CHAPTER IV

WE turn with pleasure from Piedro the Cunning to Francisco the Honest.

Francisco continued the happy and useful course of his life. By his

unremitting perseverance, he improved himself rapidly under the

instructions of his master and friend, Signor Camillo; his friend, we

say, for the fair and open character of Francisco won, or rather earned,

the friendship of this benevolent artist. The English gentleman seemed

to take a pride in our hero’s success and good conduct. He was not one

of those patrons who think that they have done enough when they have

given five guineas. His servant Arthur always considered every generous

action of his master’s as his own, and was particularly pleased whenever

this generosity was directed towards Francisco.

As for Carlo and the little Rosetta, they were the companions of all the

pleasant walks which Francisco used to take in the cool of the evening,

after he had been shut up all day at his work. And the old carpenter,

delighted with the gratitude of his pupil, frequently repeated—“that he

was proud to have given the first instructions to such a _genius_; and

that he had always prophesied Francisco would be a _great_ man.”

“And a good man, papa,” said Rosetta; “for though he has grown so great,

and though he goes into palaces now, to say nothing of that place

underground, where he has leave to go, yet, notwithstanding all this, he

never forgets my brother Carlo and you.”

“That’s the way to have good friends,” said the carpenter. “And I like

his way; he does more than he says. Facts are masculine, and words are

feminine.” {337}

These goods friends seemed to make Francisco happier than Piedro could be

made by his stolen diamonds.

One morning, Francisco was sent to finish a sketch of the front of an

ancient temple, amongst the ruins of Herculaneum. He had just reached

the pit, and the men were about to let him down with cords, in the usual

manner, when his attention was caught by the shrill sound of a scolding

woman’s voice. He looked, and saw at some paces distant this female

fury, who stood guarding the windlass of a well, to which, with

threatening gestures and most voluble menaces, she forbade all access.

The peasants—men, women and children, who had come with their pitchers to

draw water at this well—were held at bay by the enraged female. Not one

dared to be the first to advance; whilst she grasped with one hand the

handle of the windlass, and, with the other tanned muscular arm extended,

governed the populace, bidding them remember that she was padrona, or

mistress of the well. They retired, in hopes of finding a more gentle

padrona at some other well in the neighbourhood; and the fury, when they

were out of sight, divided the long black hair which hung over her face,

and, turning to one of the spectators, appealed to them in a sober voice,

and asked if she was not right in what she had done? “I, that am padrona

of the well,” said she, addressing herself to Francisco, who, with great

attention, was contemplating her with the eye of a painter—“I, that am

padrona of the well, must in times of scarcity do strict justice, and

preserve for ourselves alone the water of our well. There is scarcely

enough even for ourselves. I have been obliged to make my husband

lengthen the ropes every day for this week past. If things go on at this

rate, there will soon be not one drop of water left in my well.”

“Nor in any of the wells of the neighbourhood,” added one of the workmen,

who was standing by; and he mentioned several in which the water had

lately suddenly decreased; and a miller affirmed that his mill had

stopped for want of water.

Francisco was struck by these remarks. They brought to his recollection

similar facts, which he had often heard his father mention in his

childhood, as having been observed previous to the last eruption of Mount

Vesuvius. {338a} He had also heard from his father, in his childhood,

that it is better to trust to prudence than to fortune; and therefore,

though the peasants and workmen, to whom he mentioned his fears, laughed,

and said, “That as the burning mountain had been favourable to them for

so many years, they would trust to it and St. Januarius one day longer,”

yet Francisco immediately gave up all thoughts of spending this day

amidst the ruins of Herculaneum. After having inquired sufficiently,

after having seen several wells, in which the water had evidently

decreased, and after having seen the mill-wheels that were standing still

for want of their usual supply, he hastened home to his father and

mother, reported what he had heard and seen, and begged of them to

remove, and to take what things of value they could to some distance from

the dangerous spot where they now resided.

Some of the inhabitants of Resina, whom he questioned, declared that they

had heard strange rumbling noises underground; and a peasant and his son,

who had been at work the preceding day in a vineyard, a little above the

village, related that they had seen a sudden puff of smoke come out of

the earth, close to them; and that they had, at the same time, heard a

noise like the going off of a pistol. {338b}

The villagers listened with large eyes and open ears to these relations;

yet such was their habitual attachment to the spot they lived upon, or

such the security in their own good fortune, that few of them would

believe that there could be any necessity for removing.—“We’ll see what

will happen to-morrow; we shall be safe here one day longer,” said they.

Francisco’s father and mother, more prudent than the generality of their

neighbours, went to the house of a relation, at some miles’ distance from

Vesuvius, and carried with them all their effects.

In the meantime, Francisco went to the villa where his English friends

resided. The villa was in a most dangerous situation, near Terre del

Greco—a town that stands at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. He related all

the facts that he had heard to Arthur, who, not having been, like the

inhabitants of Resina, familiarized to the idea of living in the vicinity

of a burning mountain, and habituated to trust in St. Januarius, was

sufficiently alarmed by Francisco’s representations. He ran to his

master’s apartment, and communicated all that he had just heard. The

Count de Flora and his lady, who were at this time in the house,

ridiculed the fears of Arthur, and could not be prevailed upon to remove

even as far as Naples. The lady was intent upon preparations for her

birthday, which was to be celebrated in a few days with great

magnificence at their villa; and she observed that it would be a pity to

return to town before that day, and they had everything arranged for the

festival. The prudent Englishman had not the gallantry to appear to be

convinced by these arguments, and he left the place of danger. He left

it not too soon, for the next morning exhibited a scene—a scene which we

shall not attempt to describe.

We refer our young readers to the account of this dreadful eruption of

Mount Vesuvius, published by Sir W. Hamilton in the “Philosophical

Transactions.” It is sufficient here to say that, in the space of about

five hours, the wretched inhabitants of Torre del Greco saw their town

utterly destroyed by the streams of burning lava which poured from the

mountain. The villa of Count de Flora, with some others, which were at a

little distance from the town, escaped; but they were absolutely

surrounded by the lava. The count and countess were obliged to fly from

their house with the utmost precipitation in the night-time; and they had

not time to remove any of their furniture, their plate, clothes, or

jewels.

A few days after the eruption, the surface of the lava became so cool

that people could walk upon it, though several feet beneath the surface

it was still exceedingly hot. Numbers of those who had been forced from

their houses now returned to the ruins to try to save whatever they

could. But these unfortunate persons frequently found their houses had

been pillaged by robbers, who, in these moments of general confusion,

enrich themselves with the spoils of their fellow-creatures.

“Has the count abandoned his villa? and is there no one to take care of

his plate and furniture? The house will certainly be ransacked before

morning,” said the old carpenter to Francisco, who was at his house

giving him an account of their flight. Francisco immediately went to the

count’s house in warn him of his danger. The first person he saw was

Arthur, who, with a face of terror, said to him, “Do you know what has

happened? It is all over with Resina!”

“All over with Resina! What, has there been a fresh eruption? Has the

lava reached Resina?”

“No; but it will inevitably be blown up. There,” said Arthur, pointing

to a thin figure of an Italian, who stood pale and trembling, and looking

up to heaven as he crossed himself repeatedly. “There,” said Arthur, “is

a man who has left a parcel of his cursed rockets and fireworks, with I

don’t know how much gunpowder, in the count’s house, from which we have

just fled. The wind blows that way. One spark of fire, and the whole is

blown up.”

Francisco waited not to hear more; but instantly, without explaining his

intentions to anyone, set out for the count’s villa, and, with a bucket

of water in his hand, crossed the beds of lava with which the house was

encompassed; when, reaching the hall where the rockets and gunpowder were

left, he plunged them into the water, and returned with them in safety

over the lava, yet warm under his feet.

What was the surprise and joy of the poor firework-maker when he saw

Francisco return from this dangerous expedition! He could scarcely

believe his eyes, when he saw the rockets and the gunpowder all safe.

The count, who had given up the hopes of saving his palace, was in

admiration when he heard of this instance of intrepidity, which properly

saved not only his villa, but the whole village of Resina, from

destruction. These fireworks had been prepared for the celebration of

the countess’ birthday, and were forgotten in the hurry of the night on

which the inhabitants fled from Torre del Greco.

“Brave young man!” said the count to Francisco, “I thank you, and shall

not limit my gratitude to thanks. You tell me that there is danger of my

villa being pillaged by robbers. It is from this moment your interest,

as well as mine, to prevent their depredations; for (trust to my

liberality) a portion of all that is saved of mine shall be yours.”

“Bravo! bravissimo!” exclaimed one, who started from a recessed window in

the hall where all this passed. “Bravo! bravissimo!”—Francisco thought

he knew the voice and the countenance of this man, who exclaimed with so

much enthusiasm. He remembered to have seen him before, but when, or

where, he could not recollect. As soon as the count left the hall, the

stranger came up to Francisco. “Is it possible,” said he, “that you

don’t know me? It is scarcely a twelvemonth since I drew tears from your

eyes.”

“Tears from my eyes?” repeated Francisco, smiling; “I have shed but few

tears. I have had but few misfortunes in my life.” The stranger

answered him by two extempore Italian lines, which conveyed nearly the

same idea that has been so well expressed by an English poet:—

“To each their sufferings—all are men

Condemn’d alike to groan;

The feeling for another’s woes,

Th’ unfeeling for his own.”

“I know you now perfectly well,” cried Francisco; “you are the

Improvisatore who, one fine moonlight night last summer, told us the

story of Cornaro the Turk.”

“The same,” said the Improvisatore; “the same, though in a better dress,

which I should not have thought would have made so much difference in

your eyes, though it makes all the difference between man and man in the

eyes of the stupid vulgar. My genius has broken through the clouds of

misfortune of late. A few happy impromptu verses I made on the Count de

Flora’s fall from his horse attracted attention. The count patronizes

me. I am here now to learn the fate of an ode I have just composed for

his lady’s birthday. My ode was to have been set to music, and to have

been performed at his villa near Torre del Greco, if these troubles had

not intervened. Now that the mountain is quiet again, people will return

to their senses. I expect to be munificently rewarded. But, perhaps, I

detain you. Go; I shall not forget to celebrate the heroic action you

have performed this day. I still amuse myself amongst the populace in my

tattered garb late in the evenings, and I shall sound your praises

through Naples in a poem I mean to recite on the late eruption of Mount

Vesuvius. Adieu.”

The Improvisatore was as good as his word. That evening, with more than

his usual enthusiasm, he recited his verses to a great crowd of people in

one of the public squares. Amongst the crowd were several to whom the

name of Francisco was well known, and by whom he was well beloved. These

were his young companions, who remembered him as a fruit-seller amongst

the little merchants. They rejoiced to hear his praises, and repeated

the lines with shouts of applause.

“Let us pass. What is all this disturbance in the streets?” said a man,

pushing his way through the crowd. A lad who held by his arm stopped

suddenly on hearing the name of Francisco, which the people were

repeating with so much enthusiasm.

“Ha! I have found at last a story that interests you more than that of

Cornaro the Turk,” cried the Improvisatore, looking in the face of the

youth, who had stopped so suddenly. “You are the young man who, last

summer, had liked to have tricked me out of my new hat. Promise me you

won’t touch it now,” said he, throwing down the hat at his feet, “or you

hear not one word I have to say. Not one word of the heroic action

performed at the villa of the Count de Flora, near Torre del Greco, this

morning, by Signor Francisco.”

“_Signor_ Francisco!” repeated the lad with disdain. “Well, let us hear

what you have to tell of him,” added he. “Your hat is very safe, I

promise you; I shall not touch it. What of _Signor_ Francisco?”

“_Signor_ Francisco I may, without impropriety, call him,” said the

Improvisatore, “for he is likely to become rich enough to command the

title from those who might not otherwise respect his merit.”

“Likely to become rich! how?” said the lad, whom our readers have

probably before this time discovered to be Piedro. “How, pray, is he

likely to become rich enough to be a signor?”

“The Count de Flora has promised him a liberal portion of all the fine

furniture, plate and jewels that can be saved from his villa at Torre del

Greco. Francisco is gone down hither now with some of the count’s

domestics to protect the valuable goods against those villainous

plunderers, who robbed their fellow-creatures of what even the flames of

Vesuvius would spare.”

“Come, we have had enough of this stuff,” cried the man whose arm Piedro

held. “Come away,” and he hurried forwards.

This man was one of the villains against whom the honest orator expressed

such indignation. He was one of those with whom Piedro got acquainted

during the time that he was living extravagantly upon the money he gained

by the sale of the stolen diamond cross. That robbery was not

discovered; and his success, as he called it, hardened him in guilt. He

was both unwilling and unable to withdraw himself from the bad company

with whom his ill gotten wealth connected him. He did not consider that

bad company leads to the gallows. {342}

The universal confusion which followed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius was

to these villains a time of rejoicing. No sooner did Piedro’s companion

hear of the rich furniture, plate, etc., which the imprudent orator had

described as belonging to the Count de Flora’s villa, than he longed to

make himself master of the whole.

“It is a pity,” said Piedro, “that the count has sent Francisco, with his

servants down to guard it.”

“And who is this Francisco of whom you seem to stand in so much awe?”

“A boy, a young lad only, of about my own age; but I know him to be

sturdily honest. The servants we might corrupt; but even the old proverb

of ‘Angle with a silver hook,’ {343} won’t hold good with him.”

“And if he cannot be won by fair means, he must be conquered by foul,”

said the desperate villain; “but if we offer him rather more than the

count has already promised for his share of the booty, of course he will

consult at once his safety and his interest.”

“No,” said Piedro; “that is not his nature. I know him from a child, and

we had better think of some other house for to-night’s business.”

“None other; none but this,” cried his companion, with an oath. “My mind

is determined upon this, and you must obey your leader: recollect the

fate of him who failed me yesterday.”

The person to whom he alluded was one of the gang of robbers who had been

assassinated by his companions for hesitating to commit some crime

suggested by their leader. No tyranny is so dreadful as that which is

exercised by villains over their young accomplices, who become their

slaves. Piedro, who was of a cowardly nature, trembled at the

threatening countenance of his captain, and promised submission.

In the course of the morning, inquiries were made secretly amongst the

count’s servants; and the two men who were engaged to sit up at the villa

that night along with Francisco, were bribed to second the views of this

gang of thieves. It was agreed that about midnight the robbers should be

let into the house; that Francisco should be tied hand and foot, whilst

they carried off their booty. “He is a stubborn chap, though so young, I

understand,” said the captain of the robbers to his men; “but we carry

poniards, and know how to use them. Piedro, you look pale. You don’t

require to be reminded of what I said to you when we were alone just

now?”

Piedro’s voice failed, and some of his comrades observed that he was

young and new to the business. The captain, who, from being his

pretended friend during his wealthy days, had of late become his tyrant,

cast a stern look at Piedro, and bid him be sure to be at the old Jew’s,

which was the place of meeting, in the dusk of the evening. After saying

this he departed.

Piedro, when he was alone, tried to collect his thoughts—all his thoughts

were full of horror. “Where am I?” said he to himself; “what am I about?

Did I understand rightly what he said about poniards? Francisco; oh,

Francisco! Excellent, kind, generous Francisco! Yes, I recollect your

look when you held the bunch of grapes to my lips, as I sat by the

sea-shore deserted by all the world; and now, what friends have I.

Robbers and—” The word _murderers_ he could not utter. He again

recollected what had been said about poniards, and the longer his mind

fixed upon the words, and the look that accompanied them, the more he was

shocked. He could not doubt but that it was the serious intention of his

accomplices to murder Francisco, if he should make any resistance.

Piedro had at this moment no friend in the world to whom he could apply

for advice or assistance. His wretched father died some weeks before

this time, in a fit of intoxication. Piedro walked up and down the

street, scarcely capable of thinking, much less of coming to any rational

resolution.

The hours passed away, the shadows of the houses lengthened under his

footsteps, the evening came on, and when it grew dusk, after hesitating

in great agony of mind for some time, his fear of the robbers’ vengeance

prevailed over every other feeling, and he went at the appointed hour to

the place of meeting.

The place of meeting was at the house of that Jew to whom he, several

months before, sold the diamond cross. That cross which he thought

himself so lucky to have stolen, and to have disposed of undetected, was,

in fact, the cause of his being in his present dreadful situation. It

was at the Jew’s that he connected himself with this gang of robbers, to

whom he was now become an absolute slave.

“Oh, that I dared to disobey!” said he to himself, with a deep sigh, as

he knocked softly at the back door of the Jew’s house. The back door

opened into a narrow, unfrequented street, and some small rooms at this

side of the house were set apart for the reception of guests who desired

to have their business kept secret. These rooms were separated by a dark

passage from the rest of the house, and numbers of people came to the

shop in the front of the house, which looked into a creditable street,

without knowing anything more, from the ostensible appearance of the

shop, than that it was a kind of pawnbroker’s, where old clothes, old

iron, and all sorts of refuse goods, might be disposed of conveniently.

At the moment Piedro knocked at the back door, the front shop was full of

customers; and the Jew’s boy, whose office it was to attend to these

signals, let Piedro in, told him that none of his comrades were yet come,

and left him in a room by himself.

He was pale and trembling, and felt a cold dew spread over him. He had a

leaden image of Saint Januarius tied round his neck, which, in the midst

of his wickedness, he superstitiously preserved as a sort of charm, and

on this he kept his eyes stupidly fixed, as he sat alone in this gloomy

place.

He listened from time to time, but he heard no noise at the side of the

house where he was. His accomplices did not arrive, and, in a sort of

impatient terror, the attendant upon an evil conscience, he flung open

the door of his cell, and groped his way through the passage which he

knew led to the public shop. He longed to hear some noise, and to mix

with the living. The Jew, when Piedro entered the shop, was bargaining

with a poor, thin-looking man about some gunpowder.

“I don’t deny that it has been wet,” said the man, “but since it was in

the bucket of water, it has been carefully dried. I tell you the simple

truth, that so soon after the grand eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the

people of Naples will not relish fireworks. My poor little rockets, and

even my Catherine-wheels, will have no effect. I am glad to part with

all I have in this line of business. A few days ago I had fine things in

readiness for the Countess de Flora’s birthday, which was to have been

celebrated at the count’s villa.”

“Why do you fix your eyes on me, friend? What is your discourse to me?”

said Piedro, who imagined that the man fixed his eyes upon him as he

mentioned the name of the count’s villa.

“I did not know that I fixed my eyes upon you; I was thinking of my

fireworks,” said the poor man, simply. “But now that I do look at you

and hear your voice, I recollect having had the pleasure of seeing you

before.”

“When? where?” said Piedro.

“A great while ago; no wonder you have forgotten me,” said the man; “but

I can recall the night to your recollection. You were in the street with

me the night I let off that unlucky rocket, which frightened the horses,

and was the cause of overturning a lady’s coach. Don’t you remember the

circumstance?”

“I have a confused recollection of some such thing,” said Piedro, in

great embarrassment; and he looked suspiciously at this man, in doubt

whether he was cunning, and wanted to sound him, or whether he was so

simple as he appeared.

“You did not, perhaps, hear, then,” continued the man, “that there was a

great search made, after the overturn, for a fine diamond cross,

belonging to the lady in the carriage? That lady, though I did not know

it till lately, was the Countess de Flora.”

“I know nothing of the matter,” interrupted Piedro, in great agitation.

His confusion was so marked, that the firework-maker could not avoid

taking notice of it; and a silence of some moments ensued. The Jew, more

practised in dissimulation than Piedro, endeavoured to turn the man’s

attention back to his rockets and his gunpowder—agreed to take the

gunpowder—paid for it in haste, and was, though apparently unconcerned,

eager to get rid of him. But this was not so easily done. The man’s

curiosity was excited, and his suspicions of Piedro were increased every

moment by all the dark changes of his countenance. Piedro, overpowered

with the sense of guilt, surprised at the unexpected mention of the

diamond cross, and of the Count de Flora’s villa, stood like one

convicted, and seemed fixed to the spot, without power of motion.

“I want to look at the old cambric that you said you had—that would do

for making—that you could let me have cheap for artificial flowers,” said

the firework-maker to the Jew; and as he spoke, his eye from time to time

looked towards Piedro.

Piedro felt for the leaden image of the saint, which he wore round his

neck. The string which held it cracked, and broke with the pull he gave

it. This slight circumstance affected his terrified and superstitious

mind more than all the rest. He imagined that at this moment his fate

was decided; that Saint Januarius deserted him, and that he was undone.

He precipitately followed the firework-man the instant he left the shop,

and seizing hold of his arm, whispered, “I must speak to you.”

“Speak, then,” said the man, astonished.

“Not here; this way,” said he, drawing him towards the dark passage:

“what I have to say must not be overheard. You are going to the Count de

Flora’s, are not you?”

“I am,” said the man. He was going there to speak to the countess about

some artificial flowers; but Piedro thought he was going to speak to her

about the diamond cross.

“You are going to give information against me? Nay, hear me, I confess

that I purloined that diamond cross; but I can do the count a great

service, upon condition that he pardons me. His villa is to be attacked

this night by four well armed men. They will set out five hours hence.

I am compelled, under the threat of assassination, to accompany them; but

I shall do no more. I throw myself upon the count’s mercy. Hasten to

him—we have no time to lose.”

The poor man, who heard this confession, escaped from Piedro the moment

he loosed his arm. With all possible expedition he ran to the count’s

palace in Naples, and related to him all that had been said by Piedro.

Some of the count’s servants, on whom he could most depend, were at a

distant part of the city attending their mistress, but the English

gentleman offered the services of his man Arthur. Arthur no sooner heard

the business, and understood that Francisco was in danger, than he armed

himself without saying one word, saddled his English horse, and was ready

to depart before anyone else had finished their exclamations and

conjectures.

“But we are not to set out yet,” said the servant; “it is but four miles

to Torre del Greco; the sbirri (officers of justice) are summoned—they

are to go with us—we must wait for them.”

They waited, much against Arthur’s inclination, a considerable time for

these sbirri. At length they set out, and just as they reached the

villa, the flash of the pistol was seen from one of the apartments in the

house. The robbers were there. This pistol was snapped by their captain

at poor Francisco, who had bravely asserted that he would, as long as he

had life, defend the property committed to his care. The pistol missed

fire, for it was charged with some of the damaged powder which the Jew

had bought that evening from the firework maker, and which he had sold as

excellent immediately afterwards to his favourite customers—the robbers

who met at his house.

Arthur, as soon as he perceived the flash of the piece, pressed forward

through all the apartments, followed by the count’s servants and the

officers of justice. At the sudden appearance of so many armed men, the

robbers stood dismayed. Arthur eagerly shook Francisco’s hand,

congratulating him upon his safety, and did not perceive, till he had

given him several rough friendly shakes, that his arm was wounded, and

that he was pale with the loss of blood.

“It is not much—only a slight wound,” said Francisco; “one that I should

have escaped, if I had been upon my guard; but the sight of a face that I

little expected to see in such company took from me all presence of mind;

and one of the ruffians stabbed me here in the arm, whilst I stood in

stupid astonishment.”

“Oh! take me to prison! take me to prison—I am weary of life—I am a

wretch not fit to live!” cried Piedro, holding his hands to be tied by

the sbirri.

The next morning Piedro was conveyed to prison; and as he passed through

the streets of Naples he was met by several of those who had known him

when he was a child. “Ay,” said they, as he went by, “his father

encouraged him in cheating when he was _but a child_; and see what he is

come to, now he is a man!” He was ordered to remain twelve months in

solitary confinement. His captain and his accomplices were sent to the

galleys, and the Jew was banished from Naples.

And now, having got these villains out of the way, let us return to

honest Francisco. His wound was soon healed. Arthur was no bad surgeon,

for he let his patient get well as fast as he pleased; and Carlo and

Rosetta nursed him with so much kindness, that he was almost sorry to

find himself perfectly recovered.

“Now that you are able to go out,” said Francisco’s father to him, “you

must come and look at my new house, my dear son.”

“Your new house, father?”

“Yes, son, and a charming one it is, and a handsome piece of land near

it—all at a safe distance, too, from Mount Vesuvius; and can you guess

how I came by it?—it was given to me for having a good son.”

“Yes,” cried Carlo; “the inhabitants of Resina, and several who had

property near Terre del Greco, and whose houses and lives were saved by

your intrepidity in carrying the materials for the fireworks and the

gunpowder out of this dangerous place, went in a body to the duke, and

requested that he would mention your name and these facts to the king,

who, amongst the grants he has made to the sufferers by the late eruption

of Mount Vesuvius, has been pleased to say that he gives this house and

garden to your father, because you have saved the property and lives of

many of his subjects.”

The value of a handsome portion of furniture, plate, etc., in the Count

de Flora’s villa, was, according to the count’s promise, given to him;

and this money he divided between his own family and that of the good

carpenter who first put a pencil into his hands. Arthur would not accept

of any present from him. To Mr. Lee, the English gentleman, he offered

one of his own drawings—a fruit-piece.

“I like this very well,” said Arthur, as he examined the drawing, “but I

should like this melon better if it was a little bruised. It is now

three years ago since I was going to buy that bruised melon from you; you

showed me your honest nature then, though you were but a boy; and I have

found you the same ever since. A good beginning makes a good ending—an

honest boy will make an honest man; and honesty is the best policy, as

you have proved to all who wanted the proof, I hope.”

“Yes,” added Francisco’s father, “I think it is pretty plain that Piedro

the Cunning has not managed quite so well as Francisco the Honest.”

TARLTON.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,—

To teach the young idea how to shoot,—

To pour the fresh instruction o’er the mind,—

To breathe th’ enlivening spirit,—and to fix

The generous purpose in the glowing breast.

THOMSON.

YOUNG HARDY was educated by Mr. Freeman, a very excellent master, at one

of our rural Sunday schools. He was honest, obedient, active and

good-natured, hence he was esteemed by his master; and being beloved by

all his companions who were good, he did not desire to be loved by the

bad; nor was he at all vexed or ashamed when idle, mischievous or

dishonest boys attempted to plague or ridicule him. His friend Loveit,

on the contrary, wished to be universally liked, and his highest ambition

was to be thought the best natured boy in the school—and so he was. He

usually went by the name of _Poor Loveit_, and everybody pitied him when

he got into disgrace, which he frequently did, for though he had a good

disposition, he was led to do things which he knew to be wrong merely

because he could never have the courage to say “_No_,” because he was

afraid to offend the ill-natured, and could not bear to be laughed at by

fools.

One fine autumn evening, all the boys were permitted to go out to play in

a pleasant green meadow near the school. Loveit and another boy, called

Tarlton, began to play a game of battledore and shuttlecock, and a large

party stood by to look on, for they were the best players at battledore

and shuttlecock in the school, and this was a trial of skill between

them. When they had got it up to three hundred and twenty, the game

became very interesting. The arms of the combatants tired that they

could scarcely wield the battledores. The shuttlecock began to waver in

the air; now it almost touched the ground, and now, to the astonishment

of the spectators, mounted again high over their heads: yet the strokes

became feebler and feebler; and “Now, Loveit!” “Now, Tarlton!” resounded

on all sides. For another minute the victory was doubtful; but at length

the setting sun, shining full in Loveit’s face, so dazzled his eyes that

he could no longer see the shuttlecock, and it fell at his feet.

After the first shout for Tarlton’s triumph was over, everybody

exclaimed, “Poor Loveit! he’s the best natured fellow in the world! What

a pity that he did not stand with his back to the sun!”

“Now, I dare you all to play another game with me,” cried Tarlton,

vauntingly; and as he spoke, he tossed the shuttlecock up with all his

force—with so much force that it went over the hedge and dropped into a

lane, which went close beside the field. “Hey-day!” said Tarlton, “what

shall we do now?”

The boys were strictly forbidden to go into the lane; and it was upon

their promise not to break this command, that they were allowed to play

in the adjoining field.

No other shuttlecock was to be had and their play was stopped. They

stood on the top of the bank, peeping over the hedge. “I see it yonder,”

said Tarlton; “I wish somebody would get it. One could get over the gate

at the bottom of the field, and be back again in half a minute,” added

he, looking at Loveit. “But you know we must not go into the lane,” said

Loveit, hesitatingly. “Pugh!” said Tarlton, “why, now, what harm could

it do?”

“I don’t know,” said Loveit, drumming upon his battledore; “but—”

“You don’t know, man! why, then, what are you afraid of, I ask you?”

Loveit coloured, went on drumming, and again, in a lower voice, said “_he

didn’t know_.” But upon Tarlton’s repeating, in a more insolent tone, “I

ask you, man, what you’re afraid of?” he suddenly left off drumming, and

looking round, said, “he was not afraid of anything that he knew of.”

“Yes, but you are,” said Hardy, coming forward.

“Am I?” said Loveit; “of what, pray, am I afraid?”

“Of doing wrong!”

“Afraid _of doing wrong_!” repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, so that he

made everybody laugh. “Now, hadn’t you better say afraid of being

flogged?”

“No,” said Hardy, coolly, after the laugh had somewhat subsided, “I am as

little afraid of being flogged as you are, Tarlton; but I meant—”

“No matter what you meant; why should you interfere with your wisdom and

your meanings; nobody thought of asking _you_ to stir a step for us; but

we asked Loveit, because he’s the best fellow in the world.”

“And for that very reason you should not ask him, because, you know he

can’t refuse you anything.”

“Indeed, though,” cried Loveit, piqued, “_there_ you’re mistaken, for I

could refuse if I chose it.”

Hardy smiled; and Loveit, half afraid of his contempt, and half afraid of

Tarlton’s ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had recourse to his

battledore, which he balanced most curiously upon his forefinger. “Look

at him!—now do look at him!” cried Tarlton; “did you ever in your life

see anybody look so silly?—Hardy has him quite under his thumb; he’s so

mortally afraid of Parson Prig, that he dare not, for the soul of him,

turn either of his eyes from the tip of his nose; look how he squints!”

“I don’t squint,” said Loveit, looking up, “and nobody has me under his

thumb! and what Hardy said was only for fear I should get in disgrace;

he’s the best friend I have.”

Loveit spoke this with more than usual spirit, for both his heart and his

pride were touched.

“Come along, then,” said Hardy, taking him by the arm in an affectionate

manner; and he was just going, when Tarlton called after him, “Ay, go

along with its best friend, and take care it does not get into a

scrape;—good-bye, Little Panado!”

“Whom do they call Little Panado?” said Loveit, turning his head hastily

back.

“Never mind,” said Hardy, “what does it signify?”

“No,” said Loveit, “to be sure it does not signify; but one does not like

to be called Little Panado: besides,” added he, after going a few steps

farther, “they’ll all think it so ill-natured. I had better go back, and

just tell them that I’m very sorry I can’t get their shuttlecock; do come

back with me.”

“No,” said Hardy, “I can’t go back; and you’d better not.”

“But, I assure you, I won’t stay a minute; wait for me,” added Loveit;

and he slunk back again to prove that he was not Little Panado.

Once returned, the rest followed, of course; for to support his character

of good-nature he was obliged to yield to the entreaties of his

companions, and to show his spirit, leapt over the gate, amidst the

acclamations of the little mob:—he was quickly out of sight.

“Here,” cried he, returning in about five minutes, quite out of breath,

“I’ve got the shuttlecock; and I’ll tell you what I’ve seen,” cried he,

panting for breath.

“What?” cried everybody, eagerly.

“Why, just at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane”—panting.

“Well,” said Tarlton, impatiently, “do go on.”

“Let me just take breath first.”

“Pugh—never mind your breath.”

“Well, then, just at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane, as I

was looking about for the shuttlecock, I heard a great rustling somewhere

near me, and so I looked where it could come from; and I saw, in a nice

little garden, on the opposite side of the way, a boy, about as big as

Tarlton, sitting in a great tree, shaking the branches: so I called to

the boy, to beg one; but he said he could not give me one, for that they

were his grandfather’s; and just at that minute, from behind a gooseberry

bush, up popped the uncle; the grandfather poked his head out of the

window; so I ran off as fast as my legs would carry me though I heard him

bawling after me all the way.”

“And let him bawl,” cried Tarlton; “he shan’t bawl for nothing; I’m

determined we’ll have some of his fine large rosy apples before I sleep

to-night.”

At this speech a general silence ensued; everybody kept their eyes fixed

upon Tarlton, except Loveit, who looked down, apprehensive that he should

be drawn on much farther than he intended. “Oh, indeed!” said he to

himself, “as Hardy told me, I had better not have come back!”

Regardless of this confusion, Tarlton continued, “But before I say any

more, I hope we have no spies amongst us. If there is any one of you

afraid to be flogged, let him march off this instant!”

Loveit coloured, bit his lips, wished to go, but had not the courage to

move first. He waited to see what everybody else would do: nobody

stirred; so Loveit stood still.

“Well, then,” cried Tarlton, giving his hand to the boy next him, then to

the next, “your word and honour that you won’t betray me; but stand by

me, and I’ll stand by you.” Each boy gave his hand and his promise;

repeating, “Stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.”

Loveit hung back till the last; and had almost twisted off the button of

the boy’s coat who screened him, when Tarlton came up, holding out his

hand, “Come, Loveit, lad, you’re in for it: stand by me, and I’ll stand

by you.”

“Indeed, Tarlton,” expostulated he, without looking him in the face, “I

do wish you’d give up this scheme; I daresay all the apples are gone by

this time; I wish you would. Do, pray, give up this scheme.”

“What scheme, man? you have’n’t heard it yet; you may as well know your

text before you begin preaching.”

The corners of Loveit’s mouth could not refuse to smile, though in his

heart he felt not the slightest inclination to laugh.

“Why, I don’t know you, I declare I don’t know you to-day,” said Tarlton;

“you used to be the best natured most agreeable lad in the world, and

would do anything one asked you; but you’re quite altered of late, as we

were saying just now, when you skulked away with Hardy: come,—do, man,

pluck up a little spirit, and be one of us, or you’ll make us all _hate

you_.”

“_Hate_ me!” repeated Loveit, with terror; “no, surely, you won’t all

_hate_ me!” and he mechanically stretched out his hand which Tarlton

shook violently, saying, “Ay, now, that’s right.”

“Ay, now, that’s wrong!” whispered Loveit’s conscience; but his

conscience was of no use to him, for it was always overpowered by the

voice of numbers; and though he had the wish, he never had the power, to

do right. “Poor Loveit! I knew he would not refuse us,” cried his

companions; and even Tarlton, the moment he shook hands with him,

despised him. It is certain that weakness of mind is despised both by

the good and the bad.

The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed all the airs of commander,

explained his schemes, and laid the plan of attack upon the poor old

man’s apple-tree. It was the only one he had the world. We shall not

dwell upon their consultation; for the amusement of contriving such

expeditions is often the chief thing which induces idle boys to engage in

them.

There was a small window at the end of the back staircase, through which,

between nine and ten o’clock at night, Tarlton, accompanied by Loveit and

another boy, crept out. It was a moonlight night, and after crossing the

field, and climbing the gate, directed by Loveit, who now resolved to go

through the affair with spirit, they proceeded down the lane with rash

yet fearful steps.

At a distance Loveit saw the white washed cottage, and the apple-tree

beside it. They quickened their pace, and with some difficulty scrambled

through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not without being

scratched and torn by the briers. Everything was silent. Yet now and

then, at every rustling of the leaves, they started, and their hearts

beat violently. Once, as Loveit was climbing the apple-tree, he thought

he heard a door in the cottage open, and earnestly begged his companions

to desist and return home. This, however, he could by no means persuade

them to do, until they had filled their pockets with apples; then, to his

great joy, they returned, crept in at the window and each retired, as

softly as possible, to his own apartment.

Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left fast asleep, and

whom he now was extremely afraid of awakening. All the apples were

emptied out of Loveit’s pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the

morning, for fear the smell should betray the secret to Hardy. The room

door was apt to creak, but it was opened with such precaution, that no

noise could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as fast asleep as when

he left him.

“Ah,” said he to himself, “how quietly he sleeps! I wish I had been

sleeping too.” The reproaches of Loveit’s conscience, however, served no

other purpose but to torment him; he had not sufficient strength of mind

to be good. The very next night, in spite of all his fears, and all his

penitence, and all his resolutions, by a little fresh ridicule and

persuasion he was induced to accompany the same party on a similar

expedition. We must observe, that the necessity for continuing their

depredations became stronger the third day; for, though at first only a

small party had been in the secret, by degrees it was divulged to the

whole school; and it was necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the

booty.

Everyone was astonished that Hardy, with all his quickness and

penetration, had not yet discovered their proceedings; but Loveit could

not help suspecting that he was not quite so ignorant as he appeared to

be. Loveit had strictly kept his promise of secrecy; but he was by no

means an artful boy; and in talking to his friend, conscious that he had

something to conceal, he was perpetually on the point of betraying

himself; then recollecting his engagement, he blushed, stammered,

bungled; and upon Hardy’s asking what he meant, would answer with a

silly, guilty countenance, that he did not know; or abruptly break off,

saying, “Oh nothing! nothing at all!”

It was in vain that he urged Tarlton to permit him to consult his friend.

A gloom overspread Tarlton’s brow when he began to speak on the subject,

and he always returned a peremptory refusal, accompanied with some such

taunting expression as this—“I wish we had nothing to do with such a

sneaking fellow; he’ll betray us all, I see, before we have done with

him.”

“Well,” said Loveit to himself, “so I am abused after all, and called a

sneaking fellow for my pains; that’s rather hard, to be sure, when I’ve

got so little by the job.”

In truth he had not got much; for in the division of the booty only one

apple, and half of another, which was only half ripe, happened to fall to

his share; though, to be sure, when they had all eaten their apples, he

had the satisfaction to hear everybody declare they were very sorry they

had forgotten to offer some of theirs to “_poor Loveit_.”

In the meantime, the visits to the apple-tree had been now too frequently

repeated to remain concealed from the old man who lived in the cottage.

He used to examine his only tree very frequently, and missing numbers of

rosy apples, which he had watched ripening, he, though not prone to

suspicion, began to think that there was something going wrong;

especially as a gap was made in his hedge, and there were several small

footsteps in his flower beds.

The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to any living

creature, much less to children, of whom he was particularly fond. Nor

was he in the least avaricious, for though he was not rich, he had enough

to live upon, because he had been very industrious in his youth; and he

was always very ready to part with the little he had. Nor was he a cross

old man. If anything would have made him angry, it would have been the

seeing his favourite tree robbed, as he had promised himself the pleasure

of giving his red apples to his grandchildren on his birthday. However,

he looked up at the tree in sorrow rather than in anger, and leaning upon

his staff, he began to consider what he had best do.

“If I complain to their master,” said he to himself, “they will certainly

be flogged, and that I should be sorry for: yet they must not be let to

go on stealing; that would be worse still, for it would surely bring them

to the gallows in the end. Let me see—oh, ay, that will do; I will

borrow farmer Kent’s dog Barker, he’ll keep them off, I’ll answer for

it.”

Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour, at the same

time, to be sure to chain him well, for he was the fiercest mastiff in

England. The old man, with farmer Kent’s assistance, chained him fast to

the trunk of the apple-tree.

Night came; and Tarlton, Loveit and his companions, returned at the usual

hour. Grown bolder now by frequent success, they came on talking and

laughing. But the moment they had set their foot in the garden, the dog

started up; and, shaking the chain as he sprang forward, barked with

unremitting fury. They stood still as if fixed to the spot. There was

just moonlight enough to see the dog. “Let us try the other side of the

tree,” said Tarlton. But to whichever side they turned, the dog flew

round in an instant, barking with increased fury.

“He’ll break his chain and tear us to pieces,” cried Tarlton; and, struck

with terror, he immediately threw down the basket he had brought with

him, and betook himself to flight, with the greatest precipitation.

“Help me! oh, pray, help me! I can’t get through the hedge,” cried

Loveit, in a lamentable tone, whilst the dog growled hideously, and

sprang forward to the extremity of his chain. “I can’t get out! Oh, for

God’s sake, stay for me one minute, dear Tarlton!” He called in vain; he

was left to struggle through his difficulties by himself; and of all his

dear friends not one turned back to help him. At last, torn and

terrified, he got through the hedge and ran home, despising his

companions for their selfishness. Nor could he help observing that

Tarlton, with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run away from the

appearance of danger.

The next morning Loveit could not help reproaching the party with their

conduct. “Why could not you, any of you, stay one minute to help me?”

said he.

“We did not hear you call,” answered one.

“I was so frightened,” said another, “I would not have turned back for

the whole world.”

“And you, Tarlton?”

“I,” said Tarlton; “had not I enough to do to take care of myself, you

blockhead? Everyone for himself in this world!”

“So I see,” said Loveit, gravely.

“Well, man! is there anything strange in that?”

“Strange! why, yes; I thought you all loved me!”

“Lord love you, lad! so we do; but we love ourselves better.”

“Hardy would not have served me so, however,” said Loveit, turning away

in disgust. Tarlton was alarmed. “Pugh!” said he; “what nonsense have

you taken into your brain! Think no more about it. We are all very

sorry, and beg your pardon; come, shake hands, forgive and forget.”

Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly. “I forgive it with all

my heart,” said he; “but I cannot forget it so soon!”

“Why, then, you are not such a good humoured fellow as we thought you

were. Surely you cannot bear malice, Loveit.” Loveit smiled, and

allowed that he certainly could not bear malice. “Well, then, come; you

know at the bottom we all love you, and would do anything in the world

for you.” Poor Loveit, flattered in his foible, began to believe that

they did love him at the bottom, as they said, and even with his eyes

open consented again to be duped.

“How strange it is,” thought he, “that I should set such value upon the

love of those I despise! When I’m once out of this scrape, I’ll have no

more to do with them, I’m determined.”

Compared with his friend Hardy, his new associates did indeed appear

contemptible; for all this time Hardy had treated him with uniform

kindness, avoided to pry into his secrets, yet seemed ready to receive

his confidence, if it had been offered.

After school in the evening, as he was standing silently beside Hardy,

who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, Tarlton, in his brutal manner,

came up, and seizing him by the arm, cried, “Come along with me, Loveit,

I’ve something to say to you.”

“I can’t come now,” said Loveit, drawing away his arm.

“Ah, do come now,” said Tarlton, in a voice of persuasion.

“Well, I’ll come presently.”

“Nay, but do, pray; there’s a good fellow, come now, because I have

something to say to you.”

“What is it you’ve got to say to me? I wish you’d let me alone,” said

Loveit; yet at the same time he suffered himself to be led away.

Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring him into temper

again; and even though he was not very apt to part with his playthings,

went so far as to say, “Loveit, the other day you wanted a top; I’ll give

you mine if you desire it.”

Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the thought of possessing this

top. “But what did you want to say to me just now?”

“Ay, we’ll talk of that presently; not yet—when we get out of hearing.”

“Nobody is near us,” said Loveit.

“Come a little farther however,” said Tarlton, looking round

suspiciously.

“Well now, well?”

“You know the dog that frightened us last night?”

“Yes.”

“It will never frighten us again.”

“Won’t it? how so?”

“Look here,” said Tarlton, drawing something from his pocket wrapped in a

blue handkerchief.

“What’s that?” Tarlton opened it. “Raw meat!” exclaimed Loveit. “How

came you by it?”

“Tom, the servant boy, Tom got it for me; and I’m to give him sixpence.”

“And is it for the dog?”

“Yes; I vowed I’d be revenged on him, and after this he’ll never bark

again.”

“Never bark again! What do you mean? Is it poison?” exclaimed Loveit,

starting back with horror.

“Only poison for _a dog_,” said Tarlton, confused; “you could not look

more shocking if it was poison for a Christian.”

Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound silence. “Tarlton,” said he

at last, in a changed tone and altered manner, “I did not know you; I

will have no more to do with you.”

“Nay, but stay,” said Tarlton, catching hold of his arm, “stay; I was

only joking.”

“Let go my arm—you were in earnest.”

“But then that was before I knew there was any harm. If you think

there’s any harm?”

“_If_,” said Loveit.

“Why, you know, I might not know; for Tom told me it’s a thing that’s

often done. Ask Tom.”

“I’ll ask nobody! Surely we know better what’s right and wrong than Tom

does.”

“But only just ask him, to hear what he’ll say.”

“I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” cried Loveit, vehemently: “the dog

will die in agonies—in agonies! There was a dog poisoned at my

father’s—I saw him in the yard. Poor creature! He lay and howled and

writhed himself!”

“Poor creature! Well, there’s no harm done now,” cried Tarlton, in a

hypocritical tone. But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit,

he was thoroughly determined in his purpose.

Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his

mind was in such agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like

himself; and two or three times his heart was so full that he was ready

to burst into tears.

“How good-natured you are to me,” said he to Hardy, as he was trying

vainly to entertain him; “but if you knew—” Here he stopped short, for

the bell for evening prayer rang, and they all took their places, and

knelt down. After prayers, as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped

Tarlton,—“_Well_!” asked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing his eyes upon

him.

“_Well_!” replied Tarlton, in an audacious tone, as if he meant to set

his inquiring eye at defiance.

“What do you mean to do to-night?”

“To go to sleep, as you do, I suppose,” replied Tarlton, turning away

abruptly, and whistling as he walked off.

“Oh, he has certainly changed his mind!” said Loveit to himself, “else he

could not whistle.”

About ten minutes after this, as he and Hardy were undressing, Hardy

suddenly recollected that he had left his new kite out upon the grass.

“Oh,” said he, “it will be quite spoiled before morning!”

“Call Tom,” said Loveit, “and bid him bring it in for you in a minute.”

They both went to the top of the stairs to call Tom; no one answered.

They called again louder, “Is Tom below?”

“I’m here,” answered he at last, coming out of Tarlton’s room with a look

of mixed embarrassment and effrontery. And as he was receiving Hardy’s

commission, Loveit saw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of

his pocket. This excited fresh suspicions in Loveit’s mind; but, without

saying one word, he immediately stationed himself at the window in his

room, which looked out towards the lane; and, as the moon was risen, he

could see if anyone passed that way.

“What are you doing there?” said Hardy, after he had been watching some

time; “why don’t you come to bed?” Loveit returned no answer, but

continued standing at the window. Nor did he watch long in vain.

Presently he saw Tom gliding slowly along a by-path, and get over the

gate into the lane.

“He’s gone to do it!” exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an emotion which he

could not command.

“Who’s gone? to do what?” cried Hardy, starting up.

“How cruel! how wicked!” continued Loveit.

“What’s cruel—what’s wicked? speak out at once!” returned Hardy, in that

commanding tone which, in moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves

entitled to assume towards weak ones. Loveit instantly, though in an

incoherent manner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the words

passed his lips, when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without

saying one syllable.

“For God’s sake, what are you going to do?” said Loveit, in great

anxiety. “They’ll never forgive me! don’t betray me! they’ll never

forgive! pray, speak to me! only say you won’t betray us.”

“I will not betray you, trust to me,” said Hardy: and he left the room,

and Loveit stood in amazement; while, in the meantime, Hardy, in hopes of

overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all

possible speed across the meadow, then down the lane. He came up with

Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the old man’s garden. Hardy,

too much out of breath to speak, seized hold of him, dragged him down,

detaining him with a firm grasp, whilst he panted for utterance.

“What, Master Hardy, is it you? what’s the matter? what do you want?”

“I want the poisoned meat that you have in your pocket.”

“Who told you that I had any such thing?” said Tom, clapping his hand

upon his guilty pocket.

“Give it me quietly, and I’ll let you off.”

“Sir, upon my word I haven’t! I didn’t! I don’t know what you mean,”

said Tom, trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two.

“Indeed, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” said Hardy, with great indignation: and a violent struggle

immediately commenced.

The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrageously. Tom was

terrified lest the old man should come out to see what was the matter;

his strength forsook him, and flinging the handkerchief and meat over the

hedge, he ran away with all his speed. The handkerchief fell within

reach of the dog, who instantly snapped at it; luckily it did not come

untied. Hardy saw a pitchfork on a dunghill close beside him, and,

seizing upon it, stuck it into the handkerchief. The dog pulled, tore,

growled, grappled, yelled; it was impossible to get the handkerchief from

between his teeth; but the knot was loosed, the meat, unperceived by the

dog, dropped out, and while he dragged off the handkerchief in triumph,

Hardy, with inexpressible joy, plunged the pitchfork into the poisoned

meat, and bore it away.

Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from a field of battle.

Full of the pleasure of successful benevolence, Hardy tripped joyfully

home, and vaulted over the window sill, when the first object he beheld

was Mr. Power, the usher, standing at the head of the stairs, with his

candle in his hand.

“Come up, whoever you are,” said Mr. William Power, in a stern voice. “I

thought I should find you out at last. Come up, whoever you are!” Hardy

obeyed without reply.—“Hardy!” exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with

astonishment; “is it you, Mr. Hardy?” repeated he, holding the light to

his face. “Why, sir,” said he, in a sneering tone, “I’m sure if Mr.

Trueman was here he wouldn’t believe his own eyes; but for my part I saw

through you long since; I never liked saints, for my share. Will you

please to do me the favour, sir, if it is not too much trouble, to empty

your pockets.” Hardy obeyed in silence. “Heyday! meat! raw meat! what

next?”

“That’s all,” said Hardy, emptying his pockets inside out.

“This is _all_,” said Mr. Power, taking up the meat.

“Pray, sir,” said Hardy, eagerly, “let that meat be burned, it is

poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop out of his fingers;

“you wretch!” looking at him with a menacing air: “what is all this?

Speak.” Hardy was silent. “Why don’t you speak?” cried he, shaking him

by the shoulder impatiently. Still Hardy was silent. “Down upon your

knees this minute and confess all: tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve

been doing, and who are your accomplices, for I know there is a gang of

you; so,” added he, pressing heavily upon Hardy’s shoulder, “down upon

your knees this minute, and confess the whole, that’s your only way now

to get off yourself. If you hope for _my_ pardon, I can tell you it’s

not to be had without asking for.”

“Sir,” said Hardy, in a firm but respectful voice, “I have no pardon to

ask, I have nothing to confess; I am innocent; but if I were not, I would

never try to get off myself by betraying my companions.”

“Very well, sir! very well! very fine! stick to it, stick to it, I advise

you, and we shall see. And how will you look to-morrow, Mr. Innocent,

when my uncle, the doctor, comes home?”

“As I do now, sir,” said Hardy, unmoved.

His composure threw Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance.

“Sir,” continued Hardy, “ever since I have been at school, I never told a

lie, and therefore, sir, I hope you will believe me now. Upon my word

and honour, sir, I have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong? Better and better! what, when I caught you going out at

night?”

“_That_, to be sure, was wrong,” said Hardy, recollecting himself; “but

except that—”

“Except that, sir! I will except nothing. Come along with me, young

gentleman, your time for pardon is past.”

Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow passage to a small

closet, set apart for desperate offenders, and usually known by the name

of the _Black Hole_. “There, sir, take up your lodging there for

to-night,” said he, pushing him in; “to-morrow I’ll know more, or I’ll

know why,” added he, double locking the door, with a tremendous noise,

upon his prisoner, and locking also the door at the end of the passage,

so that no one could have access to him. “So now I think I have you

safe!” said Mr. William Power to himself, stalking off with steps which

made the whole gallery resound, and which made many a guilty heart

tremble.

The conversation which had passed between Hardy and Mr. Power at the head

of the stairs had been anxiously listened to; but only a word or two here

and there had been distinctly overheard.

The locking of the black hole door was a terrible sound—some knew not

what it portended, and others knew _too well_. All assembled in the

morning with faces of anxiety. Tarlton and Loveit’s were the most

agitated: Tarlton for himself, Loveit for his friend, for himself, for

everybody. Every one of the party, and Tarlton at their head, surrounded

him with reproaches; and considered him as the author of the evils which

hung over them. “How could you do so? and why did you say anything to

Hardy about it? when you had promised, too! Oh! what shall we all do?

what a scrape you have brought us into, Loveit, it’s all your fault!”

“All my fault!” repeated poor Loveit, with a sigh; “well, that is hard.”

“Goodness! there’s the bell,” exclaimed a number of voices at once. “Now

for it!” They all stood in a half circle for morning prayers. They

listened—“Here he is coming! No—Yes—Here he is!” And Mr. William Power,

with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place at the head of

the room. They knelt down to prayers, and the moment they rose, Mr.

William Power, laying his hand upon the table, cried, “Stand still,

gentlemen, if you please.” Everybody stood stock still; he walked out of

the circle; they guessed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole room

was in commotion. Each with eagerness asked each what none could answer,

“_Has he told_?” “_What_ has he told?” “Who has he told of?” “I hope

he has not told of me,” cried they.

“I’ll answer for it he has told of all of us,” said Tarlton.

“And I’ll answer for it he has told of none of us,” answered Loveit, with

a sigh.

“You don’t think he’s such a fool, when he can get himself off,” said

Tarlton.

At this instant the prisoner was led in, and as he passed through the

circle, every eye was fixed upon him. His eye fell upon no one, not even

upon Loveit, who pulled him by the coat as he passed—everyone felt almost

afraid to breathe.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Power, sitting down in Mr. Trueman’s elbow-chair,

and placing the prisoner opposite to him; “well, sir, what have you to

say to me this morning?”

“Nothing, sir,” answered Hardy, in a decided, yet modest manner; “nothing

but what I said last night.”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more, sir.”

“But I have something more to say to you, sir, then; and a great deal

more, I promise you, before I have done with you;” and then, seizing him

in a fury, he was just going to give him a severe flogging, when the

schoolroom door opened, and Mr. Trueman appeared, followed by an old man

whom Loveit immediately knew. He leaned upon his stick as he walked, and

in his other hand carried a basket of apples. When they came within the

circle, Mr. Trueman stopped short. “Hardy!” exclaimed he, with a voice

of unfeigned surprise, whilst Mr. William Power stood with his hand

suspended.—“Ay, Hardy, sir,” repeated he. “I told him you’d not believe

your own eyes.”

Mr. Trueman advanced with a slow step. “Now, sir, give me leave,” said

the usher, eagerly drawing him aside, and whispering.

“So, sir,” said Mr. T. when the whisper was done, addressing himself to

Hardy, with a voice and manner which, had he been guilty, must have

pierced him to the heart, “I find I have been deceived in you; it is but

three hours ago that I told your uncle I never had a boy in my school in

whom I placed so much confidence; but, after all this show of honour and

integrity, the moment my back is turned, you are the first to set an

example of disobedience of my orders. Why do I talk of disobeying my

commands—you are a thief!”

“I, sir?” exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repress his feelings.

“You, sir,—you and some others,” said Mr. Trueman, looking round the room

with a penetrating glance—“you and some others.”

“Ay, sir,” interrupted Mr. William Power, “get that out of him if you

can—ask him.”

“I will ask him nothing; I shall neither put his truth nor his honour to

the trial; truth and honour are not to be expected amongst thieves.”

“I am not a thief! I have never had anything to do with thieves,” cried

Hardy, indignantly.

“Have you not robbed this old man? Don’t you know the taste of these

apples?” said Mr. Trueman, taking one out of the basket.

“No, sir; I do not. I never touched one of that old man’s apples.”

“Never touched one of them! I suppose this is some vile equivocation;

you have done worse, you have had the barbarity, the baseness, to attempt

to poison his dog; the poisoned meat was found in your pocket last

night.”

“The poisoned meat was found in my pocket, sir; but I never intended to

poison the dog—I saved his life.”

“Lord bless him!” said the old man.

“Nonsense—cunning!” said Mr. Power. “I hope you won’t let him impose

upon you, sir.”

“No, he cannot impose upon me; I have a proof he is little prepared for,”

said Mr. Trueman, producing the blue handkerchief in which the meat had

been wrapped.

Tarlton turned pale; Hardy’s countenance never changed.

“Don’t you know this handkerchief, sir?”

“I do, sir.”

“Is it not yours?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you know whose it is?” cried Mr. Power. Hardy was silent.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Trueman, “I am not fond of punishing you; but

when I do it, you know, it is always in earnest. I will begin with the

eldest of you; I will begin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands

till this handkerchief is owned.”

“I’m sure it’s not mine,” and “I’m sure it’s none of mine,” burst from

every mouth, whilst they looked at each other in dismay; for none but

Hardy, Loveit and Tarlton knew the secret. “My cane,” said Mr. Trueman,

and Mr. Power handed him the cane. Loveit groaned from the bottom of his

heart. Tarlton leaned back against the wall with a black countenance.

Hardy looked with a steady eye at the cane.

“But first,” said Mr. Trueman, laying down the cane, “let us see.

Perhaps we may find out the owner of this handkerchief another way,”

examining the corners. It was torn almost to pieces; but luckily the

corner that was marked remained.

“J. T.!” cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye turned upon the guilty Tarlton,

who, now as pale as ashes and trembling in every limb, sank down upon his

knees, and in a whining voice begged for mercy. “Upon my word and

honour, sir, I’ll tell you all; I’d never have thought of stealing the

apples if Loveit had not first told me of them; and it was Tom who first

put the poisoning the dog into my head. It was he that carried the meat,

_wasn’t it_?” said he, appealing to Hardy, whose word he knew must be

believed. “Oh, dear sir!” continued he as Mr. Trueman began to move

towards him, “do let me off; pray do let me off this time! I’m not the

only one, indeed, sir! I hope you won’t make me an example for the rest.

It’s very hard I’m to be flogged more than they!”

“I’m not going to flog you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tarlton, getting up and wiping his eyes.

“You need not thank me,” said Mr. Trueman. “Take your handkerchief—go

out of this room—out of this house; let me never see you more.”

“If I had any hopes of him,” said Mr. Trueman, as he shut the door after

him;—“if I had any hopes of him, I would have punished him;—but I have

none. Punishment is meant only to make people better; and those who have

any hopes of themselves will know how to submit to it.”

At these words Loveit first, and immediately all the rest of the guilty

party, stepped out of the ranks, confessed their fault, and declared

themselves ready to bear any punishment their master thought proper.

“Oh, they have been punished enough,” said the old man; “forgive them,

sir.”

Hardy looked as if he wished to speak. “Not because you ask it,” said

Mr. Trueman to the guilty penitents, “though I should be glad to oblige

you—it wouldn’t be just; but there,” pointing to Hardy, “there is one who

has merited a reward; the highest I can give him is that of pardoning his

companions.”

Hardy bowed and his face glowed with pleasure, whilst everybody present

sympathized in his feelings.

“I am sure,” thought Loveit, “this is a lesson I shall never forget.”

“Gentlemen,” said the old man, with a faltering voice, “it wasn’t for the

sake of my apples that I spoke; and you, sir,” said he to Hardy, “I thank

you for saving my dog. If you please, I’ll plant on that mount, opposite

the window, a young apple-tree, from my old one. I will water it, and

take care of it with my own hands for your sake, as long as I am able.

And may God bless you!” laying his trembling hand on Hardy’s head; “may

God bless you—I’m sure God _will_ bless all such boys as you are.”

THE BASKET-WOMAN.

“Toute leur étude était de se complaire et de s’entr’aider.” {365a}

PAUL ET VIRGINIE.

AT the foot of a steep, slippery, white hill, near Dunstable, in

Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather a hovel, which

travellers could scarcely suppose could be inhabited, if they did not see

the smoke rising from its peaked roof. An old woman lives in this hovel,

{365b} and with her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar who

died, and left these orphans perishing with hunger. They thought

themselves very happy when the good old woman first took them into her

hut and bid them warm themselves at her small fire, and gave them a crust

of mouldy bread to eat. She had not much to give, but what she had she

gave with good-will. She was very kind to these poor children, and

worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting, to support herself

and them. She earned money also in another way. She used to follow all

the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill, and when the horses stopped to

take breath or to rest themselves, she put stones behind the carriage

wheels to prevent them from rolling backwards down the steep, slippery

hill.

The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good natured old

woman’s spinning-wheel when she was spinning, and to talk to her. At

these times she taught them something, which, she said, she hoped they

would remember all their lives. She explained to them what is meant by

telling the truth, and what it is to be honest. She taught them to

dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be useful.

One evening, as they were standing beside her, the little boy said to

her, “Grandmother,” for that was the name by which she liked that these

children should call her—“grandmother, how often you are forced to get up

from your spinning-wheel, and to follow the chaises and coaches up that

steep hill, to put stones underneath the wheels, to hinder them from

rolling back! The people who are in the carriages give you a halfpenny

or a penny for doing this, don’t they?”

“Yes, child.”

“But it is very hard work for you to go up and down that hill. You often

say that you are tired, and then you know that you cannot spin all that

time. Now if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the

wheels, you could sit still at your work, and would not the people give

us the halfpence? and could not we bring them all to you? Do, pray, dear

grandmother, try us for one day—to-morrow, will you?”

“Yes,” said the old woman; “I will try what you can do; but I must go up

the hill along with you for the first two or three times, for fear you

should get yourselves hurt.”

So, the next day, the little boy and girl went with their grandmother, as

they used to call her, up the steep hill; and she showed the boy how to

prevent the wheels from rolling back, by putting stones behind them; and

she said, “This is called scotching the wheels;” and she took off the

boy’s hat and gave it to the little girl, to hold up to the

carriage-windows, ready for the halfpence.

When she thought that the children knew how to manage by themselves, she

left them, and returned to her spinning-wheel. A great many carriages

happened to go by this day, and the little girl received a great many

halfpence. She carried them all in her brother’s hat to her grandmother

in the evening; and the old woman smiled, and thanked the children. She

said that they had been useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on

finely, because she had been able to sit still at her wheel all day.

“But, Paul my boy,” said she, “what is the matter with your hand?”

“Only a pinch—only one pinch that I got, as I was putting a stone behind

a wheel of a chaise. It does not hurt me much, grandmother; and I’ve

thought of a good thing for to-morrow. I shall never be hurt again, if

you will only be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken

crutch, grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the

chimney-corner, and that is of no use. I’ll make it of some use, if I

may have it.”

“Take it then, dear,” said the old woman; “and you’ll find the handle of

the broken crutch under my bed.”

Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of the pole into the

block of wood, so as to make something like a dry-rubbing brush. “Look,

grandmamma, look at my _scotcher_. I call this thing my _scotcher_,”

said Paul, “because I shall always scotch the wheels with it. I shall

never pinch my fingers again; my hands, you see, will be safe at the end

of this long stick; and, sister Anne, you need not be at the trouble of

carrying any more stones after me up the hill; we shall never want stones

any more. My scotcher will do without anything else, I hope. I wish it

was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I might run up the

hill, and try my scotcher.”

“And I wish that as many chaises may go by to-morrow as there did to-day,

and that we may bring you as many halfpence, grandmother,” said the

little girl.

“So do I, my dear Anne,” said the old woman; “for I mean that you and

your brother shall have all the money that you get to-morrow. You may

buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some of those ripe plums that you

saw at the fruit-stall the other day, which is just going into Dunstable.

I told you then that I could not afford to buy such things for you; but

now that you can earn halfpence for yourselves, children, it is fair

should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once and a way in

your lives.”

“We’ll bring some of the gingerbread home to her, shan’t we, brother?”

whispered little Anne. The morning came; but no carriages were heard,

though Paul and his sister had risen at five o’clock, that they might be

sure to be ready for early travellers. Paul kept his scotcher poised

upon his shoulder, and watched eagerly at his station at the bottom of

the hill. He did not wait long before a carriage came. He followed it

up the hill; and the instant the postillion called to him, and bid him

stop the wheels, he put his scotcher behind them, and found that it

answered the purpose perfectly well.

Many carriages went by this day, and Paul and Anne received a great many

halfpence from the travellers.

When it grew dusk in the evening, Anne said to her brother—“I don’t think

any more carriages will come by to-day. Let us count the halfpence, and

carry them home now to grandmother.”

“No, not yet,” answered Paul, “let them alone—let them lie still in the

hole where I have put them. I daresay more carriages will come by before

it is quite dark, and then we shall have more halfpence.”

Paul had taken the halfpence out of his hat, and he had put them into a

hole in the high bank by the roadside; and Anne said she would not meddle

with them, and that she would wait till her brother liked to count them;

and Paul said—“If you will stay and watch here, I will go and gather some

blackberries for you in the hedge in yonder field. Stand you hereabouts,

half-way up the hill, and the moment you see any carriage coming along

the road, run as fast as you can and call me.”

Anne waited a long time, or what she thought a long time; and she saw no

carriage, and she trailed her brother’s scotcher up and down till she was

tired. Then she stood still, and looked again, and she saw no carriage;

so she went sorrowfully into the field, and to the hedge where her

brother was gathering blackberries, and she said, “Paul, I’m sadly tired,

_sadly tired_!” said she, “and my eyes are quite strained with looking

for chaises; no more chaises will come to-night; and your scotcher is

lying there, of no use, upon the ground. Have not I waited long enough

for to-day, Paul?”

“Oh, no,” said Paul; “here are some blackberries for you; you had better

wait a little bit longer. Perhaps a carriage might go by whilst you are

standing here talking to me.”

Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, and who liked to do what she was

asked to do, went back to the place where the scotcher lay; and scarcely

had she reached the spot, when she heard the noise of a carriage. She

ran to call her brother, and to their great joy, they now saw four

chaises coming towards them. Paul, as soon as they went up the hill,

followed with his scotcher; first he scotched the wheels of one carriage,

then of another; and Anne was so much delighted with observing how well

the scotcher stopped the wheels, and how much better it was than stones,

that she forgot to go and hold her brother’s hat to the travellers for

halfpence, till she was roused by the voice of a little rosy girl, who

was looking out of the window of one of the chaises. “Come close to the

chaise-door,” said the little girl; “here are some halfpence for you.”

Anne held the hat; and she afterwards went on to the other carriages.

Money was thrown to her from each of them; and when they had all gotten

safely to the top of the hill, she and her brother sat down upon a large

stone by the roadside, to count their treasure. First they began by

counting what was in the hat—“One, two, three, four halfpence.”

“But, oh, brother, look at this!” exclaimed Anne; “this is not the same

as the other halfpence.”

“No, indeed, it is not,” cried Paul, “it is no halfpenny; it is a guinea,

a bright golden guinea!”

“Is it?” said Anne, who had never seen a guinea in her life before, and

who did not know its value; “and will it do as well as a halfpenny to buy

gingerbread? I’ll run to the fruit-stall, and ask the woman; shall I?”

“No, no,” said Paul, “you need not ask any woman, or anybody but me; I

can tell you all about it, as well as anybody in the whole world.”

“The whole world! Oh, Paul, you forgot. Not so well as my grandmother.”

“Why, not so well as my grandmother, perhaps, but, Anne, I can tell you

that you must not talk yourself, Anne, but you must listen to me quietly,

or else you won’t understand what I am going to tell you, for I can

assure you that I don’t think I quite understood it myself, Anne, the

first time my grandmother told it to me, though I stood stock still

listening my best.”

Prepared by this speech to hear something very difficult to be

understood, Anne looked very grave, and her brother explained to her,

that, with a guinea, she might buy two hundred and fifty-two times as

many plums as she could get for a penny.

“Why, Paul, you know the fruit-woman said she would give us a dozen plums

for a penny. Now, for this little guinea, would she give us two hundred

and fifty-two dozen?”

“If she has so many, and if we like to have so many, to be sure she

will,” said Paul, “but I think we should not like to have two hundred and

fifty-two dozen of plums; we could not eat such a number.”

“But we could give some of them to my grandmother,” said Anne.

“But still there would be too many for her, and for us, too,” said Paul,

“and when we had eaten the plums, there would be an end to all the

pleasure. But now I’ll tell you what I am thinking of, Anne, that we

might buy something for my grandmother, that would be very useful to her

indeed, with the guinea—something that would last a great while.”

“What, brother? What sort of thing?”

“Something that she said she wanted very much last winter, when she was

so ill with the rheumatism—something that she said yesterday, when you

were making her bed, she wished she might be able to buy before next

winter.”

“I know, I know what you mean!” said Anne—“a blanket. Oh, yes, Paul,

that will be much better than plums; do let us buy a blanket for her; how

glad she will be to see it! I will make her bed with the new blanket,

and then bring her to see it. But, Paul, how shall we buy a blanket?

Where are blankets to be got?”

“Leave that to me, I’ll manage that. I know where blankets can be got.

I saw one hanging out of a shop the day I went last to Dunstable.”

“You have seen a great many things at Dunstable, brother.”

“Yes, a great many; but I never saw anything there or anywhere else, that

I wished for half so much as I did for the blanket for my grandmother.

Do you remember how she used to shiver with the cold last winter? I’ll

buy the blanket to-morrow. I’m going to Dunstable with her spinning.”

“And you’ll bring the blanket to me, and I shall make the bed very

neatly, that will be all right—all happy!” said Anne, clapping her hands.

“But stay! Hush! don’t clap your hands so, Anne; it will not be all

happy, I’m afraid,” said Paul, and his countenance changed, and he looked

very grave. “It will not be all right, I’m afraid, for there is one

thing we have neither of us thought of, but that we ought to think about.

We cannot buy the blanket, I’m afraid.”

“Why, Paul, why?”

“Because I don’t think this guinea is honestly ours.”

“Nay, brother, but I’m sure it is honestly ours. It was given to us, and

grandmother said all that was given to us to-day was to be our own.”

“But who gave it to you, Anne?”

“Some of the people in those chaises, Paul. I don’t know which of them,

but I daresay it was the little rosy girl.”

“No,” said Paul, “for when she called you to the chaise door, she said,

‘Here’s some halfpence for you.’ Now, if she gave you the guinea, she

must have given it to you by mistake.”

“Well, but perhaps some of the people in the other chaises gave it to me,

and did not give it to me by mistake, Paul. There was a gentleman

reading in one of the chaises and a lady, who looked very good-naturedly

at me, and then the gentleman put down his book and put his head out of

the window, and looked at your scotcher, brother, and he asked me if that

was your own making; and when I said yes, and that I was your sister he

smiled at me, and put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and threw a

handful of halfpence into the hat, and I daresay he gave us the guinea

along with them because he liked your scotcher so much.”

“Why,” said Paul, “that might be, to be sure, but I wish I was quite

certain of it.”

“Then, as we are not quite certain, had not we best go and ask my

grandmother what she thinks about it?”

Paul thought this was excellent advice; and he was not a silly boy, who

did not like to follow good advice. He went with his sister directly to

his grandmother, showed her the guinea, and told her how they came by it.

“My dear, honest children,” said she, “I am very glad you told me all

this. I am very glad that you did not buy either the plums or the

blanket with this guinea. I’m sure it is not honestly ours. Those who

threw it you gave it you by mistake, I warrant; and what I would have you

do is, to go to Dunstable, and try if you can, at either of the inns find

out the person who gave it to you. It is now so late in the evening that

perhaps the travellers will sleep at Dunstable, instead of going on the

next stage; and it is likely that whosoever gave you a guinea instead of

a halfpenny has found out their mistake by this time. All you can do is

to go and inquire for the gentleman who was reading in the chaise.”

“Oh!” interrupted Paul, “I know a good way of finding him out. I

remember it was a dark green chaise with red wheels: and I remember I

read the innkeeper’s name upon the chaise, ‘_John Nelson_.’ (I am much

obliged to you for teaching me to read, grandmother.) You told me

yesterday, grandmother, that the names written upon chaises are the

innkeepers to whom they belong. I read the name of the innkeeper upon

that chaise. It was John Nelson. So Anne and I will go to both the inns

in Dunstable, and try to find out this chaise—John Nelson’s. Come, Anne;

let us set out before it gets quite dark.”

Anne and her brother passed with great courage the tempting stall that

was covered with gingerbread and ripe plums, and pursued their way

steadily through the streets of Dunstable; but Paul, when he came to the

shop where he had seen the blanket, stopped for a moment, and said, “It

is a great pity, Anne, that the guinea is not ours. However, we are

doing what is honest, and that is a comfort. Here, we must go through

this gateway, into the inn-yard; we are come to the ‘Dun Cow.’”

“Cow!” said Anne, “I see no cow.”

“Look up, and you’ll see the cow over your head,” said Paul—“the sign—the

picture. Come, never mind looking at it now; I want to find out the

green chaise that has John Nelson’s name upon it.”

Paul pushed forward, through a crowded passage, till he got into the

inn-yard. There was a great noise and bustle. The hostlers were

carrying in luggage. The postillions were rubbing down the horses, or

rolling the chaises into the coach-house.

“What now! What business have you here, pray?” said a waiter, who almost

ran over Paul, as he was crossing the yard in a great hurry to get some

empty bottles from the bottle-rack. “You’ve no business here, crowding

up the yard. Walk off, young gentleman, if you please.”

“Pray give me leave, sir,” said Paul, “to stay a few minutes, to look

amongst these chaises for one dark green chaise with red wheels, that has

Mr. John Nelson’s name written upon it.”

“What’s that he says about a dark green chaise?” said one of the

postillions.

“What should such a one as he is know about chaises?” interrupted the

hasty waiter, and he vas going to turn Paul out of the yard; but the

hostler caught hold of his arm and said, “Maybe the child has some

business here; let’s know what he has to say for himself.”

The waiter was at this instant luckily obliged to leave them to attend

the bell; and Paul told his business to the hostler, who as soon as he

saw the guinea and heard the story, shook Paul by the hand, and said,

“Stand steady, my honest lad; I’ll find the chaise for you, if it is to

be found here; but John Nelson’s chaises almost always drive to the

‘Black Bull.’”

After some difficulty, the green chaise, with John Nelson’s name upon it,

and the postillion who drove that chaise, were found; and the postillion

told Paul that he was just going into the parlour to the gentleman he had

driven, to be paid, and that he would carry the guinea with him.

“No,” said Paul, “we should like to give it back ourselves.”

“Yes,” said the hostler; “that they have a right to do.”

The postillion made no reply, but looked vexed, and went towards the

house, desiring the children would wait in the passage till his return.

In the passage there was standing a decent, clean, good natured looking

woman, with two huge straw baskets on each side of her. One of the

baskets stood a little in the way of the entrance. A man who was pushing

his way in, and carried in his hand a string of dead larks hung to a

pole, impatient at being stopped, kicked down the straw basket, and all

its contents were thrown out. Bright straw hats, and boxes, and

slippers, were all thrown in disorder upon the dirty ground.

“Oh, they will be trampled upon! They will be all spoiled!” exclaimed

the woman to whom they belonged.

“We’ll help you to pick them up if you will let us,” cried Paul and Anne;

and they immediately ran to her assistance.

When the things were all safe in the basket again, the children expressed

a desire to know how such beautiful things could be made of straw; but

the woman had not time to answer before the postillion came out of the

parlour, and with him a gentleman’s servant, who came to Paul, and

clapping him upon the back, said, “So, my little chap, I gave you a

guinea for a halfpenny, I hear; and I understand you’ve brought it back

again; that’s right, give me hold of it.”

“No, brother,” said Anne, “this is not the gentleman that was reading.”

“Pooh, child, I came in Mr. Nelson’s green chaise. Here’s the postillion

can tell you so. I and my master came in that chaise. I and my master

that was reading, as you say, and it was he that threw the money out to

you. He is going to bed; he is tired and can’t see you himself. He

desires that you’ll give me the guinea.”

He pushed them towards the door; but the basket-woman whispered to them

as they went out, “Wait in the street till I come to you.”

“Pray, Mrs. Landlady,” cried this gentleman’s servant, addressing himself

to the landlady, who just then came out of a room where some company were

at supper, “Pray, Mrs. Landlady, please to let me have roasted larks for

my supper. You are famous for larks at Dunstable; and I make it a rule

to taste the best of everything wherever I go; and, waiter, let me have a

bottle of claret. Do you hear?”

“Larks and claret for his supper,” said the basket-woman to herself, as

she looked at him from head to foot. The postillion was still waiting,

as if to speak to him; and she observed them afterwards whispering and

laughing together. “_No bad hit_,” was a sentence which the servant

pronounced several times.

Now it occurred to the basket-woman that this man had cheated the

children out of the guinea to pay for the larks and claret; and she

thought that perhaps she could discover the truth. She waited quietly in

the passage.

“Waiter! Joe! Joe!” cried the landlady, “why don’t you carry in the

sweetmeat-puffs and the tarts here to the company in the best parlour?”

“Coming, ma’am,” answered the waiter; and with a large dish of tarts and

puffs, the waiter came from the bar; the landlady threw open the door of

the best parlour, to let him in; and the basket-woman had now a full view

of a large cheerful company, and amongst them several children, sitting

round a supper-table.

“Ay,” whispered the landlady, as the door closed after the waiter and the

tarts, “there are customers enough, I warrant, for you in that room, if

you had but the luck to be called in. Pray, what would you have the

conscience, I wonder now, to charge me for these here half-dozen little

mats to put under my dishes?”

“A trifle, ma’am,” said the basket-woman. She let the landlady have the

mats cheap, and the landlady then declared she would step in and see if

the company in the best parlour had done supper. “When they come to

their wine,” added she, “I’ll speak a good word for you, and get you

called in afore the children are sent to bed.”

The landlady, after the usual speech of, “_I hope the supper and

everything is to your liking_, _ladies and gentlemen_,” began with, “If

any of the young gentlemen or ladies would have a _cur’osity_ to see any

of our famous Dunstable straw-work, there’s a decent body without would,

I daresay, be proud to show them her pincushion-boxes, and her baskets

and slippers, and her other _cur’osities_.”

The eyes of the children all turned towards their mother; their mother

smiled, and immediately their father called in the basket-woman, and

desired her to produce her _curiosities_. The children gathered round

her large pannier as it opened, but they did not touch any of her things.

“Ah, papa!” cried a little rosy girl, “here are a pair of straw slippers

that would just fit you, I think; but would not straw shoes wear out very

soon? and would not they let in the wet?”

“Yes, my dear,” said her father, “but these slippers are meant—”

“For powdering-slippers, miss,” interrupted the basket-woman.

“To wear when people are powdering their hair,” continued the gentleman,

“that they may not spoil their other shoes.”

“And will you buy them, papa?”

“No, I cannot indulge myself,” said her father, “in buying them now. I

must make amends,” said he, laughing, “for my carelessness; and as I

threw away a guinea to-day, I must endeavour to save sixpence at least?”

“Ah, the guinea that you threw by mistake into the little girl’s hat as

we were coming up Chalk Hill. Mamma, I wonder that the little girl did

not take notice of its being a guinea, and that she did not run after the

chaise to give it back again. I should think, if she had been an honest

girl, she would have returned it.”

“Miss!—ma’am!—sir!” said the basket-woman, “if it would not be

impertinent, may I speak a word? A little boy and girl have just been

here inquiring for a gentleman who gave them a guinea instead of a

halfpenny by mistake; and not five minutes ago I saw the boy give the

guinea to a gentleman’s servant, who is there without, and who said his

master desired it should be returned to him.”

“There must be some mistake, or some trick in this,” said the gentleman.

“Are the children gone? I must see them—send after them.”

“I’ll go for them myself,” said the good natured basket-woman; “I bid

them wait in the street yonder, for my mind misgave me that the man who

spoke so short to them was a cheat, with his larks and his claret.”

Paul and Anne were speedily summoned, and brought back by their friend

the basket-woman; and Anne, the moment she saw the gentleman, knew that

he was the very person who smiled upon her, who admired her brother’s

scotcher, and who threw a handful of halfpence into the hat; but she

could not be certain, she said, that she received the guinea from him;

she only thought it most likely that she did.

“But I can be certain whether the guinea you returned be mine or no,”

said the gentleman. “I marked the guinea; it was a light one; the only

guinea I had, which I put into my waistcoat pocket this morning.” He

rang the bell, and desired the waiter to let the gentleman who was in the

room opposite to him know that he wished to see him.

“The gentleman in the white parlour, sir, do you mean?”

“I mean the master of the servant who received a guinea from this child.”

“He is a Mr. Pembroke, sir,” said the waiter.

Mr. Pembroke came; and as soon as he heard what had happened, he desired

the waiter to show him to the room where his servant was at supper. The

dishonest servant, who was supping upon larks and claret, knew nothing of

what was going on; but his knife and fork dropped from his hand, and he

overturned a bumper of claret as he started up from the table, in great

surprise and terror, when his master came in with a face of indignation,

and demanded “_The guinea_—the _guinea_, _sir_! that you got from this

child; that guinea which you said I ordered you to ask for from this

child.”

The servant, confounded and half intoxicated, could only stammer out that

he had more guineas than one about him, and that he really did not know

which it was. He pulled his money out, and spread it upon the table with

trembling hands. The marked guinea appeared. His master instantly

turned him out of his service with strong expressions of contempt.

“And now, my little honest girl,” said the gentleman who had admired her

brother’s scotcher, turning to Anne, “and now tell me who you are, and

what you and your brother want or wish for most in the world.”

In the same moment Anne and Paul exclaimed, “The thing we wish for the

most in the world is a blanket for our grandmother.”

“She is not our grandmother in reality, I believe, sir,” said Paul; “but

she is just as good to us, and taught me to read, and taught Anne to

knit, and taught us both that we should be honest—so she has; and I wish

she had a new blanket before next winter, to keep her from the cold and

the rheumatism. She had the rheumatism sadly last winter, sir; and there

is a blanket in this street that would be just the thing for her.”

“She shall have it, then; and,” continued the gentleman, “I will do

something more for you. Do you like to be employed or to be idle best?”

“We like to have something to do always, if we could, sir,” said Paul;

“but we are forced to be idle sometimes, because grandmother has not

always things for us to do that we _can_ do well.”

“Should you like to learn how to make such baskets as these?” said the

gentleman, pointing to one of the Dunstable straw-baskets. “Oh, very

much!” said Paul. “Very much!” said Anne.

“Then I should like to teach you how to make them,” said the

basket-woman; “for I’m sure of one thing, that you’d behave honestly to

me.”

The gentleman put a guinea into the good natured basket-woman’s hand, and

told her that he knew she could not afford to teach them her trade for

nothing. “I shall come through Dunstable again in a few months,” added

he; “and I hope to see that you and your scholars are going on well. If

I find that they are, I will do something more for you.”

“But,” said Anne, “we must tell all this to grandmother, and ask her

about it; and I’m afraid—though I’m very happy—that it is getting very

late, and that we should not stay here any longer.”

“It is a fine moonlight night,” said the basket-woman; “and is not far.

I’ll walk with you, and see you safe home myself.”

The gentleman detained them a few minutes longer, till a messenger whom

he had dispatched to purchase the much wished for blanket returned.

“Your grandmother will sleep well upon this good blanket, I hope,” said

the gentleman, as he gave it into Paul’s opened arms. “It has been

obtained for her by the honesty of her adopted children.”

FOOTNOTES

{2} A hard-hearted man.

{5} “The proper species of rush,” says White, in his ‘Natural History of

Selborne,’ “seems to be the Juncus effusus, or common soft rush, which is

to be found in moist pastures, by the sides of streams, and under hedges.

These rushes are in best condition in the height of summer, but may be

gathered so as to serve the purpose well quite on to autumn. The largest

and longest are the best. Decayed labourers, women, and children make it

their business to procure and prepare them. As soon as they are cut,

they must be flung into water, and kept there; for otherwise they will

dry and shrink, and the peel will not run. When these junci are thus far

prepared, they must lie out on the grass to be bleached and take the dew

for some nights, and afterwards be dried in the sun. Some address is

required in dipping these rushes in the scalding fat or grease; but this

knack is also to be attained by practice. A pound of common grease may

be procured for fourpence, and about six pounds of grease will dip a

pound of rushes and one pound of rushes may be bought for one shilling;

so that a pound of rushes, medicated and ready for use, will cost three

shillings.”

{7} The author has seen a pair of shoes, such as here described, made in

a few hours.

{12a} _Goody_ is not a word used in Ireland. _Collyogh_ is the Irish

appellation of an old woman: but as _Collyogh_ might sound strangely to

English ears, we have translated it by the word Goody.

{12b} What are in Ireland called moats, are, in England, called Danish

mounds, or barrows.

{12c} Near Kells, in Ireland, there is a round tower, which was in

imminent danger of being pulled down by an old woman’s rooting at its

foundation, in hopes of finding treasure.

{77} This is a true anecdote.

{139} _Salt_, the cant name given by the Eton lads to the money

collected at Montem.

{151} Young noblemen at Oxford wear yellow tufts at the tops of their

caps. Hence their flatterers are said to be dead-shots at

yellow-hammers.

{155} From beginning to end.

{167} This is the name of a country dance.

{181} It is necessary to observe that this experiment has never been

actually tried upon raspberry-plants.

{194} _Vide_ “Priestley’s History of Vision,” chapter on coloured

shadows.

{222} Lobe.

{236} This atrocious practice is now happily superseded by the use of

sweeping machines.

{256} This custom of “BARRING OUT” was very general (especially in the

northern parts of England) during the 17th and 18th centuries, and it has

been fully described by Brand and other antiquarian writers.

Dr. Johnson mentions that Addison, while under the tuition of Mr. Shaw,

master of the Lichfield Grammar School, led, and successfully conducted,

“a plan for _barring out_ his master. A disorderly privilege,” says the

doctor, “which, in his time, prevailed in the principal seminaries of

education.”

In the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ of 1828, Dr. P. A. Nuttall, under the

signature of H. A. N., has given a spirited sketch of a “BARRING OUT” at

the Ormskirk Grammar School, which has since been republished at length

(though without acknowledgment), by Sir Henry Ellis, in Bohn’s recent

edition of Brand’s “Popular Antiquities.” This operation took place

early in the present century, and is interesting from its being, perhaps,

the last attempt on record, and also from the circumstance of the writer

himself having been one of the juvenile leaders in the daring adventure,

“quo rum pars magna fuit.”—ED.

{262} Lucifer matches were then unknown.—Ed.

{301} Varieties of Literature, vol. i. p. 299.

{302} Chi compra ha bisogna di cent’ occhi; chi vende n’ha assai di uno.

{303a} E meglio esser fortunato che savio.

{303b} Butta una sardella per pigliar un luccio.

{306} _see anted_.

{308} Il cane scottato dell’ acqua calda ha paura poi della fredda.

{309} The Duke de Rochefoucault.—“On peut être puls fin qu’un autre,

mais pas plus fin que tous les autres.”

{311} Chartres.

{314} Poco e spesso empie il l’orsetto.

{317} Chi te fa piu carezza che non vuole,

O ingannato t’ha, o inganuar et vuole.

{318} This word comes from two Italian words, _bunco rotto_—broken

bench. Bankers and merchants used formerly to count their money, and

write their bills of exchange upon benches in the streets; and when a

merchant or banker lost his credit, and was unable to pay his debts, his

bench was broken.

{326} We must give those of our young English readers who may not be

acquainted with the ancient city of Herculaneum, some idea of it. None

can be ignorant that near Naples is the celebrated volcanic mountain of

Vesuvius;—that, from time to time, there happen violent eruptions from

this mountain; that is to say, flames and immense clouds of smoke issue

from different openings, mouths, or _craters_, as they are called, but

more especially from the summit of the mountain, which is distinguished

by the name of _the_ crater. A rumbling, and afterwards a roaring noise

is heard within, and prodigious quantities of stones and minerals burnt

into masses (scoriæ), are thrown out of the crater, sometimes to a great

distance. The hot ashes from Mount Vesuvius have often been seen upon

the roofs of the houses of Naples, from which it is six miles distant.

Streams of lava run down the sides of the mountains during the time of an

eruption, destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses

and vineyards which are in the neighbourhood.

About 1700 years ago, during the reign of the Roman Emperor Titus, there

happened a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius; and a large city called

Herculaneum, which was situated at about four miles’ distance from the

volcano, was overwhelmed by the streams of lava which poured into it,

filled up the streets, and quickly covered over the tops of the houses,

so that the whole was no more visible. It remained for many years

buried. The lava which covered it became in time fit for vegetation,

plants grew there, a new soil was formed, and a new town called Portici

was built over this place where Herculaneum formerly stood. The little

village of Resina is also situated near the spot. About fifty years ago,

in a poor man’s garden at Resina, a hole in a well about thirty feet

below the surface of the earth was observed. Some persons had the

curiosity to enter into this hole, and, after creeping underground for

some time, they came to the foundations of houses. The peasants,

inhabitants of the village, who had probably never heard of Herculaneum,

were somewhat surprised at their discovery. {327} About the same time,

in a pit in the town of Portici, a similar passage underground was

discovered, and, by orders of the King of Naples, workmen were employed

to dig away the earth, and clear the passage. They found, at length, the

entrance into the town, which, during the reign of Titus, was buried

under lava. It was about eighty-eight Neapolitan palms (a palm contains

near nine inches) below the top of the pit. The workmen, as they cleared

the passages, marked their way with chalk when they came to any turning,

lest they should lose themselves. The streets branched out in many

directions, and, lying across them, the workmen often found large pieces

of timber, beams, and rafters; some broken in the fall, others entire.

These beams and rafters are burned quite black like charcoal, except

those that were found in moist places, which have more the colour of

rotten wood, and which are like a soft paste, into which you might run

your hand. The walls of the houses slant, some one way, some another,

and some are upright. Several magnificent buildings of brick, faced with

marble of different colours, are partly seen, where the workmen have

cleared away the earth and lava with which they were encrusted. Columns

of red and white marble, and flights of steps, are seen in different

places; and out of the ruins of the palaces some very fine statues and

pictures have been dug. Foreigners who visit Naples are very curious to

see this subterraneous city, and are desirous to carry with them into

their own country some proofs of their having examined this wonderful

place.

{327} Philosophical Transactions, vol. ix. p. 440.

{332} Tutte le volpi si trovano in pellicera.

{333a} Assai ben balla a chi fortuna suona.

{333b} Odi, vedi, taci, se vuoi viver in pace.

{334} La vita il fine,—e di loda la sera.

“Compute the morn and evening of their day.”—POPE.

{336} Vien presto consumato l’ingiustamente acquistato.

{337} I fatti sono maschii, le parole femmine.

{338a} Phil. Trans. vol. ix.

{338b} These facts are mentioned in Sir William Hamilton’s account of an

eruption of Mount Vesuvius.—See Phil. Trans. 1795, first part.

{342} La mala compagnia è quella che mena uomini a la forca.

{343} Pescar col hamo d’argento.

{365a} “Their whole study was how to please and to help one another.”

{365b} This was about the close of the 18th century.