THE PARENT's ASSISTANT; OR,
STORIES FOR CHILDREN.
PART. II.......VOL. II. CONTAINING,
THE BIRTH-DAY PRESENT.
OLD POZ.
THE MIMIC.
THE SECOND EDITION.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. 1796.
THE BIRTH-DAY PRESENT.
"MAMMA," said Rosamond, after a long silence, "do you know, what I have been thinking of all this time?"
"No, my dear.—What?"
"Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell's birth-day; do you know what day it is?"
"No, I don't remember."
"Dear mother! don't you remember its the 22d of December; and her birth-day is the day after to - morrow?—Don't you recollect now? But you never remember about birth-days, mamma: that was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura's birth-day, or—or—or
mine,
mamma."
"What do you mean, my dear? I remember your birth-day perfectly well."
"Indeed! but you never
keep
it though."
"What do you mean by keeping your birth-day?"
"Oh, mamma, you know very well—as Bell's birth-day is kept.—In the first place there is a great dinner."
"And can Bell eat more upon her birth-day than upon any other day?"
"No; nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the mince pies. But Bell has a great many nice things; I don't mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings given to her always on her birth-day; and every body drinks her health, and she's so happy."
"But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! Is it every body's drinking her health that makes her so happy; or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies? I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does every body's drinking her health at dinner make her happy?"
Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. "But," added she, "the
nice new
playthings, mother!"
"But why the nice
new
playthings? Did you like them only because they were
new?"
"Not
only—I
do not like playthings
only
because they are new, but Bell
does
I believe—for that puts me in mind—Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of
old
playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing because they were
old;
but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones.—Now you shall be judge, mamma; I'll tell you all that was in the drawer."
"Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not time to listen to you."
"Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can shew you the drawer: I want you to be judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right.—And, mother," added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, "will you—not not now, but when you've time—will you tell me why you never keep my birth-day—why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?"
"And will you, Rosamond—not now, but when you have time to think about it—tell me why I should make any difference between your birth-day and any other day?"
Rosamond thought—but she could not find out any reason: besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not time to think any longer, for there was a certain work basket to be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a present upon her birth-day. The work was at a stand for want of some filigree paper, and as her mother was going out she asked her to take her with her, that she might buy some.—Her sister Laura went with them.
"Sister," said Rosamond, as they were walking along, "what have you done with your half-guinea?"
"I have it in my pocket."
"Dear! you will keep it for ever in your pocket: you know my godmother when she gave it to you said you would keep it longer than I should keep mine; and I know what she thought by her look at the time.—I heard her say something to my mother."
"Yes," said Laura, smiling, "she whispered so loud that I could not help hearing her too: she said I was a little miser."
"But did not you hear her say that I was very
generous?
and she'll see that she was not mistaken.—I hope she'll be by when I give my basket to Bell—won't it be beautiful?—there is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions—"
"Stay," interrupted her sister; for Rosamond, anticipating the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast, that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the filigree paper was to be bought.—They turned back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane: a coach full of ladies stopped at the door just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree paper, and she went to the window, where she saw that her sister Laura was looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.
Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning and she never once looked up from her work.
"Is not she very industrious?" said Laura; "and very honest too," added she in a minute afterwards; for just then, a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl: she took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him.
Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her suprize and sorrow to find it spoiled: she twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced the bobbins, whilst the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver-laced footman stopped her, saying insolently—"Sit still, child."
"I must go to my mother, sir," said the child; "besides, you have spoiled all my lace—I can't stay."
"Can't you," said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving pillow again; "I'll teach you to complain of me." And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them in his pocket, rolled her weaving pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress's coach, and was out of sight in an instant.
"Poor girl!" exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice: "Poor little girl!"
At this instant her mother said to Rosamond—"Come now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper buy it."
"Yes, madam," said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity, rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the
"Poor little girl,"
she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In the mean time she that was called the
"little miser,"
beckoned to the poor girl, and opening the window said, pointing to the cushion, "Is it quite spoiled?"
"Quite! quite spoiled! and I can't, nor mother neither, buy another: and I can't do any thing else for my bread."—A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.
"How much would another cost?" said Laura.
"Oh, a great—
great
deal."
"More than that?" said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.
"Oh, no."
"Then you can buy another with that," said Laura, dropping the halfguinea into her hand, and she shut the window before the child could find words to thank her; but not before she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more pleasure probably than all the praise which could have been bestowed upon her generosity.
Late on the morning of her cousin's birth day, Rosamond finished her work-basket. The carriage was at the door—Laura came running to call her; her father's voice was heard at the same instant; so she was obliged to go down with her basket but half wrapped up in silver paper, a circumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted; for the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.
"It will never do, my dear," said her father, who had been watching her operations; "I am afraid you will never make a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as large as itself."
"It is not a box, father," said Rosamond, a little peevishly; "its a basket."
"Let us look at this basket," said he, taking it out of her unwilling hands; for she knew of what frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her father's examination.
He took hold of the handle rather roughly, and starting off the coach seat, she cried—
"Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!" said she with encreased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle-wreathed handle.
"Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle."
"But what is the use of
the poor handle,"
said her father, "if we are not to take hold of it? And pray," continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner—"pray is this the thing you have been about all this week? I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags, I could not conceive what you were about—Is this the thing?"
"Yes, sir—You think then that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use: but then it is for a present for my cousin Bell."
"Your cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for a present that is of no use; you had better have given her the purple jar."
"Oh, father! I thought you had forgotten that—it was two years ago; I'm not so silly now. But Bell will like the basket I know, though it is of no use."
"Then you think Bell is sillier
now,
than you were two years ago.—Well, perhaps that is true; but how comes it, Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly person?"
"
I,
father?" said Rosamond, hesitating; "I don't think I am
very
fond of her."
"I did not say
very
fond."
"Well, but I don't think I am at all fond of her."
"But you have spent a whole week in making this thing for her."
"Yes, and all my half-guinea besides."
"Yet you think her silly, and you are not fond of her at all; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to her."
"But it is her birth-day, sir; and I am sure she will
expect
something, and every body else will give her something."
"Then your reasons for giving are because she expects you to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should you always give, merely because others
expect,
or because somebody else gives?"
"Always!—no, not always."
"Oh, only on birth-days."
Rosamond, laughing, "Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous—my godmother said that she did."
"So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous."
"Why, is it not generous to make presents?" said Rosamond.
"That is a question which it would take up a great deal of time to answer.—But, for instance, to make a present of a thing that you know can be of no use, to a person you neither love nor esteem, because it is her birth-day, and because every body gives her something, and because she expects something, and because your godmother says she likes that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosamond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than generosity."
Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent.
"Then I am a fool! am I?" said she, looking up at last.
"Because you have made
one
mistake?—No. If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool."
Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.
Now we must observe, that Rosamond's father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl.—From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child: she was idle, fretful and selfish, so that nothing could make her happy. On her birth-day she expected, however, to be perfectly happy. Every body in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these fits no one could discover; but the last, and most lamentable, was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin frock. Her mother had promised her a new frock, and accordingly at dressingtime her maid brought it to her, exclaiming—"See here miss! what your mamma has sent you on your birth-day—Here's a frock fit for a queen—if it had but lace round the cuffs."
"And why has not it lace round the cuffs? mamma said it should."
"Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace; it is not come home."
"Not come home, indeed! and didn't they know it was my birthday? But then I say I won't wear it without the lace—I can't wear it without the lace—and I won't."
The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on. "Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes," said the maid who
educated
her; "dry your eyes, and I'll tell you something that will please you."
"What, then?" said the child, pouting and sobbing.
"Why—but you must not tell that I told you."
"No—but if I am asked?"
"Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth to be sure.—So I'll hold my tongue, miss."
"Nay, tell me though, and I'll never tell—if I
am
asked."
"Well, then," said the maid, "your cousin Rosamond is come, and has brought you the most
beautifullest
thing you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know any thing about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you; and mistress has put it in her wardrobe till after dinner."
"Till after dinner!" repeated Bell, impatiently; "I can't wait till then, I must see it this minute."
The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with
her,
if Bell's eyes were red at dinner-time, consented to shew her the basket.
"How pretty!—But let me have it in my own hands." said Bell as the maid held the basket up out of her reach.
"Oh no, you must not touch it; for if you should spoil it what would become of me?"
"Become of you, indeed!" exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered any thing but her own immediate gratification—"Become of
you,
indeed! what signifies that—I shan't spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands.—If you don't hold it down for me directly, I'll tell that you shewed it to me."
"Then you won't snatch it?"
"No, no, I won't indeed," said Bell; but she had learned from her maid a total disregard of truth.— She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach; a struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses. Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts the handle and lid were replaced, the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child "
to look as if nothing was the matter."
We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect.—The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.
After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand.
"What's your business?" said the maid.
"I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for the young lady."
"Oh, you have, have you, at last?" said Bell; "and pray why didn't you bring it sooner?"
The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying—"Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle good for nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birth-day.—But now you have brought it, let us look at it." The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see any body,
because
she was in a room full of company.
"May I call again, madam, this afternoon?" said the child, timidly.
"Lord bless my stars!" replied the maid, "what makes people so poor, I
wonders!
I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks.—Call again! yes, to be sure—I believe you'd call, call, call twenty times for two-pence.
However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude: the little girl departed with a chearful countenance: and Bell teized her maid till she got her to sew the long wished for lace upon her cuffs.
Unfortunate Bell!—All dinnertime passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery. Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said—"You have no lace upon your cuffs; look how beautiful mine is!—Is not it? Don't you wish your mamma could afford to give you some like it?—But you can't get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birth-day, and nobody can get a bit more any where, if they would give the world for it."
"But cannot the person who made it," said Laura, "make any more like it?"
"No, no, no!" cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure.
"Nobody can get any like it, I say," repeated Bell; "Nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for any body but me, I am sure—mamma won't let her if I ask her not."
"Very well," said Laura, coolly, "I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don't want any of it."
"Yes, but you do though," said Bell, more angrily.
"No, indeed," said Laura, smiling.
"You do in the bottom of your heart; but you say you don't to plague me, I know," cried Bell, swelling with disappointed vanity.— "It is pretty for all that, and it cost a great deal of money too, and nobody shall have any like it if they cried their eyes out."
Laura received this sentence in silence—Rosamond smiled. And at her smile the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which had been heard upon her birth-day.
"What's the matter, my pet?" cried her mother; "Come to me, and tell me what's the matter."
Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine lace, with frantic gestures, from her cuffs, and throwing the fragments into her mother's lap.
"Oh! the lace, child!—are you mad?" said her mother, catching hold of both her hands. "Your beautiful lace, my dear love—do you know how much it cost?"
"I don't care how much it cost—it is not beautiful, and I'll have none of it," replied Bell, sobbing—"for it is not beautiful."
"But it is beautiful," retorted her mother; "I chose the pattern myself.—Who has put it into your head, child, to dislike it?—Was it Nancy?"
"No, not Nancy, but
them,
mamma," said Bell, pointing to Laura and Rosamond.
"Oh fie! don't
point,"
said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger; "nor say
them,
like Nancy; I am sure you misunderstood—Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any such thing."
"No, madam; and I did not say any such thing that I recollect," said Laura, gently.
"Oh no, indeed!" cried Rosamond, warmly rising in her sister's defence. But no defence or explanation was to be heard, for every body had now gathered round Bell to dry her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done to her own cuffs.
They succeeded so well, that in about a quarter of an hour the young lady's eyes, and the reddened arches over her eyebrows came to their natural colour; and the business being thus happily hushed up, the mother, as a reward to her daughter for her good humour, begged that Rosamond would now be so good as to produce her "charming present."
Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom to her great joy was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing-room.
"Now I am sure," thought she, "Bell will be surprised, and my godmother will see she was right about my generosity."
The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory.
"Well, this is a charming present indeed!" said the godmother, who was one of the company; "
My
Rosamond knows how to make presents." And as she spoke she took hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience. Scarcely had she touched it when lo! the myrtle wreath, the medallions, all dropped—the basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained in her hand.
All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and "Who can have done this?" was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the midst of the enquiries which were made about the disaster. At length the servants were summoned, and amongst them Nancy, Miss Bell's maid and governess: she affected much surprise when she saw what had befallen the basket, and declared that she knew nothing of the matter, but that she had seen her mistress in the morning put it quite safe into the wardrobe; and that, for her part, she had never touched it, or thought of touching it, in her born days—"Nor Miss Bell neither, ma'am, I can answer for her; for she never knew of its being there, because I never so much as mentioned it to her, that there was such a thing in the house, because I knew Miss Rosamond wanted to surprise her with the secret—so I never mentioned a sentence of it—Did I, Miss Bell?"
Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had taught her, answered boldly,
No;
but she had hold of Rosamond's hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood she squeezed it terribly.
"Why do you squeeze my hand so?" said Rosamond, in a low voice; "What are you afraid of?"
"Afraid of!" cried Bell, turning angrily; "I'm not afraid of any thing—I've nothing to be afraid about."
"Nay, I did not say you had," whispered Rosamond; "But only if you did by accident—You know what I mean—I should not be angry if you did—Only say so."
"I say I did not!" cried Bell, furiously; "Mamma!—Mamma!—Nancy! my cousin Rosamond won't believe me! that's very hard—It's very rude! and I won't bear it—I won't."
"Don't be angry, love—don't;" said the maid.
"Nobody suspects you, darling;" said her mother.—"But she has too much sensibility.—Don't cry, love, nobody suspected you."
"But you know," continued she, turning to the maid, "somebody must have done this, and I must know how it was done; Miss Rosamond's charming present must not be spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper notice of it.—I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosamond."
Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly made a sad mistake, by speaking loud her thoughts—
"I was very foolish
—" she began and stopped.
"Ma'am," cried the maid, suddenly, "I'll venture to say I know who did it."
"Who?" said every one eagerly.
"Who?" said Bell, trembling.
"Why, Miss, don't you recollect that little girl with the lace, that we saw peeping about in the passage: I'm sure she must have done it, for here she was by herself half an hour or more, and not another creature has been in mistress's dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morning. Those sort of people have so much curiosity, I'm sure she must have been meddling with it;" added the maid.
"Oh yes, that's the thing," said the mistress, decidedly.—"Well, Miss Rosamond, for your comfort, she shall never come into my house again."
"Oh, that would not comfort me at all," said Rosamond; "besides, we are not sure that she did it; and if—" A single knock at the door was heard at this instant: it was the little girl, who came to be paid for her lace.
"Call her in," said the lady of the house; "let us see her directly."
The maid, who was afraid that the girl's innocence would appear if she were produced, hesitated; but upon her mistress's repeating her commands, she was forced to obey.
The child came in with a look of simplicity; but when she saw the room full of company she was a little abashed. Rosamond and Laura looked at her, and at one another with surprise; for it was the same little girl whom they had seen weaving lace.
"Is not it she?" whispered Rosa mond to her sister.
"Yes it is; but hush," said Laura, "she does not know us.—Don't say a word, let us hear what she will say." Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so that the little girl could not see her.
"Vastly well!" said Bell's mother; "I am waiting to see how long you will have the assurance to stand there with that innocent look. Did you ever see that basket before?"
"Yes; ma'am;" said the girl.
"Yes, ma'am,"
cried the maid, "and what else do you know about it?—You had better confess it at once, and Mistress perhaps will say no more about it."
"Yes, do confess it;" added Bell, earnestly.
"Confess what, madam?" said the little girl; "I never touched the basket, madam."
"You never
touched
it; but you confess," interrupted Bell's mother, that you
did see
it before—And pray how came you to see it? you must have opened my wardrobe."
"No, indeed, madam," said the little girl; "but I was waiting in the passage, ma'am, and this door was partly open; and looking at the maid, you know, I could not help seeing it."
"Why, how could you see it through the doors of my wardrobe?" rejoined the lady.
The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve.
"Answer me," said the lady, "where did you see this basket?"
Another stronger pull.
"I saw it, madam, in her hands," looking at the maid; "and—"
"Well, and what became of it afterwards?"
"Ma'am," hesitating, "Miss pulled, and by accident—I believe, I saw, ma'am—Miss, you know what I saw."
"I do not know—I do not know: and if I did—you had no business there—and mamma won't believe you, I am sure."
But every body else did, and their eyes were fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.
"What do you all look at me so for?—Why do you all look so? —And am I to be shamed upon my birth-day?" cried she, bursting into a roar of passion; "And all for this nasty thing!" added she, pushing away the remains of the basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond.
"Bell; Bell! Oh fie! fie! now I
am
ashamed of you—that's quite rude to your cousin," said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter's want of politeness than at her falsehood. -"Take her away, Nancy, till she has done crying;" added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil.
Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. A smile from her father, who stood by, a silent spectator of the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections; nor were they entirely dissipated by the condolence of the rest of the company, nor even by the praises of her godmother, who to console her said—'Well, my dear Rosamond, I admire your generous spirit. You know I prophecied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest—Did I not, Laura?" said she, appealing in a sarcastic tone to where she thought Laura was.—"Where is Laura? I don't see her."
Laura came forward.
"You are too
prudent
to throw away your money like your sister; your half-guinea, I'll answer for it, is snug in your pocket—Is it not?"
"No, madam;" answered she, in a low voice. But low as the voice was, the poor little lace-girl heard it; and now for the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her benefactress.
"Oh, that's the young lady!" she exclaimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude—"The good!—good young lady, who gave me the half-guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it—but I
will
thank her now."
"The half-guinea, Laura!" said her godmother—"What is all this?"
"I'll tell you, madam, if you please;" said the little girl.
It was not in expectation of being praised for it, that Laura had been generous, and therefore every body was really touched with the history of the weaving-pillow; and whilst they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums.
Respect
is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura's age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.
"Ah, madam!" said Rosamond to her godmother, "now you see—you see she is
not
a little miser: I'm sure that's better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket—Is it not, ma'am?" said she, with an eagerness which shewed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister.—"This is being
really generous,
father, is it not?"
"Yes, Rosamond," said her father, and he kissed her—"this
is
being really generous. It is not only by giving away money that we can shew generosity, it is by giving up to others any thing that we like ourselves: and therefore," added he, smiling, "it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others."
"The thing I like the best of all others, father," said Rosamond, half pleased, half vexed; "What is that I wonder?—You don't mean
praise,
do you, sir?"
"Nay, you must decide that, Rosamond."
"Why, sir," said she, ingenuously, "perhaps it
was
ONCE the thing I liked best; but the pleasure I have just felt, makes me like something else better."
OLD POZ.
LUCY,
daughter to the Justice.
Mrs. BUSTLE,
Landlady of the Saracen's Head.
JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.
OLD MAN.
WILLIAM,
a Servant.
SCENE I.
The house of Justice Headstrong—a hall. Lucy watering some myrtles—a Servant behind the scenes is heard to say—
—I Tell you my master is not up — you can't see him, so go about your business, I say.
Who are you speaking to William?—Who's that?
Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.
Oh then don't send him away—don't send him away.
But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am. He won't see any body ever before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma'am.
But let the old man then come in here—perhaps he can wait a little while—call him.
Exit Servant.
(Lucy sings, and goes on watering her myrtles—the Servant shews in the old man.)
You can't see my master this hour, but miss will let you stay here.
(aside.)
Poor old man, how he trembles as he walks.
(aloud)
Sit down, sit down, my father will see you soon; pray sit down.
(He hesitates, she pushes a chair towards him.)
Pray sit down.
(He sits down.)
You are very good miss, very good.
(Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)
Ah! I'm afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead—quite dead.
(The old man sighs, and she turns round.)
(aside.)
I wonder what can make him sigh so!—
(Aloud)
My father won't make you wait long.
Oh ma'am, as long as he pleases—I'm in no haste, no haste—its only a small matter.
But does a small matter make you sigh so?
Ah miss, because, though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me;
(sighing again;)
it was my all, and I've lost it.
What do you mean? What have you lost?
Why, miss—but I won't trouble you about it.
But it won't trouble me, at all—I mean, I wish to hear it—so tell it me.
Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town—the Saracen's head—
(interrupts him.)
Hark, there is my father coming down stairs; follow me—you may tell me your story as we go along.
I slept at the Saracen's head, miss, and—
Exit talking.
JUSTICE HEADSTRONG'S STUDY.
(He appears in his night-gown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool—a table and chocolate beside him—Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)
Well, well, my darling, presently—I'll see him presently.
Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?
No, no, no—I never see any body till I have done my chocolate, darling.
(He tastes his chocolate.)
There's no sugar in this, child.
Yes, indeed, papa.
No child—there's
no
sugar I tell you—that's poz!
Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.
There's
no
sugar, I say—why will you contradict me, child, forever —there is no sugar, I say.
(Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his tea-spoon pulls out two lumps of sugar.)
What's this, papa?
Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw! it is not melted child—it is the same as no sugar. Oh my foot, girl! my foot—you kill me—go, go, I'm busy—I've business to do—go and send William to me; do you hear, love!
And the old man, papa?
What old man? I tell you what, I've been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can't wait, let him go about his business—don't you know, child, I never see any body till I've drank my chocolate—and I never will, if it was a duke, that's poz! Why it has but just struck twelve; if he can't wait, he can go about his business, can't he?
Oh, sir, he
can
wait. It was not he who was impatient:
(she comes back playfully)
it was only I, papa, don't be angry.
Well—well, well;
(finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing the dish away)
and at any rate there was not sugar enough—send William, send William, child, and I'll finish my own business, and then—
Exit Lucy, dancing—"And then!—"and then!"
JUSTICE
alone.
Oh this foot of mine
(twinges)
— oh this foot: Aye, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him—but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, its nonsense, its all nonsense, I can't do it—I can't, and I won't, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom, that's poz.
Enter
WILLIAM.
William—oh! aye—hey—what answer, pray, did you bring from the Saracen's Head?—did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?
Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself—she said she would come up immediately, sir.
Ah that's well—immediately?
Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.
Oh shew her up, shew Mrs. Bustle in.
Enter
Mrs. BUSTLE,
the landlady of the Saracen's Head.
Good-morrow to your worship!—I'm glad to see your worship look so purely—I came up with all peed
(taking breath,)
our pye is in the oven—that was what you sent for me about, I take it.
True—true—sit down good Mrs. Bustle, pray—
Oh your worship's always very good
(settling her apron;)
I came up just as I was, only threw my shawl over me—I thought your worship would excuse—I'm quite as it were rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty—
Oh I'm very hearty
(coughing)
always hearty, thank God for it—I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle—and so our pye is in the oven, I think you say?
In the oven it is—I put it in with my own hands, and, please Heaven we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goosepye, though I say it that should not say it, as pretty a goose-pye as ever your worship set your eye upon.
Will you take a glass of any thing this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.
Oh no, your worship!—I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up—or more proper
my Sandwich,
I should say, for the fashion's sake, to be sure. A
luncheon
won't go down with nobody, now-a-days
(laughs)
—I expects hostler and boots will be calling for their Sandwiches just now.
(laughs again)
—I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon for mentioning a
luncheon.
Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word's a good word, for it means a good thing, ha! ha! ha!
(pulls out his watch)
—but pray is it luncheon time?—why its past one, I declare, and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.
Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkable good time for
your worship
—but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know—I've been up and about these seven hours!
(stretching.)
Seven hours!
Aye, indeed, eight, I might say, for I'm an early little body—though I say it that should not say it—I
am
an early little body.
An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle—so I shall have my goose-pye for dinner, hey?
For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four—but I mustn't stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I'm away—so I must wish your worship a good morning.
(she curtsies.)
No ceremony—no ceremony, good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.
Enter
WILLIAM—
to take away the chocolate—the Landlady is putting on her shawl.
You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched my
own
business, and I am at leisure for his now—
(taking a pinch of snuff)
—hum—pray, William!
(Justice leans back gravely)
—what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?
Most like a sort of a travelling man, in my opinion, sir—or something that way, I take it.
(At these words the Landlady turns round inquisitively, and delays, that she may listen, whilst she is putting on and pinning her shawl.)
Hum—a sort of a travelling man—hum—lay my books out open, at the title vagrant—and William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pye for dinner—four o'clock, do you hear?—And shew the old man in now.
(The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door, as it opens, and exclaims
—
My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!
Enter the
OLD MAN.
(Lucy follows the old man on tiptoe—the Justice leans back, and looks consequential—the Landlady sets her arms a-kimbo—the old man starts as soon as he sees her.)
What stops you, friend? come forward, if you please.
(advancing.)
So, sir! is it you, sir?—aye, you little looked, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship—but there you reckoned without your host—out of the frying pan into the fire.
What is all this?—what is this?
(running on.)
None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship, no more than with me, I give ye warning—so you may go farther and fare worse—and spare your breath to cool your porridge.
(waves his hand with dignity.)
Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are—silence!—silence!—come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.
(The old Man comes forward.)
Who, and what may you be, friend? And what is your business with me?
Sir, if your worship will give me leave—
(Justice makes a sign to her to be silent.)
Please your worship, I am an old soldier.
(interrupting.)
An old hypocrite, say.
Mrs. Bustle, pray—I desire—let the man speak.
For these two years past, ever since, please your worship—I wasn't able to work any longer, for in my youth I
did
work as well as the best of them.
(eager to interrupt.)
You work—you—
Let him finish his story, I say.
Aye, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray Mrs. Bustle—
(turning suddenly round to Lucy.)
Miss!—a good morrow to you, ma'am—I humbly beg your apologies, for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.
(Justice nods to the old Man, who goes on.)
But, please you worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm, and, since that, I have never been able to work.
Flummery!—flummery!
(angrily.)
Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that's poz!—you shall have your turn presently.
For these two years past—for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth, I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half, and upwards; and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—
but
—
(sighing.)
But
what?—proceed pray to the point.
But, last night, I slept here in town, please your worship, at the Saracen's Head.
(in a rage.)
At the Saracen's Head; yes, forsooth, none such ever slept at the Saracen's Head, afore, or ever shall after as long as my name's Bustle, and the Saracen's Head is the Saracen's Head.
Again!—again!—Mrs. Landlady, this is downright—I have said you should speak presently—he
shall
speak first, since I've said it—that's poz! Speak on, friend: you slept last night at the Saracen's Head.
Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody—but, at night, I had my little money safe, and, in the morning, it was gone.
Gone!—gone indeed in my house! and this is the way I'm to be treated; is it so?—I could'nt but speak, please your worship, to such an inhuman-like, out-o'-the-way, scandalous charge, if King George, and all the Royal Family, were sitting in your worship's chair, besides you to silence me—
(turning to the old Man)
—and this is your gratitude, forsooth! Didn't you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, you wheedling hypocrite, and my thanks is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.
Oh, no, no, no,
No
—a pack of thieves, Heaven forbid!
Aye, I thought when
I
came to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in —
(imperiously.)
Silence!—five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won't command any thing five times in vain—
that's poz!
(in a pet, aside.)
Old Poz!
(aloud)
—Then, your worship, I don't see any business I have to be waiting here—the folks will want me at home—
(returning and whispering)
—shall I send the goose-pye up your worship, if its ready?
(with magnanimity.)
I care not for the goose-pye, Mrs. Bustle—do not talk to me of goose-pyes—this is no place to talk of pyes.
Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.
Exit Landlady, angry.
SCENE
JUSTICE HEADSTRONG, OLD MAN,
and
LUCY.
Ah now I'm glad he can speak—now tell papa—and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good natured—don't contradict him though—because he told
me
not—
Oh darling,
you
shall contradict me as often as you please—only not before I've drank my chocolate, child—hey!—go on my good friend, you see what it is to live in old England, where, thank Heaven, the poorest of his Majesty's subjects may have justice, and speak his mind before the first man in the land. Now speak on, and you hear she tells you, you need not be afraid of me. Speak on.
I thank your worship, I'm sure.
Thank me! for what, sir? I won't be thanked for doing justice, sir; so—but explain this matter. You lost your money, hey, at the Saracen's Head—you had it safe last night, hey?—and you missed it this morning. Are you sure you had it safe at night?
Oh, please your worship, quite sure, for I took it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers.
You did—did ye so—hum! pray, my good friend, where might you put your money when you went to bed?
Please your worship, where I always put it—always—in my tobacco-box.
Your tobacco-box! I never heard of such a thing—to make a
strong box
of a tobacco-box—ha! ha! ha!—hum—and you say the box and all was gone in the morning.
No, please your worship, no, not the box, the box was never stirred from the place where I put it. They left me the box—
Tut, tut, tut, man!—took the money and left the box; I'll never believe
that;
I'll never believe that any one could be such a fool. Tut, tut! the thing's impossible: its well you are not upon oath.
If I was, please your worship, I should say the same, for it is the truth.
Don't tell me, don't tell me; I say the thing is impossible.
Please your worship, here's the box.
(goes on without looking at it.)
Nonsense! nonsense! its no such thing, its no such thing I say—no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box—I won't believe it—nothing shall make me believe it ever—that's poz!
(takes the box, and holds it up before her father's eyes.)
You did not see the box, did you, papa?
Yes, yes, yes, child—nonsense!—its all a lie from beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a hundred—all a lie!—all a lie!
If your worship would give me leave—
Sir—it does not signify—it does not signify; I've said it, I've said it, and that's enough to convince me; and I'll tell you more, if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to me, I would not believe it—that's poz!
still playing with the box
—but how comes the box here, I wonder?
Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw darling!—go to your dolls, darling, and don't be positive—go to your dolls, and don't talk of what you don't understand. What can you understand, I want to know, of the law?
No, papa, I didn't mean about the law—but about the box; because, if the man had taken it, how could it be here, you know, papa?
Hey, hey, what?—why what I say is this, that I don't dispute that that box that you hold in your hands is a box; nay, for aught I know, it may be a tobacco-box—but its clear to me, that if they left the box they did not take the money—and how do you dare, sir, to come before Justice Headstrong with a lie in your mouth?—recollect yourself, I'll give you time to recollect yourself.
(A Pause.)
Well, sir, and what do you say now about the box?
Please your worship, with submission, I
can
say nothing but what I said before.
What, contradict me again!—after I gave ye time to recollect yourself—I've done with ye, I have done—contradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon me; I defy you to impose upon me!
Impose!
I know the law—I know the law!—and I'll make you know it too—one hour I give you to recollect yourself, and if you don't give up this idle story—I'll—I'll commit you as a vagrant—that's poz!—go, go for the present. William, take him into the servant's hall, do you hear?—What, take the money, and leave the box—I'll never believe it, that's poz!
(Lucy speaks to the old Man as he is going off.)
Don't be frightened! don't be frightened—I mean, if you tell the truth, never be frightened.
If
I tell the truth—
(turning up his eyes.)
Old Man is still held back by
One moment—answer me one question—because of something that just came into my head—was the box shut fast when you left it?
No, miss, no!—open—it was open, for I could not find the lid in the dark—my candle went out—
if
I tell the truth—oh!—
SCENE.
JUSTICE'S
Study—the
JUSTICE
is writing.
Well!—I shall have but few days more misery in this world!
(looks up.)
Why! why—why then, why will you be so positive to persist in a lie? Take the money and leave the box! obstinate blockhead! Here, William
(shewing the committal),
take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the constable, and give him this warrant.
Enter
LUCY,
running, out of breath.
I've found it! I've found it! I've found it! Here, old man; here's your money—here it is all—a guinea and a half, and a shilling and sixpence, just as he said, papa.
Enter
LANDLADY.
Oh la! your worship, did your ever hear the like?
I've heard nothing yet that I can understand. First, have you secured the thief, I say?
(makes a sign to the Landlady to be silent.)
Yes, yes, yes! we have him safe—we have him prisoner.—Shall he come in, papa?
Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box—I don't understand—there's something deep in all this; I don't understand it. Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.
(Landlady puts her finger upon her lips—Every body looks eagerly towards the door.)
Re-enter
LUCY,
with a huge wicker cage in her hand, containing a magpye—the Justice drops the committal out of his hand.
Hey!—what! Mrs. Landlady! the old magpye! hey!
Aye, your worship, my old magype—who'd have thought it.—Miss was very clever, it was she caught the thief: Miss was very clever.
Very good! very good!
Aye, darling! her father's own child! How was it, child!—caught the thief
with the mainour,
hey! tell us all—I will hear all—that's poz!
Oh then, first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magype.—Do you remember papa, that day last summer, that I went with you to the bowling-green, at the Saracen's Head?
Oh, of all days in the year—but I ask pardon Miss.
Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman telling stories of magpies hiding money; and they laid a wager about this old magpye—and they tried him—they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it, and hid it—so I thought that he might do so again, you know, this time.
Right, right, its a pity, child, you are not upon the bench; ha! ha! ha!
And when I went to his old hiding place—there it was—but you see, papa, he did not take the box.
No, no, no! because the thief was a magpye—no
man
would have taken the money, and left the box. You see I was right—no
man
would have left the box, hey?
Certainly not, I suppose—but I'm so very glad, old man, that you have got your money.
Well then, child, here, take my purse, and add that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal—hey?
Aye, and I fear I was so too; but when one is touched about the credit of one's house, one's apt to speak warmly.
Oh I'm the happiest man alive! You are all convinced I told you no lies—say no more—say no more—I am the happiest man! Miss, you have made me the happiest old man alive!—God bless you for it!
Well now, I'll tell you what—I know what I think—you must keep that there magpye and make a show of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest penny—for its a
true story,
and folks will like to hear it, I hopes—
(eagerly.)
And friend, do you hear, you'll dine here to-day?—You'll dine here—we have some excellent ale—I will have you drink my health, that's poz!—hey, you'll drink my health, won't you, hey?
(bows.)
Oh—and the young lady's, if you please.
Aye, aye, drink her health—she deserves it—aye, drink my darling's health.
And please your worship, its the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pye now—and a charming pye it is, and its on the table.
And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the Doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.
Then let us say no more—but do justice immediately to the goosepye—and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner—
(After they go out, the Justice stops.)
"Tell this story"—I don't know whether it tells well for me—but I'll never be positive any more—
that's poz.
THE MIMIC.
MR. and MRS. MONTAGUE spent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton, with their son Frederick, and their two daughters, Sophia and Marianne—They had taken much care of the education of their children, 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 powerful 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 appear 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 conversation before their children, became part of their education.—When they came to Clifton, they wished to have had a house entirely to themselves, 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 apartments 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 blooming 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 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 benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, 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 occupied 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 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 charming 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 circumstance 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 succeeded 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 oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle; she had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton—she 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 literature, and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing 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 pleasant woman."
"A very pleasant woman," Mrs. Tattle was usually called, and conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, 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 presently 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 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 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 family, with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, she herself was someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Jones's of Merionethshire, 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 impatient to pay a visit so likely to be productive of most agreeable consequences, in the acquisition of an acquaintance, whose society must do her infinite honour."
Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's farther acquaintance. In the course of the first week, she only hinted to Mr. Montague, that "some people thought his system of education rather 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 opinions."
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 attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophecying, in a most serious whisper, "that the charming Miss Marianne would shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not immediately provided with a backboard, a French dancing-master, and a pair of stocks." This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because, three days afterwards, Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, mistook the hip and shoulder which should have been the highest. This danger vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, "hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague, that she was greatly distressed about her daughter 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 Patirossa 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 languages, 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 advantages of a classical education, finished in one of the Universities) with a good family, without which introduction, 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 recommend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had now no farther occasion for him, being, unfortunately, for himself and his family, killed in an untimely duel.
All her suggestions being lost upon these unthinking parents, Mrs. Theresa Tattle's powers were next tried upon the children, and presently her success was apparent. On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, 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 educated girls, in their anxiety to display 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 apt to affect and imitate, indiscriminately, every thing that they fancy to be agreeable.
Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated 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 affecting 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 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 moment can support, and which is always detected and despised by people of real good sense and politeness.
"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 charming, that she could not help believing it; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, she in a short 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 believe the words that are said to them by way of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every concomitant circumstance tell them a different 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 imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited; even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment 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 detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, 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 impatient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. 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 carriage gone out of hearing, when a note was brought directed to "Frederick Montague,
Esq
junior," which he immediately opened, and read as follows:
"Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague; she 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 headach, 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 particularly fond of them the other day.
"Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before; not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party."
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 answer 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 not to do any thing rude, should we? so I think we might as well go." "Hey! because we could not refuse 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, but that she believed they meant perfectly different things in real life."
"That's just as people please," said her sophistical brother, "you know words mean nothing in themselves. If I chose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand 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; cadwallader 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 words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me."
"I was not disputing, I was reasoning."
"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 upon 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 dabbling so fast in the water!"
Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, "Brother, I wish," —"There! There!" cried Frederick, 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 temperate 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."
"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, 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 brother," 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 something 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."
"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 reasoning, never know how to make puddings; Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so when I shewed her Sophy's beautiful 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 pudding."
"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 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 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 wanting."
"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, 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, smiling, "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 disagreeable 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 Winter. 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.
"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 Sophy gave her own message to the servant, and quietly staid at her usual occupations.
Mrs. Tattle was seated at her teatable, with a large plate of macaroons beside her, when Frederick and Marianne entered. She was "delighted" they were come, and "grieved" not to see Miss Sophy along with them. Marianne coloured a little, for though she had precipitately followed her brother, and though he had quieted her conscience for a moment, by saying, "You know Papa and Mamma told us to do what we thought best;" 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 macaroons, 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! Nothing! 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 bottom?
Mutton, doctor, roast mutton, 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 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. Carbuncle, 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. Carbuncle! 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, before it grows cold with asking questions, 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.
(aside.)
"My dear" again, Marianne!
Yes, brother, because she is frightened you know, and Mrs. Carbuncle always says "my dear" to him when she's frightened; and looks so pale from side to side; and sometimes 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 Carbuncle."
Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver-wing, and a bit of the breast; oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma'am.
Doctor Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to his plate, and dropping the sauce, he buttons up his coat tight across the breast.
Here—A plate, knife and fork, bit o'bread, a glass of Dorchester 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 uncrossed his legs; tried to waken himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing his nose, and wrapping on the lid of his snuffbox.
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 himself if he does not leave her something extraordinary in his will; for, turn it which way she will, she can never keep a carriage, or live like 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, knowing 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 husband's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic, "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 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 people, 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. Nobody hears any thing but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompanyment.
Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.
[Frederick sings, after much preluding.]
Violante, in the pantry,
Gnawing of a mutton bone:
How she gnawed it,
How she clawed it,
When she found herself alone.
"Charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; "so like Miss Croker, I'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, when I hear her asked to sing again. Her voice, however, introduces 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 favourite of mine, you must know; and I mean to do her a piece of service 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."
[Frederick reads in a pompous voice.]
"As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a distinguishing ornament in either sex, Messrs. Valiant and Wise, conceive it to be their duty to take the earliest opportunity 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 assortment of the new-invented, much admired Primrose Soap.—To prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take notice, that the only genuine Primrose Soap is stamped on the outside, "Valiant and Wise."
"Oh, you most incomparable Mimic! 'tis absolutely the counsellor himself. I absolutely must shew you, some day, to my friend lady Batersby; 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 I were to sit looking at you these hundred years."
Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show how colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished 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, Frederick, at Marianne's particular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.
"Very well, brother," cried she, "your hand down to the very bottom of your pocket, and your other 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. Tattle, are not those good eyes; they stare so like his, without seeming to see any thing all the while."
"Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick, 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, fashionable 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 fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man. Pray go on, I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick."
"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; displeased 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?"
"What man in the mask, brother?"
"The man—the actor—the buffoon, 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 extraordinary! but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters 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.
"Oh, yes; indeed you must not leave me without taking something; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon; I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. "It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the cowslip wine in a minute."
"But Sophy! and Papa and Mamma you know will come home 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 farther off than they think, but they did not consult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to sleep out, so you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles."
The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles, and the cowslip wine. "Christopher! Christopher!" said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door when it opened. "Christopher! pray bring—Do you hear?" But no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent. It was so dark that their forms could scarcely be discerned.
"In the name of Heaven who, and what may you be? Speak, I conjure you! What are ye?"
"The chimney sweepers, ma'am, an' please your ladyship."
"Chimney sweepers," repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a laughing.
"Chimney sweepers!" repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. "Chimney sweepers! and could not you say so a little sooner? And pray what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?"
"The bell rang ma'am," answered the squeaking voice.
"The bell rang! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or drunk."
"Ma'am," said the tallest of the chimney sweepers, who had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt manner; "Ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when the bell rang; so we did."
"My brother, I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. Theresa.
"Mr. Eden, madam."
"Oh, ho!" said Mrs. Tattle, in a more complacent tone, "the boy takes me for Miss Birtha Eden, I perceive;" and, flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney sweeper, for a young and handsome lady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and informed him, "that they had mistaken the room; 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 Edens want with chimney sweepers at this time o'night, I wonder? Christopher, 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 Christopher, bring up the cowslip wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne."
Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her, for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman. She had not been 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 morning, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill, sweeping in Paradise-row; those chimnies, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney; the other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry, but in his fright and all he did not know what to do, ma'am, for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make 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, impatlently.
"So, ma'am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep, and the moment he understands the matter—
"I'm sure he must have taken some time to understand it," interposed Mrs. Tattle, "for he's the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the Sweep did make him hear?"
"So he says, ma'am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma'am."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?"
"Why, ma'am," said Christopher, with a look of great delight, "that was all as one, as the very 'dentical words I put to the boy myself when he telled me his story. But, ma'am, that was what I could n't get out of him neither, rightly, for he is a churl; the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean, for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he 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 mannerly, ma'am, with a tongue in his head for his betters, but he could not resolve me my question neither, for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o' the time; and when he came down, Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma'am."
"Poor Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Marianne.
"Oh, Miss," continued the servant, "and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed."
"Well, well! but he's alive now; go on with your story, Christopher," said Mrs. T. "Chimney sweepers get wedged in 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, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked displeased at this speech, "to be sure, if one may be lieve this story, there was some real danger."
"Real danger! yes, indeed," said Marianne, "and I'm sure I think Mr. Eden was very good."
"Certainly, it was a most commendable action, and quite providential; so I shall take an opportunity of saying, when I tell the story in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind stars, I'm sure, to the end of his days for such an escape. But pray, Christopher," said she, persisting in her conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the cloth for supper, "Pray which house was it in Paradise-row? where the Eagles, or the Miss Ropers lodge? or which?"
"It was at my lady Battersby's, ma'am."
"Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, "I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent! This will make an admirable story for my lady Battersby the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly!—Old Eden I know has long wanted to get himself introduced in that house, and a charming charitable expedient he hit upon! My lady Battersby 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 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, hesitating for though he by no means wished to accept of the invitation, he had not yet acquired the necessary power of saying NO decidedly.
"Ask them!" repeated Mrs. Theresa, "my dear sir, at your age, must you ask your Papa and Mamma about such things?"
"Must! no ma'am," said Frederick; "but I said I would; I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself about every thing almost."
"And about this I am sure," cried Marianne; Papa and Mamma you know, just as they were going away, said, "If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best."
"Well then," said Mrs. Theresa, "you know it rests with yourselves, if you may do as you please."
"To be sure I may, madam," said Frederick, colouring from that species of emotion which is justly called false shame, which often conquers real shame, "to be sure, ma'am, I may do as I please."
"Then I may make sure of you," said Mrs. Theresa, "for now it would be 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 gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people, to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old principles; from the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children, act like fools. But all this they feel, only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.
"Ma'am," Frederick began, "I don't mean to be rude, but I hope you'll excuse me from coming to drink tea with you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not acquainted with lady Battersby, and 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 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 qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed to the Trotters of Lancashire, your mother's great favourites. And there is not a person at the Wells, I'll venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go 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 nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she'll quite adore you!"
"But I don't want her to adore me, ma'am," said Frederick, bluntly; then correcting himself, added, "I mean for being a mimic."
"Why not, my love, between friends can there be any harm in 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 settled. How you have made me beg and pray; but you know your own value, I see, as you entertaining people always do. One must ask a wit, like a fine singer, so often. Well, but now for the favour I was going to ask you."
Frederick looked surprised, for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant; but she explained herself farther.
"The old Quaker who lodges above, Old Ephraim Eden, my lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about him, he is the best character, the oddest creature! If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Birtha, and his everlasting 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 myself, 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."
"Well, well, let us hear it, and you shall do as you please afterwards."
"Merciful goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, "do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round and thought 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."
"Oh, its an admirable invention, I give you infinite credit for it!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. "It shall, it must be done: I'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute."
"Oh, no; do not ring," said Frederick, stopping her hand, "I don't mean to do it. You know you promised that I should do as I pleased; I only told you my invention."
"Well, well, but only let me ring and ask whether the chimney sweepers are below: you shall do as you please afterwards."
"Christopher, shut the door; Christopher," said she to the servant, who came up when she rang, "Pray are the sweeps gone yet?"
"No, ma'am."
"But have they been up to old Eden yet."
"Oh, no, ma'am; nor be not to go till the bell rings, for Miss Birtha, ma'am, was asleep, laying down, and her brother would n't have her wakened on no account whatsomever; 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 suppose sent for 'em to give 'em something charitable, ma'am."
"Well, never mind your suppositions," said Mrs. Theresa, "run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don't let the other bear come up with him.
Christopher, who had curiosity as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.
"That will do, Christopher; Christopher, that will do I say;" Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to say, "Christopher you may go," before he would depart.
"Now," said she to Frederick, "step in here to the next room, with this candle, and you'll be equipped in an instant. Only just change cloaths with the boy; only just let me see what a charming chimney sweeper you'd make; you shall do as you please afterwards."
"Well, I'll only change 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 natured 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 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 Marianne.
"That she'll die, child."
"Die! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks! How sorry her poor, poor brother will be. But she will not die, I'm sure, for she walks about, and runs 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 Frederick won't go up to disturb her."
"Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden, how can your brother disturb her more than the real chimney sweeper?"
"But I don't think its right," persisted Marianne, "and I shall tell him so."
"Nay, Miss Marianne, I don't commend you now; young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and Mr. Frederick, and I, I presume, must know what's right, as well as Miss Marianne. Hush! here he is! O the capital figure, cried Mrs. Theresa! Bravo! bravo! cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney sweeper's dress, and as he spoke, saying,
"I'm afraid, please your ladyship, to 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 Christopher 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.
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.
"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. Theresa, "it must be your father and mother come back."
Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall.
The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people. All the servants in the house were gathered together.
As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and she beheld in the midst Frederick, blood streaming from his face; his head was held by Christopher, and the chimney sweeper was holding a bason 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 believe!"
"He'll bleed to death! O my brother!" cried Marianne, catching hold of the words, and terrified, she 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 gentleman."
"Let him hold it," said Frederick, "he did not mean to hurt me."
"That's more than he deserves. I'm certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he'd no business to go to fight—such a one as he, with a gentleman."
"I did not know he was a gentleman," said the chimney sweeper, "How could I?"
"How could he indeed?" said Frederick, "he shall hold the 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 Sophy too."
"Sophy!" cried Frederick, "Oh, Sophy! don't you come—don't look at me, you'll despise me."
"My brother! where! where!" said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney sweepers.
"Its Frederick," said Marianne, "that's my brother."
"Miss Sophy, don't be alarmed," Mrs. Theresa began, "but gracious goodness, I wish Miss Birtha"—
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 Frederick, "Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful 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 thyself."
"I've done bleeding," said Frederick.
"Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout," cried Mrs. Tattle. "Miss Birtha, its nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma'am. You see he 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. Frederick, we'll keep your counsel. Pray, ma'am, let us ask no questions, its only a boyish frolic. Come Mr. Frederick this way, into my room, and I'll give you a towel, and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should pop in upon us."
"Do not be afraid of thy father and mother, they are surely thy best 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," whispered 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. Montague's carriage?"
"My brother, ma'am," said Sophy, "is not afraid of my father and mother's coming back. Let him speak—he was going to speak the truth."
"To be sure, Miss 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 wanted, 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 before every body."
"Nay, my room's at Mr. Frederick Montague's service, and my door's open too. This way, pray," said she, pulling his arm.
But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.
"Oh, Sir, will you forgive me!" cried he.
"Forgive thee!—and what have I to forgive?"
"Forgive, brother, without asking what," said Birtha, smiling.
"He shall know all," cried Frederick; "all that concerns myself, I mean. Sir, I disguised myself in this dress; I came up to your room tonight on purpose to see you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you. The chimney sweeper—where is he?" said Frederick, looking round, and he ran into the hall to see for him—"May he come in? he may—he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful boy. He never guessed who I was; after we left you, we went down to the kitchen together, and there I, fool that I was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you. This boy said, he would not stand by and hear you laughed at;—that you had saved his life;—that I ought to be ashamed of myself;—that you had just given me half-a-crown:—and so you had;—but I went on, and told him, I'd knock him down if he said another word.—He did—I gave the first blow—we fought—I came to the ground—the servants pulled me up again.—They found out, I don't know how, that I was not a chimney sweeper—the rest you saw. And now can you forgive me, Sir," said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his hand.
"The other hand, friend," said the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which every body now observed being much swelled, he put it in his bosom again—"This hand and welcome," said he, offering his other hand to Frederick, and shaking his with a smile.
"O that other hand!" said Frederick, "that was hurt I remember.— How ill I have behaved—extremely ill.—But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman."
"And like a man—and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt," said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick's hand affectionately, "or I am much mistaken friend in that black countenance."
"You are not mistaken," cried Marianne, "Frederick will never be persuaded again by 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?" whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.
"A chimney sweeper! covered with blood!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.
"Father, I am Frederick," said he, stepping forward towards them as they stood in astonishment.
"Frederick! my son!"
'Yes, mother, I'm not hurt half so much as I deserve; I'll tell you—"
"Nay," interrupted 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 certainly 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 his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney sweeper? he will want to go home," said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa.
Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation,
"Good Heaven! here is a catastrophe, 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 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 education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future; nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called, "The best Mimic in the World."
END OF VOL. II.