from Sir Philip to you." "To me!

message to me!" repeated Archibald, turning pale. Archibald knew Major

O'Shannon, who had of late insinuated himself into Sir Philip Gosling's

favour, had a particular dislike to him, and had successfully bullied

him upon one or two occasions. Archibald had that civil cowardice,

which made him excessively afraid of the opinion of the world; and Major

O'Shannon, a gamester, who was jealous of his influence over the rich

dupe, Sir Philip, determined to entangle him in a quarrel. The major

knocked at the door a third time before Archibald was dressed; and when

he was told that he was dressing, and could not see any one, he sent up

the following note:--

"SIR,

"The last time I met you at the livery-stables, in company with my

friend, Sir Philip Gosling, I had the honour of telling you my mind, in

terms sufficiently explicit, concerning a transaction, which cannot have

escaped your memory. My friend, Sir Philip, declares you never hinted

that the pony was spavined. I don't pretend to be so good a jockey as

you, but you'll excuse my again saying, I can't consider your conduct

as that of a gentleman. Sir Philip is of my mind; and if you resent my

interference, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman.

If not, you will do well to leave Edinburgh along with your mother

to-morrow morning; for Edinburgh is no place for cowards, as long as one

has the honour of living in it, who calls himself (by courtesy)

"Your humble servant,

"CORNELIUS O'SHANNON.

"P.S. Sir Philip is at your service, after your settling with me."

Archibald, oppressed with the sense of his own meanness, and somewhat

alarmed at the idea of fighting three duels, to retrieve his credit,

thought it best to submit, without struggle, in the first instance, to

that public disgrace which he had merited. He wrote a shabby apology to

Major O'Shannon and Sir Philip, concluding with saying, that rather than

lose a friend he so much valued as Sir Philip Gosling, he was willing

to forget all that had passed, and even to take back the pony, and to

return Sawney, if the matter could, by this means, be adjusted to his

satisfaction. He then went to his mother, and talked to her, in a high

style, of his desperate intentions with respect to Henry Campbell.

"Either he or I must fall, before we quit the ground," said the artful

Archibald--well knowing that Lady Catherine's maternal tenderness

would be awakened by these ideas. Other ideas were also awakened in

the prudent mother's mind. Dr. Campbell was nearly related to a general

officer, from whom she looked for promotion for her son. She repented,

upon reflection, of what she had hastily said concerning _the lie

direct, and the spirit of a gentleman_; and she softened down her pride,

and talked of her dislike to breaking up old family friendships. Thence

she digressed into hints of the advantages that might accrue from

cultivating Dr. Campbell's good opinion; admitted that Henry was

strangely prejudiced in favour of his rough friend Forester; but

observed that Mr. Forester, after all, though singular, was a young man

of merit, and at the head of a very considerable estate. "Archibald,"

said she, "we must make allowances, and conciliate matters--unless you

make this young gentleman your friend, you can never hope to be on an

eligible footing with his guardian. His guardian, you see, is glad to

get him back again, and, I dare say, has his reasons. I never saw him,

and I know him well, in such spirits in my life as he was when he came

back to us to announce the probability of his ward's return to-morrow

morning. The doctor, I dare say, has good reasons for what he does; and

I understand his ward is reconciled to the idea of living in the world,

and enjoying his fine fortune like other people. So I hope you and he,

and of course you and the doctor, and Henry Campbell, will be very good

friends. I shall leave you at Edinburgh for a few months, till we get

our commission; and I shall beg the doctor to introduce you to his

friend and relation, General D----. If he can do nothing for you, you

may look towards the Church. I trust to your prudence, not to think of

Flora Campbell, though I leave you in the house with her; for you can't

afford, Archibald, to marry a girl with so small a fortune; and, you may

be sure, her friends have other views for her. Pray let me hear no more

of duels and quarrels. And let us go down into the ball-room; for Miss

Campbell has been dressed and down-stairs this half hour; and I would

not have you inattentive--that might displease as much as the other

extreme. In short, I may safely leave you to your own discretion." Lady

Catherine, after this prudent exhortation, entered the ball-room,

where all the company soon after assembled. Seated in gay ranges,

the well-dressed belles were eager for the dancing to commence. Lady

Catherine stood by Dr. Campbell; and as soon as the ball began, when the

music played, and she saw every one absorbed in themselves, or in their

partners, she addressed herself to the doctor on the subject which was

next her heart, or rather next her imagination. "The general is to be

with you shortly, I understand," said she. Dr. Campbell coldly answered

in the affirmative. "To be candid with you, doctor, if you'll sit down,

I want to have a little chat with you about my Archibald. He is not

every thing I could wish, and I see you are displeased with him about

this foolish business that has just happened. For my own part, I think

him to blame; but we must pardon, we must make allowances for the errors

of youth; and I need not, to a man of your humanity, observe what a

cruel thing it is to prejudice the world against a young man, by telling

little anecdotes to his disadvantage. Relations must surely uphold one

another; and I am convinced you will speak of Archibald with candour

and friendship." "With candour and with truth," replied Dr. Campbell. "I

cannot pretend to feel friendship merely on the score of relationship."

The proud blood mounted into Lady Catherine's face, and she replied,

"Some consideration of one's own relations, I think, is not unbecoming.

Archibald, I should have thought, had as strong a claim upon Dr.

Campbell's friendship as the son of an utter stranger to the family. Old

Mr. Forester had a monstrous fortune, 'tis true; but his wife, who was

no grand affair, I believe--a merchant's daughter, I'm told--brought him

the greatest part of it; and yet, without any natural connexion between

the families, or any thing very desirable, setting fortune out of the

question, you accept the guardianship of this young man, and prefer him,

I plainly see, to my Archibald. I candidly ask you the question, and

answer me candidly."

"As you have explicitly asked the question, I will answer your ladyship

candidly. I do prefer my ward to your son. I have avoided drawing

comparisons between your son and Forester; and I now wish to avoid

speaking of Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, because I have little hope of being

of service to him."

"Nay," said Lady Catherine, softening her tone, "you know you have it in

your power to be of the greatest service to him."

"I have done all I could," said Dr. Campbell, with a sigh; "but habits

of--"

"Oh, but I'm not talking of habits," interrupted Lady Catherine. "I'll

make him alter his habits. We shall soon turn him into what you like:

he's very quick; and you must not expect every young man to be just cut

out upon the pattern of our dear Henry. I don't want to trouble you to

alter his habits, or to teach him chemistry, or any of those things. But

you can, you know, without all that, do him an essential service."

"How?" said Dr. Campbell.

"Why how? I don't know you this evening, you are so dry. Ken you not

what I mean? Speak three words for him to your friend, the general."

"Your ladyship must excuse me," said Dr. Campbell.

Lady Catherine was stunned by this distinct refusal. She urged Dr.

Campbell to explain the cause of his dislike to her son.

"There is a poor washerwoman now below stairs," replied Dr. Campbell,

"who can explain to you more than I wish to explain; and a story about a

horse of Sir Philip Gosling was told to me the other day, by one of the

baronet's friends, which I should be glad Mr. Archibald Mackenzie could

contradict effectually."

"Archibald, come here," said Lady Catherine: "before the next dance

begins, I must speak to you. What is this about a horse of Sir Philip

Gosling?"

"Ma'am!" said Archibald, with great astonishment. At this instant one

of Dr. Campbell's servants came into the room, and gave two notes to

Archibald, which, he said, two gentlemen had just left, and desired him

to deliver to Mr. Mackenzie whilst he was in the ball-room, if possible.

"What is it?--What are they, child?" cried Lady Catherine. "I will see

them." Her ladyship snatched the notes, read, and when she saw that

her son, in the grossest terms, was called a coward, for refusing the

challenges of two such fashionable men as Sir Philip Gosling and Major

O'Shannon, all her hopes of him were at an end. "Our family is disgraced

for ever!" she exclaimed; and then, perceiving that she had uttered this

unguarded sentence loud enough for several of the company to hear, she

endeavoured to laugh, and fell into violent hysterics. She was carried

out of the ball-room. A whisper now ran round the room of--"What's the

matter with Lady Catherine Mackenzie?" It was at an unfortunate

moment that she was carried out, for all the dancers had just seated

themselves, after a brisk country dance; and the eyes of all the young

and old were upon her ladyship as she made her exit. A young man, a

friend of Major O'Shannon, who was present, whispered the secret to his

partner; she, of course, to her next neighbour. Archibald saw that the

contents of the notes were made public; and he quitted the apartment,

"to inquire how his mother did."

The buzz of scandal was general for some moments; but a new object soon

engrossed the attention of the company. "Pray," said a young lady, who

was looping up Flora Campbell's gown, "who is this gentleman, who is

just coming into the room?" Flora looked up, and saw a well-dressed

stranger entering the room, who had much the appearance of a gentleman.

He certainly resembled a person she had seen before; but she could

scarcely believe that her eyes did not deceive her. Therefore she

hesitatingly replied to the young lady's question, "I don't know--I am

not sure." But she, an instant afterwards, saw her brother Henry and

her father advance so eagerly to meet the stranger, that her doubts

vanished; and, as he now directed his steps towards the spot where

she was standing, she corrected her first answer to her companion's

question, and said, "Yes, I fancy--it certainly is--Mr. Forester."

Forester, with an open countenance, slightly tinged with the blush

of ingenuous shame, approached her, as if he was afraid she had not

forgotten some things which he wished to be forgotten; and yet as if he

was conscious that he was not wholly unworthy of her esteem. "Amongst

other prejudices of which I have cured myself," said he to Dr. Campbell,

"since we parted, I have cured myself of my foolish antipathy to Scotch

reels."

"That I can scarcely believe," said Dr. Campbell, with an incredulous

smile.

"I will convince you of it," said Forester, "if you will promise to

forget all my other follies."

"_All!_" said Dr. Campbell. "Convince me first; and then it will be time

enough to make such a desperate promise."

Flora was rather surprised when our once cynical hero begged the favour

of her hand, and led her to dance a reel. M. Pasgrave would have been in

ecstasy if he had seen his pupil's performance.

"And now, my dear Forester," said Dr. Campbell, as his ward returned

to claim his promise of a general amnesty, "if you do not turn out a

coxcomb, if you do not 'mistake reverse of wrong for right,' you will

infallibly be a very great man. Give me a pupil who can cure himself of

any one foible, and I have hope of him. What hope must I not have of him

who has cured himself of so many!"

THE PRUSSIAN VASE

Frederick the Second, king of Prussia, after his conquest of Saxony,

transported, it is said{1}, by force, several manufacturers from Dresden

to Berlin, where he was very desirous of establishing the manufacture

of china. These unfortunate people, separated from their friends, their

home, and their native country, were compelled to continue their labours

for the profit and for the glory of their conqueror. Amongst the number

of those sufferers was Sophia Mansfeld. She was young, handsome, and

possessed considerable talents. Several pieces of porcelain of her

design and modelling were shown to Frederick, when he visited the

manufactory at Meissen, in Saxony; and their taste and workmanship

appeared to him so exquisite, that he determined to transport the artist

to his capital. But from the time of her arrival at Berlin, Sophia

Mansfeld's genius seemed to forsake her. It was her business to sketch

designs, and to paint them on the porcelain; but either she could not

or would not execute these with her former elegance: the figures were

awkward and spiritless, and it was in vain that the overseer of the

works attempted to rouse her to exertion; she would sit for hours, with

her pencil in her hand, in a sort of reverie. It was melancholy to see

her. The overseer had compassion upon her; but his compassion was not so

great as his dread of the king's displeasure; and he at length declared,

that the next time Frederick visited the works, he must complain of her

obstinate idleness.

{Footnote 1: Vide Wraxall'g Memoirs of the Court of Berlin.}

The monarch was expected in a few days; for, in the midst, of his

various occupations, Frederick, who was at this time extremely intent

upon the establishment of the porcelain manufactory at Berlin, found

leisure frequently to inspect it in person. The king, however, was

prevented from coming at the appointed hour by a review at Potzdam. His

majesty had formed the singular project of embodying, and training to

the science of arms, the Jews in his dominions{2}. They were rather

awkward in learning the manual exercise; and the Jewish review, though

it afforded infinite amusement to the spectators, put Frederick so much

out of humour, that, as soon as it was over, he rode to his palace of

Sans Souci, and shut himself up for the remainder of the morning. The

preceding evening an English traveller, who had passed some time at

Paris with the Count de Lauragais, in trying experiments upon porcelain

clays, and who had received much instruction on this subject from Mr.

Wedgewood, of Etruria, had been presented to the king, and his majesty

had invited him to be present at a trial of some new process of

importance, which was to be made this morning at his manufactory.

The English traveller, who was more intent upon his countryman

Mr. Wedgewood's fame than upon the martial manoeuvres of the Jews,

proceeded, as soon as the review was finished, to exhibit his English

specimens to a party of gentlemen, who had appointed to meet him at the

china-works at Berlin.

{Footnote 2: Wraxall's Memoirs of the Court of Berlin, &c.}

Of this party, was a youth of the name of Augustus Laniska, who was

at this time scarcely seventeen years old. He was a Pole by birth--a

Prussian by education. He had been bred up at the military school at

Potzdam, and being distinguished by Frederick as a boy of high spirit

and capacity, he was early inspired with enthusiastic admiration of this

monarch. His admiration, however, was neither blind nor servile. He

saw Frederick's faults as well as his great qualities; and he often

expressed himself with more openness and warmth upon this subject than

prudence could justify. He had conversed with unusual freedom about

Frederick's character with our English traveller; and whilst he was

zealous to display every proof of the king's greatness of mind, he was

sometimes forced to acknowledge that "there are disadvantages in living

under the power of a despotic sovereign."

"A despotic sovereign! You will not then call your Frederick a despot?"

whispered the English traveller to the young Pole, as they entered the

china-works at Berlin. "This is a promising manufactory, no doubt,"

continued he; "and Dresden china will probably soon be called Berlin

china, by which the world in general will certainly be much benefited.

But in the meantime look around you, and read your monarch's history

in the eyes of those prisoners of war--for such I must call these

expatriated manufacturers."

There were, indeed, many countenances in which great dejection was

visible. "Look at that picture of melancholy," resumed the Englishman,

pointing to the figure of Sophia Mansfeld--"observe even now, whilst the

overseer is standing near her, how reluctantly she works! 'Tis the way

with all slaves. Our English manufacturers (I wish you could see them)

work in quite another manner--for they are free--"

"And are free men, or free women, never ill?" said Laniska; "or do you

Englishmen blame your king, whenever any of his subjects turn pale?--The

woman at whom you are now looking is evidently ill. I will inquire from

the overseer what is the matter with her."

Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him in German several

questions, to which he received answers that he did not translate to the

English traveller; he was unwilling that any thing unfavourable to the

cause of his sovereign should appear; and, returning to his companion,

he changed the conversation. When all the company were occupied round

the furnaces, attending to the Englishman's experiments, Laniska went

back to the apartment where Sophia Mansfeld was at work. "My good girl,"

said he to her, "what is the matter with you? The overseer tells me,

that since you came here you have done nothing that is worth looking at;

yet this charming piece (pointing to a bowl of her painting, which had

been brought from Saxony) is of your design, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," replied Sophia, "I painted it--to my sorrow. If the king had

never seen or liked it, I should now be--" The recollection of her home,

which at this instant rushed full upon her mind, overpowered her, and

she paused.

"You would now be in Saxony," resumed Laniska; "but forget Saxony, and

you will be happy at Berlin."

"I cannot forget Saxony, sir," answered the young woman, with modest

firmness; "I cannot forget a father and mother whom I love, who are old

and infirm, and who depended on me for their support. I cannot forget

every thing--every body that I have ever loved: I wish I could."

"Sir," whispered a Prussian workman, who stood by--"sir, she has a

lover in Saxony, to whom she was just going to be married, when she was

carried off from her cottage, and brought hither."

"Cannot her lover follow her?" said Laniska.

"He is in Berlin, in concealment," replied the workman, in a whisper;

"you won't betray him, I am sure."

"Not I," said Laniska; "I never betrayed any one, and I never

shall--much less the unfortunate. But why is her lover in concealment?"

"Because it is the king's pleasure," replied the Prussian, "that she

should no longer consider him as her lover. You know, sir, several of

these Saxon women have been compelled, since their arrival at Berlin,

to marry Prussians. Sophia Mansfeld has fallen to the lot of a Prussian

soldier, who swears that if she delays another month to marry him, he

will complain to the king of her obstinacy. Our overseer, too, threatens

to complain of her idleness. She is ruined if she go on in this way: we

tell her so, but she seems to have lost all sense; for she sits as she

does now, like one stupified, half the day, let us say what we will to

her. We pity her; but the king knows best: the king must be obeyed."

"Slave!" exclaimed Laniska, bursting into a sudden transport of

indignation, "slave! you are fit to live only under a tyrant. The

king knows best! the king must be obeyed! What! when his commands are

contrary to reason, to justice, to humanity?" Laniska stopped short, but

not before the high tone of his voice, and the boldness of the words

he uttered, had astonished and dismayed all present,--all except Sophia

Mansfeld: her whole countenance became suddenly illuminated; she

started up, rushed forwards, threw herself at the feet of Laniska, and

exclaimed, "Save me! you can save me! you have courage; and you are a

powerful lord, and you can speak to the king. Save me from this detested

marriage!"

The party of gentlemen who had been in the next chamber now entered the

room, curious to know what had drawn thither such a crowd of workmen. On

seeing them enter, Sophia, recollecting herself, rose, and returned

to her work quietly; whilst Laniska, much agitated, seized hold of the

Englishman's arm, and hurried out of the manufactory.

"You are right, you are right," cried he, "Frederick is a tyrant! But

how can I save his victim?"

"Not by violence, my Augustus; not by violence!" replied a young man

of the name of Albert, who followed Laniska, anxious to restrain the

impetuosity of his friend's temper, with which he was well acquainted.

"By imprudence," said he, "you will but expose yourself to danger; you

will save, you will serve no one."

"Tame prudence will neither save nor serve any one, however it may

prevent its possessor from exposing _himself_ to danger," retorted

Laniska, casting upon Albert a look of contemptuous reproach. "Prudence

be your virtue,--courage mine."

"Are they incompatible?" said Albert, calmly.

"I know not," replied Laniska; "but this I know, that I am in no humour

to reason that point, or any other, according to all those cursed forms

of logic, which, I believe, you love better than any thing else."

"Not better than I love you, as I prove by allowing you to curse them

as much and as often as you think proper," replied Albert, with a smile,

which could not, however, force one from his angry friend.

"You are right to practise logic and rhetoric," resumed Laniska, "as

much and as often as you can, since in your profession you are to make

your bread by your tongue and your pen. I am a soldier, or soon to be a

soldier, and have other arms and other feelings."

"I will not dispute the superiority of your arms," replied Albert; "I

will only beg of you to remember, that mine will be at your service

whenever you want or wish for them."

This temperate and friendly reply entirely calmed Laniska. "What would

become of Augustus Laniska," said he, giving Albert his hand, "if he had

not such a friend as you are? My mother may well say this, as she does

ten times a-day; but now take it in your sober manner, what can we do

for this poor woman? for something must be done."

After some consideration, Albert and Laniska determined to draw up a

petition for Sophia, and to present it to the king, who was known to pay

ready and minute attention to every application made to him in writing,

even by the meanest of his subjects. The petition was presented, and an

answer anxiously expected. Frederick, when at Potzdam, often honoured

the Countess Laniska with a visit. She was a woman of considerable

information and literature, acquirements not common amongst the Polish

or Prussian ladies; and the king distinguished the countess by his

approbation, in order to excite some emulation amongst his female

subjects. She held a sort of _conversazione_ at her house, which was

frequented by all foreigners of distinction, and especially by some of

the French literati, who were at this time at Frederick's court.

One evening--it was a few days after Sophia Mansfeld's petition had been

presented--the king was at the Countess Laniska's, and the company were

conversing upon some literary subject, when Frederick, who had been

unusually silent, suddenly turned to the English traveller, who was one

of the company, and asked him whether his countryman, Mr. Wedgewood, had

not made a beautiful imitation of the Barberini, or Portland Vase?

The Englishman replied, that the imitation was so exquisite, as scarcely

to be known by the best judges from the original: and he went on,

with much eagerness, to give a description of the vase, that he might

afterward, for the honour of his country, repeat some lines written upon

the subject by an English poet{3}. Frederick was himself a poet, and a

judge of poetry; he listened to the lines with attention; and, as soon

as the Englishman had finished speaking, he exclaimed, "I will write a

description of the Prussian vase myself."

{Footnote 3: Darwin.--See his description of the Barberini vase in the

Botanic Garden. We hope our readers will pardon this anachronism.}

"The Prussian Vase!" said the English traveller: "I hope I may have the

honour of seeing it before I leave Berlin."

"If you prolong your stay another month, your curiosity will probably be

gratified," replied Frederick. "The Prussian Vase is not yet in being;

but I have this day determined to offer a reward, that I know will

produce a vase worthy of Prussia. Those who have the command of motives,

and know their power, have also the command of all that the arts, or

what is called a _genius_ for the arts, can produce. The human mind, and

human fingers, are much the same in Italy, in England, and in Prussia.

Then, why should not we have a Prussian as as well as a Wedgewood's or

a Barberini Vase? We shall see. I do not understand _mon métier de roi_,

if I cannot call forth talents where I know them to exist. There is,"

continued the king, fixing his eyes full upon Laniska, "there is, in my

porcelain manufactory at Berlin, a woman of considerable talents, who is

extremely anxious to return, along with some lovers of hers, to Saxony.

Like all other _prisoners of war_, she must purchase her liberty from

the conqueror; and if she cannot pay her ransom in gold, let her pay it

by her talents. I do not give premiums to idleness or obstinacy. _The

king must be obeyed, whether he knows how to command or not: let all

the world, who are able to judge, decide._" Frederick, as soon as he had

finished this speech, which he pronounced in a peremptory tone, left the

room; and Laniska's friend, who perceived that the imprudent words he

had uttered in Berlin had reached the king's ear, gave the young man up

for lost. To their surprise, however, the king took no further notice of

what had happened, but received Laniska the next day at Sans Souci with

all his usual kindness. Laniska, who was of an open, generous temper,

was touched by this conduct; and, throwing himself at Frederick's feet,

he exclaimed:--

"My king! forgive me, if in a moment of indignation I called you a

_tyrant_."

"My friend, you are yet a child, and I let children and fools speak of

me as they please," replied Frederick. "When you are an older man,

you will judge more wisely, or, at least, you will speak with more

discretion within twenty miles of a _tyrant's_ palace. Here is my answer

to your Sophia Mansfeld's petition," added he, giving Laniska the paper,

which Albert had drawn up; at the bottom of which was written, in the

king's own hand, these words:--

"I will permit the artist who shall produce, before this day month,

the most beautiful vase of Berlin china, to marry or not to marry,

whomsoever he or she shall think proper, and to return to Saxony with

all imaginable expedition. If the successful artist choose to remain at

Berlin, I will add a reward of 500 crowns. The artist's name shall be

inscribed on the vase, which shall be called the Prussian Vase." No

sooner had Sophia Mansfeld read these words, than she seemed animated

with new life and energy. She was likely to have many competitors; for,

the moment the king's intentions were made known in the manufactory, all

hands and heads were at work. Some were excited by the hope of regaining

their liberty; others stimulated by the mention of 500 crowns; and some

were fired with ambition to have their name inscribed on the Prussian

Vase. But none had so strong a motive for exertion as Sophia. She was

indefatigable. The competitors consulted the persons whom they believed

to have the best taste in Berlin and Potzdam. Sophia's designs were

shown, as soon as they were sketched, to the Countess Laniska, whose

advice was of material use to her.

At length, the day which was to decide her fate arrived. The vases were

all ranged, by the king's order, in his gallery of paintings at Sans

Souci; and in the evening, when Frederick had finished the business of

the day, he went thither to examine them. Laniska and some others were

permitted to accompany him: no one spoke, whilst Frederick was comparing

the works of the different competitors.

"Let this be the Prussian Vase," said the king. It was Sophia

Mansfeld's. Laniska just stayed to show her name, which was written

underneath the foot of the vase, and then he hurried away to communicate

the happy news to Sophia, who was waiting, with her lover, at the house

of the Countess Laniska, in Potzdam, impatient to hear her fate.

She heard it with inexpressible joy; and Laniska's generous heart

sympathized in her happiness. It was settled that she should the next

morning be married to her lover, and return with him to her father and

mother in Saxony. The happy couple were just taking leave of the young

count and his mother, when they were alarmed by the sound of many voices

on the great staircase. Some persons seemed to be disputing with the

countess's servants for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the

cause of the disturbance. The hall was filled with soldiers.

"Are you the young Count Laniska?" said an officer to him, the moment he

appeared.

"I _am_ the young Count Laniska," replied he, in a firm tone. "What do

you want with me? and why this disturbance in my mother's house at this

unseasonable hour?"

"We come here by the king's orders," replied the soldier. "Is not there

in this house a woman of the name of Sophia Mansfeld?"

"Yes," replied Laniska: "what do you want with her?"

"She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, count," replied the

soldier.

It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The soldiers could give

none; they knew nothing, but that their orders were to convey Sophia

Mansfeld immediately to Meissen in Saxony, and to lodge Count Laniska in

the castle of Spandau, a state prison.

"I must know my crime before I submit to punishment," cried Laniska,

in a passionate voice; but he restrained the natural violence of his

temper, on seeing his mother appear, and, at her request, yielded

himself up a prisoner without resistance, and without a murmur. "I

depend on your innocence, my son, and on the justice of the king," said

the countess; and she took leave of him without shedding a tear. The

next day, even before the king arrived at Potzdam, she went to the

palace, determined to wait there till she could see him, that she might

hear from his own lips the cause of her son's imprisonment. She waited

a considerable time--for, without alighting from horseback, Frederick

proceeded to the parade, where he was occupied for some hours; at length

he alighted, and the first person he saw, on entering his palace, was

the Countess Laniska.

"I am willing to believe, madam," said he, "that you have no share in

your son's folly and ingratitude."

"My son is, I hope, incapable of ingratitude, sir," answered the

countess, with an air of placid dignity. "I am well aware that he may

have been guilty of great imprudence."

"At six o'clock this evening let me see you, madam," replied the king,

"at Sans Souci, in the gallery of paintings, and you shall know of what

your son is accused."

At the appointed hour she was in the gallery of paintings at Sans Souci.

No one was there. She waited quietly for some time, then walked up and

down the gallery with extreme impatience and agitation; at last, she

heard the king's voice and his step; the door opened, and Frederick

appeared. It was an awful moment to the mother of Laniska. She stood in

silent expectation.

"I see, madam," said the king, after fixing his penetrating eye for some

moments on her countenance, "I see that you are, as I believe you to

be, wholly ignorant of your son's folly." As he spoke, Frederick put his

hand upon the vase made by Sophia Mansfeld, which was placed on a small

stand in the middle of the gallery. The countess, absorbed by her own

reflections, had not noticed it.

"You have seen this vase before," said the king; "and you have probably

seen the lines which are inscribed on the foot of it."

"Yes," said the countess, "they are my son's writing."

"And they are written by his own hand," said the king.

"They are. The poor Saxon woman who draws so admirably cannot write; and

my son wrote the inscription for her."

"The lines are in a high strain of _panegyric_," said the king; and he

laid a severe emphasis on the word _panegyric_.

"Whatever may be my son's faults," said the countess, "your majesty

cannot suspect him of being a base flatterer. Scarcely a month has

elapsed since his unguarded openness exposed him to your displeasure.

Your majesty's magnanimity, in pardoning his imprudent expressions,

convinced him at once of his error in having used them; and, in the fit

of enthusiasm with which your kindness upon that occasion inspired him,

he, who is by no means a poet by profession, composed the two lines of

_panegyric_ which seem to have given your majesty offence, but which I

should never have conceived could be the cause of his imprisonment."

"You plead like a mother, madam," said the king; "but you reason like a

woman. Have I ever said that your son was imprisoned for having written

two lines of flattery? No, madam: I know how to smile both at flattery

and satire, when they are undisguised; but there is a degree of baseness

which I cannot so easily pardon. Be patient, madam; I will listen to all

you can say in your son's defence, when you have read this inscription.

But, before you read it, understand that I was upon the point of sending

this vase to Paris. I had actually given orders to the man who was

packing up that case (pointing to a half-packed case of porcelain) to

put up the Prussian Vase as a present for a Prussian _bel esprit_ of

your acquaintance. The man showed me the inscription at the bottom

of the vase. I read the flattering lines with pleasure, and

thought them--as people usually think flattering lines made on

themselves--excellent. I was even fool enough immediately to consider

how I could reward the author, when my friend, the packer, interrupted

the course of my thoughts, by observing, with some exclamation of

astonishment, that the blue colour of the vase came off in one spot,

where he had been rubbing it. I looked, and saw that part of the

inscription at the bottom of the vase had been covered over with blue

paint. At first sight, I read the words, 'On the character of Frederick

the Great;' the blue paint had concealed the next word, which is

now, madam, sufficiently legible." The word to which the king pointed

was--_tyrant_. "Those flattering lines, madam, you comprehend, were

written--'On the character of Frederick, the great _tyrant_.'

"I shall spare you, madam, all the reflections I have made on this

occasion. _Tyrant_ as I am, I shall not punish the innocent mother for

the follies of her son. I shall be at your house, along with the rest of

your friends, on Tuesday evening."

The unhappy mother of Laniska withdrew from the presence of the king,

without attempting any reply. Her son's conduct admitted, she thought,

of no apology, if it were really true that he had written the words to

which his name was signed. Of this she doubted; but her consternation

was at first so great, that she had not the power to think. A general

belief remained in her mind of her son's innocence; but then a number of

his imprudent words and actions came across her memory; the inscription

was, apparently, in his own hand-writing. The conversation which had

passed in the porcelain manufactory at Berlin corroborated the idea

expressed in this inscription. The countess, on her return home, related

the circumstances, with as much composure as she could, to Albert, who

was waiting to hear the result of her interview with the king. Albert

heard her relation with astonishment; he could not believe in his

friend's guilt, though he saw no means of proving his innocence. He

did not, however, waste his time in idle conjectures, or more idle

lamentations: he went immediately to the man who was employed to pack up

the vase; and, after questioning him with great care, he went to Berlin

to the porcelain manufactory, and inquired whether any persons were

present when Laniska wrote the inscription for Sophia Mansfeld. After

Albert had collected all the information that could be obtained, his

persuasion of Laniska's innocence was confirmed.

On Tuesday Frederick had promised to come to the countess's

_conversazione_. The company, previous to his majesty's arrival, were

all assembled round the sofa, on which she was seated, and they were

eagerly talking over Laniska's affair. "What a blessing it is," cried

the English traveller, "to live in a country where no man can be

imprisoned without knowing of what he is accused! What a blessing it is

to live under a government where no man can be condemned without trial,

and where his trial must be carried on in open day, in the face of his

country, his peers, his equals!"--The Englishman was in the midst of

a warm eulogium upon the British mode of trial by jury, when Frederick

entered the room, as it was his custom, without being announced: and

the company were so intently listening to our traveller, they did not

perceive that the king was one of his auditors. "Would to Heaven," cried

the Countess Laniska, when the Englishman paused--"would to Heaven my

son could have the advantage of such a trial!"

"And would to Heaven," exclaimed Albert, "that I might plead his cause!"

"On one condition," said Frederick; and, at the sound of his voice,

every one started--"on one condition, young man, your prayer shall be

granted. You shall plead your friend's cause, upon condition that, if

you do not convince his judges of his innocence, you shall share his

punishment. His punishment will be a twelvemonth's imprisonment in the

castle of Spandau; and yours the same, if you fail to establish your

cause and his. Next to the folly of being imprudent ourselves, that of

choosing imprudent friends is the most dangerous. Laniska shall be

tried by his equals; and, since _twelve_ is the golden, harmonic, divine

number, for which justice has a blind predilection, let him have

twelve judges, and call them, if you please, a jury. But I will name my

counsel, and you counsel for Laniska. You know the conditions--do you

accept of them?"

"Willingly, sire!" cried Albert, joyfully. "You will permit me to have

access to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau?"

"That is a new condition; but I grant it. The governor shall have orders

to admit you to see and converse with his prisoner for two hours; but

if, after that conversation, your opinion of your friend should change,

you will not blame me if I hold you to your word."

Albert declared that he desired no more: and the Countess Laniska,

and all who were present, joined in praising Frederick's clemency and

Albert's generosity. The imprisonment of Laniska had been much talked

of, not only in public companies at Potzdam and at Berlin, but, what

affected Frederick much more nearly, it had become the subject of

conversation amongst the literati in his own palace at Sans Souci. An

English traveller, of some reputation in the literary world, also knew

the circumstances, and was interested in the fate of the young count.

Frederick seems to have had a strong desire to be represented in an

amiable point of view by writers who, he believed, could transmit his

fame to posterity. Careless of what might be _said_ of him, he was

anxious that nothing should be _printed_ derogatory to his reputation.

Whether the desire to give to foreigners a striking proof of his

magnanimity, or whether his regard for the young count, and his

friendship for his mother, were his motives in granting to Laniska this

_trial by jury_, cannot and need not be determined. Unmixed virtue is

not to be expected from kings more than from common men.

After his visit to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau, Albert felt no

inclination to recede from the agreement into which he had entered; but

Laniska was much alarmed when he was told of what had passed. "Oh, my

generous friend!" exclaimed the young count, "why did you accept of

the conditions offered to you by the king? You may--I am sure you

do--believe in my innocence; but you will never be able to prove it. You

will soon be involved in my disgrace."

"I shall think it no disgrace," replied Albert, "to be the

fellow-prisoner of an innocent friend."

"Do not you remember," said Laniska, "that, as we were returning

from Berlin, after my unlucky visit to the porcelain manufactory, you

promised me, that whenever I should be in want of your weapons, they

should be at my service? I little thought that I should so soon be in

such need of them. Farewell--I pray for their success."

On the day appointed for the trial of Laniska, crowds of people of all

ranks flocked to hear the proceedings. A spacious building in Potzdam,

intended for a barrack, was, upon this occasion, converted into a hall

of justice; a temporary gallery was erected for the accommodation of the

audience; and a platform was raised in the centre of the hall, where

the judge's chair was placed: on the right hand of his chair a space was

railed in for the reception of the twelve young gentlemen, who were to

act as jurors; on the left another space was railed in for spectators.

In the front there was a large table, on each side of which were benches

for the counsel and witnesses: those for the crown on the right hand;

those for the prisoner on the left. Every thing had, by the king's

orders, been prepared in this manner, according to the English custom.

The Countess Laniska now entered the court, with a few friends, who

had not yet forsaken her. They took their seats at the lower end of the

gallery; and as every eye turned upon the mother, who waited to hear the

trial of her son, an awful silence prevailed. This lasted but for a few

moments; it was succeeded by a general whispering amongst the crowds,

both in the hall and in the gallery. Each individual gave his opinion

concerning the event of the trial: some declared that the circumstances

which must appear against Laniska were so strong, that it was madness

in Albert to undertake his defence; others expressed great admiration of

Albert's intrepid confidence in himself and his friend. Many studied

the countenance of the king, to discover what his wishes might be; and

a thousand idle conjectures were formed from his most insignificant

movements.

At length, the temporary judge having taken his seat, twelve young

gentlemen were chosen, from the most respectable families in Potzdam,

to act as jurors. The prisoner was summoned to answer to the charges

brought against him, in the name of Frederick the Second, king of

Prussia. Laniska appeared, guarded by two officers: he walked up to the

steps of the platform with an air of dignity, which seemed expressive of

conscious innocence; but his countenance betrayed involuntary marks of

emotion, too strong for him to command, when, on raising his eyes, he

beheld his friend Albert, who stood full in his view. Albert maintained

an immovable composure of countenance. The prisoner was now asked

whether he had any objections to make to any of the twelve persons who

had been selected to judge his cause. He made none. They proceeded to

take an oath, "that, in their decision, they would suffer no motives to

influence them but a sense of truth and justice." The judge then rose,

and addressing himself to the jury, said:--

"Gentlemen,

"You are here, by the king's order, to form your opinions concerning the

guilt or innocence of the prisoner, commonly known by the name of Count

Augustus Laniska. You will learn the nature and circumstances of the

accusation against him from Mr. Warendorff, the gentleman on my right

hand, who in this cause has the honour of being counsel for his majesty.

You will hear from the gentleman on my left, Albert Altenburg, all that

can be said in defence of the prisoner, for whom he voluntarily offers

himself as counsel. After having listened to the arguments that may be

adduced, and to the witnesses that shall be examined on each side, you

are, gentlemen, according to the tenour of the oath which has just been

administered to you, to decide, without regard to any consideration but

truth and justice. Your opinion is to be delivered to me by the

eldest amongst you, and it is to be expressed in one or other of these

phrases--_guilty_ or _not guilty_.

"When I shall have heard your decision, I am, in his majesty's name, to

pronounce sentence accordingly. If the prisoner be judged by you _not

guilty_, I am to announce to him that he is thenceforward at liberty,

and that no stain affixes to his honour from the accusation that has

been preferred against him, or from his late imprisonment, or from this

public trial. If, on the contrary, your judgment shall be, that the

prisoner is _guilty_, I am to remand him to the castle of Spandau, where

he is to remain confined for twelve months from this day. To the

same punishment I am also to condemn Albert Altenburg, if he fail to

establish in your minds the innocence of the Count Laniska. It is upon

this condition that he is permitted to plead the cause of his friend.

"Gentlemen, you are called upon to give impartial attention in this

cause, by your duty to your king and to your country."

As soon as the judge, after making this short address to the jury, had

seated himself, Mr. Warendorff, counsel for the crown, rose, and spoke

in the following manner:--

"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,

"It is with inexpressible concern that I find myself called upon to

plead in this cause. To be the accuser of any man is an invidious task:

to be the accuser of such a man as I once thought--as you perhaps still

think--the young Count Laniska must, to a person of generous feelings,

be in a high degree difficult and distressing. I do not pretend to more

generosity or delicacy of sentiment than others; but I beg any of

you, gentlemen, to imagine yourselves for a moment in my place, and to

conceive what must be my sensations as a man, and as an advocate. I am

not ignorant how popular the name of Augustus Laniska is, both in Berlin

and Potzdam. I am not ignorant that the young count has been in the

habit of living amongst you, gentlemen, on terms of familiarity,

friendship, and confidence; nor can I doubt that the graceful, manly

manner, and open deportment, for which he is so eminently distinguished,

must have strongly prepossessed you in his favour. I am not ignorant

that I have to plead against him before his friends, in the presence of

his mother--a mother respected even in a higher degree than her son is

beloved; respected for her feminine virtues--for her more than feminine

endowments; who, had she no other claim upon your hearts, must, by the

unfortunate situation in which she now appears, command your sympathy.

"You must all of you feel, likewise, strongly prepossessed in favour

of that noble-minded youth, who has undertaken to defend the prisoner's

cause, at the hazard of sharing his punishment. I respect the general

character of Albert Altenburg; I admire his abilities; I applaud him,

for standing forward in defence of his friend; I pity him, because

he has a friend, for whom, I fear, even he will find it impossible

to establish any plausible defence. But the idea that he is acting

handsomely, and that he has the sympathy of numbers in his favour, will

doubtless support the young advocate in his arduous task. He appears in

this court in the striking character of counsel, disinterested counsel,

for his friend.

"Gentlemen, I also appear in this court as counsel, disinterested

counsel for a friend. Yes, gentlemen, I am permitted to call Frederick

the Great _my friend_. He is not, as other great monarchs have been,

ambitious to raise himself above the sphere of humanity; he does not

desire to be addressed in the fulsome strains either of courtly or of

poetical adulation: he wishes not to be worshipped as a god, but to be

respected as a man{4}. It is his desire to have friends that shall

be faithful, or subjects that shall be obedient. Happy his obedient

subjects--they are secure of his protection: happy, thrice happy, his

faithful friends--they are honoured with his favour and his confidence.

It was in the power of the prisoner now before you to have been in

this enviable class. You all of you know that the Countess Laniska, his

mother, has for years been honoured by the friendship of her sovereign;

even the conduct of her son has not been able to shake his confidence in

her. A Pole by birth, Augustus Laniska was educated amongst the first of

the Prussian nobility, at the military academy at Potzdam, that

nursery of heroes. From such an education--from the son of such

a mother--honourable sentiments and honourable conduct were to

be expected. Most confidently were they expected by his king, who

distinguished the young count, as you all know, even in his boyish days.

The count is said to be of a temper naturally impetuous: the errors

into which such a temper too publicly betrayed him were pardoned by the

indulgence of his king. I am compelled to recall one recent instance of

the truth of these assertions, as it is immediately connected with the

present cause."

{Footnote 4: Æschylus.}

Here Mr. Warendorff related all that had passed at the porcelain

manufactory at Berlin, and the king's subsequent conduct towards

Count Laniska. On the magnanimity of his majesty, the eloquent counsel

expatiated for a considerable time; but the applauses with which this

part of his oration was received by a party in the gallery, who were

seated near the king, were so loud, as almost to drown the voice of the

orator, and effectually to distract the attention of those employed to

take down his words. When he could again be heard distinctly, he resumed

as follows:

"I am not surprised at these testimonies of admiration which burst from

the warm hearts of his majesty's subjects; I am only surprised that a

heart could be found in his dominions on whom such magnanimity could

make no impression. I am shocked, I am grieved, when I find such a heart

in the person of Count Laniska. Can it be believed that, in the course

of one short month after this generous pardon, that young nobleman

proved himself the basest of traitors--a traitor to the king, who

was his friend and benefactor? Daring no longer openly to attack, he

attempted secretly to wound the fame of his sovereign. You all of you

know what a degree of liberty, even licence, Frederick the Great permits

to that species of satirical wit with which the populace delight to

ridicule their rulers. At this instant there are various anonymous

pasquinades on the garden-gates at Sans Souci, which would have provoked

the resentment--the fatal resentment--of any other monarch upon earth.

It cannot be doubted that the authors of these things could easily be

discovered, if the king condescended to make any inquiries concerning

them: it cannot be doubted that the king has power to punish the

offenders: yet they remain untouched, perhaps unknown. Our sovereign

is not capable of feeling the petty emotions of vulgar spleen

or resentment; but he could not be insensible to the treacherous

ingratitude of one, whom he imagined to have been attached to him by

every tie of kindness and of duty. That the Count Laniska should choose

the instant when the king was showing him unusual favour, to make that

favour an instrument of his base malice, is scarcely credible. Yet,

Prussians, incredible as it sounds to us, it is true. Here are my

proofs: here are my witnesses."

Mr. Warendorff, at this instant, uncovered the Prussian Vase, and then

pointed to a Jew, and to the master of the porcelain manufactory, who

stood beside him, ready to give their evidence. We omit that part of

Mr. Warendorff's speech which contained the facts that have been already

related. The Prussian Vase was handed to the jury: the verses in praise

of Frederick the Great were read, and the word _tyrant_ was seen,

afterward, with the utmost surprise. In the midst of the general

indignation, Mr. Warendorff called upon the Jew to come forward and

give his evidence. This Jew was an old man, and there was something

remarkable in his looks. His head was still; his neck was stiff; but

his eyes moved with incessant celerity from side to side, and he seemed

uneasy at not being able to see what was passing behind him: there was

a certain firmness in his attitude, but his voice trembled when he

attempted to speak. All these circumstances prepossessed Laniska's

friends against the Jew the moment he appeared; and it was justly

observed, that his having the misfortune to be a Jew was sufficient

to prejudice many of the populace against him, even before a word he

uttered reached their ears. But impartial spectators judged that the

poor man was only terrified at being called upon to speak in so large an

assembly. Solomon (for that was the name of the Jew), after having taken

an oath upon the Talmud that he would speak nothing but the truth, made

the following answers to the questions put to him by Mr. Warendorff:--

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Did you ever see this vase before?"

_Solomon_.--"Yes."

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"Where? when? Tell all you know about it to the

gentlemen of the jury."

_Solomon_.--"The first time I saw that vase was in the gallery of

paintings, at the king's palace of Sans Souci; to the best of my

recollection, it was on the night of the first day of the month, about

ten o'clock, or, perhaps, it might be eleven: I wish to be exact; but I

cannot be certain as to the hour precisely."

_Mr. Warendorff_.--"The exact hour is not of any consequence: proceed.

Tell us how you came to see this vase. Take your time to speak. We are

in no hurry: the truth will appear sooner or later."

_Solomon_.--"His majesty himself put the vase into my hands, and

commanded me to pack it up, with some other china, which he was going to

send as a present to a gentleman at Paris. I am something of a judge of

china myself, being used to selling small pieces of it up and down the

town and country. So I was struck with the first sight of this

beautiful vase; I looked at it very carefully, and wiped away, with my

handkerchief, the dust which had settled on the white figures: here is

the very handkerchief. I wiped the vase all over; but, when I came

to rub the bottom, I stopped to read the verses _on the character of

Frederick the Great_; and having read these, I rubbed the white letters

quite clean: the ground on which they were written was blue. I found

that some of the blue colour came off upon my handkerchief, which

surprised me a good deal. Upon examining further, I perceived that the

colour came off only in one spot, of about an inch long, and half an

inch broad. The king was at this time standing with his back to me,

looking at a new picture which had just been hung up in the gallery;

but hearing me make an exclamation ('_Father Abraham!_' I believe it was

that I said), his majesty turned round. 'What is the matter with you,

Solomon? You look wondrous wise,' his majesty was pleased to say. 'Why

do you call on Father Abraham at this time of day? Do you expect that he

will help you to pack up that china--hey, Solomon, my friend?' I had

no power to answer this question, for by this time, to my utter

astonishment, I had discovered that, on the spot where I had rubbed off

the blue paint, there was a word written--the word was _tyrant_. '_On

the character of Frederick, the great tyrant!_' Said I to myself--'what

can this mean?' The king snatched the vase from my hands, read what I

had read, saw the paint which had been rubbed off upon my handkerchief,

and without saying one word left the gallery. This is all I know about

the matter."

The Jew bowed to the court, and Mr. Warendorff told him that, having

closed his evidence, he might depart. But Albert rose to desire that the

judge would order him to remain in court, as he purposed to examine,

or, according to the English term, to _cross-examine_ him further, at

a proper time. The judge ordered the Jew to remain in court. The

next witness called, on the part of the crown, was the master of

the porcelain manufactory of Berlin; to whom Mr. Warendorff put the

following questions:--

_Q_.--"Have you seen the verses which are inscribed on the foot of this

vase?"

_Answer_.--"Yes, I have."

_Q_.--"Do you recollect what words are written over the verses?"

_Answer_.--"I do: the words are--'On the character of Frederick, the

great tyrant.'"

_Q_.--"Do you know by whom those words and these verses were written?"

_Answer_.--"I believe that they were written by Count Augustus Laniska."

_Q_.--"How do you know? or why do you believe it?"

_Answer_.--"I was present when Sophia Mansfeld, the woman by whom the

vase was designed, told the count that she did not know how to write,

and that she would be obliged to him if he would write the inscription

himself on it. The vase at this time had not been put into the furnace.

It was in what we call biscuit. The Count Laniska took a proper tool,

and said that he would write the inscription as she desired. I saw

him writing on the bottom of the vase for some minutes. I heard him

afterward call to one of the workmen, and desire that he would put the

vase into the furnace: the workman accordingly carried it into the next

room to the furnace, as I believe."

_Q_.--"Did you see the inscription on the vase after it was taken out of

the furnace? and was the word 'tyrant' then on it?"

_Answer_.--"I did not see the vase immediately upon its being taken out

of the furnace; but I saw it about an hour afterward. At that time I

read the inscription: the word 'tyrant' was not then visible on the

vase; the place where it now appears was blue. I carried it myself,

along with some others, to the king's palace at Sans Souci. The night of

the first day of this month his majesty sent for me, and showed me the

word _tyrant_ on the vase: I had never seen it there till then. It

could not have been written after the china was baked: it must have been

written whilst the biscuit was soft; and it must have been covered

over with the blue paint after the vase was taken out of the furnace. I

believe the word was written by Count Laniska, because I saw nobody

else write upon the vase but him; because the word exactly resembles the

handwriting of the rest of the inscription; and because I, upon a former

occasion, heard the count make use of that very word in speaking of

Frederick the Great."

Here the master of the porcelain manufactory finished speaking, and was

going, with Mr. Warendorff's permission, to retire; but Albert signified

his intention to cross-examine him also, and the judge commanded that

he should remain in court. The two next witnesses who were produced and

examined were the workman who carried the vase to the furnace, and the

man whose business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace. Neither

of these witnesses could write or read. The workman deposed, that he

carried the Prussian Vase, as he was desired, to the furnace; that no

one touched it on the way thither. The man whose business it was to put

the biscuit into the furnace swore that he put it along with several

other vases into the furnace; that he attended the fire, and that no one

touched any of them till they were baked and taken out by him. Here the

evidence for the prosecution closed. Mr. Warendorff observed, that he

should forbear to expatiate further upon the conduct of the prisoner;

that he had been ordered by his sovereign to speak of him with all

possible moderation; that he earnestly hoped the defence that should be

made for Count Laniska might be satisfactory; and that the mode of trial

which had been granted to him by the king was a sufficient proof of the

clemency of his majesty, and of his earnest desire to allow the prisoner

every possible means of re-establishing his character in the eyes of

the public. Albert now rose. The Count Laniska, who had appeared unmoved

during Mr. Warendorff's oration, changed countenance the moment Albert

rose in his defence; the Countess Laniska leaned forward over the rails

of the gallery in breathless anxiety: there was no sound heard in the

whole gallery, except the jingling of the chain of the king's sword,

with which he was playing.

"I shall not attempt, gentlemen," said Albert, "to move your sympathy

by a pathetic description of my own feelings _as a man, and as an

advocate_. Whatever mine may be, it is my wish and my duty to repress

them. I have need of that calm possession of my understanding, which

will be necessary to convince yours of the innocence of my friend.

To convince is my object. If it were in my power, I should, upon

the present occasion, disdain to persuade. I should think it equally

incompatible with my own honour and that of the Count Laniska. With

these sentiments, I refrain, Prussians, from all eulogium upon the

magnanimity of your king. Praises from a traitor, or from the advocate

of a traitor, must be unworthy of a great monarch, or of a generous

people. If the prisoner before you shall be proved to be no traitor, he

will doubtless have opportunities of expressing by actions, better than

I can by words, his gratitude to his sovereign, for having allowed him

this public trial by his equals--men who are able to discern and to

assert the truth. It cannot have escaped their observation, that no

positive evidence whatever has yet been produced against the prisoner.

No one has yet been heard to swear that he _saw_ Count Laniska write the

word _tyrant_ upon this vase. The first witness, Solomon the Jew, has

informed us of what our senses could not leave us room to doubt, that

the word is actually engraved upon the porcelain: further, he has told

us that it was covered over with blue paint, which he rubbed off with

his handkerchief. All this may be true; but the wisdom of Solomon,

united to that of Baron Warendorff, has failed to point out to us any

certain connexion between this blue paint, this handkerchief, and

the supposed guilt of the Count Laniska. The master of the porcelain

manufactory came next, and I apprehended that, as being a more

respectable witness than the Jew, it was reserved for him to supply

this link in the chain of evidence. But this respectable witness simply

swore, that he heard a woman say she could not write or read; that she

asked Count Laniska to write an inscription upon a vase for her; that,

in consequence of this request, the count wrote something upon the vase,

he does not pretend to know what; but he believes that the word _tyrant_

must have been one of the words then written by the count, because he

saw no one else write on the vase; because the hand-writing of that word

resembles the rest of the inscription; and because the count, in his

hearing, had, upon a former occasion, made use of the same expression in

speaking of the king. I recapitulate this evidence, to show that it is

in no part _positive_: that it all rests upon circumstances. In order to

demonstrate to you that the word in question could not have been written

by any person but Laniska, two witnesses are produced--the workman who

carried the vase to the furnace, and he who put it into the fire. The

one has positively sworn that no person touched the vase on the way to

the furnace. The other as positively swears that no one meddled with the

vase after it was put into the furnace.

"It is granted that the word could not have been engraved after the

biscuit was baked. The witness, however, has not sworn, or asserted,

that there was no interval of time between his receiving the vase and

his putting it into the fire. What became of it during this interval?

How long did it last? Will the witness swear that no one touched it

during this interval?

"These are questions which I shall put to him presently. I hope I have

established my first assertion, that you have no _positive_ evidence of

the prisoner's guilt.

"You well know, gentlemen, that where positive evidence of any supposed

fact cannot be produced, our judgments must be decided by the balance

of _probabilities_; and it is for this reason that the study of

probabilities, and the power of comparing them, has, in a late

celebrated essay, been called _the Science of Judges_.{5} To you, judges

of my friend, all the probabilities of his supposed guilt have been

stated. Weigh and compare them with those which I shall produce

in favour of his innocence. His education, his character, his

understanding, are all in his favour. The Count Laniska must be much

below the common standard of human virtue and capacity, if, without any

assignable motive, he could have committed an action at once so base

and so absurd as this of which he is accused. His temper is naturally or

habitually open and impetuous, even to extreme imprudence. An instance

of this imprudence, and of the manner in which it was pardoned by the

king, has been stated to you. Is it probable that the same man should be

both ingenuous and mean? Is it probable that the generosity with which

he was treated made no impression upon his heart? His heart must, upon

this supposition, be selfish and unfeeling. Look up, gentlemen, towards

that gallery--look at that anxious mother! those eager friends! Could

Laniska's fate excite such anxiety, if he were selfish and unfeeling?

Impossible! But, suppose him destitute of every generous sentiment, you

cannot imagine Count Laniska to be a fool. You have been lately reminded

that he was early distinguished for his abilities by a monarch, whose

penetration we cannot doubt. He was high in the favour of his sovereign:

just entering upon life--a military life; his hopes of distinction

resting entirely upon the good opinion of his general and his king: all

these fair expectations he sacrifices--for what? for the pleasure--but

it could be no pleasure--for the folly of writing a single word. Unless

the Count Laniska be supposed to have been possessed with an insane

desire of writing the word _tyrant_, how can we account for his writing

it upon this vase? Did he wish to convey to France the idea, that

Frederick the Great is a tyrant? A man of common sense could surely have

found, at least, safer methods of doing so than by engraving it as his

opinion upon a vase which he knew was to pass through the hands of the

sovereign whom he purposed thus treacherously to insult. The extreme

improbability that any man in the situation, with the character, habits,

and capacity of Count Laniska, should have acted in this manner amounts,

in my judgment, almost to a _moral impossibility_. I knew nothing more,

gentlemen, of this cause, when I first offered to defend Laniska at

the hazard of my liberty: it was not merely from the enthusiasm of

friendship that I made this offer; it was from the sober conviction

of my understanding, founded upon the accurate calculation of moral

probabilities.

{Footnote 5: Voltaire--Essai sur les Probabilités en fait de Justice.}

"It has been my good fortune, gentlemen, in the course of the inquiries

which I have since made, to obtain further confirmation of my opinion.

Without attempting any of that species of oratory which may be necessary

to cover falsehood, but which would encumber instead of adorning truth,

I shall now, in the simplest manner in my power, lay the evidence before

the court."

The first witness Albert called was the workman who carried the vase to

the man at the furnace. Upon his cross-examination, he said that he did

not deliver the vase into the hands of the man at the furnace, but that

he put it, along with several other pieces, upon a tray, on a table,

which stood near the furnace.

_Albert_.--"You are certain that you put it upon a tray?"

_Witness_.--"Quite certain."

_Albert_.--"What reason have you for remembering that circumstance

particularly?"

_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I at first set this vase upon the

ledge of the tray, and it was nearly falling. I was frightened at that

accident, which makes me particularly remember the thing. I made room

upon the tray for the vase, and left it quite safe upon the tray: I am

positive of it."

_Albert_.--"That is all I want with you, my good friend."

The next witness called was the man whose business it was to put the

vases into the furnace.

_Albert_.--"Did you see the witness who was last examined put this vase

upon a tray when he left it under your care?"

_Witness_.--"I did."

_Albert_.--"You are certain that he put it _upon the tray?_ What reason

have you to remember that circumstance particularly?"

_Witness_.--"I remember it, because I heard the witness cry out, 'There,

William, I had like to have thrown down this cursed vase; but, look you

here, I've left it quite safe upon the tray.' Upon this, I turned

and looked, and saw that vase standing upon the tray, safe, with some

others."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect any thing else that passed?"

_Witness_.--"Only that the witness told me I must put it--the vase, I

mean--into the furnace directly; and I answered to that, 'All in good

time; the furnace is not ready yet; it will go in along with the rest.'"

_Albert_.--"Then you did not put it into the furnace immediately after

it was left with you?"

_Witness_.--"No, I did not--but that was not my fault--I could not; the

furnace was not hot enough."

_Albert_.--"How long do you think it was, from the time it was left upon

the tray, till you put it into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"I don't know--I can't be positive: it might be a quarter

of an hour, or twenty minutes; or it might be half an hour. I cannot be

positive, sir; I cannot be positive."

_Albert_.--"You need not be positive. Nobody wants you to be positive.

Nobody wants to entrap you, my good friend. During this quarter of an

hour, or twenty minutes, or half an hour, that you speak of, did you

ever lose sight of this vase?"

_Witness_.--"To be sure I did. I did not stand watching it all the

while. Why should I? It was safe enough."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect where you found the vase when you took it

to put it into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"Yes: it was standing as it might be here, in the middle of

the table."

_Albert_.--"Do you recollect whether it was standing _upon_ the tray or

not?"

_Witness_.--"It was not _upon_ the tray, as I recollect: no, I'm sure it

was not, for I carried to the furnace first the tray and all that was on

it, and then I remember, I came back for this, which was standing, as I

said before, as it might be here, in the middle of the table."

_Albert_.--"Was any body, except yourself, at the furnace, or in the

room, from the time that this vase was brought to you, till you put it

into the furnace?"

_Witness_.--"Not as I remember. It was our dinner-time. All the men,

except myself, were gone to dinner: I stayed to mind the furnace."

_Albert_.--"It was you, then, that took this vase off the tray, was it?"

_Witness_.--"No, it was not. I never took it off the tray. I told you it

was not upon the tray with the others; I told you it was upon the table,

as it might be here."

_Albert_.--"Yes, when you were going to put it into the furnace, you

said that you saw it standing in the middle of the table; but you

recollect that you saw the workman who brought it put it upon the tray.

You told us you remembered that circumstance perfectly."

_Witness_.--"Yes, so I do."

_Albert_.--"The vase could not have got off the tray of itself. You did

not take it off. How came it off, do you think?"

_Witness_.--"I don't know. I can't tell. Somebody, to be sure, must

have taken it off. I was minding the furnace. My back was to the door. I

don't recollect seeing any body come in; but many might have come in and

out, without my heeding them."

_Albert_.--"Take your own time, my good friend. Recollect yourself;

perhaps you may remember."

_Witness_.--"Oh, yes, now you put me upon recollecting, I do remember

that Solomon the Jew came in, and asked me where Sophia Mansfeld was;

and it certainly must have been he who took the vase off the tray; for

now I recollect, as I looked round once from the furnace, I saw him with

it in his hand; he was looking at the bottom of it, as I remember: he

said, here are some fine verses, or some such thing; but I was minding

the furnace. That's all I know about the matter."

_Albert_.--"That is enough."

The next witness who came forward was the husband of Sophia

Mansfeld.--He deposed, that on the 29th of April, the day on which the

Prussian Vase was finished, as stated by the former evidence, and sent

to be put into the furnace, he met Sophia Mansfeld in the street: she

was going home to dinner. He asked to see the vase: she said that it

was, she believed, put into the furnace, and that he could not then see

it; that she was sorry he had not come sooner, for that he could have

written the inscription on it for her, and that would have spared her

the shame of telling Count Laniska that she could not read or write.

She added, that the count had written all that was wanting for her. The

witness, being impatient to see the vase, went as fast as he could to

the manufactory, in hopes of getting a sight of it before it was put

into the furnace. He met Solomon the Jew at the door of the manufactory,

who told him that he was too late, that all the vases were in the

furnace; he had just seen them put in. The Jew, as the witness now

recollects, though it did not strike him at the time, was eager to

prevent him from going into the furnace-room. Solomon took him by the

arm, and walked with him up the street, talking to him of some money

which he was to remit to Meissen, to Sophia Mansfeld's father and

mother.

_Albert_ asked the witness on whose account this money was to be

remitted by the Jew to Meissen.

_Witness_.--"The money was to be remitted on Sophia Mansfeld's account."

_Albert_.--"Did she borrow it from the Jew?"

_Witness_.--"No; the Jew owed it to her for work done by her. She had

the art of painting on glass. She had painted some glasses for a large

magic lantern, and several small pictures on glass. She did these things

at the hours when she was not obliged to be at the manufactory. She rose

very early in the morning and worked hard. She sold her work to the Jew

upon condition that he would remit the price agreed upon to her father

and mother, who were old, and depended on her for support."

_Albert_.--"Was the money punctually remitted to her father and mother

by the Jew?"

_Witness_.--"Not a farthing of it was remitted by him, as Sophia

discovered since her return to Meissen."

_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew say any thing about Sophia

Mansfeld's returning to Saxony?"

_Witness_.--"Yes; I once heard the Jew say that he hoped she never would

leave Berlin, because she was of great use to him. He advised me to

settle in Berlin. This passed about six weeks ago. About a week before

the prize was decided by the king, I met the Jew, and told him Sophia

had good hopes of getting back to Saxony. He looked very much vexed, and

said, 'She is not sure of that.'"

_Albert_.--"Did you ever hear this Jew speak of Count Laniska?"

_Witness_.--"Yes, about two months ago I saw him in the street when I

was speaking to Solomon, and I asked the Jew who he was. He answered,

'He is the Count Laniska--a man that I hate, and on whom I will be

revenged some time or other.' I asked why he hated the count. The Jew

replied, 'Because the Christian dog has made the corps of Jews his

laughing-stock. This day, when my son was going through his manual

exercise before the king, Count Laniska was holding his sides with

laughter. I'll be revenged upon him some time or other.'"

_Albert_.--"I have no occasion, sir, to trouble you with any farther

questions."

The next witness who appeared was a druggist of Berlin. He deposed,

that, on the 30th of April, Solomon the Jew came to his shop and asked

for blue paints; that, after trying the colours very carefully upon the

back of a letter, which he took out of his pocket, he bought a small

quantity of a shade of blue, which the witness produced in court.

Albert ordered that the paint should be handed to the gentlemen of the

jury, that they might compare it with the blue ground of the Prussian

Vase. With this it was found, upon comparison, to match exactly.

_Albert to the druggist_.--"Do you know what became of the paper upon

which you say the Jew tried your colours?"

_Witness_.--"Yes; here it is. I found it under the counter, after the

Jew went away, and I kept it to return to him, as I saw there was an

account on the other side of the paper, which I imagined he might want.

He never happened to call at my shop afterwards, and I forgot that I had

such a paper, till you, sir, called upon me about a week ago, to make

inquiry on this subject. You desired me to keep the paper carefully, and

not to let any one know that it was in my possession, till the day on

which the trial of Count Laniska was to come on. I have complied with

your request, and here is the paper."

The paper was handed to the jury; and one of the shades of blue exactly

matched that of the ground of the Prussian Vase. Albert now called upon

the Jew to produce, once more, the handkerchief with which he had rubbed

off the paint. The chain of evidence was now complete, for the blue on

the handkerchief was precisely the same as the colours on the paper

and on the vase. After the jury had satisfied themselves of this

resemblance, Albert begged that they would read what was written upon

the paper. The first thing that struck their eyes was the word _tyrant_

frequently repeated, as if by some one who had been practising to write

different hands. One of these words was an exact resemblance of the word

_tyrant_ on the Prussian Vase; and Albert pointed out a circumstance,

which had till now escaped attention, that the letter _r_, in this word,

was made differently from all the _ars_ in the rest of the inscription.

The writing of the Count Laniska had, in every other respect, been

successfully imitated.

After Albert had shown these things to the jury, he here closed the

evidence in favour of the prisoner, observing, that the length of time

which the trial had lasted seemed to have somewhat fatigued both the

judge and jury; and, knowing that it was now their usual hour of dinner,

he prudently forbore to make a long speech upon the evidence which had

been laid before them in favour of his friend: he left it to their own

understandings to determine the balance of probabilities between the

honour of Count Laniska and the honesty of Solomon the Jew.

The judge, in a manner which would have done honour even to the English

bench, summed up the evidence on both sides, and gave a distinct and

impressive charge to the jury, who, without leaving the court, gave a

verdict in favour of the prisoner. Loud acclamations filled the hall. In

the midst of these acclamations, the word--"Silence!" was pronounced

by that voice which never failed to command instantaneous obedience in

Prussia. All eyes turned upon the monarch.

"This court is now dissolved," said his majesty. "My judgment confirms

the verdict of the jury. Count Laniska, I took your sword from you too

hastily. Accept of mine in its stead." And as he pronounced these words,

Frederick ungirded his sword, and presented it to the young count. "As

for you, sir," continued the king, addressing himself to Albert, "you

want no _sword_ for the defence of your friends. Your arms are superior

to ours. Let me engage them in my service; and, trust me, I shall not

leave them long unemployed, or unrewarded."

There was but one person present to whom this speech seemed to give no

satisfaction. This person was Solomon the Jew, who stood apart, waiting

in black silence to learn his own fate. He was sentenced, not to a

year's imprisonment in the castle of Spandau, but to sweep the streets

of Potzdam (including the court in front of Count Laniska's palace) for

a twelvemonth.

After having heard this sentence, which was universally approved of, the

spectators began to retire.

The king dined--it is always important to know where great men

dine--Frederick the Great dined this day at the Countess Laniska's,

in company with her son, his friend Albert, and the English traveller.

After dinner, the king withdrew to attend parade; and it was observed

that he wore the Count Laniska's sword.

"You will allow," said the countess to the English traveller, "that our

king is a great man; for none but great men can bear to acknowledge that

they have been mistaken."

"You will allow, madam," replied the Englishman, "that it was our

English trial by jury which convinced the king of his mistake."

"And you applaud him for granting that trial," said Albert.

"To a certain degree I do," said the Englishman, from whom it was

difficult to extort praise of a despotic king--"to a certain degree, I

do; but you will observe, that this trial by jury, which is a matter of

favour to you Prussians, is a matter of right to us Englishmen. Much as

I admire your king of Prussia, I admire our English constitution more."

THE GOOD AUNT

Charles Howard was left an orphan when he was very young. His father

had dissipated a large fortune, and lost his life in a duel, about some

_debt of honour_, which had been contracted at the gaming-table. Without

fortune and without friends, this poor boy would probably have lived

and died in wretchedness, but for the humanity of his good aunt, Mrs.

Frances Howard. This lady possessed a considerable fortune, which, in

the opinion of some of her acquaintance, was her highest merit: others

respected her as the branch of an ancient family: some courted her

acquaintance because she was visited by the best company in town: and

many were ambitious of being introduced to her, because they were

sure of meeting at her house several of those distinguished literary

characters who throw a radiance upon all who can contrive to get within

the circle of their glories. Some few, some very few of Mrs. Howard's

acquaintance, admired her for her real worth, and merited the name of

friends.

She was a young and cheerful woman when she first undertook the

education of her little nephew. She had the courage to resist the

allurements of dissipation, or all that by her sex are usually thought

allurements. She had the courage to apply herself seriously to the

cultivation of her understanding: she educated herself, that she might

be able to fulfil the important duty of educating a child. Hers was not

the foolish fondness of a foolish aunt; she loved her nephew, and she

wished to educate him, so that her affection might increase, instead of

diminishing, as he grew up. By associating early pleasure with reading,

little Charles soon became fond of it: he was never forced to read books

which he did not understand; his aunt used, when he was very young, to

read aloud to him any thing entertaining that she met with; and whenever

she perceived by his eye that his attention was not fixed, she stopped.

When he was able to read fluently to himself, she selected for him

passages from books, which she thought would excite his curiosity to

know _more_; and she was not in a hurry to cram him with knowledge, but

rather anxious to prevent his growing appetite for literature from being

early satiated. She always encouraged him to talk to her freely about

what he read, and to tell her when he did not like any of the books

which she gave him. She conversed with him with so much kindness and

cheerfulness; she was so quick at perceiving his latent meaning; and she

was so gentle and patient when she reasoned with him, that he loved to

talk to her better than to any body else; nor could little Charles ever

thoroughly enjoy any pleasure without her sympathy.

The conversation of the sensible, well-informed people who visited Mrs.

Howard contributed to form her nephew's taste. A child may learn as much

from conversation as from books--not so many historic facts, but as much

instruction. Greek and Latin were the grand difficulties. Mrs. Howard

did not understand Greek and Latin; nor did she, though a woman, set too

high or too low a value upon the learned languages. She was convinced

that a man might be a great scholar without being a man of sense; she

was also persuaded that a man of sense might be a good scholar. She knew

that, whatever abilities her nephew might possess, he could not be upon

a footing with other men in the world, without possessing that species

of knowledge which is universally expected from gentlemen, as an

essential proof of their having received a liberal education; nor did

she attempt to undervalue the pleasures of classic taste merely because

she was not qualified to enjoy them: she was convinced, by the testimony

of men of candour and judgment, that a classical taste is a source of

real enjoyment, and she wished her nephew's literary pleasures to have

as extensive a range as possible.

To instruct her nephew in the learned languages, she engaged a good

scholar and a man of sense: his name--for a man is nothing without a

name--was Russell{1}. Little Charles did not at first relish Latin;

he used sometimes to come from his Latin lessons with a very dull,

stupified face, which gradually brightened into intelligence, after he

had talked for a few minutes with his aunt. Mrs. Howard, though pleased

to perceive that he was fond of her, had not the weakness to sacrifice

his permanent advantage to her transient gratification. One evening

Charles came running up-stairs to his aunt, who was at tea; several

people happened to be present. "I have done with Mr. Russell, and my

Latin, ma'am, thank goodness--now may I have the elephant and the camel,

or the bear and her cubs, that you marked for me last night?"

{Footnote 1: RUSSELL.--This name is chosen for that of a good tutor,

because it was the name of Mr. Edgeworth's tutor, at Oxford: Mr. Russell

was also tutor to the late Mr. Day. Both by Mr. Day and Mr. Edgeworth he

was respected, esteemed, and beloved, in no common degree.}

The company laughed at this speech of Charles: and a silly lady--for

even Mrs. Howard could not make all her acquaintance wise--a silly lady

whispered to Charles, "I've a notion, if you'd tell the truth, now, that

you like the bear and her cubs a great deal better than you do Latin and

Mr. Russell."

"I like the bear a great deal better than I do Latin, to be sure," said

the boy; "but as for Mr. Russell--why, I think," added he, encouraged by

the lady's smiles, "I think I like the bear better than Mr. Russell."

The lady laughed affectedly at this sally.

"I am sure," continued Charles, fancying that every person present was

delighted with his wit, "I am sure, at any rate, I like the learned pig

fifty times better than Mr. Russell!"

The judicious lady burst into a second fit of laughter. Mrs. Howard

looked very grave. Charles broke from the lady's caresses, and going up

to his aunt, timidly looking up in her face, said, "Am I a fool?"

"You are but a child," said Mrs. Howard; and, turning away from him, she

desired the servant, who waited at tea, to let Mr. Russell know that

she desired the _honour_ of his company. Mrs. Holloway--for that was the

silly lady's name--at the words, "honour of his company," resumed her

gravity, but looked round to see what the rest of the company thought.

"Give me leave, Mr. Russell," said Mrs. Howard, as soon as he came into

the room, "to introduce you to a gentleman, for whose works I know you

have a great esteem." The gentleman was a celebrated traveller, just

returned from abroad, whose conversation was as much admired as his

writings.

The conversation now took a literary turn. The traveller being polite,

as well as entertaining, drew out Mr. Russell's knowledge and abilities.

Charles now looked up to his tutor with respect. Children have

sufficient penetration to discover the opinions of others by their

countenance and manner, and their sympathy is quickly influenced by the

example of those around them. Mrs. Howard led the traveller to speak

of what he had seen in different countries--of natural history--of

the beaver, and the moose-deer, and the humming-bird, that is scarcely

larger than a bumble bee; and the mocking-bird, that can imitate the

notes of all other birds. Charles _niched_ himself into a corner of the

sofa upon which the gentlemen were sitting, and grew very attentive. He

was rather surprised to perceive that his tutor was as much entertained

with the conversation as he was himself.

"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Howard to the traveller, "is it true that the

humming-bird is a passionate little animal? Is the story told by the

author of the Farmer's Letters true?"

"What story?" said Charles, eagerly.

"Of a humming-bird that flew into a fury with a flower, and tore it to

pieces, because it could not get the honey out of it all at once."

"Oh, ma'am," said little Charles, peeping over his tutor's shoulders,

"will you show me that? Have you got the book, _dear_ aunt?"

"It is Mr. Russell's book," said his aunt.

"Your book!" cried Charles: "what, and do you know all about animals,

and those sorts of entertaining things, as well as Latin? And can

you tell me, then, what I want very much to know, how they catch the

humming-bird?"

"They shoot it."

"Shoot it! but what a large hole they must make in its body and

beautiful feathers! I thought you said its whole body was no bigger than

a bee--a humble bee."

"They make no hole in its body--they shoot it without ruffling even its

feathers."

"How, how?" cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, whom he now

regarded no longer as a mere man of Latin.

"They charge the gun with water," said Mr. Russell, "and the poor little

humming-bird is stunned by the discharge."

The conversation next turned upon the entertaining chapter on instinct,

in Dr. Darwin's Zoonomia. Charles did not understand all that was said,

for the gentlemen did not address themselves to him. He never listened

to what he did not understand: but he was very quick at hearing whatever

was within the limits of his comprehension. He heard of the tailor-bird,

that uses its long bill as a needle, to sew the dead and the living

leaf together, of which it makes its light nest, lined with feathers and

gossamer: of the fish called the 'old soldier,' that looks out for the

empty shell of some dead animal, and fits this armour upon himself: of

the Jamaica spider, that makes himself a house under ground, with a door

and hinges, which door the spider and all the members of his family take

care to shut after them, whenever they go in and out.

Little Charles, as he sat eagerly attentive in his corner of the sofa,

heard of the trumpet of the common gnat{2}, and of its proboscis, which

serves at once for an awl, a saw, and a pump.

{Footnote 2: St. Pierre, Études de la Nature.}

"Are there any more such things," exclaimed Charles, "in these books?"

"A great many," said Mr. Russell.

"I'll read them all," cried Charles, starting up--"may I? may not I,

aunt?"

"Ask Mr. Russell," replied his aunt: "he who is obliged to give you the

pain of learning what is tiresome, should have the pleasure of rewarding

you with entertaining books. Whenever he asks me for Dr. Darwin and

St. Pierre, you shall have them. We are both of one mind. We know that

learning Latin is not the most amusing occupation in the world, but

still it must be learned."

"Why," said Charles modestly, "you don't understand Latin, aunt, do

you?"

"No," said Mrs. Howard, "but I am a woman, and it is not thought

necessary that a woman should understand Latin; nor can I explain to

you, at your age, why it is expected that a gentleman should; but here

are several gentlemen present--ask them whether it be not necessary that

a gentleman should."

Charles gathered all the opinions, and especially that of the

entertaining traveller.

Mrs. Holloway, the silly lady, during that part of the conversation from

which she might have acquired some knowledge, had retired to the further

end of the room to a game at trictrac with an obsequious chaplain. Her

game being finished, she came up to hear what the crowd round the sofa

could be talking about; and hearing Charles ask the opinions of the

gentlemen about the necessity of learning Latin, she nodded sagaciously

at Mrs. Howard, and, by way of making up for former errors, said to

Charles, in the most authoritative tone,--

"Yes, I can assure you, Mr. Charles, I am quite of the gentlemen's

opinion, and so is every body--and this is a point upon which I have

some right to speak; for my Augustus, who is only a year and seven

months older than you are, sir, is one of the best scholars of his age,

I am told, in England. But then, to be sure, it was flogged into him

well at first, at a public school, which, I understand, is the best way

of making good scholars."

"And the best way of making boys love literature?" said Mrs. Howard.

"Certainly, certainly," said Mrs. Holloway, who mistook Mrs. Howard's

tone of inquiry for a tone of assertion, a tone more familiar to

her--"certainly, ma'am, I knew you would come round to my notions at

last. I'm sure my Augustus must be fond of his Latin, for never in the

vacations did I ever catch him with any English book in his hand!"

"Poor boy!" said Charles, with unfeigned compassion, "And when, my

dear Mrs. Howard," continued Mrs. Holloway, laying her hand upon Mrs.

Howard's arm, with a yet untasted pinch of snuff between her fingers,

"when will you send Mr. Charles to school?"

"Oh, aunt, don't send me away from you--Oh, sir! Mr. Russell, try me--I

will do my very, _very_ best, without having it flogged into me, to

learn Latin--only try me."

"Dear sir, I really beg your pardon," said Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Russell;

"I absolutely only meant to support Mrs. Howard's opinion for the sweet

boy's good; and I thought I saw you go out of the room, or somebody else

went out, whilst I was at trictrac. But I'm convinced a private tutor

may do wonders at the same time; and if my Augustus prejudiced me

in favour of public education, you'll excuse a mother's partiality.

Besides, I make it a rule never to interfere in the education of my

boys. Mr. Holloway is answerable for them; and if he prefer public

schools to a private tutor, you must be sensible, sir, it would be very

wrong in me to set my poor judgment in opposition to Mr. Holloway's

opinion."

Mr. Russell bowed; for, when a lady claims a gentleman's assent to a

series of inconsistent propositions, what answer can he make but--a bow?

Mrs. Holloway's carriage was now at the door, and, without troubling

herself any further about the comparative merits of public and private

education, she departed.

When Mrs. Howard was left alone with her nephew, she seized the moment,

while his mind was yet warm, to make a lasting impression. Charles,

instead of going to Buffon's account of the elephant, which he was very

impatient to read, sat down resolutely to his Latin lesson. Mrs. Howard

looked over his shoulder, and when he saw her smile of approbation, he

said, "Then you won't send me away from you?"

"Not unless you oblige me to do so," said his aunt: "I love to have you

with me, and I will try for one year whether you have energy enough to

learn what is disagreeable to you, without--"

"Without its being flogged into me," said Charles: "you shall see."

This boy had a great deal of energy and application. The Latin lessons

were learned very perfectly; and as he did not spend above an hour a day

at them, he was not disgusted with application. His general taste for

literature, and his fund of knowledge, increased rapidly from year to

year, and the activity of his mind promised continual improvement. His

attachment to Mrs. Howard increased as he grew up, for she never claimed

any gratitude from her pupil, or exacted from him any of those little

observances, which women sometimes consider as essential proofs of

affection. She knew that these minute attentions are particularly

irksome to boys, and that they are by no means the natural expressions

of their feelings. She had sufficient strength of mind to be secure in

the possession of those qualities which merit esteem and love, and

to believe that the child whom she had educated had a heart and

understanding that must feel and appreciate her value.

When Charles Howard was about thirteen, an event happened which changed

his prospects in life. Mrs. Howard's large fortune was principally

derived from an estate in the West Indies, which had been left to her by

her grandfather. She did not particularly wish to be the proprietor of

slaves; and from the time that she came to the management of her own

affairs, she had been desirous to sell her West India property.

Her agent represented to her that this could not be done without

considerable loss. From year to year the business was delayed, till at

length a gentleman, who had a plantation adjoining to hers, offered to

purchase her estate. She was neither one of those ladies who, jealous

of their free will, would rather _act for themselves_, that is to say,

follow their own whims in matters of business, than consult men who

possess the requisite information; nor was she so ignorant of business,

or so indolent, as to be at the mercy of any designing agent or

attorney. After consulting proper persons, and after exerting a just

proportion of her own judgment, she concluded her bargain with the West

Indian. Her plantation was sold to him, and all her property was shipped

for her on board _The Lively Peggy_. Mr. Alderman Holloway, husband

to the silly Mrs. Holloway, was one of the trustees appointed by her

grandfather's will. The alderman, who was supposed to be very knowing

in all worldly concerns, sanctioned the affair with his approbation. The

lady was at this time rich; and Alderman Holloway applauded her humanity

in having stipulated for the liberty and _provision grounds_ of some old

negroes upon her plantation; he even suggested to his son Augustus, that

this would make a very pretty, proper subject for a copy of verses, to

be addressed to Mrs. Howard. The verses were written in elegant Latin;

and the young gentleman was proceeding with some difficulty in his

English translation of them, when they were suppressed by parental

authority. The alderman changed his opinion as to the propriety of the

argument of this poem: the reasons which worked upon his mind were never

distinctly expressed; they may, however, be deduced from the perusal of

the following letter:--

"TO MRS. FRANCES HOWARD.

"DEAR MADAM,

"Sorry am I to be under the disagreeable necessity of communicating

to you thus abruptly, the melancholy news of the loss of 'The Lively

Peggy,' with your valuable consignment on board, viz. sundry puncheons

of rum, and hogsheads of sugar, in which commodities (as usual) your

agent received the purchase-money of your late fine West India estate.

I must not, however reluctantly, omit to mention the casket of your

grandmother's jewels, which I now regret was sent by this opportunity.

'Tis an additional loss--some thousands, I apprehend.

"The captain of the vessel I have just seen, who was set on shore,

on the 15th ultimo, on the coast of Wales: his mate mutinied, and, in

conspiracy with the crew, have run away with the vessel.

"I have only to add, that Mrs. Holloway and my daughter Angelina

sincerely unite with me in compliments and condolence; and I shall be

happy if I can be of any service in the settlement of your affairs.

"Mrs Holloway desires me to say, she would do herself the honour of

waiting upon you to-morrow, but is setting out for Margate.

"I am, dear madam,

"Your most obedient and humble servant,

"A. T. Holloway.

"P.S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting to insure."

Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, gave it to her

nephew, who was reading in the room with her when she received it. He

showed more emotion on reading it than she had done. The coldness of

the alderman's letter seemed to strike the boy more than the loss of a

fortune--"And this is a friend!" he exclaimed with indignation.

"No, my love," said Mrs. Howard, with a calm smile, "I never thought Mr.

Holloway any thing more than a common acquaintance: I hope--I am sure I

have chosen _my friends_ better."

Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, which seemed to

say, "Did you mean to call me one of your friends?" and then he grew

very thoughtful.

"My dear Charles," said the aunt, after nearly a quarter of an hour's

silence, "may I know what you have been thinking of all this time?"

"Thinking of, ma'am!" said Charles, starting from his reverie--"of a

great many things--of all you have done for me--of--of what I could

do--I don't mean now; for I know I am a child, and can do nothing--I

don't mean _nothing_.--I shall soon be a man, and then I can be a

physician, or a lawyer, or something.--Mr. Russell told me the other

day, that if I applied myself, I might be whatever I pleased. What would

_you_ wish me to be, ma'am?--because that's what I will be--if I can."

"Then I wish you to be what you are."

"O madam," said Charles, with a look of great mortification, "but that's

nothing. Won't you make me of some use to you?--But I beg your pardon,

I know you can't think about me just now. Good night," said he, and

hurried out of the room.

The news of the loss of the Lively Peggy, with all the particulars

mentioned in Alderman Holloway's letter, appeared in the next day's

newspapers, and in the succeeding paper appeared an advertisement of

Mrs. Howard's house in Portman-square, of her plate, china, furniture,

books, &c.--She had never in affluence disdained economy. She had no

debts; not a single tradesman was a sufferer by her loss. She had always

lived within her annual income; and though her generous disposition had

prevented her from hoarding money, she had a small sum in the funds,

which she had prudently reserved for any unforeseen exigence. She had

also a few diamonds, which had been her mother's, which Mr. Carat, the

jeweller, who had new set them, was very willing to purchase. He waited

upon Mrs. Howard, in Portman-square, to complete the bargain.

The want of sensibility which Charles showed when his aunt was parting

with her jewels to Mr. Carat, would have infallibly ruined him in the

opinion of most ladies. He took the trinkets up, one by one, without

ceremony, and examined them, asking his aunt and the jeweller questions

about the use and value of diamonds--about the working of the mines of

Golconda--about the shining of diamonds in the dark, observed by the

children of Cogi Hassan, the rope-maker, in the Arabian Tales--about the

experiment of Francis the First upon _melting_ of diamonds and rubies.

Mr. Carat was a Jew, and, though extremely cunning, profoundly ignorant.

"Dat king wash very grand fool, beg his majesty's pardon," said the Jew,

with a shrewd smile; "but kings know better nowadays. Heaven bless dere

majesties."

Charles had a great mind to vindicate the philosophic fame of Francis

the First, but a new idea suddenly started into his head.

"My dearest aunt," cried he, stopping her hand as she was giving her

diamond ear-rings to Mr. Carat--"stay, my dearest aunt, one instant,

till I have seen whether this is a good day for selling diamonds."

"O my dear young gentleman, no day in de Jewish calendar more proper for

de purchase," said the Jew.

"For the purchase! yes," said Charles; "but for the sale?"

"My love," said his aunt, "surely you are not so foolish as to think

there are lucky and unlucky days."

"No, I don't mean any thing about lucky and unlucky days," said Charles,

running up to consult the barometer; "but what I mean is not foolish

indeed: in some book I've read that the dealers in diamonds buy them

when the air is light, and sell them when it is heavy, if they can;

because their scales are so nice that they vary with the change in the

atmosphere. Perhaps I may not remember exactly the words, but that's the

sense, I know. I'll look for the words; I know whereabout to find them."

He jumped upon a chair, to get down the book.

"But, Master Charles," said the Jew, with a show of deference, "I will

not pretend to make a bargain with you--I see you know a great deal more

than I of these traffics."

To this flattery Charles made no answer, but continued looking for the

passage he wanted in his book. Whilst he was turning over the leaves,

a gentleman, a friend of Mrs. Howard, who had promised her to meet Mr.

Carat, came in. He was the gentleman formerly mentioned by the name of

_the traveller_: he was a good judge of diamonds, and, what is better,

he was a good judge of the human heart and understanding. He was much

pleased with Charles's ready recollection of the little knowledge he

possessed, with his eagerness to make that knowledge of use to his aunt,

and more with his perfect simplicity and integrity; for Charles, after a

moment's thought, turned to the Jew and said,--

"But the day that is good for my aunt must be bad for you. The buyers

and sellers should each have fair play. Mr. Carat, your weights should

be diamonds, and then the changes in the weight of the air would not

signify one way or the other.{3}"

{Footnote 3: This observation was literally made by a boy of ten years

of age.}

Mr. Carat smiled at this speech, but, suppressing his contempt for the

young gentleman, only observed, that he should most certainly follow Mr.

Charles's advice, whenever he _wash_ rich enough to have diamonds for

weights.

The traveller drew from his pocket a small book, took a pen, and wrote

in the title-page of it, _For one who will make a good use of it_; and,

with Mrs. Howard's permission, he gave the book to her nephew.

"I do not believe," said the gentleman, "that there is at present

another copy in England: I have just got this from France by a private

hand."

The sale of his aunt's books appeared to Charles a much more serious

affair than the parting with her diamonds. He understood something of

the value of books, and he took a sorrowful leave of many which he

had read, and of many more which he had intended to read. Mrs. Howard

selected a few for her own use, and she allowed her nephew to select as

many for himself as she had done. He observed that there was a beautiful

edition of Shakspeare, which he knew his aunt liked particularly,

but which she did not keep, reserving instead of it Smith's Wealth of

Nations, which would in a few years, she said, be very useful to him.

He immediately offered his favourite Etudes de la Nature to redeem the

Shakspeare; but Mrs. Howard would not accept of it, because she justly

observed, that she could read Shakspeare _almost_ as well without its

being in such a beautiful binding. Her readiness to part with all

the luxuries to which she had been for many years accustomed, and the

freedom and openness with which she spoke of all her affairs to her

nephew, made a great impression upon his mind.

Those are mistaken who think that young people cannot be interested in

such things: if no mystery be made of the technical parts of business,

young people easily learn them, and they early take an interest in the

affairs of their parents, instead of learning to separate their own

views from those of their friends. Charles, young as he was, at this

time, was employed by his aunt frequently to copy, and sometimes to

write, letters of business for her. He drew out a careful inventory of

all the furniture before it was disposed of; he took lists of all

the books and papers: and at this work, however tiresome, he was

indefatigable, because he was encouraged by the hope of being useful.

This ambition had been early excited in his mind.

When Mrs. Howard had settled her affairs, she took a small neat house

near Westminster school{4}, for the purpose of a boarding-house for some

of the Westminster boys. This plan she preferred, because it secured an

independent means of support, and at the same time enabled her, in some

measure, to assist in her nephew's education, and to enjoy his company.

She was no longer able to afford a sufficient salary to a well-informed

private tutor; therefore she determined to send Charles to Westminster

school; and, as he would board with her, she hoped to unite by this

scheme, as much as possible, the advantages of a private and of a public

education. Mr. Russell desired still to have the care of Mrs. Howard's

nephew; he determined to offer himself as a tutor at Westminster school;

and, as his acquirements were well known to the literary world, he was

received with eagerness.

{Footnote 4: See the account of Mrs. C. Ponten, in Gibbon's Life.}

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, when he first went to

Westminster, "I shall not trouble you with a long chapter of advice: do

you remember that answer of the oracle, which seemed to strike you so

much the other day, when you were reading the life of Cicero?"

"Yes," said Charles, "I recollect it--I shall never forget it. When

Cicero asked how he should arrive at the height of glory, the oracle

answered, 'By making his own genius, and not the opinion of the people,

the guide of his life.'"

"Well," said Mrs. Howard, smiling, "if I were your oracle, and you were

to put the same question to me, I think I should make you nearly the

same answer; except that I should change the word genius into good

sense; and, instead of _the people_, I should say _the world_, which,

in general, I think, means all the _silly people_ of one's acquaintance.

Farewell: now go to the Westminster world."

Westminster was quite a new world to young Howard. The bustle and noise

at first astonished his senses, and almost confounded his understanding;

but he soon grew accustomed to the din, and familiarized to the sight

of numbers. At first, he thought himself much inferior to all his

companions, because practice had given them the power of doing many

things with ease, which to him appeared difficult, merely because he had

not been used to them. In all their games and plays, either of address

or force, he found himself foiled. In a readiness of repartee, and

a certain ease and volubility of conversation, he perceived his

deficiency; and though he frequently was conscious that his ideas were

more just, and his arguments better, than those of his companions, yet

he could not at first bring out his ideas to advantage, or manage his

arguments so as to stand his ground against the mixed raillery and

sophistry of his school fellows. He had not yet the tone of his new

society, and he was as much at a loss as a traveller in a foreign

country, before he understands the language of a people who are

vociferating round about him. As fast, however, as he learned to

translate the language of his companions into his own, he discovered

that there was not so much meaning in their expressions as he had been

inclined to imagine whilst they had remained unintelligible: but he was

good-humoured and good-natured, so that, upon the whole, he was much

liked; and even his inferiority, in many little trials of skill, was,

perhaps, in his favour. He laughed with those that laughed at him, let

them triumph in his awkwardness, but still persisted in new trials, till

at last, to the great surprise of the spectators, he succeeded.

The art of boxing cost him more than all the rest; but as he was neither

deficient in courage of mind nor activity of body, he did not despair

of acquiring the _necessary_ skill in this noble science--necessary, we

say, for Charles had not been a week at Westminster before he was made

sensible of the necessity of practising this art in his own defence. He

had yet a stronger motive; he found it necessary for the defence of one

who looked up to him for protection.

There was at this time at Westminster, a little boy of the name of

Oliver, a Creole, lively, intelligent, open-hearted, and affectionate

in the extreme, but rather passionate in his temper, and adverse to

application. His _literary_ education had been strangely neglected

before he came to school, so that his ignorance of the common

rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, and arithmetic, made him the

laughing-stock of the school. The poor boy felt inexpressible shame and

anguish; his cheek burned with blushes, when every day, in the public

class, he was ridiculed and disgraced; but his dark complexion, perhaps,

prevented those blushes from being noticed by his companions, otherwise

they certainly would have suppressed, or would have endeavoured to

repress, some of their insulting peals of laughter. He suffered no

complaint or tear to escape him in public; but his book was sometimes

blistered with the tears that fell when nobody saw them: what was worse

than all the rest he found insurmountable difficulties, at every step,

in his grammar. He was unwilling to apply to any of his more learned

companions for explanations or assistance. He began to sink into despair

of his own abilities, and to imagine that he must for ever remain, what

indeed he was every day called, a dunce. He was usually flogged three

times a week. Day after day brought no relief, either to his bodily or

mental sufferings: at length his honest pride yielded, and he applied

to one of the elder scholars for help. The boy to whom he applied was

Augustus Holloway, Alderman Holloway's son, who was acknowledged to be

one of the best Latin scholars at Westminster. He readily helped Oliver

in his exercises, but he made him pay most severely for this assistance,

by the most tyrannical usage; and, in all his tyranny, he thought

himself fully justifiable, because little Oliver, beside his other

misfortunes, had the misfortune to be a fag.

There may be--though many schoolboys will, perhaps, think it scarcely

possible--there may be, in the compass of the civilised world, some

persons so barbarously ignorant as not to know what is meant by the

term fag. To these it may be necessary to explain, that at some English

schools it is the custom, that all little boys, when they first go to

school, should be under the dominion of the elder boys. These little

boys are called fags, and are forced to wait upon and obey their

master-companions. Their duties vary in different schools. I have heard

of its being customary in some places, to make use of a fag regularly in

the depth of winter instead of a warming-pan, and to send the shivering

urchin through ten or twenty beds successively to take off the chill of

cold for their luxurious masters. They are expected, in most schools, to

run of all the elder boys' errands, to be ready at their call, and to

do all their high behests. They must never complain of being tired,

or their complaints will, at least, never be regarded, because, as the

etymology of the word implies, it is their business to be tired. The

substantive _fag_ is not to be found in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary; but

the verb to fag is there a verb neuter, from fatigo, Latin, and is there

explained to mean, "to grow weary, to faint with weariness." This is all

the satisfaction we can, after the most diligent research, afford the

curious and learned reader upon the subject of _fags_ in general.

In particular, Mr. Augustus Holloway took great delight in teasing his

fag, little Oliver. One day it happened that young Howard and Holloway

were playing at nine-pins together, and little Oliver was within a

few yards of them, sitting under a tree, with a book upon his knees,

anxiously trying to make out his lesson. Holloway, whenever the

nine-pins were thrown down, called to Oliver, and made him come from his

book and set them up again: this he repeatedly did, in spite of Howard's

remonstrances, who always offered to set up the nine-pins, and who said

it teased the poor little fellow to call him every minute from what he

was about.

"Yes," said Holloway, "I know it teases him--that I see plain enough,

by his running so fast back to his _form_, like a hare--there he is,

_squatting_ again: halloo! halloo! come, start again here," cried

Holloway; "you have not done yet: bring me the bowl, halloo!"

Howard did not at all enjoy the diversion of hunting the poor boy about

in this manner, and he said, with some indignation,

"How is it possible, Holloway, that the boy can get his lesson, if you

interrupt him every instant?"

"Pooh! what signifies his foolish lesson?"

"It signifies a great deal to him," replied Howard: "you know what he

suffered this morning because he had not learned it."

"Suffered! why, what did he suffer?" said Holloway, upon whose memory

the sufferings of others made no very deep impression. "Oh, ay,

true--you mean he was flogged: more shame for him!--why did not he mind

and get his lesson better?"

"I had not time to understand it rightly," said Oliver, with a deep

sigh; "and I don't think I shall have time to-day either."

"More shame for you," repeated Holloway: "I'll lay any bet on earth, I

get all you have to get in three minutes."

"Ah, you, to be sure," said Oliver, in a tone of great humiliation; "but

then you know what a difference there is between you and me."

Holloway misunderstood him; and, thinking he meant to allude to the

difference in their age, instead of the difference of their abilities,

answered sharply,

"When I was your age, do you think I was such a dunce as you are, pray?"

"No, that I am sure you never were," said Oliver; "but perhaps you had

some good father or mother, or somebody, who taught you a little before

you came to school."

"I don't remember any thing about that," replied Holloway; "I don't know

who was so good as to teach me, but I know I was so good as to learn

fast enough, which is a goodness, I've a notion, some folks will never

have to boast of--so trot, and fetch the bowl for me, do you hear, and

set up the nine-pins. You've sense enough to do that, have not you? and

as for your lesson, I'll drive that into your head by and by, if I can,"

added he, rapping with his knuckles upon the little boy's head.

"As to my lesson," said the boy, putting aside his head from the

insulting knuckles, "I had rather try and make it out by myself, if I

can."

"If you can!" repeated Holloway, sneering; "but we all know you can't."

"Why can't he, Holloway?" exclaimed Howard, with a raised voice, for he

was no longer master of his indignation.

"Why can't he?" repeated Holloway, looking round upon Howard, with

a mixture of surprise and insolence. "You must answer that question

yourself, Howard: I say he can't."

"And I say he can, and he shall," replied Howard; "and he _shall_ have

time to learn: he's willing, and, I'll answer for it, able to learn;

and he shall not be called a dunce; and he shall have time; and he shall

have justice."

"Shall! shall! shall!" retorted Holloway, vociferating with a passion of

a different sort from Howard's. "Pray, sir, who allowed you to say

shall to me? and how dare you to talk in this _here_ style to me about

justice?--and what business have you, I should be glad to know, to

interfere between me and my fag? What right have you to him, or his

time either? And if I choose to call him a dunce forty times a day, what

then? he is a dunce, and he will be a dunce to the end of his days, I

say, and who is there thinks proper to contradict me?"

"I," said Howard, firmly; "and I'll do more than contradict you--I'll

prove that you are mistaken. Oliver, bring your book to me."

"Oliver, stir at your peril!" cried Holloway, clinching his fist with

a menacing gesture: "nobody shall give any help to my fag but myself,

sir," added he to Howard.

"I am not going to help him, I am only going to prove to him that he may

do it without your help," said Howard.

The little boy sprang forward, at these words, for his book; but his

tormentor caught hold of him, and pulling him back, said, "He's my fag!

do you recollect, sir, he's my fag?"

"Fag or no fag," cried Howard, "you shall not make a slave of him."

"I will! I shall! I will!" cried Holloway, worked up to the height

of tyrannical fury: "I will make a slave of him, if I choose it--a

negro-slave, if I please!"

At the sound of negro-slave, the little Creole burst into tears. Howard

sprang forward to free him from his tyrant's grasp: Holloway struck

Howard a furious blow, which made him stagger backwards.

"Ay," said Holloway, "learn to stand your ground, and fight, before you

meddle with me, I advise you."

Holloway was an experienced pugilist, and he knew that Howard was not;

but before his defiance had escaped his lips, he felt his blow returned,

and a battle ensued. Howard fought with all his _soul_; but the _body_

has something to do, as well as the soul, in the art of boxing, and his

body was not yet a match for his adversary's. After receiving more blows

than Holloway, perhaps, could have borne, Howard was brought to the

ground.

"Beg my pardon, and promise never to interfere between me and my fag any

more," said Holloway, standing over him triumphant: "ask my pardon."

"Never," said the fallen hero: "I'll fight you again, in the same cause,

whenever you please; I can't have a better;" and he struggled to rise.

Several boys had, by this time, gathered round the combatants, and

many admired the fortitude and spirit of the vanquished, though it

is extremely difficult to boys, if not to men, to sympathize with the

beaten. Every body called out that Howard had had enough for that night;

and though he was willing to have renewed the battle, his adversary was

withheld by the omnipotence of public opinion. As to the cause of the

combat, some few inquired into its merits, but many more were content

with seeing the fray, and with hearing, vaguely, that it began about

Howard's having interfered with Holloway's fag in an impertinent manner.

Howard's face was so much disfigured, and his clothes were so much

stained with blood, that he did not wish to present himself such a

deplorable spectacle before his aunt; besides, no man likes to be seen,

especially by a woman, immediately after he has been beaten; therefore,

he went directly to bed as soon as he got home, but desired that one

of his companions, who boarded at Mrs. Howard's, would, if his aunt

inquired for him at supper, tell her "that he had been beaten in a

boxing match, but hoped to be more expert after another lesson or two."

This lady did not show her tenderness to her nephew by wailing over his

disaster: on the contrary, she was pleased to hear that he had fought in

so good a cause.

The next morning, as soon as Howard went to school, he saw little Oliver

watching eagerly for him.

"Mr. Howard--Charles," said he, catching hold of him, "I've one word to

say: let him call me dunce, or slave, or negro, or what he will,

don't you mind any more about me--I can't bear to see it," said the

affectionate child: "I'd rather have the blows myself, only I know I

could not bear them as you did."

Oliver turned aside his head, and Howard, in a playful voice, said,

"Why, my little Oliver, I did not think you were such a coward: you must

not make a coward of me."

No sooner did the boys go out to play in the evening, than Howard called

to Oliver, in Holloway's hearing, and said, "If you want any assistance

from me, remember, I'm ready."

"You may be ready, but you are not able," cried Holloway, "to give him

any assistance--therefore, you'd better be quiet: remember last night."

"I do remember it perfectly," said Howard, calmly.

"And do you want any more?--Come, then, I'll tell you what, I'll box

with you every day, if you please, and when you have conquered me, you

shall have my fag all to yourself, if you please; but, till then, you

shall have nothing to do with him."

"I take you at your word," said Howard, and a second battle began. As

we do not delight in fields of battle, or hope to excel, like Homer, in

describing variety of wounds, we shall content ourselves with relating,

that after five pitched battles, in which Oliver's champion received

bruises of all shapes and sizes, and of every shade of black, blue,

green, and yellow, his unconquered spirit still maintained the justice

of his cause, and with as firm a voice as at first he challenged his

constantly victorious antagonist to a sixth combat.

"I thought you had learned by this time," said the successful pugilist,

"that Augustus Holloway is not to be conquered by one of _woman breed_."

To this taunt Howard made no reply; but whether it urged him to superior

exertion, or whether the dear-bought experience of the five preceding

days had taught him all the caution that experience only can teach, we

cannot determine; but, to the surprise of all the spectators, and to

the lively joy of Oliver, the redoubted Holloway was brought, after an

obstinate struggle, fairly to the ground. Every body sympathized with

the generous victor, who immediately assisted his fallen adversary

to rise, and offered his hand in token of reconciliation. Augustus

Holloway, stunned by his fall, and more by his defeat, returned from

the field of battle as fast as the crowd would let him, who stopped

him continually with their impertinent astonishment and curiosity; for

though the boasted unconquerable hero had pretty evidently received a

black eye, not one person would believe it without looking close in his

face; and many would not trust the information of their own senses,

but pressed to hear the news confirmed by the reluctant lips of the

unfortunate Augustus. In the meantime, little Oliver, a fag no longer,

exulting in his liberty, clapped his joyful hands, sang, and capered

round his deliverer.--"And now," said he, fixing his grateful,

affectionate eyes upon Howard, "you will suffer no more for me; and if

you'll let me, I'll be your fag. Do, will you? pray let me! I'll run of

your errands before you can say one, two, three, and away: only whistle

for me," said he, whistling, "and I'll hear you, wherever I am. If you

only hold up your finger when you want me, I'm sure I shall see it;

and I'll always set up your nine-pins, and fly for your ball, let me be

doing what I will. May I be your fag?"

"Be my _friend_!" said Howard, taking Oliver in his arms, with emotion

which prevented him from articulating any other words. The word friend

went to the little Creole's heart, and he clung to Howard in silence.

To complete his happiness, little Oliver this day obtained permission

to board at Mrs. Howard's, so that he was now constantly to be with his

protector. Howard's friendship was not merely the sudden enthusiasm of

a moment; it was the steady persevering choice of a manly mind, not the

caprice of a school-boy. Regularly, every evening, Oliver brought his

books to his friend, who never was too busy to attend to him. Oliver was

delighted to find that he understood Howard's manner of explaining: his

own opinion of himself rose with the opinion which he saw his instructor

had of his abilities. He was convinced that he was not doomed to be a

dunce for life; his ambition was rekindled; his industry was encouraged

by hope, and rewarded by success. He no longer expected daily

punishment, and that worst of all punishments, disgrace. His heart was

light, his spirits rose, his countenance brightened with intelligence,

and resumed its natural vivacity: to his masters and his companions

he appeared a new creature. "What has inspired you?" said one of his

masters to him one day, surprised at the rapid development of his

understanding--"what has inspired you?"

"My good genius," said the little boy, pointing to Howard. Howard had

some merit in giving up a good deal of his time to Oliver, because he

knew the value of time, and he had not quite so much as he wished

for himself. The day was always too short for him; every moment was

employed; his active mind went from one thing to another as if it did

not know the possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any

recreation but in a change of employment. Not that he was always poring

over books, but his mind was active, let him be about what he would;

and, as his exertions were always voluntary, there was not that

opposition in his opinion between the ideas of play and work, which

exists so strongly in the imaginations of those school-boys who

are driven to their tasks by fear, and who escape from them to that

delicious exercise of their free-will which they call play.

"Constraint, that sweetens liberty,"

often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to its

nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a nameless train of

mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a young man's mind,

under the general head of _liberty_.

Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our notice, when

we want to personify an ill-educated young man, was, in the strictest

sense of the word, a school-boy--a clever school-boy--a good scholar--a

good historian: he wrote a good hand--read with fluency--declaimed at a

public exhibition of Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis,

and had always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. But

still he was but a school-boy. His father thought him a man, and more

than a man. Alderman Holloway prophesied to his friends that his son

Augustus would be one of the first orators in England. He was in a hurry

to have him ready to enter college, and had a borough secure for him at

the proper age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed

to twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce his young

statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, perhaps a title,

in the distant perspective of his son's advancement.

Whilst this vision occupied the father's imagination, a vision of

another sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son--a vision of

a gig; for, though Augustus was but a school-boy, he had very manly

ideas--if those ideas be manly which most young men have. Lord Rawson,

the son of the Earl of Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in

a gig. The young Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westminster

like Augustus: he was now master of himself and three horses at College.

Alderman Holloway had lent the Earl of Marryborough certain monies, the

interest of which the earl scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman

valued himself upon being a shrewd man; he looked to one of the earl's

boroughs as a security for his principal, and, from long-sighted

political motives, encouraged an intimacy between the young nobleman and

his son. It was one of those useful friendships, one of those fortunate

connexions, which some parents consider as the peculiar advantage of a

public school. Lord Rawson's example already powerfully operated upon

his young friend's mind, and this intimacy was most likely to have a

decisive influence upon the future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was the

son of an alderman. Lord Rawson was two years older than Holloway--had

left school--had been at college--had driven both a curricle and a

barouche, and had gone through all the gradations of coachmanship--was a

man, and had _seen the world_. How many things to excite the ambition

of a schoolboy! Augustus was impatient for the moment when he might

"be what he admired." The drudgery of Westminster, the confinement,

the ignominious appellation of _a boy_, were all insupportable to this

_young man_. He had obtained from his father a promise, that he should

leave school in a few months; but these months appeared to him an age.

It was rather a misfortune to Holloway that he was so far advanced in

his Latin and Greek studies, for he had the less to do at school; his

school business quickly despatched, his time hung upon his hands. He

never thought of literature as an amusement for his leisure hours;

he had no idea of improving himself further in general science and

knowledge. He was told that his education was _nearly_ at an end; he

believed it was _quite_ finished, and he was glad of it, and glad it

was so well over. In the idle time that hung upon his hands, during this

intermediate state at Westminster, he heartily regretted that he

could not commence his manly career by learning to _drive_--to drive

a curricle. Lord Rawson had carried him down to the country, the last

summer vacation, in his _dog-cart_, driven _randem-tandem_. The reins

had touched his fingers. The whip had been committed to his hand, and

he longed for a repetition of these pleasures. From the windows of the

house in Westminster, where he boarded, Holloway at every idle moment

lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of every coachman that

passed.

Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway's tutor, used, at these leisure moments, to

employ himself with practising upon the German flute, and was not sorry

to be relieved from his pupil's conversation. Sometimes it was provoking

to the amateur in music to be interrupted by the exclamations of his

pupil; but he kept his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented

himself with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway's

raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well in hand,

offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both from nature and fashion,

indolent; the trouble of reproving or of guiding his pupil was too

much for him; besides, he was sensible that the task of watching,

contradicting, and thwarting a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway's time

of life, would have been productive of the most disagreeable scenes

of altercation, and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman's

character, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this time. Mr.

and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his improvements. Mr. Supine

was on the best terms imaginable with the whole family, and thought it

his business to keep himself _well_ with his pupil; especially as he had

some secret hope that, through Mr. Holloway's interest with Lord Rawson,

and through Lord Rawson's influence with a young nobleman, who was just

going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling companion in a tour

upon the continent. His taste for music and painting had almost raised

him to the rank of a connoisseur: an amateur he modestly professed

himself, and he was frequently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa,

already in reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the

window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stagecoach

in the neighbourhood. Young Holloway was almost as familiar with this

coachman as with his father's groom, who, during his visits at home,

supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in advancing his education. The

stage-coachman so effectually wrought upon the ambition of Augustus,

that his desire to learn _to drive_ became uncontrollable. The coachman,

partly by entreaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was

prevailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it without his

tutor's knowledge, he should ascend to the honours of the box, and at

least have the satisfaction of _seeing some good driving_.

Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which Mrs. Holloway

was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss Angelina Holloway, was

engaged to perform. Mr. Supine's judicious applause of this young lady's

execution was one of his greatest recommendations to the whole family,

at least to the female part of it; he could not, therefore, decline an

invitation to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, and

desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, with his

usual politeness, that "music was the greatest bore in nature, and

especially Angelina's music." For the night of the concert Holloway had

arranged his plan with the stage-coachman. Mr. Supine dressed, and

then practised upon the German flute, till towards nine o'clock in the

evening. Holloway heard the stage-coach rattling through the street,

whilst his tutor was yet in the middle of a long concerto: the coachman

was to stop at the public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels

and passengers, and there he was to wait for Holloway; but he had given

him notice that he could not wait many minutes.

"You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as you are going

to ---- street, _quite at your ease_, Mr. Supine," said Holloway to his

tutor.

"Faith, so I can, and I'll adopt your idea, for it's quite a novel

thing, and may take, if the fellows will only carry one steady. Good

night: I'll mention your sore throat _properly_ to Mrs. Holloway."

No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised upon the

chairmen's shoulders, than his pupil recovered from his sore throat,

ran down to the place where the stage was waiting, seized the

stage-coachman's down-stretched hand, sprang up, and seated himself

triumphantly upon the coach-box.

"Never saw a cleverer fellow," said the coachman: "now we are off."

"Give me the reins, then," said Holloway.

"Not till we are out o'town," said the coachman: "when we get off the

stones, we'll see a little of your driving."

When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently seized the

reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman's praises of his

driving as ever he had been by the applauses he had received for his

Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is the most dangerous taste a

young man can have; it not only leads him into vulgar company, but

it puts him entirely in the power of his companions, whoever they may

happen to be. Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to

all intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and gloried in

catching, all his companion's slang, and with his language caught all

his ideas. The coachman talked with rapture of some young gentleman's

horses which he had lately seen; and said that, if he was a gentleman,

there was nothing he should pride himself so much upon as his horses.

Holloway, as he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses

that could be had for money, as soon as he should become his own master.

"And then," continued the coachman, "if I was a gentleman born, I'd

never be shabby in the matters of wages and perquisites to them that

be to look after my horses, seeing that horses can't be properly looked

after for nothing."

"Certainly not," agreed the young gentleman:--"my friend, lord Rawson, I

know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will I, all in good time."

"To be sure," said the coachman; "but it was not in regard to grooms I

was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, which, I take it, is

one of the first persons to be considered in a really grand family,

seeing how great a trust is placed in him--(mind, sir, if you please,

the turn at the corner, it's rather sharp)--seeing how great a trust is

placed in him, as I was observing, a good coachman is worth his weight

in gold."

Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this observation, for

the conversation was now interrupted by the sound of a postchaise, which

drove rapidly by.

"The job and four!" exclaimed the coachman, with as many oaths "as the

occasion required."

"Why did you let it pass us?" And with enthusiasm which forgot all

ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young companion, and, seizing

the reins, drove at a furious rate. One of the chaise postilions luckily

dropped his whip. They passed the job and four; and the coachman, having

redeemed his honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his

promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The postilions

were not without ambition: the men called to each other, and to their

horses; the horses caught some portion of their masters' spirit, and

began to gain upon the coach. The passengers in the coach put out their

heads, and female voices screamed in vain. All these terrors increased

the sport; till at length, at a narrow part of the road, the rival

coachman and postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway

was desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman attempted

to snatch the reins, but, missing his grasp, he shortened those of the

off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong way: the coach ran upon a bank,

and was overturned. Holloway was dismayed and silent; the coachman

poured forth a torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe; the

complaints of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears

operated so much upon their imagination, that in the first moments of

confusion, each asserted that she had broken either an arm or a leg, or

fractured her skull.

The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the evening, was

now under a cloud, and the darkness increased the impatience of

the various complainers; at length a lantern was brought from the

turnpike-house, which was near the spot where the accident happened. As

soon as the light came, the ladies looked at each other, and after they

had satisfied themselves that no material injury had been done to their

clothes, and that their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to

recover from their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their

limbs were in good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in

declaring that their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed loudly at

all this, and joined in all the wit of the coachman upon the occasion.

The coach was lifted up; the passengers got in; the coachman and

Holloway mounted the box, when, just as they were setting off, the

coachman heard a voice crying to him to stop. He listened, and the

voice, which seemed to be that of a person in great pain, again called

for assistance.

"It's the mulatto woman," said the coachman: "we forgot her in the

bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at the horses' heads,

whilst I see after her," added the coachman, addressing himself to the

man who had come from the turnpike-house.

"I shan't stir for a _mulatto_, I promise you," said Holloway, brutally:

"she was on the top of the coach, wasn't she? She must have had a fine

hoist!"

The poor woman was found to be much hurt: she had been thrown from the

top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones at the bottom of it. She

had not been able to make herself heard by any body, whilst the ladies'

loud complaints continued; nor had she been able long to call for any

assistance, for she had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered

her senses for many minutes. She was not able to stand; but when the

coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in broken

English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night.

"You shall have an inside place, if you'll pluck up your heart; and

you'll find yourself better with the motion of the coach."

"What, is she hurt--the mulatto woman?--I say, coachy, make haste,"

cried Holloway; "I want to be off."

"So do I," said the coachman; "but we are not likely to be off yet:

here's this here poor woman can't stand, and is all over bruises, and

won't get into the inside of the coach, though I offered her a place."

Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were not so rich

as himself could be _bought off_ for money, pulled out a handful of

silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it towards the fainting

woman:--"Here's a shilling for every bruise at least, my good

woman:"--but the woman did not hear him, for she was very faint. The

coachman was forced to carry her to the turnpike-house, where he left

her, telling the people of the house that a return chaise would call for

her in an hour's time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or

back to town, whichever she pleased. Holloway's diversion for the rest

of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy with the

poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been delayed so long by the

accident, that he lost the pleasure of driving into the town of ----. He

had intended to have gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the

job and four. This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his

friend the coachman; but the postilions in the job and four having won

the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, and met the

coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. "So," said Holloway,

"I must descend, and get home before Mr. Supine wakens from his first

sleep."

Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the mulatto;

or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been desired by the

coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able to go that night.

The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the

chaise-door, and told Holloway "that he could hardly understand what she

said, she talked such outlandish English; and that he could not make out

where she wanted to be carried to."

"Ask the name of some of her friends in town," cried Holloway, "and

don't let her keep us here all night."

"She has no friends, as I can find," replied the postilion, "nor

acquaintance neither."

"Well, whom does she belong to, then?"

"She belongs to nobody--she's quite a stranger in these parts, and

doesn't know no more than a child where to go in all London; she only

knows the Christian name of an old gardener, where she lodged, she

says."

"What would she have us to do with her, then?" said Holloway. "Drive on,

for I shall be late."

The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed, "No, master,

no!--it's a sin to leave her upon the road this ways, though she's no

Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured soul! I was once a stranger

myself in _Lon'on_, without a six-pence to bless myself; so I know what

it is, master."

The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. "Mistress,"

said he, "I'd fain see ye safe home, if you could but think of the

t'other name of that gardener that you mentioned lodging with; because

there be so many Pauls in London town, that I should never find your

Paul, as you don't know neither the name of his street--But I'll tell ye

now all the streets I'm acquainted with, and that's a many: do you stop

me, mistress, when I come to the right; for you're sadly bruised, and I

won't see ye left this ways on the road."

He then named several streets: the mulatto woman stopped him at one

name, which she recollected to be the name of the street in which the

gardener lived. The woman at the turnpike-house, as soon as she heard

the street in which he lived named, said she knew this gardener; that he

had a large garden about a mile off, and that he came from London early

almost every morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market: she

advised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, and to send

to ask the gardener to come on to the turnpike-house for her in the

morning. The postilion promised to go to the gardener's "by the first

break of day." The woman raised her head to bless him; and the impatient

Holloway loudly called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he

would not give him one farthing for himself if he did not.

The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept him in pain;

but Holloway never measured or estimated his pleasures and his

pains; therefore he never discovered that, even upon the most selfish

calculation, he had paid too dear for the pleasure of sitting upon a

coach-box for one hour.

It was two o'clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in town,

when he was set down at the house at which the stage-coach put up,

walked home, got in at his bedchamber window--his bedchamber was upon

the ground-floor. Mr. Supine was fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed

in his successful _frolic_. Whilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving

again, and again overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his

less manly dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school,

advancing towards him, at a public examination, with a prize medal in

his hand, which turned, Howard thought, as he looked upon it, first into

the face of his aunt, smiling upon him; then into a striking likeness of

his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled upon him; and then changed into

the head of little Oliver, whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just

at the instant, Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver's face

close to him, laughing heartily.

"Why," exclaimed Oliver, "you seized my head with both your hands when I

came to waken you: what could you be dreaming of, Charles?"

"I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to have hold of

you," said Howard, laughing; "but I shall not get my medal by dreaming

about it. What o'clock is it? I shall be ready in half a second."

"Ay," said Oliver, "I wont tell you what o'clock it is till you're

dressed: make haste; I have been up this half hour, and I've got every

thing ready, and I've carried the little table, and all your books, and

the pen and ink, and all the things, out to our seat; and the sun shines

upon it, and every thing looks cheerful, and you'll have a full hour to

work, for it's only half after five."

At the back of Mrs. Howard's house there was a little garden; at the end

of the garden was a sort of root-house, which Oliver had cleaned out,

and which he dignified by the title of _the seat_. There were some pots

of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with Mrs. Howard's permission, by a

gardener, who lived next door to her, and who frequently came to work

in her garden. Oliver watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead

leaves, whilst Howard was writing at the little table which had been

prepared for him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, on

which he was enthusiastically intent: he was translating the little

French book which the traveller had given to him; and he was writing _an

essay for a prize_. The young gentlemen at Westminster were engaged in

writing essays for a periodical paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give

a prize medal as the reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of

critics, to be chosen from among the boys themselves, should pronounce

to be the best composition.

"I won't talk to you, I won't interrupt you," said Oliver to Howard;

"but only answer me one question: what is your essay about?"

Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head.

"I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning

before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able

to write essays?"

"To be sure," said Howard; "why not?"

"Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know."

"But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great

many things that you thought you could not do?"

"Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things

which can be done without genius."

"And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done

without genius?"

"Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway

said so."

"But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we?

Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes,

or putting on your hat, for instance."

Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort

of things that can't be done without genius."

"What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the

pen in my hand, make a list of them."

"Take a longer bit of paper."

"No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What

shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry."

"Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius."

"Why?"

"Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write

something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it."

"What did you try to write?" said Howard.

"Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins,

desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never

can make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day

comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find

nothing to say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but

then, when I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines;

and if I stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and

what can I put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and

hope they are all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you

desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage

well enough, because there's duty and love to send to every body; and

about _the post is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your

dutiful and affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver,

"this is all nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad

letters. Now your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment

you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good

letter, whilst I am writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I

call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you

write good letters when you were of my age?"

"I never wrote any letters at your age," said Howard.

"Oh, how happy you must have been! But then, if you never learned, how

comes it that you can write them now? How can you always find something

to say?"

"I never write but when I have something to say; and you know, when you

had something to say last post about Easter holidays, your pen, Oliver,

went scratch, scratch, scratch, as fast as any body's."

"So it did," cried Oliver; "but then the thing is, I'm forced to write

when I've nothing about the holidays to say."

"Forced?"

"Yes, because I'm afraid my uncle and cousins should be angry if I

didn't write."

"I'm sure I'm much obliged," said Howard, "to my dear aunt, who never

forced me to write: she always said, 'Never write, Charles, but when

you like it;' and I never did. When I had any thing to say, that is,

any thing to describe, or any reasons to give upon any subject, or any

questions to ask, which I very much wished to have answered, then, you

know, I could easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write

down just the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking."

"But I thought writing was quite a different thing from speaking,

because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long sentences, and

fine sentences, such as there are in books."

"In _some_ books," said Howard; "but not in all."

"Besides," continued Oliver, "one person's speaking is quite different

from another person's speaking. Now I believe I make use of a great

number of odd words, and vulgar expressions, and bad English, which I

learned from being with the servants, I believe, at home. You have never

talked to servants, Charles, I dare say, for you have not one of their

words."

"No," said Charles, "never; and my aunt took a great deal of pains to

prevent me from hearing any of their conversation; therefore it was

impossible that I should catch--"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of old Paul, the

gardener.

"So, Paul," cried little Oliver, "I've been doing your work for you this

morning; I've watered all the geraniums, and put the Indian corn in the

sun; what kept you so late in your bed this fine morning, Paul?--fie,

Paul!"

"You would not say fie, master," replied Paul, "if you knew how early I

had been out of my bed, this morning: I was abroad afore sunrise, so I

was, master."

"And why didn't you come to work then, Paul? You shall not have the

watering-pot till you tell me: don't look so grave about it; you know

you must smile when I please, Paul."

"I can't smile, just now, master," said old Paul; but he smiled, and

then told Oliver, that "the reason he could not smile was, that he was a

little sick at heart, with just coming from the sight of a poor soul who

had been sadly bruised by a fall from the top of the stage, which was

overturned last night. She was left all night at the _pike_, and as she

had no other friends, she sent for me by a return chay-boy, and I went

for her, and brought her home in my covered cart, to my good woman,

which she liked, with good reason, better ten to one than the stage.

And she's terribly black and blue, and does not seem quite right in her

head, to my fancy."

"I wish we could do something for her," said Howard. "As soon as Mr.

Russell is up, I'll ask him to go with us to see her. We will call as we

go by to school this morning."

"But, master," said the gardener, "I should warn ye beforehand, that

mayhap you mayn't pity her so much, for she's rather past her best days;

and bad must have been her best, for she's swarthy, and not like one of

this country: she comes from over the seas, and they call her a--a--not

quite a negro."

"A mulatto!--I like her the better," cried Oliver; "for my nurse was a

mulatto. I'll go and waken Mr. Russell this instant, for I'm sure he'll

not be angry." He ran away to Mr. Russell, who was not angry at being

awakened, but dressed himself _almost_ as expeditiously as Oliver

wished, and set out immediately with his pupils, delighted to be the

companion of their benevolent schemes, instead of being the object of

their fear and hatred. Tutors may inspire affection, even though they

have the misfortune to be obliged to teach Greek and Latin.{5}

{Footnote 5: Vide Dr. Johnson's assertions to the contrary, in Mrs.

Piozzi's Anecdotes.}

When the boys arrived at the gardener's, they found the poor mulatto

woman lying upon a bed, in a small close room, which was so full of

smoke, when they came in, that they could hardly breathe: the little

window, that let in but a glimmering light, could not, without

difficulty, be opened. The poor woman made but few complaints; she

appeared to be most concerned at the thoughts of being a burden to the

good old gardener and his wife. She said that she had not been long in

England; that she came to London in hopes of finding a family who had

been very kind to her in her youth; but that, after inquiry at the house

where they formerly lived, she could hear nothing of them. After a great

deal of trouble, she discovered that a West India gentleman, who had

known her abroad, was now at Bath; but she had spent the last farthing

of her money, and she was, therefore, unable to undertake the journey.

She had brought over with her, she said, some foreign seeds of flowers,

which her young mistress used to be fond of when she was a child, which

she had kept till hunger obliged her to offer them to a gardener for a

loaf of bread. The gardener to whom she offered them was old Paul, who

took compassion upon her distress, lodged her for a week, and at last

paid for an outside place for her upon the Bath coach. There was such

an air of truth and simplicity in this woman, that Mr. Russell, more

experienced than his pupils, believed her story, at once, as implicitly

as they did. "Oh," exclaimed little Oliver, "I have but this half-crown

for her: I wish Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; I'll ask him

for it again to-day; and will you come with us here again, this evening,

Mr. Russell, that I may bring it then?"

Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fortnight in which the

mulatto woman was now lying, and paid old Paul, the gardener, for it,

promising, at the same time, to supply her with food. The gardener's

wife, at the poor woman's earnest request, promised that, as soon as she

was able to sit up, she would get her some coarse plain work to do.

"But," said Oliver, "how can she see to work in this smoke? I'm sure it

makes my eyes water so that I can hardly bear it, though I have been in

it scarcely ten minutes."

"I wish," exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, "that this chimney

could be cured of smoking."

"Oh, well-a-day," said the gardener, "we must put up with it as it is,

for I've had doctors to it, at one time or another, that have cost me

a power of money; but, after all, it's as bad as ever, and my good dame

never lights a fire in it this fine spring weather; howsomever, she

(pointing to the mulatto woman) is so chilly, coming from a country

that, by all accounts, is a hot-house, compared with ours, that she

can't sleep o' nights, or live o' days without a small matter of fire,

which she's welcome to, though, you see, it almost fills the house with

smoke."

Howard, during the gardener's speech, had been trying to recollect where

it was that he had lately seen some essay upon smoky chimneys; and he

suddenly exclaimed, "It was in Dr. Franklin's works--was it not, Mr.

Russell?"

"What?" said Mr. Russell, smiling.

"That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I would skip over, the

other day, because I had nothing to do with it, and I thought I should

not understand. Don't you remember telling me, sir, that I had better

not skip it, because it might, some time or other, be useful to me?

I wish I could get the book now; I would take pains to understand it,

because, perhaps, I might find out how this poor man's chimney might

be cured of smoking. As for his window, I know how that can be easily

mended, because I once watched a man who was hanging some windows for my

aunt--I'll get some sash line."

"Do you recollect what o'clock it is, my good friend?" said Mr. Russell,

holding out his watch to Howard. "We cannot wait till you are perfect

master of the theory of smoky chimneys, and the practice of hanging

windows; it is time that we should be gone." Mr. Russell spoke this with

an air of raillery, as he usually did, when he was particularly pleased.

As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated his request, that

Mr. Russell would come again in the evening, that he might have an

opportunity of giving the poor woman his half-guinea. Mr. Russell

promised him that he would; but he at the same time added, "All charity,

my dear Oliver, does not consist in giving money: it is easy for a man

to put his hand in his pocket, and take out a few shillings, to give any

person in distress."

"I wish," said Oliver, "I was able to do more! what can I do? I'll think

of something. Howard, will you think of something that I can do? But I

must see about my Latin lesson first, for I had not time to look it over

this morning, before I came out."

When they got back, the business of the day, for some hours, suspended

all thoughts of the mulatto woman; but, in the first interval of

leisure, Oliver went in search of Mr. Holloway, to ask for his

half-guinea. Holloway had a crowd of his companions round him, whom he

seemed to be entertaining with some very diverting story, for they were

laughing violently when little Oliver first came up to them; but they no

sooner perceived him than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Holloway

first lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing that Oliver

still stood his ground, he asked him, in his usual peremptory tone, what

might be his business? Oliver drew him aside, and asked him to pay him

_the_ half-guinea. "_The_ half-guinea?" repeated Holloway: "man, you

talk of _the_ half-guinea as if there was but one half-guinea in the

world: you shall have _the_ half-guinea, for I hate to be dunned--Stay,

I believe I have no _half_-a-guinea about me: you can't give me two

half-guineas for a guinea, can ye?"

"Me!"

"Well, then, you must wait till I can get change."

"Must I wait? but I really want it for a particular reason, this

evening: I wish you could give it me now--you know you promised; but I

don't like putting people in mind of their promises, and I would not ask

you about the money, only that I really want it."

"Want it!--nonsense: what can you want money for, such a little chap as

you? I'll lay you any wager, your _particular_ reason, if the truth was

told, is, that you can't resist the tart-woman."

"I _can_ resist the tart-woman," cried Oliver proudly; "I have a much

better use for my money: but I don't want to boast, neither; only,

Holloway, do give me the half-guinea: shall I run and ask somebody to

give you two half-guineas for a guinea?"

"No, no, I'll not be dunned into paying you. If you had not asked me for

it, I should have given it you to-night: but since you could not trust

to my honour, you'll please to wait till to-morrow morning."

"But I did trust to your honour for a whole month."

"A month!--a great while, indeed; then trust to it a day longer; and

if you ask me for the money to-morrow, you shan't have it till the next

day. I'll teach you not to be such a little dun: nobody, that has any

spirit, can bear to be dunned, particularly for such small sums. I

thought you had been above such meanness, or, I promise you, I should

never have borrowed your half-guinea," added Holloway; and he left his

unfortunate creditor to reflect upon the new ideas of _meanness_ and

_spirit_, which had been thus artfully thrown out.

Oliver was roused from his reflections by his friend Howard. "Mr.

Russell is ready to go with us to the gardener's again," said Howard:

"have you a mind to come?"

"A great mind; but I am ashamed, for I've not got my half-guinea which

I lent." Here his newly acquired fear of meanness checked Oliver, and

without complaining of his creditor's want of punctuality, he added,

"but I should like to see the poor woman though, for all that."

They set out, but stopped in their way at a bookseller's, where Howard

inquired for that essay of Dr. Franklin on smoky chimneys, which he was

impatient to see. This bookseller was well acquainted with Mr. Russell.

Howard had promised to give the bookseller the translation of the little

French book which we formerly mentioned; and the bookseller, on his

part, was very obliging in furnishing Howard with any books he wanted.

Howard was deep in the essay on smoky chimneys, and examining the

references in the print belonging to it, whilst Mr. Russell was looking

over the prints in the Encyclopedia, with little Oliver. They were all

so intent upon what they were about, that they did not perceive the

entrance of Holloway and Mr. Supine. Mr. Supine called in merely to

see what Mr. Russell could be looking at, with so much appearance of

interest. The indolent are always curious, though they will not always

exert themselves, even to gratify their curiosity.

"Only the Encyclopaedia prints," said Supine, looking over Mr. Russell's

shoulder: "I thought you had got something new."

"Only smoky chimneys," exclaimed Holloway, looking over Howard's

shoulder: "what upon earth, Howard, can you find so entertaining in

smoky chimneys? Are you turned chimney-doctor, or chimney-sweeper? This

will be an excellent thing for Lord Rawson, won't it, Mr. Supine? We'll

tell it to him on Thursday; it will be a good joke for us, for half

the day. Pray, doctor Charles Howard," continued the wit, with mock

solemnity, "do you go up the chimneys yourself?"

Howard took this raillery with so much good-humour, that Holloway looked

quite disappointed; and Mr. Supine, in a careless tone, cried, "I take

it, reading such things as these will scarcely improve your style,

sir--will they, think ye, Mr. Russell?"

"I am not sure," replied Mr. Russell, "that Mr. Howard's _first_ object

in reading is to improve his style; but," added he, turning to the

title-page, and pointing to Franklin's name, "you, perhaps, did not

know--"

"Oh, Dr. Franklin's works," interrupted Supine: "I did not see the name

before--to be sure I must bow down to _that_."

Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine's critical scruples by the

authority of a name, Mr. Russell rose to depart, as he perceived that

there was no chance of getting rid of the idlers.

"What are you going to do with yourself, Russell?" said Mr. Supine;

"we'll walk with you, if you are for walking, this fine evening; only

don't let's walk like penny postmen."

"But he's in a hurry," said Oliver; "he's going to see a poor woman."

"A _poor_ woman!" said Supine; "down this close lane too!"

"Oh, let's see all that's to be seen," whispered Holloway; "ten to one

we shall get some diversion out of it: Russell's a quiz worth studying,

and Howard's his ditto."

They came to the gardener's house. Holloway's high spirits suddenly

subsided when he beheld the figure of the mulatto woman.

"What's the matter?" said Oliver, observing that he started; "why did

you start so?"

"Tell Howard I want to speak one word with him, this instant, in the

street; bid him come out to me," whispered Holloway; and he hastily

retreated before the poor woman saw his face.

"Howard," cried Holloway, "I sent for you to tell you a great secret."

"I'm sorry for it," said Charles; "for I hate secrets."

"But you can keep a secret, man, can't you?"

"If it were necessary, I hope I could; but I'd rather not hear--"

"Pooh, nonsense," interrupted Holloway, "you must hear it; I'll trust to

your honour; and, besides, I have not a moment to stand shilly shally:

I've got a promise from my father to let me go down, this Easter, with

Lord Rawson, to Marryborough, in his dog-cart, _randem-tandem_, you

know."

"I did not know it, indeed," said Charles; "but what then?"

"Why, then, you see, I must be upon my good behaviour; and you would not

do such an ill-natured trick as to betray me?"

"Betray you! I don't know what you mean," said Howard, astonished.

Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach adventure, and concluded

by saying, he was afraid that the mulatto woman should recollect either

his face or voice, and should _blow him_.

"And what," said Howard, shocked at the selfishness which Holloway

showed--"and what do you want me to do? why do you tell me all this?"

"Because," said Holloway, "I thought if you heard what the woman said,

when she saw me, you would have got it all out of her to be sure;

therefore I thought it best to trust you with my secret, and so put

you upon honour with me. All I ask of you is, to hold your tongue about

my--my--my--frolic, and just make some excuse for my not going into the

room again where the mulatto woman is: you may tell Supine, if he asks

what's become of me, that I'm gone to the music-shop, to get some new

music for him: that will keep him quiet. Good by."

When Howard returned to the room where the mulatto woman lay, he

expected to be questioned by Mr. Supine about Holloway's sudden

departure; but this gentleman was not in the habit of paying great

attention to his pupil's motions. He took it for granted that Holloway

had escaped, because he did not wish to be called upon for a charitable

subscription. From the same fear, Mr. Supine affected unusual absence

of mind whilst Mr. Russell talked to the mulatto woman, and at length,

professing himself unable to endure any longer the smell of smoke, he

pushed his way into the street. "Mr. Holloway, I suppose," said he, "has

taken himself home, very wisely, and I shall follow him: we make it

a rule, I think, to miss one another; but to keep a young man in

leading-strings would be a great bore. We're upon the best footing in

the world together: as to the rest--"

New difficulties awaited Holloway. He got home some time before Mr.

Supine, and found his friend, the stage-coachman, waiting for him with a

rueful face.

"Master," said he, "here's a sad job: there was a parcel lost last

night, in the confusion of the overturn of the coach; and I must make it

good; for it's booked, and it's booked to the value of five guineas, for

it was a gold muslin gown that a lady was very particular about; and,

master, I won't peach if you'll pay: but as for losing my place, or

making up five guineas afore Saturday, it's what I can't take upon me to

do."

Holloway was much dismayed at this news; he now began to think he should

pay too dear for his frolic. The coachman persisted in his demand. Mr.

Supine appeared at the corner of the street; and his pupil was forced to

get rid immediately of the coachman, by a promise, that the money should

be ready on Saturday. When Holloway made this promise, he was not master

of two guineas in the world; how to procure the whole sum was now the

question. Alderman Holloway, with the hope of exciting in his son's mind

a love for literature, made it a practice to reward him with solid gold,

whenever he brought home any certificate of his scholarship. Holloway

had lately received five guineas from his father, for an approved copy

of Latin verses; and the alderman had promised to give him five guineas

more if he brought home the medal which was to be the reward for the

best essay in the periodical paper, which the Westminster boys were now

writing. Holloway, though he could write elegant Latin verses, had not

any great facility in English composition; he, consequently, according

to the usual practice of little minds, undervalued a talent which he did

not possess. He had ridiculed the scheme of writing an English essay,

and had loudly declared, that he did not think it worth his while

to write English. His opinion was, however, somewhat changed by his

father's promised reward; and the stage-coachman's impatience for his

money now impelled Holloway to exertion. He began to write his

essay late on Friday evening--the medal was to be given on Saturday

morning--so that there could not be much time for revisal and

corrections. Corrections he affected to disdain, and piqued himself upon

the rapidity with which he wrote. "Howard," said he, when they met to

deliver in their compositions, "you have been three weeks writing your

essay; I ran mine off in three hours and a quarter."

Mr. Holloway had not considered, that what is written with ease is

not always read with ease. His essay was written with such a careless

superfluity of words, and such a lack of ideas appeared in the

performance, that the judges unanimously threw it aside, as unworthy

of their notice. "Gentlemen," cried Dr. B., coming forward among the

anxious crowd of expectants, "which of you owns this motto?--

"'Hear it, ye Senates, hear this truth sublime,

He who allows oppression shares the crime{6}.'"

{Footnote 6: Botanic Garden, vol. ii.}

"It's his!--it's his!--it's his!" exclaimed little Oliver, clapping his

hands--"it's Howard's, sir."

Dr. B., pleased with this grateful little boy's honest joy, put the

medal into his hands, without speaking, and Oliver ran with it to his

friend. "Only," said he, "only let me be by, when you show it to your

aunt."

How much the pleasure of success is increased by the sympathy of our

friends! The triumph of a school-boy over his competitors is sometimes

despicable; but Howard's joy was not of this selfish and puerile

sort. All the good passions had stimulated him to exertion, and he was

rewarded by his own generous feelings. He would not have exchanged the

delight which he saw in his little friend Oliver's face, the approving

smile of his aunt, and the proud satisfaction Mr. Russell expressed at

the sight of his medal, for all the solid gold which Alderman Holloway

deemed the highest reward of literature.

Alderman Holloway was filled with indignation when he heard from Mr.

Supine that his son's essay had been rejected with contempt. The young

gentleman was also much surprised at the decision of the judges; and his

tutor, by way of pleasing his pupil's friends, hesitated not to

hint, that there "certainly was great injustice done to Mr. Augustus

Holloway's talents." The subject was canvassed at a turtle dinner at the

alderman's. "There shall not be injustice done to my Augustus," said

the irritated father, wisely encouraging his Augustus in all his mean

feelings. "Never mind 'em all, my boy; you have a father, you may thank

Heaven, who _can_ judge for himself, and _will_: you shall not be the

loser by Dr. B.'s or doctor any body's injustice; I'll make it up to

you, my boy; in the meantime, join us in a bumper of port. Here's to

Dr. B.'s better judgment; wishing him health and happiness these Easter

holidays, and _a new pair of spectacles_,--hey, Mr. Supine?"

This well-chosen toast was drunk with much applause and laughter by the

company. The alderman insisted upon having his Augustus's essay produced

in the evening. Holloway had now ample satisfaction, for the whole

company were unanimous in their plaudits, after Mr. Supine had read two

or three sentences: the alderman, to confirm his own critical judgment,

drew out his purse, and counting out ten bright guineas, presented them,

with a look of high self-satisfaction, to his son. "Here, Augustus, my

boy," said he; "I promised you five guineas if you brought me home the

prize medal; but I now present you with ten, to make you the amends you

so richly deserve, for not having got their medal. Thank God, I am

able to afford it; and I hope," added the alderman, looking round, and

laughing, "I hope I'm as good a patron of the _belles lettres_ as the

head doctor of Westminster himself."

Holloway's eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of the glittering bribe.

He began some speech in reply, in which he compared his father to

Maecenas; but being entangled in a sentence, in which the nominative

case had been too long separated from the verb, he was compelled

to pause abruptly. Nevertheless, the alderman rubbed his hands with

exultation; and "Hear him! hear him!--hear your member!" was vociferated

by all the friends of the young orator. "Well, really," concluded

his mother to the ladies, who were complimenting her upon her son's

performance, "it was not a bad speech, considering he had nothing to

say!"

Lord Rawson, who was one of the company, now congratulated his friend

in a whisper--"You've made a good job of it to-day, Augustus," said he:

"solid pudding's better than empty praise. We're going," continued his

lordship to the alderman, "to try my new horses this evening;" and he

pulled Augustus with him out of the room.

"There they go," said the prudent father, delighted with his own son's

being the chosen friend of a nobleman--"there they go, arm in arm, a

couple of rare ones: we shall have fine work with them, I foresee, when

Augustus gets to college--but young men of spirit must not be

curbed like common boys--we must make allowances--I have been young

myself,--hey, Mr. Supine?"

"Certainly, sir," said the obsequious tutor; "and you still have all the

sprightliness of youth; and my ideas of education square completely with

yours."

According to Alderman Holloway's ideas of education, the holy days were

always to be made a season of complete idleness and dissipation, to

relieve his son from his school studies. It was his great delight to

contrast the pleasures of home with the hardships of school, and to

make his son compare the indulgence of a father with the severity of

a schoolmaster. How he could expect an education to succeed which

he sedulously endeavoured to counteract, it may be difficult for any

rational person to conceive.

After Lord Rawson and Holloway had enjoyed the pleasures of driving the

new horses, _tandem_, in a dog-cart, and had conversed about dogs and

horses till they had nothing left to say to each other, his lordship

proposed stepping in to Mr. Carat, the jeweller's shop, to look at some

new watches: his lordship said he was tired of his own, for he had had

it six months. Mr. Carat was not in the way when they first went in.

One of the young men who attended in the shop said, "that his master was

extremely busy, in settling some accounts with a captain of a ship, who

was to leave England in a few days."

"Don't tell me of settling accounts," cried Lord Ramon--"I hate the

sound of settling accounts: run and tell Mr. Carat that Lord Rawson is

here, and must speak to him this instant, for I'm in a desperate hurry."

A quarter of an hour elapsed before the impatient lord could be obeyed;

during this time, his lordship and Holloway rummaged over every thing

in the shop. A pretty bauble to hang to his watch caught his lordship's

fancy. His lordship happened to have no money in his pocket. "Holloway,"

said he, "my good fellow, you've ten guineas in your pocket, I know; do

lend me them here." Holloway, rather proud of his riches, lent his ten

guineas to his noble friend with alacrity; but a few minutes afterward

recollected that he should want five of them that very night, to pay

the poor stage-coachman. His recollection came too late, for after

Lord Rawson had paid three or four guineas for his trinket, he let the

remainder of the money down with an absent nonchalance, into his pocket.

"We'll settle--I'll pay you, Holloway, to-morrow morning, you know."

Holloway, from false shame, replied, "Oh, very well." And at this

instant Mr. Carat entered the shop, bowing and apologizing to his

lordship for having been busy.

"I'm always, to be sure, in a very great hurry," cried Lord Rawson; "I

never have a minute that I can call my own. All I wanted though,

just now, was to tell you, that I could not settle any thing--you

understand--till we come back from Marryborough. I go down there

to-morrow."

The Jew bowed with unlimited acquiescence, assuring his lordship that

he should ever wait his perfect convenience. As he spoke, he glanced an

inquiring eye upon Holloway.

"Mr. Holloway, the eldest, the only son of Alderman Holloway--rich as

a Jew! and he'll soon leave Westminster," whispered Lord Rawson to the

Jew. "Holloway," continued he, turning to his friend, "give me leave to

introduce Mr. Carat to you. You may," added his lordship, lowering his

voice, "find this Jew a useful friend some time or other, my lad. He's

my man in all money jobs."

The Jew and the school-boy seemed equally flattered and pleased by this

introduction; they were quickly upon familiar terms with one another;

and Mr. Carat, who was willing that such an acquaintance should begin in

the most advantageous and agreeable manner on his part, took the young

gentleman, with an air of mystery and confidence, into a little

room behind the shop; there he produced a box full of old-fashioned

secondhand trinkets, and, without giving Holloway time to examine them,

said that he was going to make a lottery of these things. "If I had any

young favourite friends," continued the wily Jew, "I should give them

a little whisper in the ear, and bid them try their fortune; they never

will have a finer opportunity." He then presented a hand-bill, drawn up

in a style which even Messrs. Goodluck and Co. need not have disdained

to admire. The youth was charmed with the composition. The Jew made him

a present of a couple of tickets for himself, and gave him a dozen more,

to distribute amongst his companions at Westminster. Holloway readily

undertook to distribute the tickets upon condition that he might have

a list of the prizes in the lottery. "If they don't see a list of the

prizes," said he, "not a soul will put in."

The Jew took a pen immediately, and drew up a captivating list of

prizes.

Holloway promised to copy it, because Mr. Carat said his hand must not

appear in the business, and it must be conducted with the strictest

secrecy; because "the law," added the Jew, "has a little jealousy of

these sort of things--government likes none but licensed lotteries,

young gentleman."

"The law! I don't care what the law likes," replied the school-boy; "if

I break the law, I hope I'm rich enough to pay the forfeit, or my father

will pay for me, which is better still."

To this doctrine the Jew readily assented, and they parted, mutually

satisfied with each other.

It was agreed that Lord Rawson should drive his friend to Marryborough

the next Tuesday, and that he should return on Wednesday, with Holloway,

to Westminster, on purpose that he might meet Mr. Carat there, who was

then to deliver the prizes.

"I'll lay you a bet," cried Lord Rawson, as he left the Jew's, "that

you'll have a prize yourself. Now are you not obliged to me for

introducing you to Carat?"

"Yes, that I am," replied Holloway; "it's easier to put into the lottery

than to write Latin verses and English essays. I'll puzzle and bore

myself no more with those things, I promise my father."

"Who does, after they've once left school, I want to know?" said his

noble friend. "I'm sure I've forgot all I ever learned from Latin and

Greek fellows; you know they tell just for nothing when one gets into

the world. I make it a principle never to talk of books, for nobody

does, you know, that has any thing else to talk of. None but quizzes and

quozzes ever came out with any thing of that sort. Now, how they'd stare

at Marryborough, Holloway, if you were to begin sporting some of your

Horace and Virgil!"

The dashing, yet bashful school-boy, with much emotion, swore that he

cared as little for Horace and Virgil as his lordship did. Holloway was

really an excellent scholar, but he began to be heartily ashamed of

it in his lordship's company, and prudently resolved to adopt the

principles he had just heard; to forget as fast as possible all he had

learned: never to talk of books; and to conceal both his knowledge and

his abilities, lest _they should stare at him at Maryborough_.

The lottery tickets were easily disposed of amongst the young gentlemen

at Westminster. As young men can seldom calculate, they are always ready

to trust to their individual good fortune, and they are, consequently,

ever ready to put into any species of lottery.

"Look here!" cried little Oliver, showing a lottery ticket to

Howard; "look what Holloway has just offered to give me, instead of

half-a-guinea, which he owes me. I told him I would just run and ask

your advice. Shall I accept of it?"

"I would advise you not," answered Howard; "you are sure of your

half-guinea, and you have only a chance of getting any thing in the

lottery."

"Oh, but then I've a chance of such a number of fine things! You have

not seen the list of prizes. Do you know there's a watch amongst them?

Now, suppose my ticket should come up a prize, and that I should get

a watch for my half-guinea!--a real watch!--a watch that would go!--a

watch that I should wind up myself every night! O Charles! would not

that be a good bargain for my half-guinea? I'm sure you have not read

the list of prizes, have you?"

"No, I have not," said Howard: "have you seen the list of blanks?"

"Of blanks! No," said Oliver, with a changed countenance; "I never

thought of the blanks."

"And yet in most lotteries there are many more blanks than prizes, you

know."

"Are there? Well, but I hope I shall not have a blank," said Oliver.

"So every body hopes, but some people must be disappointed."

"Yes," said the little boy, pausing--"but then some people must win, and

I have as good a chance as another, have not I?"

"And do you know what the chance against your winning is? Once I had a

great mind, as you have now, Oliver, to put into a lottery. It was just

after my aunt lost all her fortune, and I thought that if I were to get

the twenty thousand pound prize, I could give it to her."

"I'll give my watch (if I get it, I mean) to somebody. I'll give it to

the mulatto woman, because she is poor. No; I'll give it to you, because

you are the best, and I love you the best, and I am more obliged to you

than to any body in the world, for you have taught me more; and you

have taught me as I was never taught before, without laughing at, or

scolding, or frightening, or calling me blockhead or dunce; and you have

made me think a great deal better of myself; and I am always happy when

I'm with you; and I'm quite another creature since you came to school. I

hope you'll never leave school whilst I am here," cried Oliver.

"But you have quite forgot the lottery," said Howard, smiling, and much

touched by his little friend's simplicity and enthusiasm.

"Oh, the lottery! ay," said Oliver, "you were telling me something about

yourself; do go on."

"I once thought, as you do now, that it would be a charming thing to put

into a lottery."

"Well, and did you win?"

"No."

"Did you lose?"

"No."

"How then?"

"I did not put into the lottery, for I was convinced that it was a

foolish way of spending money."

"If you think it's foolish or wrong," said Oliver, "I'll have nothing to

do with this lottery."

"I don't want to govern you by my opinion," said Howard; "but if you

have patience to attend to all the reasons that convinced me, you will

be able to judge, and form an opinion for yourself. You know I must

leave school some time or other, and then--"

"Well, don't talk of that, but tell me all the reasons, quick."

"I can't tell them so very quickly," said Howard, laughing: "when we go

home this evening I'll ask my aunt to look for the passage in Smith's

Wealth of Nations, which she showed me."

"Oh!" interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, "_Smith's Wealth_ of what? That's

a book, I'm sure, I shall never be able to understand; is it not that

great large book that Mr. Russell reads?"

"Yes."

"But I shall never understand it."

"Because it's a large book?"

"No," said Oliver, smiling, "but because I suppose it's very difficult

to understand."

"Not what I've read of it: but I have only read passages here and there.

That passage about lotteries, I think, you would understand, because it

is so plainly written."

"I'll read it, then," said Oliver, "and try; and in the meantime I'll

go and tell Holloway that I had rather not put into the lottery, till I

know whether it's right or not."

Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver when he went

to return his lottery ticket. He abused and ridiculed Howard for his

interference, and succeeded so well in raising a popular cry, that the

moment Howard appeared on the playground, a general hiss, succeeded by

a deep groan, was heard.--Howard recollected the oracle's answer to

Cicero, and was not dismayed by the voice of the multitude. Holloway

threw down half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself, "I'll

make you remember this, Mr. Oliver."

"I'll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and that's much better

than putting it into a lottery, Charles," said the little boy; and,

as soon as the business of the day was done, Oliver, Howard, and Mr.

Russell, took their usual evening's walk towards the gardener's house.

"Ay, come in," cried old Paul, "come in! God bless you all! I don't know

which is the best of you. I've been looking out of my door this quarter

of an hour for ye," said he, as soon as he saw them; "and I don't know

when I've been idle a quarter of an hour afore. But I've put on my best

coat, though it's not Sunday, and wife has treated her to a dish of tea,

and she's up and dressed--the mulatto woman, I mean--and quite hearty

again. Walk in, walk in; it will do your hearts good to see her; she's

so grateful too, though she can't speak good English, which is her only

fault, poor soul; but we can't be born what we like, or she would have

been as good an Englishman as the best of us. Walk in, walk in.--And the

chimney does not smoke, master, no more than I do; and the window opens

too; and the paper's up, and looks beautiful. God bless ye, God bless

ye--walk in." Old Paul, whilst he spoke, had stopped the way into the

room; but at length he recollected that they could not walk in whilst he

stood in the door-way, and he let them pass.

The little room was no longer the smoky, dismal, miserable place which

it was formerly. It was neatly papered; it was swept clean; there was a

cheerful fire, which burnt quite clearly: the mulatto woman was cleanly

dressed, and, rising from her work, she clasped her hands together with

an emotion of joyful gratitude, which said more than any words could

have expressed.

This room was not papered, nor was the chimney cured of smoking, nor

was the woman clad in new clothes, by magic. It was all done by human

means--by the industry and abilities of a benevolent boy.

The translation of the little French book, which Howard had completed,

procured him the means of doing good. The book-seller to whom he offered

it was both an honest man, and a good judge of literary productions. Mr.

Russell's name also operated in his pupil's favour, and Howard received

ten guineas for his translation.

Oliver was impatient for an opportunity to give his half-guinea, which

he had held in his hand, till it was quite warm. "Let me look at that

pretty thimble of yours," said he, going up to the mulatto woman, who

had now taken up her work again; and, as he playfully pulled off the

thimble, he slipped his half-guinea into her hand; then he stopped her

thanks, by running on to a hundred questions about her thimble. "What

a strange thimble! How came you by such a thimble? Was it given to you?

Did you buy it? What's the use of this screw round the inside of the rim

of it? Do look at it, Charles!"

The thimble was, indeed, remarkable; and it seemed extraordinary that

such a one should belong to a poor woman, who had lately been in great

distress.

"It is gold," said Mr. Russell, examining it, "and very old gold."

The mulatto woman sighed; and as she put the thimble upon her finger

again, said, that she did not know whether it was gold or not; but she

had a great value for it; that she had had it a great many years; that

it had been given to her by the best friend she had ever had.

"Tell me about that best friend," said Oliver; "I like to hear about

best friends."

"She was a very good friend indeed; though she was but young, scarcely

bigger than yourself, at the time she gave me this thimble: she was my

young mistress; I came all the way from Jamaica on purpose to find her

out, and in hopes to live with her in my elder days."

"Jamaica!" cried Howard; "Jamaica!" cried Oliver, in the same breath;

"what was her name?"

"Frances Howard."

"My aunt," exclaimed Howard.

"I'll run and tell her; I'll run and bring her here, this instant!" said

Oliver. But Mr. Russell caught hold of him, and detained him, whilst

they further questioned the woman. Her answers were perfectly consistent

and satisfactory. She said, that her mistress's estate in Jamaica had

been sold just before she left the island; that some of the old slaves

had been set at liberty, by orders, which came, she understood, in her

mistress's last letter; and that, amongst the rest, she had been freed:

that she had heard say that her good mistress had desired the agent to

give her also some little _provision ground_, upon the plantation, but

that this had never been done; and that she had sold all the clothes and

little things she possessed, to raise money to pay for her passage to

England, hoping to find her mistress in London. She added, that the

agent had given her a direction to her mistress; but that she had, in

vain, applied at at the house, and at every house in the same street.

"Show us the direction, if you have it," said Mr. Russell. The woman

said she had kept it very carefully; but now it was almost worn out. The

direction was, however, still legible upon the ragged bit of paper which

she produced--_To Mrs. Frances Howard, Portman Square, London_. The

instant Mr. Russell was satisfied, he was as expeditious as Oliver

himself; they all three went home immediately to Mrs. Howard: she had,

some time before, been confined to her room by a severe toothache.

"You promised me, aunt," said her nephew, "that as soon as you were well

enough, you would go to old Paul's with us, to see our poor woman; can

you go this evening?"

"Oh do! do, pray; I'm sure you won't catch cold," said Oliver; "for we

have a very particular reason for wishing you to go."

"There is a sedan chair at the door," said Mr. Russell, "if you are

afraid, madam, of catching cold."

"I am not rich enough to go out in sedan chairs," interrupted Mrs.

Howard, "nor prudent enough, I am afraid, to stay at home."

"Oh! thank you," said Oliver, who had her clogs ready in his hands; "now

you'll see something that will surprise you."

"Then take care you don't tell me what it is, before I see it," said

Mrs. Howard.

Oliver, with some difficulty, held his tongue during the walk, and

contented himself with working off his superfluous animation, by jumping

over every obstacle in his way.

The meeting between the poor mulatto woman and her mistress was as full

of joy and surprise as little Oliver had expected; and this is saying

a great deal, for where much is expected, there is usually much

disappointment; and very sympathetic people are often angry with others,

for not being as much astonished, or as much delighted, as they think

the occasion requires.

The day which Mr. Augustus Holloway imagined would bring him such

complete felicity--the day on which Lord Rawson had promised to call

for him in his dog-cart, and to drive him down _randem-tandem_, to

Marryborough--was now arrived. His lordship, in his dog-cart, was at

the door; and Holloway, in high spirits, was just going to get into the

carriage, when some one pulled his coat, and begged to speak a few words

with him. It was the stage-coachman, who was absolutely in distress for

the value of the lost parcel, which Holloway had promised him should be

punctually paid: but Holloway, now that his excursion to Marryborough

was perfectly secure, thought but very little of the poor coachman's

difficulties; and though he had the money, which he had raised by the

lottery tickets, in his pocket, he determined to keep that for his

amusements during the Easter holidays. "You must wait till I come back

from Marryborough; I can't possibly speak to you now; I can't possibly,

you see, keep Lord Rawson waiting. Why didn't you call sooner? I am not

at all convinced that any parcel was lost."

"I'll show you the books--it's book'd, sir," said the man, eagerly.

"Well, well, this is not a time to talk of booking. I'll be with you

in an instant, my lord," cried Holloway to Lord Rawson, who was all

impatience to _be off_. But the coachman would not quit his hold. "I'm

sorry to come to that, master," said he: "as long as we were both upon

honour together, it was very well; but, if you break squares with me,

being a gentleman, and rich, you can't take it ill, I being a poor man

and my place and all at stake, if I take the shortest way to get my

own: I must go to Dr. B. for justice, if you won't give it me without my

peaching," said the coachman.

"I'll see you again to-morrow morning," said Holloway, alarmed: "we come

up to town again to-morrow."

"To-morrow won't do," said the coachman; "I shall lose my place and my

bread to-day. I know how to trust to young gentlemen's to-morrows."

A volley of oaths from Lord Rawson again summoned his companion. At

this instant, Mr. Russell, young Howard, and little Oliver, came up

the street, and were passing on to Mrs. Howard's, when Holloway stopped

Howard, who was the last of the party. "For Heaven's sake," said he, in

a whisper, "do settle for me with this confounded coachman! I know you

are rich; your bookseller told me so; pay five guineas for me to him,

and you shall have them again to-morrow, there's a good fellow. Lord

Rawson's waiting; good by."

"Stay, stay," said Howard, who was not so easily to be drawn into

difficulties by a moment's weakness, or by the want of a moment's

presence of mind: "I know nothing of this business; I have other uses

for my money; I cannot pay five guineas for you, Holloway."

"Then let it alone," cried Holloway, with a brutal execration; and

he forcibly broke from the coachman, shook hands with his tutor, Mr.

Supine, who was talking to Lord Rawson about the varnish of his gig,

jumped into the carriage, and was whirled away from all reflection in a

moment, by his noble companion.

The poor coachman entreated Howard to stay one instant, to hear him. He

explained the business to him, and reproached himself bitterly for

his folly. "I'm sure I thought," said he, "I was sure of a gentleman's

honour; and young gentlemen ought to be above not paying handsome for

their frolics, if they must have frolics; and a frolic's one thing, and

cheating a poor man like me is another; and he had liked to have killed

a poor mulatto woman, too, by the overturn of the coach, which was all

his doings."

"The woman is got very well, and is very well off now," interrupted

Howard; "you need say nothing about that."

"Well, but my money, I must say about _that_," said the coachman. Here

Howard observed, that Mr. Supine had remained at the door in a lounging

attitude, and was quite near enough to overhear their conversation.

Howard, therefore, to avoid exciting his attention by any mysterious

whispers, walked away from the coachman; but in vain; he followed: "I'll

peach," said he; "I must in my own defence."

"Stay till to-morrow morning," said Howard: "perhaps you'll be paid

then."

The coachman, who was a good-natured fellow, said, "Well, I don't like

making mischief among young gentlemen; I will wait till to-morrow, but

not a day more, master, if you'd go down on your knees to me."

Mr. Supine, whose curiosity was fully awake, called to the coachman the

moment Howard was out of hearing, and tried, by various questions, to

draw the secret from him. The words, "_overturn of the coach--mulatto

woman_," and the sentence, which the irritated coachman had pronounced

in a raised voice, that "_young gentlemen should be above not paying

handsome for their frolics_," had reached Mr. Supine's attentive ear,

before Howard had been aware that the tutor was a listener. Nothing more

could Mr. Supine draw, however, from the coachman, who now felt himself

_upon honour_, having promised Howard not to _peach_ till the next

morning. Difficulties stimulated Mr. Supine's curiosity; but he remained

for the present satisfied in the persuasion that he had discovered _a

fine frolic_ of the immaculate Mr. Charles Howard; his own pupil he did

not suspect upon this occasion. Holloway's whisperings with the coachman

had ended the moment Mr. Supine appeared at the door, and the tutor had

in the same moment been so struck with the beautiful varnish of Lord

Rawson's dog-cart, that his pupil might have whispered longer, without

rousing his attention. Mr. Supine was further confirmed in his mistake

about Howard, from the recollection of the mulatto woman, whom he had

seen at the gardener's: he knew that she had been hurt by a fall from a

stage-coach. He saw Howard much interested about her. All this he joined

with what he had just overheard about _a frolic_, and he was rejoiced at

the idea of implicating in this business Mr. Russell, whom he disliked.

Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went immediately to Alderman

Holloway's, where he had a general invitation to dinner. Mrs. Holloway

approved of her son's tutor, full as much for his love of gossiping, as

for his musical talents: Mr. Supine constantly supplied her with news

and anecdotes; upon the present occasion, he thought that his story,

however imperfect, would be eagerly received, because it concerned

Howard.

Since the affair of the prize essay, and the medal, Mrs. Holloway had

taken a dislike to young Howard, whom she considered as the enemy of

her dear Augustus. No sooner had she heard Mr. Supine's blundering

information, than, without any farther examination, she took the whole

for granted: eager to repeat the anecdote to Mrs. Howard, she instantly

wrote a note to her, saying that she would drink tea with her that

evening.

When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr. Supine, went, in the evening, to

Mrs. Howard's, they found with her Mrs. B., the lady of Dr. B., the

master of Westminster School.

"Is not this an odd rencontre?" whispered Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Supine,

as she drew him to a recessed window, commodious for gossiping: "I shall

be called a tell-tale, I know, at Westminster; but I shall tell our

story, notwithstanding. I would keep any other boy's secret; but Howard

is such a saint: and I hate saints."

A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway; she looked out of the

window. "Oh, here he comes, up the steps," continued she, "after his

sober evening promenade, and _his_ Mr. Russell with--and, I declare, the

mulatto woman with him. Now for it!"

Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a low

voice,--

"Ma'am, poor Cuba is come; she is rather tired with walking, and she is

gone to rest herself in the front parlour."

"Her lameness, though," pursued little Oliver, who followed Howard into

the room, "is almost well. I just asked her how high she thought the

coach was from which she was--"

A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for though he did not

understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed to silence

him. Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway's secret to Mr. Supine or

to Mrs. Holloway: his aunt sent him out of the room with some message to

Cuba, which gave Mrs. Holloway an opportunity of opening her business.

"Pray," said she, "might I presume to ask--for I perceive the young

gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which he may have good

reasons for--may I, just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether,

as her name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto

woman?"

Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly replied,

"Yes, madam--a mulatto woman."

"And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?" persisted the curious

lady, turning to little Oliver.

"Yes, she's a little lame still; but she will soon be quite well."

"Oh! then, her lameness came, I presume, from an accident, sir, and not

from her birth?"

"From an accident, ma'am."

"Oh! an accident--a fall--a fall from a coach--from a stage-coach,

perhaps," continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly at Mr.

Supine: "you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, I see by your

astonishment," continued she to Oliver; "but a little bird told me the

whole story; and I see Mrs. Howard knows how to keep a secret as well as

myself."

Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation.

"Nay," said Mrs. Holloway, "you know best, Mrs. Howard; but as we're

all _out of school_ now, I shall not be afraid to mention such a little

affair, even before the doctor's lady; for, to be sure, she would never

let it reach the doctor's ears."

"Really, ma'am," said Mrs. Howard, "you puzzle me a little; I wish you

would explain yourself: I don't know what it is that you would not have

reach the doctor's ears."

"You don't?--well, then, your nephew must have been very clever, to have

kept you in the dark; mustn't he, Mr. Supine?"

"I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very _clever_, ma'am,"

said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis.

Mrs. Howard's colour now rose, and with a mixture of indignation and

anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. "I

hate mysteries!" said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it

was a tender point; and hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and

confidence in one most dear to her, to hear the whole truth.

"Do you mean Howard, ma'am?" exclaimed little Oliver: "oh, speak! speak!

it's impossible Charles Howard can have done any thing wrong."

"Go for him, my dear," said Mrs. Howard, resuming her composure; "let

him be present. I hate mysteries."

"But, my dear Mrs. Howard," whispered Mrs. Holloway, "you don't

consider; you'll get your nephew into a shocking scrape; the story will

infallibly go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You are warm, and don't consider

consequences."

"Charles," said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the moment he appeared, "from

the time you were five years old, till this instant, I have never known

you tell a falsehood; I should, therefore, be very absurd, as well as

very unjust, if I were to doubt your integrity. Tell me--have you got

into any difficulties? I would rather hear of them from yourself,

than from any body else. Is there any mystery about overturning a

stage-coach, that you know of, and that you have concealed from me?"

"There is a mystery, ma'am, about overturning a stage-coach," replied

Howard, in a firm tone of voice; "but when I assure you that it is no

mystery of mine--nothing in which I have myself any concern--I am sure

that you will believe me, my dear aunt, and that you will press me no

further."

"Not a word further, not a frown further," said his aunt, with a smile

of entire confidence; in which Mr. Russell joined, but which appeared

incomprehensible to Mr. Supine.

"Very satisfactory indeed!" said that gentleman, leaning back in the

chair; "I never heard any thing more satisfactory to my mind!"

"Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word!" echoed Mrs. Holloway; but

no looks, no inuendoes, could now disturb Mrs. Howard's security,

or disconcert the resolute simplicity which appeared in her nephew's

countenance. Mrs. Holloway, internally devoured by curiosity, was

compelled to submit in silence. This restraint soon became so irksome to

her, that she shortened her visit as much as she decently could.

In crossing the passage, to go to her carriage, she caught a glimpse

of the mulatto woman, who was going into a parlour. Resolute, at all

hazards, to satisfy herself, Mrs. Holloway called to the retreating

Cuba--began by asking some civil questions about her health; then spoke

of the accident she had lately met with; and, in short, by a skilful

cross-examination, drew her whole story from her. The gratitude with

which the poor woman spoke of Howard's humanity was by no means pleasing

to Mr. Supine.

"Then it was not he who overturned the coach?" said Mrs. Holloway.

The woman eagerly replied, "Oh no, madam!" and proceeded to draw, as

well as she could, a description of the youth who had been mounted

upon the coach-box: she had seen him only by the light of the moon, and

afterwards by the light of a lantern; but she recollected his figure so

well, and described him so accurately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture

instantly, and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, "Can it be Augustus?"

"Mr. Holloway!--Impossible!--I suppose--"

But the woman interrupted him by saying that she recollected to have

heard the young gentleman called by that name by the coachman.

The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confounded by this discovery.

Mrs. Holloway got into her carriage, and, in their way home, Mr. Supine

represented, that he should be ruined for ever with the alderman, if

this transaction came to his knowledge; that, in fact, it was a mere

boyish frolic; but that the alderman might not consider it in

that light, and would, perhaps, make Mr. Augustus feel his serious

displeasure. The foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length

promised to be silent upon the subject. But, before he slept, Alderman

Holloway heard the whole story. The footman, who had attended the

carriage, was at the door when Mrs. Holloway was speaking to the mulatto

woman, and had listened to every word that was said. This footman was in

the habit of telling his master, when he attended him at night, all the

news which he had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no

favourite of his; because, whenever the tutor came to the house, he gave

a great deal of trouble, being too indolent to do any thing for himself,

and yet not sufficiently rich, or sufficiently generous, to pay the

usual premiums for the active civility of servants. This footman was not

sorry to have an opportunity of repeating any story that might injure

Mr. Supine with his master. Alderman Holloway heard it under the promise

of concealing the name of the person who had given him the information,

and resolved to discover the truth of the affair the next day, when he

was to visit his son at Westminster.

But we must now return to Mrs. Howard's. We mentioned that Mrs. B. spent

the evening with her. Dr. B., soon after Mrs. Holloway went away, called

to take his lady home: he had been engaged to spend the evening at a

card assembly; but, as he was a man who liked agreeable conversation

better than cards, he had made his escape from a rout, to spend half an

hour with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was a man of various

literature; able to appreciate others, he was not insensible to the

pleasure of seeing himself appreciated. Half an hour passes quickly in

agreeable conversation: the doctor got into an argument, concerning the

propriety of the distinction made by some late metaphysical writers,

between imagination and fancy. Thence he was led to some critical

remarks upon Warton's beautiful Ode to Fancy; then to the never-ending

debate upon original genius; including also the doctrine of hereditary

temper and dispositions, which the doctor warmly supported, and which

Mrs. Howard coolly questioned.

In the midst of their conversation, they were suddenly interrupted by a

groan. They all looked round to see whence it came. It came from little

Oliver: he was sitting at a little table at the farther end of the room,

reading so intently in a large book that he saw nothing else: a long

unsnuffed candle, with a perilous fiery summit to its black wick, stood

before him, and his left arm embraced a thick china jar, against which

he leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a general silence

in the room, whilst every one looked at Oliver, as at a picture. Mrs.

Howard moved gently round behind his chair, to see what he was reading:

the doctor followed her. It was the account of the execution of two

rebel Koromantyn negroes, related in Edwards's History of the West

Indies{7}. To try whether it would interrupt Oliver's deep attention,

Mrs. Howard leaned over him, and snuffed his dim candle; but the light

was lost upon him--he did not feel the obligation. Dr. B. then put his

hand upon the jar, which he pulled from Oliver's embrace. "Be quiet! I

must finish this!" cried Oliver, still holding fast the jar, and keeping

his eyes upon the book. The doctor gave a second pull at the jar, and

the little boy made an impatient push with his elbow; then casting his

eye upon the large hand which pulled the jar, he looked up, surprised,

in the doctor's face.

{Footnote 7: Vol. ii. p. 57, second edition.}

The nice china jar, which Oliver had held so sturdily, was very

precious to him. His uncle had just sent him two jars of fine West India

sweetmeats. One of these he had shared with his companions: the other

he had kept, to give to Mrs. Howard, who had once said, in his hearing,

that she was fond of West India sweetmeats. She accepted Oliver's

little present. Children sometimes feel as much pleasure in giving away

sweetmeats as in eating them; and Mrs. Howard too well understood the

art of education, even in trifles, to deny to grateful and generous

feelings their natural and necessary exercise. A child can show

gratitude and generosity only in trifles.

"Are these all the sweetmeats that you have left, Oliver?" said Mrs.

Howard.

"Yes--all."

"Was not Rousseau wrong, Dr. B.," said Mrs. Howard, "when he asserted,

that no child ever gives away _his last mouthful_ of any thing good?"

"Of any thing _good_!" said the doctor, laughing; "when I have tasted

these sweetmeats, I shall be a better judge."

"You shall taste them this minute, then," said Mrs. Howard; and she

rang for a plate, whilst the doctor, to little Oliver's great amusement,

exhibited various pretended signs of impatience, as Mrs. Howard

deliberately untied the cover of the jar. One cover after another she

slowly took off; at length the last transparent cover was lifted up: the

doctor peeped in; but lo! instead of sweetmeats there appeared nothing

but paper. One crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard pulled

out; still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely stuffed with paper, to

the very bottom. Oliver was silent with amazement.

"The sides of the jar are quite clean," said Howard.

"But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with

sweetmeats," said Dr. B.

"There must have been sweetmeats in it lately," said Mrs. Howard,

"because the jar smells so strongly of them."

Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled out of the

jar, Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some writing: he looked

it over.

"Humph! What have we here? What's this? What can this he about a

lottery?--tickets, price half a guinea--prizes-gold watch!--silver

ditto--chased tooth-pick case--buckles--knee-buckles. What is all

this?--April 10th, 1797--the drawing to begin--prizes to be delivered

at Westminster school, by Aaron Carat, jeweller? Hey, young gentlemen,"

cried Dr. B., looking at Oliver and Charles, "do you know any thing of

this lottery?"

"I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you," said Howard.

"Nor I, thank goodness--I mean, thank you, Charles," exclaimed Oliver;

"for you hindered me from putting into the lottery: how very lucky I was

to take your advice!"

"How very wise, you should say, Oliver," said Dr. B. "I must inquire

into this business; I must find out who ordered these things from Mr.

Aaron Carat. There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster

school, whilst I have power to prevent it. To-morrow morning I'll

inquire into this affair; and to-morrow morning we shall also know, my

little fellow, what became of your sweetmeats."

"Oh, never mind _that_," cried the good-natured Oliver; "don't say any

thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don't mind about them; I know

already--I guess now, who took them; therefore you need not ask; I dare

say it was only meant for a joke."

Dr. B. made no reply; but folded up the paper which he had been reading,

put it into his pocket, and soon after took his leave.

Lord Rawson was one of those young men who measure their own merit and

felicity by the number of miles which their horses can go in a day; he

undertook to drive his friend up from Marryborough to Westminster, a

distance of forty miles, in five hours. The arrival of his lordship's

gig was a signal, for which several people were in waiting at

Westminster school. The stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand

his money from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, was arrived, and eager

to settle with Mr. Holloway about the lottery: he had brought the prizes

in a small case, to be delivered, upon receiving from Holloway the money

for all the tickets of which he had disposed. Dr. B. was waiting for the

arrival of Mr. Holloway, as he had determined to collect all his pupils

together, and to examine into the lottery business. Little Oliver was

also watching for Holloway, to prevent mischief, and to assure him of

forgiveness about the sweetmeats.

Lord Rawson's dog-cart arrived. Holloway saw the stage-coachman as

he alighted, and, abruptly turning from him, shook hands with little

Oliver, saying, "You look as if you had been waiting for me."

"Yes," said Oliver: "but I can't say what I want to say before every

body."

"I'll wait upon you presently," said Holloway, escaping from the

coachman. As he crossed the hall, he descried Mr. Carat, and a crowd

of boys surrounding him, crying, "Mr. Carat's come--he has brought

the prizes!--he has brought the prizes! he'll show them all as soon as

you've settled with him." Holloway called to the Jew; but little Oliver

insisted upon being heard first.

"You must hear me: I have something to say to you about the

prizes--about the lottery."

The words arrested Holloway's attention: he followed Oliver; heard with

surprise and consternation the history of the paper which had been found

in the jar, by Dr. B. "I've done for myself, now, faith!" he exclaimed;

"I suppose the doctor knows all about the hand _I_ have in the lottery."

"No," replied Oliver, "he does not."

"Why, _you_ must have known it; and did not he question you and Howard?"

"Yes; but when we told him that we had nothing to do with it, he did not

press us farther."

"You are really a noble little fellow," exclaimed Holloway, "to bear me

no malice for the many ill turns I have done you: this last has

fallen upon myself, as ill-luck would have it: but before we go any

farther--your sweetmeats are safe in the press, in my room; I didn't

mean to steal them; only to plague you, child:--but you have your

revenge now."

"I don't want any revenge, indeed," said Oliver, "for I'm never happy

when I've quarrelled with any body: and even when people quarrel with

me, I don't feel quite sure that I'm in the right, which makes me

uncomfortable; and, besides, I don't want to find out that they are

quite in the wrong; and that makes me uncomfortable the other way.

After all, quarrelling and bearing malice are very disagreeable things,

somehow or other. Don't you, when you have made it up with people, and

shaken hands, Holloway--don't you feel quite light, and ready to jump

again? So shake hands, if you are not above shaking hands with such a

little boy as I am; and I shall never think again about the sweetmeats,

or old _fag_ times."

Holloway could not help feeling touched. "Here's my hand," cried he,

"I'm sorry I've tormented you so often; I'll never plague you any more.

But now--I don't know what upon earth to do. Where's Charles Howard? If

he can't help me, I'm undone. I have got into more scrapes than I can

get out of, I know. I wish I could see Howard."

"I'll run and bring him to you; he's the best person at knowing what

should be done--at least for me, I know--that ever I saw."

Holloway abruptly began, as soon as Howard came up to him: "Howard,"

said he, "you know this plaguy lottery business--but you don't know

half yet: here's Carat come to be paid for his tickets; and here's that

dunning stage-coachman sticks close to me for his five guineas; and not

one farthing have I upon earth."

"Not a farthing! but you don't mean that you have not the money for Mr.

Carat?"

"But I _do_ though."

"Why, you cannot have spent it since yesterday morning?"

"No; but I have lost half and lent half; and the half that I have lent

is gone for ever, I am afraid, as much as that which I lost."

"Whom did you lend the money to? How did you lose it?"

"I lost part to Sir John O'Shannon, last night, at billiards--more fool

I to play, only because I wanted to cut a figure amongst those fine

people at Marryborough. I wonder my father lets me go there; I know

I sha'n't go back there this Easter, unless Lord Rawson makes me an

apology, I can tell him. I've as good a right to be upon my high horse

as he has; for though his father's an earl, my father's a great deal

richer, I know; and has lent him a great deal of money, too, and that's

the only reason he's civil to us; but I can tell him--"

Here Howard brought the angry Holloway from his high horse, by asking

what all this had to do with Mr. Carat, who was waiting to be paid?

"Why, don't I explain to you," said Holloway, "that I lent _him_--Lord

Rawson, I mean--all the money I had left yesterday, and I couldn't

get it out of him again, though I told him my distress about the

stage-coachman? Did you ever know any thing so selfish? Did you ever

know any thing so shabby, so shameful? And then to make me his butt,

as he did last night at supper, because there were two or three dashing

young men by; I think more of _that_ than all the rest. Do you know, he

asked me to eat custard with my apple-pie, just to point me out for

an alderman's son; and when I only differed from him about Captain

Shouldham's puppy's ears, Lord Rawson said, to be sure, I must know

about dog's ears, just to put me in mind that I was a school-boy; but

I'll never go to Marryborough any more, unless he begs my pardon. I've

no notion of being a humble friend; but it does not signify being in a

passion about it now," continued Holloway. "What I want you, Howard, to

do for me is, just to think; for I can't think at present, I'm in such a

hurry, with all these things coming across me at once. What can I do to

find money for the stage-coachman and for Mr. Carat? Why both together

come to fifteen guineas. And what can I do about Dr. B.? And, do you

know, my father is coming here this very morning. How shall I manage?

He'd never forgive me: at least he'd not give me any money for I don't

know how long, if these things were to come out. What would you advise

me to do?"

Howard, with his usual honest policy, advised Holloway at once to tell

all the circumstances to his father. Holloway was at first much alarmed

at this proposal, and insisted upon it that this method would not _do at

all_ with the alderman, though it might do very well with such a woman

as Mrs. Howard. At length, however, overcome, partly by the arguments,

and partly by the persuasion of his new adviser, Holloway determined

upon his confession.

Alderman Holloway arrived, and was beginning to talk to Dr. B. of his

son's proficiency in his studies, when the young gentleman made his

appearance, with a countenance extremely embarrassed and agitated. The

sight of Dr. B. deprived Holloway of courage to speak. The doctor fixed

his penetrating eye upon the pale culprit, who immediately stopped short

in the middle of the room, stammering out, "I came to speak, sir--I had

something to say to my father, sir--I came, if you please, to speak to

my father, sir." To Holloway's utter astonishment, Dr. B.'s countenance

and manner suddenly changed at these words; all his severity vanished;

and, with a look and voice the most encouraging, he led the abashed

youth towards his father.

"You came to speak to your father, sir? Speak to him then without fear,

without reserve: you will certainly find in a father your most indulgent

friend. I'll leave you together."

This opening of the case by Dr. B. was of equal advantage both to the

father and to the son. Alderman Holloway, though without literature, was

not without understanding: his affection for his son made him quickly

comprehend the good sense of the doctor's hint. The alderman was not

_surprised_ by the story of the overturn of the stage-coach, because he

had heard it before from his footman. But the lottery transaction with

the Jew--and, above all, with the loss and loan of so much money to his

friend, Lord Rawson--struck him with some astonishment; yet he commanded

his temper, which was naturally violent; and, after a constrained

silence, he begged his son to summon Mr. Supine. "At least," cried the

alderman, "I've a right to be in a passion with that careless, indolent,

dilettanti puppy, whom I've been paying all this while for taking such

care of you. I wish I had hold of his German flute at this instant.

You are very right, Augustus, to come like a man, and tell me all

these things; and now I must tell you, that some of them I had heard of

before. I wish I had that Jew, that Mr. Carat of yours, here! and that

stage-coachman, who had the impertinence to take you out with him at

night. But it's all Mr. Supine's fault--and mine, for not choosing a

better tutor for you. As to Lord Rawson, I can't blame you either much

for that, for I encouraged the connexion, I must own. I'm glad you have

quarrelled with him, however; and pray look out for a better friend as

fast as possible. You were very right to tell me all these things; on

that consideration, and that only, I'll lend my hand to getting you out

of these scrapes."

"For that," cried Holloway, "I may thank Howard, then; for he advised

and urged me to tell you all this at once."

"Call him; let me thank him," said the alderman; "he's an excellent

young man then--call him."

Dr. B. now entered the room with little Oliver.

When Holloway returned with Howard, he beheld the stage-coachman

standing silent on one side of his father; Mr. Carat, the Jew, on the

other side, jabbering an unintelligible vindication of himself; whilst

Dr. B. was contemplating the box of lottery prizes, which lay open upon

the table. Mr. Supine, leaning against the chimney-piece, appeared in

the attitude of an Antinous in despair.

"Come, my little friend," said Dr. B. to Oliver, "you did not put into

the lottery, I understand. Choose from amongst these things whatever

you please. It is better to trust to prudence than fortune, you see. Mr.

Howard, I know that I am rewarding you, at this instant, in the manner

you best like, and best deserve."

There was a large old-fashioned chased gold toothpick-case, on which

Oliver immediately fixed his eye. After examining it very carefully,

he drew the doctor aside, and, after some consultation, Oliver left the

room hastily; whilst the alderman, with all the eloquence of which he

was master, expressed his gratitude to Howard for the advice which he

had given his son. "Cultivate this young gentleman's friendship," added

he, turning to Holloway: "he has not a title; but even _I_, Augustus,

am now ready to acknowledge he is worth twenty Lord Rawsons. Had he a

title, he would grace it; and that's as much as I can say for any man."

The Jew, all this time, stood in the greatest trepidation; he trembled

lest the alderman should have him taken up and committed to gaol for his

illegal, unlicensed lottery. He poured forth as many protestations as

his knowledge of the English language could afford of the purity of his

intentions; and, to demonstrate his disinterestedness, began to display

the trinkets in his prize-box, with a panegyric upon each. Dr. B.

interrupted him, by paying for the toothpick-case, which he had bought

for Oliver.

"Now, Mr. Carat," said the doctor, "you will please to return, in the

first place, the money you have received for your _illegal_ lottery

tickets."

The word _illegal_, pronounced in a tremendous tone, operated

instantaneously upon the Jew; his hand, which had closed upon Holloway's

guineas, opened; he laid the money down upon the table, but mechanically

seized his box of trinkets, which he seemed to fear would be the next

seized, as forfeits. No persons are so apprehensive of injustice

and fraud as those who are themselves dishonest. Mr. Carat, bowing

repeatedly to Alderman Holloway, shuffled toward the door, asking if he

might now depart; when the door opened with such a force, as almost to

push the retreating Jew upon his face.

Little Oliver, out of breath, burst into the room, whispered a few words

to Dr. B. and Alderman Holloway, who answered, "He may come in;" and

a tall, stout man, an officer from Bow-street, immediately entered.

"There's your man, sir," said the alderman, pointing to the Jew; "there

is Mr. Carat." The man instantly seized Mr. Carat, producing a warrant

from Justice--for apprehending the Jew upon suspicion of his having in

his possession certain valuable jewels, the property of Mrs. Frances

Howard.

Oliver was eager to explain. "Do you know, Howard," said he, "how all

this came about? Do you know your aunt's gone to Bow-street, and has

taken the mulatto woman with her, and Mr. Russell is gone with her?

and she thinks--and _I_ think--she'll certainly have her jewels, her

grandmother's jewels, that were left in Jamaica."

"How? but how?" exclaimed Howard.

"Why," said Oliver, "by the toothpick-case. The reason I chose that

toothpick-case out of the Jew's box was, because it came into my head,

the minute I saw it, that the mulatto woman's curious thimble--you

remember her thimble, Howard--would just fit one end of it. I ran home

and tried it, and the thimble screwed on as nicely as possible; and

the chasing, as Mr. Russell said, and the colour of the gold, matched

exactly. Oh! Mrs. Howard was so surprised when we showed it to her--so

astonished to see this toothpick-case in England; for it had been left,

she said, with all her grandmother's diamonds and _things_, in Jamaica."

"Yes," interrupted Howard; "I remember my aunt told us, when you asked

her about Cuba's thimble, that she gave it to Cuba when she was a child,

and that it belonged to some old trinket.--Go on."

"Well, where was I?--Oh, then, as soon as she saw the toothpick-case,

she asked how it had been found; and I told her all about the lottery

and Mr. Carat; then she and Mr. Russell consulted, and away they went,

with Cuba, in a coach; and all the rest you know; and I wish I could

hear the end of it!"

"And so you shall, my good little fellow; we'll all go together to hear

the Jew's examination: you shall go with me in my coach to Bow-street,"

said Alderman Holloway.

In the midst of their bustle, the poor stage-coachman, who had waited

with uncommon patience in the hope that Alderman Holloway would at

last recollect him, pressed forward, and petitioned to be paid his five

guineas for the lost parcel.--"I have lost my place already," said he,

"and the little goods I have will be seized this day, for the value of

that unlucky parcel, master."

The alderman put his hand slowly into his purse; but just when he had

pulled out five guineas, a servant came into the room, to inform Dr. B.

that a sailor was waiting in the hall, who desired to speak, directly,

about something of consequence, to the stage-coachman.

Dr. B., who imagined that the sailor might have something to do with the

business in question, ordered that he might be shown into the room.

"I wants one Gregory Giles, a stage-coachman, if such a one be here

amongst ye, gentlefolks, and nobody else," cried the sailor, producing a

parcel, wrapped up in brown paper.

"It's my very parcel!" exclaimed the stage-coachman. "I am Gregory

Giles! God bless your honest heart!--Where did ye find it?--Give it me!"

The sailor said he had found it in a dry ditch on the Bath road,

a little beyond the first turnpike, going out of town; that he had

inquired at the turnpike-house; had heard that the stage had been

overturned a few days before, and that a parcel had been lost, about

which the coachman had been in great trouble; that he had gone directly

to the inn where the coach put up; had traced the coachman from place to

place; and was heartily glad he had found him at last.

"Thank'ee, with all my heart," said the coachman, "for all the trouble

you've been at; and here's the crown reward that I offered for it, and

my thanks into the bargain."

"No, no," said the honest sailor, pushing back the money; "I won't take

any thing from a poor fellow like myself: put your silver into your

pocket: I hear you lost your place already by that parcel. There was

a great talk at the turnpike-house about your losing your place, for

giving some young gentleman a lift.--Put up your money."

All present were eager in rewarding the honest sailor.

A hackney-coach was now come to the door for Mr. Carat, and every body

hurried off as fast as possible.

"Where are they all steering to?" said the sailor. The stage-coachman

told him all that he had heard of the matter. "I'll be in their

wake, then," cried the sailor; "I shall like to see the Jew upon his

court-martial; I was choused once by a Jew myself." He got to Bow-street

as soon as they did.

The first thing Howard learned was, that the jewels, which had been all

found at Mr. Carat's, precisely answered the description which his aunt

had given of them. The Jew was in the utmost consternation: finding that

the jewels were positively sworn to, he declared, upon his examination,

that he had bought them from a captain of a ship; that he had paid the

full value for them; and that, at the time he purchased them, he had

no suspicion of their having been fraudulently obtained. This defence

appearing evidently evasive, the magistrates who examined Mr. Carat

informed him, that, unless he could produce the person from whom he had

bought the jewels, he must be committed to Newgate for receiving stolen

goods. Terrified at this sentence, the Jew, though he had at first

asserted that he knew nothing of the captain from whom he had received

the diamonds, now acknowledged that he actually lodged at his house.

"Hah!" exclaimed Holloway: "I remember, the day that I and Lord Rawson

called at your house, you were settling accounts, your foreman told us,

with a captain of a ship, who was to leave England in a few days: it's

well he's not off."

An officer was immediately sent to Mr. Carat's in quest of this captain;

but there were great apprehensions that he might have escaped at the

first alarm of the search for the jewels. Fortunately, however, he had

not been able to get off, as two constables had been stationed at

Mr. Carat's house. The officer from Bow-street found him in his own

bed-chamber, rummaging a portmanteau for some papers, which he wanted

to burn. His papers were seized, and carried along with him before the

magistrate.

Alderman Holloway knew the captain the moment he was brought into the

room, though his dress and whole appearance were very different from

what they had been when he had waited upon the alderman some months

before this time, with a dismal, plausible story of his own poverty

and misfortunes. He had then told him that his mate and he had had

a quarrel, upon the voyage from Jamaica; that the mate knew what a

valuable cargo he had on board; that just when they got in sight of

land, the crew rose upon him; the mate seized him, and by force put him

into a boat, and set him ashore.

The discovery of the jewels at Mr. Carat's at once overturned the

captain's whole story: cunning people often insert something in their

narration to make it better, which ultimately tends to convict them

of falsehood. The captain having now no other resource, and having the

horrors of imprisonment, and the certainty of condemnation upon a public

trial, full before him, threw himself, as the only chance that remained

for him, upon Mrs. Howard's mercy; confessed that all that he had told

her before was false; that his mate and he had acted in concert; that

the rising of the crew against him had been contrived between them; that

he had received the jewels, when he was set ashore, for his immediate

share of the booty; and that the mate had run the ship off to

Charlestown, to sell her cargo. According to agreement, the captain

added, he was to have had a share in the cargo; but the mate had

_cheated him_ of that; he had never heard from him, or of him, he would

take his oath, from the day he was set ashore, and knew nothing of him

or the cargo.

"Avast, friend, by your leave," cried the honest sailor who had found

the stage-coachman's parcel--"avast, friend, by your leave," said he,

elbowing his way between Alderman Holloway and his next neighbour,

and getting clear into the middle of the circle--"I know more of this

matter, _my lord_, or please your worship, which is much the same thing,

than any body here; and I'm glad on't, mistress," continued the tar,

pulling a quid of tobacco out of his mouth, and addressing himself to

Mrs. Howard: then turning to the captain, "Wasn't _she_ the _Lively

Peggy_, pray?--it's no use tacking. Wasn't your mate one John Matthews,

pray? Captain, your face tells truth, in spite of your teeth."

The captain instantly grew pale, and trembled: on which the sailor

turned abruptly from him, and went on with his story. "Mistress," said

he, "though I'm a loser by it, no matter. The Lively Peggy and her cargo

are safe and sound in Plymouth, at this very time being, and we have her

mate in limbo, curse him. We made a prize of him, coming from America,

for he was under French colours, and a fine prize we thought we'd made.

But her cargo belongs to a British subject; and there's an end to our

prize money: no matter for that. There was an ugly look with Matthews

from the first; and I found, the day we took her, something odd in the

look of her stern. The rascals had done their best to paint over her

name; but _I_, though no great scholar, made a shift to spell the Lively

Peggy through it all. We have the mate in limbo at Plymouth: but it's

all come out, without any more to do; and, mistress, I'll get you her

bill of lading in a trice, and I give ye joy with all my heart."

Alderman Holloway, a man used to business, would not indulge himself in

a single compliment upon this occasion, till he had cautiously searched

the captain's papers. The bill of lading which had been sent with the

Lively Peggy from Jamaica, was found amongst them; it was an exact list,

corresponding precisely with that which Mrs. Howard's agent had sent her

by post, of the consignment shipped after the sale of her plantation.

The alderman, satisfied, after counting the puncheons of rum and

hogsheads of sugar, turned to Mrs. Howard, and shook hands with her,

with a face of mercantile congratulation, declaring that "she was now as

good a woman as ever she had been, and need never desire to be better."

"My dear Oliver," cried Howard, "this is all owing to you: _you_

discovered--"

"No, no, no!" interrupted Oliver, precipitately: "all that I did was

accident; all that you did was not accident. You first made me love you,

by teaching me that I was not a blockhead, and by freeing me from--"

"_A tyrant_, you were going to say," cried Holloway, colouring deeply;

"and, if you had, you'd have said the truth. I thought; Howard,

_afterwards_, that you were a brave fellow for taking his part, I

confess. But, Oliver, I thought you had forgiven me for all these

things."

"Forgiven! Oh yes, to be sure," cried little Oliver; "I wasn't thinking

of myself, or you either; I was only thinking of Howard's good nature;

and then," continued he, "Howard was just as good to the mulatto woman

as he was to me--wasn't he, Cuba?"

"That he was!" replied the poor woman; and, looking at Mrs. Howard,

added, "Massa's _heart_ as good as hers."

"And his _head's_ as good as his heart, which makes it all better

still," continued Oliver, with enthusiasm. "Mr. Russell, you know how

hard he worked at that translation, to earn money to support poor

Cuba, and to paper the room, and to pay the bricklayer _for_ the smoky

chimney: these things were not done by accident, were they? though it

was by accident that I happened to observe Cuba's curious thimble."

"There are some people," interrupted Mr. Russell, "who, by accident,

never observe any thing. We will not allow you, Oliver, to call your

quick habit of observation accident; your excellent capacity will--"

"_My_ excellent capacity," repeated Oliver, with unfeigned surprise:

"why, you know, I get by rote slower than any body in the world."

"You may," said Dr. B., "notwithstanding, have an excellent capacity:

much may be learned without books; much more with books, Oliver; but,

for your comfort, you need not learn them by rote."

"I'm glad of it, heartily," cried Oliver; "but this put something out

of my head that I was in a great hurry to say--O, one other thing

about _accident_. It was not _accident_, but it was Howard's sense, in

persuading me not to put into the lottery, that was the very cause of

Dr. B.'s giving me the choice of all the things in the Jew's box--was it

not?"

"Well, Oliver, we are ready to allow all you want us to perceive, in one

word, that your friend Howard _has not been educated by accident_," said

Dr. B., looking at Mrs. Howard.

The Jew and the captain of the Lively Peggy were now left in the hands

of the law. The sailor was properly rewarded. Mr. Russell was engaged to

superintend the education of Holloway. He succeeded, and was presented

by the alderman with a living in Surrey. Mr. Supine never visited Italy,

and did not meet with any consolation but in his German flute. Howard

continued eager to improve himself; nor did he imagine that, the moment

he left school, and parted from his tutor, his education was finished,

and that his books were, "like past misfortunes," good for nothing

but to be forgotten. His love for literature he found one of the first

pleasures of his life; nor did he, after he came into the possession of

a large fortune, find that his habits of constant occupation lessened

his enjoyments, for he was never known to yawn at a window upon a rainy

morning!

Little Oliver's understanding rapidly improved; his affection for his

friend Howard increased as he grew up, for he always remembered that

Howard was the first person who discovered that he was not a dunce. Mrs.

Howard had the calm satisfaction of seeing an education well finished,

which she had well begun; and she enjoyed, in her nephew's friendship,

esteem, and unconstrained gratitude, all the rewards which her good

sense, firmness, and benevolence had so well deserved.

ANGELINA; OR, L'AMIE INCONNUE.

CHAPTER I.

"But, my dear Lady Di., indeed you should not let this affair prey so

continually upon your spirits," said Miss Burrage, in the condoling tone

of a humble companion--"you really have almost fretted yourself into a

nervous fever. I was in hopes that change of air, and change of scene,

would have done every thing for you, or I never would have consented

to your leaving London; for you know your ladyship's always better in

London than any where else. And I'm sure your ladyship has thought and

talked of nothing but this sad affair since you came to Clifton."

"I confess," said Lady Diana Chillingworth, "I deserve the reproaches

of my friends for giving way to my sensibility, as I do, upon this

occasion: but I own I cannot help it.--Oh, what will the world say! What

will the world say!--The world will lay all the blame upon _me_; yet I'm

sure I'm the last, the very last person that ought to be blamed."

"Assuredly," replied Miss Burrage, "nobody can blame your ladyship;

and nobody will, I am persuaded. The blame will all be thrown, where it

ought to be, upon the young lady herself."

"If I could but be convinced of that," said her ladyship, in a tone of

great feeling; "such a young creature, scarcely sixteen, to take such

a step!--I am sure I wish to Heaven her father had never made me her

guardian. I confess, I was most exceedingly imprudent, out of regard

to her family, to take under my protection such a self-willed,

unaccountable, romantic girl. Indeed, my dear," continued Lady Diana

Chillingworth, turning to her sister, Lady Frances Somerset, "it was you

that misled me. You remember you used to tell me, that Anne Warwick had

such great abilities!"--

"That I thought it a pity they had not been well directed," said Lady

Frances.

"And such generosity of temper, and such warm affections!" said Lady

Di.--

"That I regretted their not having been properly cultivated."

"I confess, Miss Warwick was never a great favourite of mine," said Miss

Barrage; "but now that she has lost her best friend--"

"She is likely to find a great number of enemies," said Lady Frances.

"She has been her own enemy, poor girl! I am sure I pity her," replied

Miss Burrage; "but, at the same time, I must say, that ever since she

came to my Lady Di. Chillingworth's, she has had good advice enough."

"Too much, perhaps; which is worse than too little," thought Lady

Frances.

"Advice!" repeated Lady Di. Chillingworth: "why, as to that, my

conscience, I own, acquits me there; for, to be sure, no young person,

of her age, or of any age, had ever more advice, or more good advice,

than Miss Warwick had from me; I thought it my duty to advise her, and

advise her I did from morning till night, as Miss Burrage very well

knows, and will do me the justice, I hope, to say in all companies."

"_That_ I shall certainly make it a principle to do," said Miss Burrage.

"I am sure it would surprise and grieve you, Lady Frances, to hear

the sort of foolish, imprudent things that Miss. Warwick, with all her

abilities, used to say. I recollect--"

"Very possibly," replied Lady Frances; "but why should we trouble

ourselves to recollect all the foolish, imprudent things which this poor

girl may have said?--This unfortunate elopement is a sufficient proof of

her folly and imprudence. With whom did she go off?"

"With nobody," cried Lady Diana--"there's the wonder."

"With nobody!--Incredible.--She had certainly some admirer, some lover,

and she was afraid, I suppose, to mention the business to you."

"No such thing, my dear: there is no love at all in the case: indeed,

for my part, I cannot in the least comprehend Miss Warwick, nor ever

could. She used, every now and then, to begin and talk to me some

nonsense about her hatred of the forms of the world, and her love

of liberty, and I know not what; and then she had some female

correspondent, to whom she used to write folio sheets, twice a week, I

believe; but I could never see any of these letters. Indeed, in town,

you know, I could not possibly have leisure for such things; but Miss

Burrage, I fancy, has one of the letters, if you have any curiosity

to see it. Miss Burrage can tell you a great deal more of the whole

business than I can; for you know, in London, engaged as I always was,

with scarcely a moment ever to myself, how could I attend to all Anne

Warwick's oddities? I protest I know nothing of the matter, but that,

one morning, Miss Warwick was nowhere to be found, and my maid brought

me a letter, of one word of which I could not make sense: the letter was

found on the young lady's dressing-table, according to the usual custom

of eloping heroines. Miss Burrage, do show Lady Frances the letters--you

have them somewhere; and tell my sister all you know of the matter,

for I declare, I'm quite tired of it; besides, I shall be wanted at the

card-table."

Lady Diana Chillingworth went to calm her sensibility at the card-table;

and Lady Frances turned to Miss Burrage, for further information.

"All I know," said Miss Burrage, "is, that one night I saw Miss Warwick

putting a lock of frightful hair into a locket, and I asked her whose it

was.--'My amiable Araminta's,' said Miss Warwick, 'Is she pretty?' said

I. 'I have never seen her,' said Miss Warwick; 'but I will show you a

charming picture of her mind!'--and she put this long letter into my

hand. I'll leave it with your ladyship, if you please; it is a good, or

rather a bad hour's work to read it."

"_Araminta!_" exclaimed Lady Frances, looking at the signature of the

letter--"this is only a nom de guerre, I suppose."

"Heaven knows!" answered Miss Burrage; "but Miss Warwick always signed

her epistles Angelina, and her _unknown friend's_ were always signed

Araminta. I do suspect that Araminta, whoever she is, was the instigator

of this elopement."

"I wish," said Lady Frances, examining the post-mark of the letter,

"I wish that we could find out where Araminta lives; we might then,

perhaps, recover this poor Miss Warwick, before the affair is talked of

in the world--before her reputation is injured."

"It would certainly be a most desirable thing," said Miss Burrage; "but

Miss Warwick has such odd notions, that I question whether she will ever

behave like other people; and, for my part, I cannot blame Lady Diana

Chillingworth for giving her up. She is one of those young ladies whom

it is scarcely possible to manage by common sense."

"It is certainly true," said Lady Frances, "that young women of Miss

Warwick's superior abilities require something more than _common_ sense

to direct them properly. Young ladies who think of nothing but dress,

public amusements, and forming what they call high connexions, are

undoubtedly most easily managed, by the fear of what the world will

say of them; but Miss Warwick appeared to me to have higher ideas of

excellence; and I therefore regret that she should be totally given up

by her friends."

"It is Miss Warwick who has given up her friends," said Miss Burrage,

with a mixture of embarrassment and sarcasm in her manner; "it is Miss

Warwick who has given up her friends; not Miss Warwick's friends who

have given up Miss Warwick."

The letter from the "amiable Araminta," which Miss Burrage left for

the pervsal of Lady Frances Somerset, contained three folio sheets, of

which, it is hoped, the following abridgment will be sufficiently ample

to satisfy the curiosity even of those who are lovers of long letters:--

"Yes, my Angelina! our hearts are formed for that higher species of

friendship, of which common souls are inadequate to form an idea,

however their fashionable puerile lips may, in the intellectual inanity

of their conversation, profane the term. Yes, my Angelina, you are

right--every fibre of my frame, every energy of my intellect, tells

me so. I read your letter by moonlight! The air balmy and pure as my

Angelina's thoughts! The river silently meandering!--The rocks!--The

woods!--Nature in all her majesty. Sublime confidante! Sympathizing with

my supreme felicity. And shall I confess to you, friend of my soul! that

I could not refuse myself the pleasure of reading to my Orlando some of

those passages in your last, which evince so powerfully the superiority

of that understanding, which, if I mistake not strangely, is formed to

combat, in all its Proteus forms, the system of social slavery? With

what soul-rending eloquence does my Angelina describe the solitariness,

the _isolation_ of the heart she experiences in a crowded metropolis!

With what emphatic energy of inborn independence does she

exclaim against the family phalanx of her aristocratic

persecutors!--Surely--surely she will not be intimidated from

'the settled purpose of her soul' by the phantom-fear of worldly

censure!--The garnish-tinselled wand of fashion has waved in vain in

the illuminated halls of folly-painted pleasure; my Angelina's eyes have

withstood, yes, without a blink, the dazzling enchantment.--And will

she--no, I cannot, I will not think so for an instant--will she now

submit her understanding, spell-bound, to the soporific charm of

nonsensical words, uttered in an awful tone by that potent enchantress,

_Prejudice_?--The declamation, the remonstrances of self-elected judges

of right and wrong, should be treated with deserved contempt by superior

minds, who claim the privilege of thinking and acting for themselves.

The words _ward_ and _guardian_ appal my Angelina! but what are legal

technical formalities, what are human institutions, to the view of

shackle-scorning Reason! Oppressed, degraded, enslaved, must our

unfortunate sex for ever submit to sacrifice their rights, their

pleasures, their _will_, at the altar of public opinion; whilst the

shouts of interested priests, and idle spectators, raise the senseless

enthusiasm of the self-devoted victim, or drown her cries in the

truth-extorting moment of agonizing nature!--You will not perfectly

understand, perhaps, to what these last exclamations of your Araminta

allude:--But, chosen friend of my heart!--when we meet--and oh, let

that be quickly!--my cottage longs for the arrival of my unsophisticated

Angelina!--when we meet you shall know all--your Araminta, too, has had

her sorrows--Enough of this!--But her Orlando has a heart, pure as the

infantine god of love could, in his most perfect mood, delight at once

to wound, and own--joined to an understanding--shall I say it?--worthy

to judge of your Araminta's--And will not my sober-minded Angelina

prefer, to all that palaces can afford, such society in a cottage?--I

shall reserve for my next the description of a cottage, which I have in

my eye, within view of--; but I will not anticipate.--Adieu, my

amiable Angelina.--I enclose, as you desire, a lock of my hair.--Ever,

unalterably, your affectionate, though almost heart-broken,

"ARAMINTA.

"April, 1800.--_Angelina Bower!_

"So let me christen my cottage!"

What effect this letter may have on _sober-minded_ readers in general

can easily be guessed; but Miss Warwick, who was little deserving of

this epithet, was so charmed with the sound of it, that it made her

totally to forget to judge of her amiable Araminta's mode of reasoning.

"Garnish-tinselled wands"--"shackle-scorning Reason"--"isolation of

the heart"--"soul-rending eloquence"--with "rocks and woods, and a

meandering river--balmy air--moonlight--Orlando--energy of intellect--a

cottage--and a heart-broken friend," made, when all mixed together,

strange confusion in Angelina's imagination. She neglected to

observe, that her Araminta was in the course of two pages--"almost

heart-broken"--and in the possession of--"supreme felicity."--Yet Miss

Warwick, though she judged so like a simpleton, was a young woman of

considerable abilities: her want of what the world calls common sense

arose from certain mistakes in her education.--She had passed her

childhood with a father and mother, who cultivated her literary taste,

but who neglected to cultivate her judgment: her reading was confined

to works of imagination; and the conversation which she heard was not

calculated to give her any knowledge of realities. Her parents died

when she was about fourteen, and she then went to reside with Lady Diana

Chillingworth, a lady who placed her whole happiness in living in a

certain circle of high company in London. Miss Warwick saw the follies

of the society with which she now mixed; she felt insupportable ennui

from the want of books and conversation suited to her taste; she heard

with impatience Lady Diana's dogmatical advice; observed, with disgust,

the meanness of her companion, Miss Burrage, and felt with triumph the

superiority of her own abilities. It was in this situation of her mind

that Miss Warwick happened, at a circulating library, to meet with a

new novel, called "The Woman of Genius."--The character of Araminta, the

heroine, charmed her beyond measure; and having been informed, by

the preface, that the story was founded on facts in the life of the

authoress herself, she longed to become acquainted with her; and

addressed a letter to "The Woman of Genius," at her publisher's. The

letter was answered in a highly flattering, and consequently, very

agreeable style, and the correspondence continued for nearly two years;

till, at length, Miss W. formed a strong desire to see her _unknown

friend_. The ridicule with which Miss Burrage treated every thing, and

every idea, that was not sanctioned by fashion, and her total want of

any taste for literature, were continually contrasted in Miss Warwick's

mind, with the picture she had formed of her Araminta.--Miss Burrage,

who dreaded, though certainly without reason, that she might be

supplanted in the good graces of Lady Diana, endeavoured by every petty

means in her power, to disgust her young rival with the situation in

which she was placed. She succeeded beyond her hopes. Miss Warwick

determined to accept of her _unknown friend's_ invitation to Angelina

Bower--a charming romantic cottage in South Wales, where, according to

Araminta's description, she might pass her halcyon days in tranquil,

elegant retirement. It was not difficult for our heroine, though unused

to deception, to conceal her project from Lady Diana Chillingworth, who

was much more observant of the appearance of her protégée in public,

than interested about what passed in her mind in private. Miss Warwick

quitted her ladyship's house without the least difficulty, and the

following is the letter which our heroine left upon her dressing-table.

Under all the emphatic words, according to the custom of some

letter-writers, were drawn emphatic lines.

"Averse as I am to every thing that may have the appearance of a

clandestine transaction, I have, however, found myself under the

necessity of leaving your ladyship's house, without imparting to you my

intentions. Confidence and sympathy go hand in hand, nor can either

be _commanded_ by the voice of authority. Your ladyship's opinions and

mine, upon _all_ subjects, differ so _essentially_, that I could never

hope for your approbation, either of my _sentiments_ or my conduct.

It is my _unalterable determination_ to _act_ and _think_ upon every

occasion for myself; though I am well aware, that they who start out of

the common track, either in words or action, are exposed to the ridicule

and persecution of vulgar or illiberal minds. They who venture to carry

the _first_ torch into _unexplored_ or _unfrequented_ passages in the

mine of truth are exposed to the most imminent danger. Rich, however,

are the treasures of the place, and cowardly the soul that hesitates!

But I forget myself.

"It may be necessary to inform your ladyship, that, disgusted with the

frivolity of what is called fashionable life, and _unable_ to _live_

without the higher pleasures of friendship, I have chosen for my asylum

the humble, tranquil cottage of a female friend, whose tastes, whose

principles have long been known to me: whose _genius_ I admire! whose

_virtues_ I revere! whose example I _emulate!_

"Though I do not condescend to use the fulsome language of _a mean

dependant_, I am not forgetful of the kindness I have received from

your ladyship. It has not been without a _painful_ struggle that I have

broken my bonds asunder--the bonds of what is _falsely_ called _duty:

spontaneous_ gratitude ever will have full, _indisputable, undisputed_

power over the _heart_ and _understanding_ of

"ANNE-ANGELINA WARWICK.

"P.S. It will be in vain to attempt to discover the place of my retreat.

All I ask is to be left in peace, to enjoy, in my retirement, _perfect

felicity_."