THE MIMIC.

MR. and MRS. MONTAGUE ſpent the ſummer of the year 1795 at Clif⯑ton, with their ſon Frederick, and their two daughters, Sophia and Marianne—They had taken much care of the education of their chil⯑dren, nor were they ever tempted by any motive of perſonal convenience, or temporary amuſement, to hazard the permanent happineſs of their pupils.

Senſible of the extreme importance of early impreſſions, and of the power⯑ful [82]influence of external circumſtances in forming the character, and the manners, they were now anxious that the variety of new ideas, and new objects, which would ſtrike the minds of their children, ſhould ap⯑pear in a juſt point of view.

"Let children ſee, and judge for themſelves," is often inconſiderately ſaid.—Where children ſee only a "part," they cannot judge of the "whole"—and from the ſuperficial view which they can have in ſhort viſits, and deſultory converſation, they can form only a falſe eſtimate of the objects of human happineſs, a falſe notion of the nature of ſociety, and falſe opinions of characters.—For theſe reaſons Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintance, as they were well aware, that whatever paſſed in con⯑verſation [83]before their children, be⯑came part of their education.—When they came to Clifton, they wiſhed to have had a houſe entirely to them⯑ſelves, but as they came late in the ſeaſon, almoſt all the lodging houſes were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a houſe in which ſome of the apart⯑ments were already occupied.

During the firſt fortnight, they ſcarcely ſaw or heard any thing of one of the families, who lodged on the ſame floor with them.—An elderly Quaker, and his ſiſter Birtha, were their ſilent neighbours.—The bloom⯑ing complexion of the lady, had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpſe of her face when ſhe was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs.—They could [84]ſcarcely believe that ſhe came to the Wells on account of her health.—Beſides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had ſtruck them with admiration, and they obſerved that her brother carefully guarded theſe from the wheel of the carriage as he handed her in.—From this circumſtance, and from the be⯑nevolent countenance of the old gen⯑tleman, they concluded, that he was very fond of his ſiſter—that they were certainly very happy, only they never ſpoke, and could be ſeen but for a moment.

Not ſo the maiden lady who occu⯑pied the ground floor.—On the ſtairs, in the paſſages, at her window, ſhe was continually viſible, and ſhe ſeemed to poſſeſs the art of being preſent in all theſe places at once.—Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was [85]not particularly melodious. The very firſt day ſhe met Mrs. Montague's children on the ſtairs, ſhe ſtopped to tell Marianne, that ſhe was a charm⯑ing dear! and a charming little dear! to kiſs her, to enquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was "Mrs. Thereſa Tattle;" a circum⯑ſtance of which there was little danger of their long remaining in ignorance, for in the courſe of one morning at leaſt twenty ſingle, and as many double raps at the door, were ſuc⯑ceeded by vociferations of "Mrs. Thereſa's Tattle's ſervant!"—"Mrs. Thereſa Tattle at home?"—"Mrs. Thereſa Tattle not at home."

No perſon at the Wells was often⯑er at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle; ſhe had, as ſhe deemed it, the happineſs to have a moſt ex⯑tenſive acquaintance reſiding at Clif⯑ton—ſhe [86]had for years kept a regiſter of arrivals. She regularly conſulted the ſubſcriptions to the circulating libraries, and the liſts at the Ball and the Pump-Rooms; ſo, that with a memory unincumbered with litera⯑ture, and free from all domeſtic cares, ſhe contrived to retain a moſt aſto⯑niſhing and correct liſt of births, deaths, and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amuſing, inſtructive, or ſcandalous, which are neceſſary to the converſation of a water-drinking place, and eſſential to the character of a "very plea⯑ſant woman."

"A very pleaſant woman," Mrs. Tattle was uſually called, and con⯑ſcious of her accompliſhments, ſhe was eager to introduce herſelf to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, [87]collected from their ſervants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather all that could be told, about them. The name of Montague, at all events, ſhe knew was a good name, and juſtified her courting this acquaintance. She courted it firſt by nods, and becks, and ſmiles, at Marianne, whenever ſhe met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began pre⯑ſently to nod and ſmile in return; perſuaded, that a lady who ſmiled ſo much, could not be ill-natured. Beſides, Mrs. Thereſa's parlour door was ſometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Marianne ſometimes paſſed very ſlowly by this door. One morning it was left quite wide open, ſhe ſtopped to ſay "Pretty Poll," and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged [88]ſhe would do her the honour to walk in and ſee "Pretty Poll;" at the ſame time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plumb cake.

The next day Mrs. Thereſa Tattle did herſelf the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague, "to apologiſe for the liberty ſhe had taken, in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miſs Marianne into her apartment to ſee "Pretty Poll;" and for the ſtill greater liberty ſhe had taken in offering her a piece of plumb cake, inconſiderate creature that ſhe was! which might poſſibly have diſagreed with her, and which certainly were liberties ſhe never ſhould have been induced to take, if ſhe had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miſs Marianne's ſtriking, though highly flattering reſemblance, to a young gentleman, an officer, with whom [89]ſhe had danced; ſhe was ſorry to ſay, now nearly twelve years ago, at the races in—ſhire, of the name of Montague, a moſt reſpectable young man, and of a moſt reſpectable fa⯑mily, with which, in a remote de⯑gree, ſhe might preſume to ſay, ſhe herſelf was ſomeway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Jones's of Merioneth⯑ſhire, who were couſins to the Manwairings, of Bedfordſhire, who married into the family of the Griffiths's, the eldeſt branch of which ſhe underſtood had the honour to be couſin german to Mr. Montague, on which account ſhe had been im⯑patient to pay a viſit ſo likely to be productive of moſt agreeable conſe⯑quences, in the acquiſition of an ac⯑quaintance, whoſe ſociety muſt do her infinite honour."

[90] Having thus happily accompliſhed her firſt viſit, there ſeemed little pro⯑bability of eſcaping Mrs. Tattle's far⯑ther acquaintance. In the courſe of the firſt week, ſhe only hinted to Mr. Montague, that "ſome people thought his ſyſtem of education ra⯑ther odd, that ſhe ſhould be obliged to him if he would, ſome time or other, when he had nothing elſe to do, juſt ſit down and make her underſtand his notions, that ſhe might have ſomething to ſay to her acquaintance, as ſhe always wiſhed to have when ſhe heard any friend attacked, or any friend's opi⯑nions."

Mr. Montague declining to ſit down and make this lady underſtand a ſyſtem of education only to give her ſomething to ſay, and ſhewing unaccountable indifference about the [91]attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next ad⯑dreſſed herſelf to Mrs. Montague, prophecying, in a moſt ſerious whiſ⯑per, "that the charming Miſs Ma⯑rianne would ſhortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if ſhe were not immediately provided with a back⯑board, a French dancing-maſter, and a pair of ſtocks." This alarming whiſper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Monta⯑gue's underſtanding, becauſe, three days afterwards, Mrs. Thereſa, up⯑on the moſt anxious inſpection, miſtook the hip and ſhoulder which ſhould have been the higheſt. This danger vaniſhing, Mrs. Tattle pre⯑ſently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, "heſitated to aſſure Mrs. Montague, that ſhe was greatly diſtreſſed about her daughter [92]Sophy; that ſhe was convinced her lungs were affected; and that ſhe certainly ought to drink the waters morning and evening; and above all things, muſt keep one of the Pa⯑tiroſſa lozenges conſtantly in her mouth, and directly conſult Dr. Cardimum, the beſt phyſician in the world, and the perſon ſhe would ſend for herſelf upon her death bed; becauſe, to her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a relation of her own, after ſhe had loſt one whole globe of her lungs."

The medical opinion of a lady of ſo much anatomical preciſion, could not have much weight; nor was this univerſal adviſer more ſucceſsful in an attempt to introduce a tutor to Frederick, who, "ſhe apprehended, muſt want one to perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead lan⯑guages, [93]of which ſhe obſerved it would be impertinent for a woman to talk, only ſhe might venture to repeat what ſhe had heard ſaid by good authority, that a competency of the dead tongues could be had no where but at a public ſchool, or elſe from a private tutor, who had been abroad (after the advan⯑tages of a claſſical education, finiſhed in one of the Univerſities) with a good family, without which intro⯑duction, it was idle to think of reaping ſolid advantages from any continental tour; all which requiſites ſhe could, from perſonal knowledge, aver concentrated in the gentleman ſhe had the honour to recom⯑mend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had now no farther occaſion for him, being, [94]unfortunately, for himſelf and his family, killed in an untimely duel.

All her ſuggeſtions being loſt upon theſe unthinking parents, Mrs. There⯑ſa Tattle's powers were next tried upon the children, and preſently her ſucceſs was apparent. On Sophy, in⯑deed, ſhe could not make any impreſ⯑ſion, though ſhe had expended on her ſome of her fineſt ſtrokes of flattery-Sophy, though very deſirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very ſolicitous to win the favour of ſtrangers. She was about thirteen, that dangerous age at which ill edu⯑cated girls, in their anxiety to diſ⯑play their accompliſhments, are apt to become dependent for applauſe upon the praiſe of every idle viſitor; when the habits not being formed, and the aftention being ſuddenly turned to dreſs and manners, girls are [95]apt to affect and imitate, indiſcrimi⯑nately, every thing that they fancy to be agreeable.

Sophy, whoſe taſte had been cul⯑tivated at the ſame time with her powers of reaſoning, was not liable to fall into theſe errors; ſhe found that ſhe could pleaſe thoſe whom ſhe wiſhed to pleaſe, without affect⯑ing to be any thing but what ſhe really was; and her friends liſtened to what ſhe ſaid, though ſhe never repeated the ſentiments, or adopted the phraſes, which ſhe might eaſily have caught from the converſation of thoſe who were older, or more faſhionable than herſelf. This word faſhionable, Mrs. Thereſa Tattle knew had uſually a great effect even at thirteen, but ſhe had not obſerved that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her documents concerning grace and [96]manners, much attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy, that it was beſt to let herſelf alone, and not to diſtort either her perſon or her mind, in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the faſhion of the mo⯑ment can ſupport, and which is al⯑ways detected and deſpiſed by peo⯑ple of real good ſenſe and polite⯑neſs.

"Bleſs me!" ſaid Mrs. Tattle to herſelf, "if I had ſuch a tall daughter, and ſo unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart. Thank God I am not a mother! Miſs Marianne for me, if I was!"

Miſs Marianne had heard ſo often from Mrs. Tattle that ſhe was charm⯑ing, that ſhe could not help believing it; and from being a very pleaſing, unaffected little girl, ſhe in a ſhort [97]time grew ſo conceited, that ſhe could neither ſpeak, look, move, or be ſilent, without imagining that every body was, or ought to be, looking at her; and when Mrs. Thereſa ſaw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave upon theſe occaſions, ſhe, to repair the ill ſhe had done, would ſay, after praiſing Marianne's hair or her eyes, "Oh, but little ladies ſhould never think about their beauty you know; nobody loves any body you know for being handſome, but for being good." People muſt think children are very ſilly, or elſe they can never have reflected upon the nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that children will be⯑lieve the words that are ſaid to them by way of moral, when the counte⯑nance, manner, and every conco⯑mitant circumſtance tell them a dif⯑ferent [98]tale. Children are excellent phyſiognomiſts, they quickly learn the univerſal language of looks, and what is ſaid of them always makes a greater impreſſion than what is ſaid to them; a truth of which thoſe prudent people ſurely cannot be aware, who comfort themſelves and apologize to parents by ſaying, "O but I would not ſay ſo and ſo to the child."

Mrs. Thereſa had ſeldom ſaid to Frederick Montague, "that he had a vaſt deal of drollery, and was a moſt incomparable Mimic;" but ſhe had ſaid ſo of him in whiſpers, which magnified the ſound to his imagina⯑tion, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had conſiderable abilities; but his ap⯑petite for vulgar praiſe had not yet been ſurfeited; even Mrs. Thereſa [99]Tattle's flattery pleaſed him, and he exerted himſelf for her entertain⯑ment ſo much, that he became quite a buffoon. Inſtead of obſerving characters and manners, that he might judge of them and form his own, he now watched every perſon he ſaw, that he might de⯑tect ſome foible, or catch ſome ſingu⯑larity in their geſture or pronuncia⯑tion, which he might ſucceſsfully mimic.

Alarmed by the rapid progreſs of theſe evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the firſt day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's viſit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impa⯑tient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a ſilly acquaintance, would hazard the happineſs of their family. [100]They had heard of a houſe in the country which was likely to ſuit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be abſent all day, they foreſaw their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children. They did not chooſe to exact any promiſe from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only ſaid at parting, "If Mrs. Thereſa Tattle ſhould aſk you to come to her, do as you think proper."

Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's car⯑riage gone out of hearing, when a note was brought directed to "Fre⯑derick Montague, Eſq junior," which he immediately opened, and read as follows:

"Mrs. Thereſa Tattle preſents her very beſt compliments to the enter⯑taining Mr. Frederick Montague; ſhe [101]hopes he will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and bring his charming ſiſter Marianne with him, as Mrs. Thereſa will be quite alone, with a ſhocking head⯑ach, and is ſenſible her nerves are affected; and Dr. Cardimum ſays, that (eſpecially in Mrs. T. T's. caſe) it is downright death to nervous patients to be alone an inſtant; ſhe therefore truſts Mr. Frederick will not refuſe to come and make her laugh.

"Mrs. Thereſa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who ſaid ſhe was particu⯑larly fond of them the other day.

"Mrs. Thereſa hopes they will all come at ſix, or before; not forget⯑ting Miſs Sophy, if ſhe will con⯑deſcend to be of the party."

[102] At the firſt reading of this note, "the entertaining" Mr. Frederick, and the charming Miſs Marianne, laughed heartily, and looked at Sophy as if they were afraid that ſhe ſhould think it poſſible they could like ſuch groſs flattery; but upon a ſecond peruſal Marianne obſerved, that it certainly was good-natured of Mrs. Thereſa to remember the macaroons; and Frederick allowed, that it was wrong to laugh at the poor woman becauſe ſhe had the head-ach. Then twiſting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy: "Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an inſtant, and tell us what an⯑ſwer can we ſend?" "Can! we can ſend what anſwer we pleaſe." "Yes, I know that," ſaid Frederick; "I would refuſe if I could, but we ought [103]not to do any thing rude, ſhould we? ſo I think we might as well go." "Hey! becauſe we could not re⯑fuſe if we would, I ſay."

"You have made ſuch confuſion, replied Sophy, between "could n't," and "would n't," and "ſhould n't," that I can't underſtand you; ſurely they are all different things."

"Different! no," cried Frederick, "could, would, ſhould, might, or ought," are all the ſame thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em ſigns of the potential mood, you know."

Sophy, whoſe powers of reaſoning were not to be confounded even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked up ſoberly from her drawing, and anſwered, "That very likely thoſe words might be ſigns of the ſame thing in the Latin grammar, [104]but that ſhe believed they meant per⯑fectly different things in real life."

"That's juſt as people pleaſe," ſaid her ſophiſtical brother, "you know words mean nothing in them⯑ſelves. If I choſe to call my hat my cadwallader, you would under⯑ſtand me juſt as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwal⯑lader and that would then be juſt the ſame thing to you."

"Then why have two words for the ſame thing?" ſaid Sophy; "and what has this to do with could and ſhould? You wanted to prove"—

"I wanted to prove," interrupted Frederick, "that it's not worth while to diſpute for two hours about two [105]words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't diſpute with me."

"I was not diſputing, I was rea⯑ſoning."

"Well, reaſoning or diſputing. Women have no buſineſs to do either, for how ſhould they know how to chop logic like men."

At this contemptuous ſarcaſm up⯑on her ſex, Sophy's colour roſe. "There!" cried Frederick, exulting, "Now we ſhall ſee a philoſophereſs in a paſſion. I'd give ſixpence, half price for a harlequin entertainment, to ſee Sophy in a paſſion. Now Marianne, look at her bruſh dab⯑bling ſo faſt in the water!"

Sophy, who could not eaſily bear to be laughed at, with ſome little in⯑dignation, ſaid, "Brother, I wiſh," —"There! There!" cried Frede⯑rick, [106]pointing to the colour which roſe in her cheek almoſt to her temples; "Riſing! Riſing! Riſing! Look at the thermometer. Blood heat! Blood! Fever heat! Boiling water heat! Marianne."

"Then," ſaid Sophy, ſmiling, "you ſhould ſtand a little farther off, both of you; leave the thermometer to itſelf for a little while; give it time to cool. It will come down to tem⯑perate by the time you look again."

"Oh, brother," cried Marianne, "ſhe's ſo good humour'd, don't teize her any more; and don't draw heads upon her paper; and don't ſtretch her rubber out; and don't let us dirty any more of her bruſhes: See! the ſides of her tumbler are all manner of colours."

[107] "Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green, and yellow, to ſhew you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. But ſhe is temperate now, and I won't plague her; ſhe ſhall chop logic if ſhe likes it, though ſhe is a woman."

"But that's not fair, brother," ſaid Marianne, to ſay woman in that way. I'm ſure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot which papa ſhewed to us yeſterday, long before you did, though you are a man." "Not long," ſaid Frederick; "beſides, that was only a conjuring trick."

"It was very ingenious, though," ſaid Marianne, "and papa ſaid ſo; and beſides, ſhe underſtood the rule of three, which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though, [108]ſhe is a woman; and ſhe may reaſon too, mamma ſays."

"Very well, let her reaſon away," ſaid the provoking wit; "all I have to ſay is, ſhe'll never be able to make a pudding." "Why not, pray bro⯑ther," enquired Sophy, looking up again very gravely. "Why, you know papa himſelf the other day at dinner, ſaid, that that woman who talks Greek and Latin as well as I do, is a fool after all; and that ſhe had better have learned ſome⯑thing uſeful; and Mrs. Tattle ſaid ſhe'd anſwer for it ſhe did not know, how to make a pudding."

"Well, but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?"

"No; but you are drawing, and that's the ſame thing."

[109] "The ſame thing! O Frederick," ſaid little Marianne, laughing.

"You may laugh, but I ſay it is the ſame ſort of thing. Women that are always drawing, and rea⯑ſoning, never know how to make puddings; Mrs. Thereſa Tattle ſaid ſo when I ſhewed her Sophy's beau⯑tiful drawing yeſterday."

"Mrs. Thereſa Tattle might ſay ſo," replied Sophy, calmly, "but I do not perceive the reaſon, brother, why drawing ſhould prevent me from learning how to make a pud⯑ding."

"Well, I ſay you'll never learn to make a good pudding."

"I have learned," continued Sophy, who was mixing her colours, "to mix ſuch and ſuch colours together to make the colour that I want, and why [110]ſhould I not be able to learn to mix flour and butter, and ſugar and egg together, to make the taſte that I want?"

"Oh, but mixing will never do, unleſs you know the quantities, like a cook; and you would never learn the right quantities."

"How did the cook learn them, cannot I learn them as ſhe did?"

"Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the ſpoonfuls rightly, by the receipt, like a cook, exactly."

"Indeed! indeed but ſhe would," cried Marianne eagerly, "and a great deal more exactly, for Mamma has taught her to weigh and meaſure things very carefully; and when I was ill, ſhe always weighed my bark ſo nicely, and dropped my drops [111]ſo carefully; not like the cook. When Mamma took me down to ſee her make a cake once, I ſaw her ſpoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls; ſhe daſhed and ſplaſhed without minding exactneſs, or the receipt, or any thing. I'm ſure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactneſs only is want⯑ing."

"Well, granting that ſhe could make the beſt pudding in the whole world, what does that ſignify? I ſay ſhe never would, ſo it comes to the ſame thing."

"Never would! how can you tell that, brother?"

"Never would! how can you tell that, brother?"

"Why now look at her, with her books, and her drawings, and all this apparatus; do you think ſhe would ever jump up, [112]with all her nicety too, and put bye all theſe things, to go down into the greaſy kitchen, and plump up to the elbows in ſuet, like a cook, for a plumb pudding?"

"I need not plump up to the elbows, brother," ſaid Sophy, ſmil⯑ing, "nor is it neceſſary that I ſhould be a cook; but if it were neceſſary, I hope I ſhould be able to make a pudding."

"Yes, yes, yes," cried Marianne, warmly, "that ſhe would, jump up and put by all her things in a minute, if it was neceſſary, and run down ſtairs and up again like lightning, or do any thing that was ever ſo diſagree⯑able to her, even about the ſuet, with all the nicety, brother, I aſſure you, as ſhe uſed to do any thing; every thing for me when I was ill laſt Win⯑ter. [113]Oh, brother, ſhe can do any thing! and ſhe could make the beſt plumb pudding in the whole world, I'm ſure, in a minute, if it was neceſſary."

THE MIMIC.
PART II.

A KNOCK at the door from Mrs. Thereſa Tattle's ſervant, recalled Marianne to the buſineſs of the day.

"There," ſaid Frederick, "we have ſent no anſwer all this time. It's neceſſary to think of that in a minute."

The ſervant came with his miſtreſs's compliments, to let the young ladies and Mr. Frederick know that ſhe was waiting tea for them.

[116] "Waiting! then we muſt go," ſaid Frederick.

The ſervant opened the door wider to let him paſs, and Marianne thought ſhe muſt follow her brother, ſo they went down ſtairs together, whilſt So⯑phy gave her own meſſage to the ſer⯑vant, and quietly ſtaid at her uſual occupations.

Mrs. Tattle was ſeated at her tea⯑table, with a large plate of macaroons beſide her, when Frederick and Marianne entered. She was "de⯑lighted" they were come, and "grieved" not to ſee Miſs Sophy along with them. Marianne co⯑loured a little, for though ſhe had precipitately followed her brother, and though he had quieted her con⯑ſcience for a moment, by ſaying, "You know Papa and Mamma told us to do what we thought beſt;" [117]yet ſhe did not feel quite pleaſed with herſelf; and it was not till after Mrs. Thereſa had exhauſted all her compliments, and half her maca⯑roons, that ſhe could reſtore her ſpirits to their uſual height.

"Come, Mr. Frederick," ſaid ſhe, after tea, "you promiſed to make me laugh; and nobody can make me laugh ſo well as yourſelf."

"Oh, brother," ſaid Marianne, "ſhew Mrs. Thereſa Dr. Carbuncle eating his dinner, and I'll be Mrs. Carbuncle."

Now, my dear, what ſhall I help you to?

My dear! ſhe never calls him my dear, you know, but always doctor.

Well then, Doctor, what will you eat to-day?

Eat, Madam! Eat! No⯑thing! Nothing! I don't ſee any thing here that I can eat, ma'am.

Here's eels, ſir; let me help you to ſome eel, ſtewed eel, ſir, you uſed to be fond of ſtewed eel.

Uſed, ma'am, uſed! But I'm ſick of ſtewed eels. You would tire one of any thing. Am I to ſee nothing but eels? And what's this at the bot⯑tom?

Mutton, doctor, roaſt mut⯑ton, if you'll be ſo good as to cut it.

Cut it, Ma'am! I can't cut it, I ſay. It's as hard as a deal board. You might as well tell me to cut the table, ma'am. Mutton, indeed! not a bit of fat. Roaſt mutton, indeed! not a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly! quite a cinder. I'll have none of it. Here, take it away; take it down [119]ſtairs to the cook. It's a very hard caſe, Mrs. Carbuncle, that I can never have a bit of any thing that I can eat at my own table, Mrs. Car⯑buncle, ſince I was married, ma'am. I that am the eaſieſt man in the whole world to pleaſe about my dinner. It's really very extraordinary, Mrs. Car⯑buncle! What have you got at that corner there, under the cover?

Patties, ſir; oyſter patties.

Patties, ma'am! kickſhaws! I hate kickſhaws. Not worth putting under a cover, ma'am. And why have not you glaſs covers, that one may ſee one's dinner before one, be⯑fore it grows cold with aſking queſ⯑tions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up covers? But nobody has any ſenſe; and I ſee no water-plates any where lately.

Do pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of this chicken before it gets cold, my dear.

"My dear" again, Marianne!

Yes, brother, becauſe ſhe is frightened you know, and Mrs. Car⯑buncle always ſays "my dear" to him when ſhe's frightened; and looks ſo pale from ſide to ſide; and ſome⯑times ſhe cries before dinner's done; and then all the company are quite ſilent, and don't know what to do.

"Oh, ſuch a little creature! to have ſo much ſenſe too!" exclaimed Mrs. Thereſa, with rapture, "Mr. Frederick you'll make me die with laughing! Pray go on, doctor Car⯑buncle."

Well, ma'am, then if I muſt eat ſomething, ſend me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver-wing, and a [121]bit of the breaſt; oyſter ſauce, and a ſlice of that ham, if you pleaſe, ma'am.

Here—A plate, knife and fork, bit o'bread, a glaſs of Dorcheſ⯑ter ale!

"Oh, admirable!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.

"Now brother, ſuppoſe that it is after dinner," ſaid Marianne, "and ſhew us how the doctor goes to ſleep."

Frederick threw himſelf back in an arm chair, leaning his head back, with his mouth open, ſnoring; nodded from time to time; croſſed and un⯑croſſed his legs; tried to waken himſelf by twitching his wig, ſet⯑tling [122]his collar, blowing his noſe, and wrapping on the lid of his ſnuff⯑box.

All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle; who, when ſhe could ſtop herſelf from laughing, "declared it made her ſigh too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with that man, and all for nothing too; for her jointure was nothing, next to nothing, though a great thing to be ſure her friends thought for her, when ſhe was only Sally Ridgeway, before ſhe was married. Such a wife as ſhe makes! continued Mrs. Thereſa, lifting up her hands and eyes to Heaven, and ſo much as ſhe has gone through, the brute ought to be aſhamed of him⯑ſelf if he does not leave her ſome⯑thing extraordinary in his will; for, turn it which way ſhe will, ſhe can never keep a carriage, or live like [123]any body elſe, on her jointure, after all. She tells me, poor ſoul! a ſad proſpect after her huſband's death, to look forward to, inſtead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and ſhe, poor young thing, know⯑ing no better when they married her. People ſhould look into theſe things before hand, or never marry at all, I ſay, Miſs Marianne."

Miſs Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reaſon why Mrs. Carbuncle would be ſo unhappy after her huſ⯑band's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that inſtant ſtudying Mrs. Thereſa as a future character to mi⯑mic, "Brother," ſaid Marianne, "now ſing an Italian ſong for us, like Miſs Croker. Pray, Miſs Croker, favour us with a ſong. Mrs. Thereſa Tattle has never had the pleaſure of hearing [124]you ſing; ſhe's quite impatient to hear you ſing."

"Yes, indeed I am," ſaid Mrs. Thereſa.

Frederick put his hands before him affectedly; "Oh, indeed ma'am! indeed ladies! I really am ſo hoarſe; it diſtreſſes me ſo to be preſſed to ſing; beſides, upon my word, I have quite left off ſinging. I've never ſung once, except for very particular peo⯑ple, this winter."

But Mrs. Thereſa Tattle is a very particular perſon, I'm ſure you'll ſing for her.

Certainly, Ma'am, I allow you uſe a powerful argument; but I aſſure you now I would do my beſt to oblige you, but I abſolutely have forgotten all my Engliſh ſongs. No⯑body hears any thing but Italian now, and I have been ſo giddy as to leave [125]my Italian muſic behind me. Be⯑ſides, I make it a rule never to ha⯑zard myſelf without an accompany⯑ment.

Oh, try, Miſs Croker, for once.

"Charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; "ſo like Miſs Croker, I'm ſure I ſhall think of you, Mr. Frede⯑rick, when I hear her aſked to ſing again. Her voice, however, intro⯑duces her to very pleaſant parties, and ſhe's a girl that's very much taken notice of, and I don't doubt will go off vaſtly well. She's a particular [126]favourite of mine, you muſt know; and I mean to do her a piece of ſer⯑vice the firſt opportunity, by ſaying ſomething or other that ſhall go round to her relations in Northumberland, and make them do ſomething for her; as well they may, for they are all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny."

Now, brother, read the newſpaper like counſellor Puff.

"Oh, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you of all things! you are quite yourſelf to-night. Here's a newſpaper, ſir. Pray let us have counſellor Puff. It's not late."

"As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a diſtinguiſhing orna⯑ment in either ſex, Meſſrs. Valiant and Wiſe, conceive it to be their duty to take the earlieſt opportunity [127]to advertiſe the nobility and gentry of Great-Britain in general, and their friends in particular, that they have now ready for ſale, as uſual, at the Hippocrates's Head, a freſh aſſort⯑ment of the new-invented, much ad⯑mired Primroſe Soap.—To prevent impoſitions and counterfeits, the pub⯑lic are requeſted to take notice, that the only genuine Primroſe Soap is ſtamped on the outſide, "Valiant and Wiſe."

"Oh, you moſt incomparable Mi⯑mic! 'tis abſolutely the counſellor himſelf. I abſolutely muſt ſhew you, ſome day, to my friend lady Baterſ⯑by; you'd abſolutely make her die with laughing; and ſhe'd quite adore you," ſaid Mrs. Thereſa, who was well aware that every pauſe muſt be filled with flattery. "Pray go on, pray go on, I ſhall never be tired if [128]I were to ſit looking at you theſe hundred years."

Stimulated by theſe plaudits, Fre⯑derick proceeded to ſhow how colo⯑nel Epaulette blew his noſe, flou⯑riſhed his cambric handkerchief, bowed to lady Di Periwinkle, and admired her work, ſaying, "Done by no hands, as you may gueſs, but thoſe of Fairly Fair." Whilſt lady Di, he obſerved, ſimpered ſo prettily, and took herſelf ſo quietly for Fairly Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own nails all the while.

Next to colonel Epaulette, Frede⯑rick, at Marianne's particular deſire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.

"Very well, brother," cried ſhe, "your hand down to the very bot⯑tom of your pocket, and your other [129]ſhoulder up to your ear; but you are not quite wooden enough; and you ſhould walk as if your hip was out of joint. There now, Mrs. Tat⯑tle, are not thoſe good eyes; they ſtare ſo like his, without ſeeming to ſee any thing all the while."

"Excellent! admirable! Mr. Fre⯑derick, I muſt ſay you are the beſt Mimic of your age I ever ſaw, and I'm ſure lady Batterſby will think ſo too. That is Sir Charles to the very life. But with all that, you muſt know he's a mighty pleaſant, faſhion⯑able young man, when you come to know him, and has a great deal of ſenſe under all that, and is of a very good family. The Slangs, you know: Sir Charles, will come into a fine for⯑tune himſelf next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man. Pray go [130]on, I interrupt you, Mr. Frede⯑rick."

"Now brother," ſaid Marianne.

"No, Marianne, I can do no more, I'm quite tired, and I will do no more," ſaid Frederick, ſtretching himſelf at full length upon a ſofa.

Even in the midſt of laughter, and whilſt the voice of flattery yet ſounded in his ear, Frederick felt ſad; diſ⯑pleaſed with himſelf, and diſguſted with Mrs. Thereſa.

"What a deep ſigh was there!" ſaid Mrs. Thereſa, "what can make you ſigh ſo bitterly? you, who make every body elſe laugh. Oh, ſuch another ſigh again!"

"Marianne," cried Frederick, "do you remember the man in the maſk?"

[131] "What man in the maſk, bro⯑ther?"

"The man—the actor—the buf⯑foon, that my father told us of, who uſed to cry behind the maſk, that made every body elſe laugh."

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

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

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

"But Sophy! and Papa and Mamma you know will come home juſt now," ſaid Marianne.

"Oh, Miſs Sophy has her books and drawings, you know, ſhe's never afraid of being alone; beſides, to-night it was her own choice; and as to your Papa and Mamma, they won't be home to-night, I'm pretty ſure, for a gentleman, who had it from their own authority, told me where they were going, which is far⯑ther off than they think, but they [133]did not conſult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to ſleep out, ſo you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles."

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

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

[134] "The chimney ſweepers, ma'am, an' pleaſe your ladyſhip."

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

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

"The bell rang ma'am," an⯑ſwered the ſqueaking voice.

"The bell rang! yes, for Chriſ⯑topher. The boy's mad, or drunk."

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

[135] "My brother, I have no brother, dunce," ſaid Mrs. Thereſa.

"Mr. Eden, madam."

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

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

"Stay," ſaid Mrs. Tattle, whoſe curioſity was excited, "What can the [136]Edens want with chimney ſweepers at this time o'night, I wonder? Chriſ⯑topher, did you hear any thing about it?" ſaid the lady to her footman, who was now lighting the candles.

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

"Yes, ſtep down, do, and Chriſ⯑topher, bring up the cowſlip wine, and ſome more macaroons for my lit⯑tle Marianne."

[137] Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiſs which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her, for ſhe was ſome⯑what ſurpriſed at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her foot⯑man. She had not been uſed to theſe manners in her father and mother, and ſhe did not like them.

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

"Ma'am, the little fellow with the ſqueaking voice has been telling me the whole ſtory. The other morn⯑ing, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill, ſweeping in Paradiſe-row; thoſe chimnies, they ſay, are difficult; and the ſquare fel⯑low, ma'am, the biggeſt of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney; the other little fellow was up at the top at [138]the time, and he heard the cry, but in his fright and all he did not know what to do, ma'am, for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a ſoul could he ſee ſtirring, but a few that he could not make mind his ſcreech. The boy within almoſt ſtifling too. So he ſcreeched, and ſcreeched, all he could; and by the greateſt chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was juſt going down the hill to fetch his morning walk."

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

"Well," ſaid Marianne, impa⯑tlently.

"So, ma'am, hearing the ſcreech, he turns and ſees the ſweep, and the moment he underſtands the mat⯑ter—

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

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

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

"Why, ma'am," ſaid Chriſtopher, with a look of great delight, "that was all as one, as the very 'dentical words I put to the boy myſelf when he telled me his ſtory. But, ma'am, that was what I could n't get out of him neither, rightly, for he is a [140]churl; the big boy that was ſtuck in the chimney, I mean, for when I put the queſtion to him about the wig, laughing like, he would n't take it laughing like at all, but would only make anſwer to us like a bear, "He ſaved my life, that's all I know;" and this over again, ma'am, to all the kitchen round, that croſs-queſtioned him. So when I finds him ſo ſtupid and ill-mannered like (for I offered him a ſhilling, ma'am, myſelf, to tell about the wig) but he put it back in a ways that did not become ſuch as he, to no lady's butler, ma'am: whereupon I turns to the ſlim fellow, and he's ſmarterer and more manner⯑ly, ma'am, with a tongue in his head for his betters, but he could not re⯑ſolve me my queſtion neither, for he was up at the top of the chimney the beſt part o' the time; and when he [141]came down, Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma'am."

"Poor Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Marianne.

"Oh, Miſs," continued the ſer⯑vant, "and the chimney-ſweep him⯑ſelf was ſo bruiſed, and muſt have been killed."

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

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

"Certainly, it was a moſt com⯑mendable action, and quite providen⯑tial; ſo I ſhall take an opportunity of ſaying, when I tell the ſtory in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind ſtars, I'm ſure, to the end of his days for ſuch an eſcape. But pray, Chriſtopher," ſaid ſhe, perſiſt⯑ing in her converſation with Chriſ⯑topher, who was now laying the cloth for ſupper, "Pray which houſe was it in Paradiſe-row? where the Eagles, or the Miſs Ropers lodge? or which?"

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

"Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Thereſa, "I thought we ſhould get to the bot⯑tom of the affair at laſt. This is ex⯑cellent! [143]This will make an admirable ſtory for my lady Batterſby the next time I ſee her. Theſe Quakers are ſo ſly!—Old Eden I know has long wanted to get himſelf introduced in that houſe, and a charming charitable expedient he hit upon! My lady Bat⯑terſby will enjoy this of all things."

THE MIMIC.
PART III.

"NOW," continued Mrs. Thereſa, turning to Frederick, as ſoon as the ſervant had left the room, "now, Mr. Frederick Montague, I have a favour—ſuch a favour to aſk of you—its a favour which only you can grant; you have ſuch talents, and would do the thing ſo admirably! and my lady Batterſby would quite adore you for it. She will do me the honour to be here to ſpend an evening to-morrow. I'm convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themſelves obliged to ſtay out [146]another day; and I ſo long to ſhew you off to her ladyſhip; and your doctor Carbuncle, and your counſellor Puff, and your Miſs Croker, and all your charming characters. You muſt let me introduce you to her ladyſhip to-morrow evening. Promiſe me."—

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

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

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

[147] "Aſk them!" repeated Mrs. Thereſa, "my dear ſir, at your age, muſt you aſk your Papa and Mamma about ſuch things?"

"Muſt! no ma'am," ſaid Fre⯑derick; "but I ſaid I would; I know I need not, becauſe my fa⯑ther and mother always let me judge for myſelf about every thing al⯑moſt."

"And about this I am ſure," cried Marianne; Papa and Mamma you know, juſt as they were go⯑ing away, ſaid, "If Mrs. Thereſa aſks you to come, do as you think beſt."

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

"To be ſure I may, madam," ſaid Frederick, colouring from that [148]ſpecies of emotion which is juſtly called falſe ſhame, which often con⯑quers real ſhame, "to be ſure, ma'am, I may do as I pleaſe."

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

The jarcon of politeneſs and gal⯑lantry is frequently brought by the ſilly acquaintance of young people, to confuſe their ſimple morality and clear good ſenſe. A new and unin⯑telligible ſyſtem is preſented to them, in a language foreign to their under⯑ſtanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They heſitate between new motives and old principles; from the [149]fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children, act like fools. But all this they feel, only when they are in the company of ſuch people as Mrs. Thereſa Tat⯑tle.

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

"Take care, take care," ſaid Mrs. Thereſa, laughing at his perplexity, you want to get off from obliging me, and you don't know how. You had very nearly made a moſt ſhocking blunder, in putting it all upon poor lady Batterſby. Now you know its impoſſible Mr. and Mrs. Montague [150]could have in nature, the ſlighteſt objection to my introducing you to my lady Batterſby at my own houſe; for don't you know, that beſides her ladyſhip's many unexceptionable qua⯑lities, which one need not talk of, ſhe is couſin, but once removed to the Trotters of Lancaſhire, your mother's great favourites. And there is not a perſon at the Wells, I'll venture to ſay, could be of more advantage to your ſiſter Sophy, in the way of part⯑ners, when ſhe comes to go to the balls, which it's to be ſuppoſed ſhe will ſome time or other; and as you are ſo good a brother, that's a thing to be looked to, you know. Beſides, as to yourſelf, there's no⯑thing her ladyſhip delights in ſo much as in a good mimic; and ſhe'll quite adore you!"

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

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

Frederick looked ſurpriſed, for he thought that the favour of his com⯑pany [152]was what ſhe meant; but ſhe explained herſelf farther.

"The old Quaker who lodges above, Old Ephraim Eden, my lady Batterſby and I have ſo much diver⯑ſion about him, he is the beſt cha⯑racter, the oddeſt creature! If you were but to ſee him come into the rooms with thoſe ſtiff ſkirts, or walking with his eternal ſiſter Birtha, and his ever⯑laſting broad brimmed hat, one knows him a mile off. But then his voice, and way, and all together, if one could get them to the life, they'd be better than any thing on the ſtage; better even than any thing I've ſeen to-night; and I think you'd make a capital Quaker for my lady Batterſby; but then the thing is, one can never get to hear the old Quiz talk. Now you who have ſo much invention and cleverneſs; I have no invention my⯑ſelf, [153]but could not you hit upon ſome way of getting to ſee him, ſo that you might get him by heart. I'm ſure you, who are ſo quick, would only want to ſee him, and hear for half a minute, to be able to take him off, ſo as to kill one with laughing. But I have no invention.

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

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

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

[154] "Well, well, let us hear it, and you ſhall do as you pleaſe after⯑wards."

"Merciful goodneſs!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, "do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round and thought the ſqueaking chimney ſweeper was in the room!"

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

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

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

[155] "Oh, its an admirable invention, I give you infinite credit for it!" ex⯑claimed Mrs. Thereſa. "It ſhall, it muſt be done: I'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute."

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

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

"Chriſtopher, ſhut the door; Chriſ⯑topher," ſaid ſhe to the ſervant, who came up when ſhe rang, "Pray are the ſweeps gone yet?"

"No, ma'am."

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

[156] "Oh, no, ma'am; nor be not to go till the bell rings, for Miſs Birtha, ma'am, was aſleep, laying down, and her brother would n't have her wakened on no account what⯑ſomever; he came down his ſelf to the kitchen to the ſweeps though; but would n't have, as I heard him ſay, his ſiſter waked for no account. But Miſs Birtha's bell will ring, when ſhe wakens, for the ſweeps, ma'am, t'was ſhe wanted to ſee the boy as her brother ſaved, and I ſup⯑poſe ſent for 'em to give 'em ſome⯑thing charitable, ma'am."

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

[157] Chriſtopher, who had curioſity as well as his miſtreſs, when he return⯑ed with the chimney ſweeper, pro⯑longed his own ſtay in the room by ſweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and ſhovel, and picking them up again.

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

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

[158] "Well, I'll only change cloaths with him juſt to ſhew you for one minute."

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

"About what, love?"

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

"Why, pray, Miſs Marianne?"

"Why, becauſe he is ſo good na⯑tured to his ſiſter. He would not let her be wakened."

"Dear, its eaſy to be good in ſuch little things; and he won't have long [159]to be good to her neither; for I don't think ſhe'll trouble him long in this world any how."

"What do you mean?" ſaid Ma⯑rianne.

"That ſhe'll die, child."

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

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

"He would frighten her to death, perhaps," ſaid Marianne. "I hope [160]Frederick won't go up to diſturb her."

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

"But I don't think its right," per⯑ſiſted Marianne, "and I ſhall tell him ſo."

"Nay, Miſs Marianne, I don't commend you now; young ladies ſhould not be ſo forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unaſked; and Mr. Frede⯑rick, and I, I preſume, muſt know what's right, as well as Miſs Ma⯑rianne. Huſh! here he is! O the capital figure, cried Mrs. Thereſa! Bravo! bravo! cried ſhe, as Frede⯑rick entered in the chimney ſweeper's dreſs, and as he ſpoke, ſaying,

[161] "I'm afraid, pleaſe your ladyſhip, to dirty your ladyſhip's carpet."

She broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him "her charming chimney ſweeper!" and repeating that ſhe knew before hand the character would do for him.

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

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

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

"Go, then, about your buſineſs, and here's a ſhilling for you to drink, my honeſt fellow. I did not know you were ſo much bruiſed when I firſt ſaw you—I won't detain you. Go," ſaid ſhe, puſhing Frederick towards the door.

Marianne ſprang forward to ſpeak to him, but Mrs. Thereſa kept her off; and though Frederick reſiſted, the lady ſhut the door upon him by ſuperior force; and having locked it, there was no retreat.

Mrs. Tattle, and Marianne, waited impatiently for Frederick's return.

[163] "I hear them," cried Marianne. "I hear them coming down ſtairs."

They liſtened again, and all was ſilent.

At length they heard ſuddenly a great noiſe of many ſteps, and many voices in confuſion in the hall.

"Merciful!" exclaimed Mrs. The⯑reſa, "it muſt be your father and mother come back."

Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Thereſa followed her into the hall.

The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people. All the ſervants in the houſe were gathered together.

As Mrs. Thereſa approached, the crowd opened in ſilence, and ſhe be⯑held in the midſt Frederick, blood ſtreaming from his face; his head [164]was held by Chriſtopher, and the chimney ſweeper was holding a ba⯑ſon for him.

"Merciful! Gracious Heaven! what will become of me!" exclaimed Mrs. Thereſa. "Bleeding! good God! he'll bleed to death! Can nobody think of any thing that will ſtop blood in a minute? A key—a large key down his back; a key—has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! Cobwebs! a puff-ball! for mercy's ſake! Can nobody think of any thing that will ſtop blood in a minute! Gracious me! he'll bleed to death, I be⯑lieve!"

"He'll bleed to death! O my brother!" cried Marianne, catching hold of the words, and terrified, ſhe [165]ran up ſtairs, crying, "Sophy! O Sophy! come down this minute, or he'll be dead! my brother's bleeding to death.—Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he'll be dead!"

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

"Let him hold it," ſaid Frede⯑rick, "he did not mean to hurt me."

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

[166] "I did not know he was a gentle⯑man," ſaid the chimney ſweeper, "How could I?"

"How could he indeed?" ſaid Frederick, "he ſhall hold the baſon."

"Gracious me! I'm glad to hear him ſpeak like himſelf again, at any rate," cried Mrs. Thereſa. "Lord bleſs us! and here comes Miſs So⯑phy too."

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

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

"Its Frederick," ſaid Marianne, "that's my brother."

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

[167] At this inſtant, a female figure in white appeared upon the ſtairs; ſhe paſſed ſwiftly on, whilſt every one gave way before her.

"Oh, Miſs Birtha!" cried Mrs. Thereſa, catching hold of her gown to ſtop her as ſhe came near Fre⯑derick, "Oh, Miſs Eden, your beau⯑tiful India muſlin!—take care of the chimney ſweeper, for Heaven's ſake." —But ſhe preſſed forwards.

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

"No, my love!" anſwered a ſweet voice, "do not frighten thy⯑ſelf."

"I've done bleeding," ſaid Fre⯑derick.

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

"Do not be afraid of thy father and mother, they are ſurely thy beſt [169]friends," ſaid a mild voice. It was the voice of an elderly gentleman who now ſtood behind Frederick.

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

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

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

"No, but for your own ſake, my dear ſir, your Papa and Mamma! Bleſs me! is not that Mrs. Monta⯑gue's carriage?"

"My brother, ma'am," ſaid So⯑phy, "is not afraid of my father and mother's coming back. Let him [170]ſpeak—he was going to ſpeak the truth."

"To be ſure, Miſs Sophy, I would n't hinder him from ſpeaking the truth; but its not proper, I preſume, ma'am, to ſpeak truth at all times, and in all places, and before every body, ſervants and all. I only want⯑ed, ma'am, to hinder your brother from expoſing himſelf. A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanations."

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

"Nay, my room's at Mr. Frede⯑rick Montague's ſervice, and my [171]door's open too. This way, pray," ſaid ſhe, pulling his arm.

But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.

"Oh, Sir, will you forgive me!" cried he.

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

"Forgive, brother, without aſk⯑ing what," ſaid Birtha, ſmiling.

"He ſhall know all," cried Frede⯑rick; "all that concerns myſelf, I mean. Sir, I diſguiſed myſelf in this dreſs; I came up to your room to⯑night on purpoſe to ſee you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The chimney ſweeper—where is he?" ſaid Frederick, looking round, and he ran into the hall to ſee for him—"May he come in? he may—he is a brave, an honeſt, good, grateful boy. He never gueſſed who I was; [172]after we left you, we went down to the kitchen together, and there I, fool that I was, for the pleaſure of making Mr. Chriſtopher and the ſer⯑vants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy ſaid, he would not ſtand by and hear you laughed at;—that you had ſaved his life;—that I ought to be aſhamed of myſelf;—that you had juſt given me half-a-crown:—and ſo you had;—but I went on, and told him, I'd knock him down if he ſaid another word.—He did—I gave the firſt blow—we fought—I came to the ground—the ſervants pulled me up again.—They found out, I don't know how, that I was not a chimney ſweeper—the reſt you ſaw. And now can you forgive me, Sir," ſaid Fre⯑derick to Mr. Eden, ſeizing hold of his hand.

[173] "The other hand, friend," ſaid the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which every body now obſerved being much ſwelled, he put it in his boſom again—"This hand and wel⯑come," ſaid he, offering his other hand to Frederick, and ſhaking his with a ſmile.

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

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

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

Juſt when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague—who went into the hall to meet them.

"What will you do now?" whiſ⯑pered Mrs. Thereſa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.

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

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

[175] "Frederick! my ſon!"

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

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

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

Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehenſive looks, Mr. Eden explained all that he knew of the affair in a few words, "your ſon," concluded he, "will quickly put off this dirty dreſs—the dreſs hath not ſtained the mind—that is fair and honourable. When he felt himſelf in the wrong, he ſaid ſo; nor was he in haſte to conceal his adventure from [176]his father; this made me think well of both father and ſon. I ſpeak plain⯑ly, friend, for that is beſt. But what is become of the other chimney ſweeper? he will want to go home," ſaid Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Thereſa.

Without making any reply, ſhe hurried out of the room as faſt as poſſible, and returned in a few mo⯑ments, with a look of extreme con⯑ſternation,

"Good Heaven! here is a cata⯑ſtrophe, indeed!—now indeed, Mr. Frederick, your Papa and Mamma, have reaſon to be angry. A new ſuit of cloaths!—the bare-faced villain!—gone!—no ſign of them in my cloſet, or any where—the door was locked—he muſt have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and ſo [177]eſcaped; but Chriſtopher is after him. I proteſt, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly.—The wretch!—a new ſuit of cloaths, blue coat and buff waiſtcoat.—I never heard of ſuch a thing!—I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vaſtly good now not to be in a paſſion," added Mrs. Thereſa.

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