Chapter XI: Act THE THIRD: Scene I (1)

_The garden of the_ “_Windmill Inn_,” _at Salt Hill_.

MISS BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY, _the Chambermaid_.

(_Miss Bursal_, _in a fainting state_, _is sitting on a garden stool_, _and leaning her head against the Landlady_. _Sally is holding a glass of water and a smelling bottle_.)

_Miss Bursal_. Where am I? Where am I?

_Landlady_. At the “Windmill,” at Salt Hill, young lady; and ill or well, you can’t be better.

_Sally_. Do you find yourself better since coming into the air, miss?

_Miss B._ Better! Oh, I shall never be better!

(_Leans her head on hand_, _and rocks herself backwards and forwards_.)

_Landlady_. My dear young lady, don’t take on so. (_Aside_.) Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said to this one, and what’s the matter at the bottom of affairs. Sally, did you hear anything at the doors?

_Sally_ (_aside_). No, indeed, ma’am; I never _be’s_ at the doors.

_Landlady_ (_aside_). Simpleton! (_Aloud_.) But, my dear Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold—if you’d only disembosom your mind of what’s on it—

_Miss B._ Disembosom my mind! Nonsense! I’ve nothing on my mind. Pray leave me, madam.

_Landlady_ (_aside_). Madam, indeed! madam, forsooth! Oh, I’ll make her pay for that! That _madam_ shall go down in the bill, as sure as my name’s Newington. (_Landlady_, _in a higher tone_.) Well, I wish you better, ma’am. I suppose I’d best send your own servant?

_Miss B._ (_sullenly_). Yes, I suppose so. (_To Sally_.) You need not wait, child, nor look so curious.

_Sally_. _Cur’ous_! Indeed, miss, if I look a little _cur’ous_, or so (looking at her dress), ’tis only because I was _frighted_ to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, when I came out; and this apron—

_Miss B._ Hush! Hush! child. Don’t tell me about clean aprons, nor run on with your vulgar talk. Is there ever a seat one can set on in that _H_arbour yonder?

Sally. O dear ’_art_, yes, miss; ’tis the pleasantest _H_arbour on _H_earth. Be pleased to lean on my _H_arm, and you’ll soon be there.

_Miss B._ (_going_). Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody _interude_ on me—do you ’_ear_? (_Aside_.) Oh, what will become of me? and the Talbots will soon know it! And the ponies, and the curricle, and the _vis-à-vis_—what will become of them? and how shall I make my appearance at the Montem, or any _ware_ else?

SCENE II.

LORD JOHN—WHEELER—BURSAL.

_Wheeler_. Well, but my lord—Well, but Bursal—though my Lady Piercefield—though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won’t leave us all at sixes and sevens. What can we do without you?

_Lord J._ You can do very well without me.

_Bursal_. You can do very well without me.

_Wheel._ (_to Burs._). Impossible!—impossible! You know Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and we have to try them on.

_Burs._ And to pay for them.

_Wheel._ And to settle about the procession. And then, my lord, the election is to come on this evening. You won’t go till that’s over, as your lordship has promised me your lordship’s vote and interest.

_Lord J._ My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler; but I said not a syllable about my _interest_. My friends, perhaps, have not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot. I shall leave them to their own inclinations.

_Burs._ (_whistling_). Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Wheeler, the principal’s nothing without the interest.

_Wheel._ Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of course; for I’m persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord’s friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the contrary.

_Lord J._ I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them to themselves.

_Burs._ (_still whistling_). Well, I’ll do my best to make that father of mine send me off to Oxford. I’m sure I’m fit to go—along with Wheeler. Why, you’d best be my tutor, Wheeler!—a devilish good thought.

_Wheel._ An excellent thought.

_Burs._ And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford, with your Montem money and all!—Money’s _the go_ after all. I wish it was come to my making you my last bow, “ye distant spires, ye _antic_ towers!”

_Wheel._ (_aside to Lord J._). Ye _antic_ towers!—fit for Oxford, my lord!

_Lord J._ Antique towers, I suppose Mr. Bursal means.

_Burs._ Antique, to be sure!—I said antique, did not I, Wheeler?

_Wheel._ O, yes.

_Lord J._ (_aside_). What a mean animal is this!

_Enter_ RORY O’RYAN.

_Rory_. Why, now, what’s become of Talbot, I want to know? There he is not to be found anywhere in the wide world; and there’s a hullabaloo amongst his friends for him.

(_Wheeler and Bursal wink at one another_.)

_Wheel._ We know nothing of him.

_Lord J._ I have not the honour, sir, to be one of Mr. Talbot’s friends. It is his own fault, and I am sorry for it.

_Rory_. ’Faith, so am I, especially as it is mine—fault I mean; and especially as the election is just going to come on.

_Enter a party of boys_, _who cry_, Finsbury’s come!—Finsbury’s come with the dresses!

_Wheel._ Finsbury’s come? Oh, let us see the dresses, and let us try ’em on to-night.

_Burs._ (_pushing the crowd_). On with ye—on with ye, there!—Let’s try ’em on!—Try ’em on—I’m to be colonel.

1_st_ _Boy_. And I lieutenant.

2_nd_ _Boy_. And I ensign.

3_rd_ _Boy_. And I college salt-bearer.

4_th_ _Boy_. And I oppidan.

5_th_ _Boy_. Oh, what a pity I’m in mourning.

_Several speak at once_. And we are servitors. We are to be the eight servitors.

_Wheel._ And I am to be your Captain, I hope. Come on, my Colonel. (_To Bursal_). My lord, you are coming?

_Rory_. By-and-by—I’ve a word in his ear, by your _lave_ and his.

_Burs._ Why, what the devil stops the way, there?—Push on—on with them.

6_th_ _Boy_. I’m marshal.

_Burs._ On with you—on with you—who cares what you are?

_Wheel._ (_to Bursal_, _aside_). You’ll pay Finsbury for me, you rich Jew? (_To Lord John_.) Your lordship will remember your lordship’s promise.

_Lord J._ I do not usually forget my promises, sir; and therefore need not to be reminded of them.

_Wheel._ I beg pardon—I beg ten thousand pardons, my lord.

_Burs._ (_taking him by the arm_). Come on, man, and don’t stand begging pardon there, or I’ll leave you.

_Wheel._ (_to Burs._) I beg pardon, Bursal—I beg pardon, ten thousand times.

(_Exeunt_.)

_Manent_ LORD JOHN _and_ RORY O’RYAN.

_Rory_. Wheugh!—Now put the case. If I was going to be hanged, for the life of me I couldn’t be after begging so many pardons for nothing at all. But many men, many minds—(_Hums_.) True game to the last! No Wheeler for me. Oh, murder! I forgot, I was nigh letting the cat out o’ the bag again.

_Lord J._ You had something to say to me, sir? I wait till your recollection returns.

_Rory_. ’Faith, and that’s very kind of you; and if you had always done so, you would never have been offended with me, my lord.

_Lord J._ You are mistaken, Mr. O’Ryan, if you think that you did or could offend me.

_Rory_. Mistaken was I, then, sure enough; but we are all liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one another; that’s the way to go through.

_Lord J._ You will go through the world your own way, Mr. O’Ryan, and allow me to go through it my way.

_Rory_. Very fair—fair enough—then we shan’t cross. But now, to come to the point. I don’t like to be making disagreeable retrospects, if I could any way avoid it; nor to be going about the bush, especially at this time o’ day; when, as Mr. Finsbury’s come, we’ve not so much time to lose as we had. Is there any truth, then, my lord, in the report that is going about this hour past, that you have gone in a huff, and given your promise there to that sneaking Wheeler to vote for him now?

_Lord J._ In answer to your question, sir, I am to inform you that I _have_ promised Mr. Wheeler to vote for him.

_Rory_. In a huff?—Ay, now, there it is!—Well, when a man’s _mad_, to be sure, he’s mad—and that’s all that can be said about it. And I know, if I had been _mad_ myself, I might have done a foolish thing as well as another. But now, my lord, that you are not mad—

_Lord J._ I protest, sir, I cannot understand you. In one word, sir, I’m neither mad nor a fool!—Your most obedient (_going_, _angrily_).

_Rory_ (_holding him_). Take care now; you are going mad with me again. But phoo! I like you the better for being mad. I’m very often mad myself, and I would not give a potato for one that had never been mad in his life.

_Lord J._ (_aside_). He’ll not be quiet, till he makes me knock him down.

_Rory_. Agh! agh! agh!—I begin to guess whereabouts I am at last. _Mad_, in your country, I take it, means fit for Bedlam; but with us in Ireland, now, ’tis no such thing; it mean’s nothing in life but the being in a passion. Well, one comfort is, my lord, as you’re a bit of a scholar, we have the Latin proverb in our favour—“_Ira furor brevis est_” (Anger is short madness). The shorter the better, I think. So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt against poor Talbot, I’ll assure you he’s as innocent o’ that unfortunate song as the babe unborn.

_Lord J._ It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies to me.

_Rory_. He make apologies! Not he, ’faith; he’d send me to Coventry, or, maybe, to a worse place, did he but know I was condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to him. But, upon my conscience, I’ve a regard for you both, and don’t like to see you go together by the ears. Now, look you, my lord. By this book, and all the books that were ever shut and opened, he never saw or heard of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this morning.

_Lord J._ But you told me this morning that it was he who wrote it.

_Rory_. For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out; but it was only a _white_ lie to _sa_rve a friend, and make him cut a dash with a new song at election time. But I’ve done for ever with white lies.

_Lord J._ (_walking about as if agitated_). I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O’Ryan. This may be a good joke to you; but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot never wrote a word of the song?

_Rory_. Not a word or syllable, good or bad.

_Lord J._ And I have given my promise to vote against him. He’ll lose his election.

_Rory_. Not if you’ll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.

_Lord J._ I have promised to leave them to themselves; and Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time.

_Rory_. Bless my body! I’ll not stay prating here then.

(_Exit Rory_.)

_Lord J._ (_follows_). But what can have become of Talbot? I have been too hasty for once in my life. Well, I shall suffer for it more than anybody else; for I love Talbot, since he did not make the song, of which I hate to think.

(_Exit_.)

SCENE III.

_A large hall in Eton College_—_A staircase at the end_—_Eton lads_, _dressed in their Montem Dresses in the Scene_—_In front_, WHEELER (_dressed as Captain_), BURSAL _and_ FINSBURY.

_Fins._ I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this dress.

_Burs._ _Infinite credit_! Why, he’ll have no objection to that—hey, Wheeler? But I thought Finsbury knew you too well to give you credit for anything.

_Fins._ You are pleased to be pleasant, sir. Mr. Wheeler knows, in that sense of the word, it is out of my power to give him credit, and I’m sure he would not ask it.

_Wheel._ (_aside_). O, Bursal, pay him, and I’ll pay you to-morrow.

_Burs._ Now, if you weren’t to be captain after all, Wheeler, what a pretty figure you’d cut. Ha! ha! ha!—Hey?

_Wheel._ Oh, I am as sure of being captain as of being alive. (_Aside_.) Do pay for me, now, there’s a good, dear fellow, before _they_ (_looking back_) come up.

_Burs._ (_aside_). I love to make him lick the dust. (_Aloud_.) Hollo! here’s Finsbury waiting to be paid, lads. (_To the lads who are in the back scene_.) Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?

(_The lads come forward, and several exclaim at once_,) I’ve paid! I’ve paid!

_Enter_ LORD JOHN _and_ RORY O’RYAN.

_Rory_. Oh, King of Fashion, how fine we are! Why, now, to look at ye all one might fancy one’s self at the playhouse at once, or at a fancy ball in dear little Dublin. Come, strike up a dance.

_Burs._ Pshaw! Wherever you come, Rory O’Ryan, no one else can be heard. Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?

_Several Boys exclaim_. We’ve all paid.

1_st_ _Boy_. I’ve not paid, but here’s my money.

_Several Boys_. We have not paid, but here’s our money.

6_th_ _Boy_. Order there, I am marshal. All that have paid march off to the staircase, and take your seats there, one by one. March!

(_As they march by_, _one by one_, _so as to display their dresses_, _Mr.
Finsbury bows_, _and says_,)

A thousand thanks, gentlemen. Thank you, gentlemen. Thanks, gentlemen. The finest sight ever I saw out of Lon’on.

_Rory_, _as each lad passes_, _catches his arm_, Are you a Talbot_ite_ or a Wheeler_ite_? _To each who answers_ “A Wheelerite,” _Rory replies_, “Phoo! dance off, then. Go to the devil and shake yourself.” {167} Each who answers “A Talbotite,” _Rory shakes by the hand violently_, _singing_,

“Talbot, oh, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”

_When they have almost all passed_, _Lord John says_, _But where can Mr. Talbot be all this time_?

_Burs._ Who knows? Who cares?

_Wheel._ A pretty electioneerer! (Aside to Bursal.) Finsbury’s waiting to be paid.

_Lord J._ You don’t wait for me, Mr. Finsbury. You know, I have settled with you.

_Fins._ Yes, my lord—yes. Many thanks: and I have left your lordship’s dress here, and everybody’s dress, I believe, as bespoke.

_Burs._ Here, Finsbury, is the money for Wheeler, who, between you and me, is as poor as a rat.

_Wheeler_ (_affecting to laugh_). Well, I hope I shall be as rich as a Jew to-morrow. (_Bursal counts money_, _in an ostentatious manner_, _into Finsbury’s hand_.)

_Fins._ A thousand thanks for all favours.

_Rory_. You will be kind enough to _lave_ Mr. Talbot’s dress with me, Mr. Finsbury, for I’m a friend.

_Fins._ Indubitably, sir: but the misfortune is—he! he! he!—Mr. Talbot, sir, has bespoke no dress. Your servant, gentlemen.

(_Exit Finsbury_.)

_Burs._ So your friend Mr. Talbot could not afford to bespeak a dress—(_Bursal and Wheeler laugh insolently_.) How comes that, I wonder?

_Lord J._ If I’m not mistaken, here comes Talbot to answer for himself.

_Rory_. But who, in the name of St. Patrick, has he along with him?

_Enter_ TALBOT _and_ LANDLORD.

_Talb._ Come in along with us, Farmer Hearty—come in.

(_Whilst the Farmer comes in_, _the boys who were sitting on the stairs_,
_rise and exclaim_,)

Whom have we here? What now? Come down, lads; here’s more fun.

_Rory_. What’s here, Talbot?

_Talb._ An honest farmer, and a good natured landlord, who would come here along with me to speak—

_Farm._ (_interrupting_). To speak the truth—(_strikes his stick on the ground_).

_Landlord_ (_unbuttoning his waistcoat_). But I am so hot—so short-winded, that (_panting and puffing_)—that for the soul and body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say.

_Rory_. ’Faith, now, the more short winded a story, the better, to my fancy.

_Burs._ Wheeler, what’s the matter, man? you look as if your under jaw was broke.

_Farm._ The matter is, young gentlemen, that there was once upon a time a fine, bay hunter.

_Wheel._ (_squeezing up to Talbot_, _aside_). Don’t expose me, don’t let him tell. (_To the Farmer_.) I’ll pay for the corn I spoiled. (_To the Landlord_.) I’ll pay for the horse.

_Farm._ I does not want to be paid for my corn. The short of it is, young gentlemen, this ’un here, in the fine thing-em-bobs (pointing to Wheeler), is a shabby fellow; he went and spoiled Master Newington’s best hunter.

_Land._ (_panting_). Ruinationed him! ruinationed him!

_Rory_. But was that all the shabbiness? Now I might, or any of us might, have had such an accident as that. I suppose he paid the gentleman for the horse, or will do so, in good time.

_Land._ (_holding his sides_). Oh, that I had but a little breath in this body o’ mine to speak all—speak on, Farmer.

_Farm._ (_striking his stick on the floor_). Oons, sir, when a man’s put out, he can’t go on with his story.

_Omnes_. Be quiet, Rory—hush!

(_Rory puts his finger on his lips_.)

_Farm._ Why, sir, I was a-going to tell you the shabbiness—why, sir, he did not pay the landlord, here, for the horse; but he goes and says to the landlord, here—“Mr. Talbot had your horse on the self-same day; ’twas he did the damage; ’tis from he you must get your money.” So Mr. Talbot, here, who is another sort of a gentleman (though he has not so fine a coat) would not see a man at a loss, that could not afford it; and not knowing which of ’em it was that spoiled the horse, goes, when he finds the other would not pay a farthing, and pays all.

_Rory_ (_rubbing his hands_). There’s Talbot for ye. And, now, gentlemen (_to Wheeler and Bursal_), you guess the _rason_, as I do, I suppose, why he bespoke no dress; he had not money enough to be fine—and honest, too. You are very fine, Mr. Wheeler, to do you justice.

_Lord J._ Pray, Mr. O’Ryan, let the farmer go on; he has more to say. How did you find out, pray, my good friend, that it was not Talbot who spoiled the horse! Speak loud enough to be heard by everybody.

_Farm._ Ay, that I will—I say (_very loudly_) I say I saw him there (_pointing to Wheeler_) take the jump which strained the horse; and I’m ready to swear to it. Yet he let another pay; there’s the shabbiness.

(_A general groan from all the lads_. “Oh, shabby Wheeler, shabby! I’ll not vote for shabby Wheeler!”)

_Lord J._ (_aside_). Alas! I must vote for him.

_Rory sings_.

“True game to the last; no Wheeler for me;
Talbot, oh, Talbot’s the dog for me.”

(_Several voices join the chorus_.)

_Burs._ Wheeler, if you are not chosen Captain, you must see and pay me for the dress.

_Wheel._ I am as poor as a rat.

_Rory_. Oh, yes! oh yes! hear ye! hear ye, all manner of men—the election is now going to begin forthwith in the big field, and Rory O’Ryan holds the poll for Talbot. Talbot for ever!—huzza!

(_Exit Rory_, _followed by the Boys_, _who exclaim_ “Talbot for ever!—huzza!” _The Landlord and Farmer join them_.)

_Lord J._ Talbot, I am glad you are what I always thought you—I’m glad you did not write that odious song. I would not lose such a friend for all the songs in the world. Forgive me for my hastiness this morning. I’ve punished myself—I’ve promised to vote for Wheeler.

_Talb._ Oh, no matter whom you vote for, my lord, if you are still my friend, and if you know me to be yours.

(_They shake hands_.)

_Lord J._ I must not say, “Huzza for Talbot!”

(_Exeunt_.)

SCENE IV.

WINDSOR TERRACE.

LADY PIERCEFIELD, MRS. TALBOT, LOUISA, _and a little girl of six years old_, LADY VIOLETTA, _daughter to_ LADY PIERCEFIELD.

_Violetta_ (_looking at a paper which Louisa holds_). I like it _very_ much.

_Lady P._ What is it that you like _very_ much, Violetta?

_Violet._ You are not to know yet, mamma; it is—I may tell her that—it is a little drawing that Louisa is doing for me. Louisa, I wish you would let me show it to mamma.

_Louisa_. And welcome, my dear; it is only a sketch of “The Little Merchants,” a story which Violetta was reading, and she asked me to try to draw the pictures of the little merchants for her. (_Whilst Lady P. looks at the drawing_, _Violetta says to Louisa_.)

But are you in earnest, Louisa, about what you were saying to me just now,—quite in earnest?

_Louisa_. Yes, in earnest,—quite in earnest, my dear.

_Violet._ And may I ask mamma, _now_?

_Louisa_. If you please, my dear.

_Violet._ (_runs to her mother_). Stoop down to me, mamma; I’ve something to whisper to you.

(_Lady Piercefield stoops down_; _Violetta throws her arms round her
mother’s neck_.)

_Violet._ (_aside to her mother_). Mamma, do you know—you know you want a governess for me.

_Lady P._ Yes, if I could find a good one.

_Violet._ (_aloud_). Stoop again, mamma, I’ve more to whisper. (_Aside to her mother_). _She_ says she will be my governess, if you please.

_Lady P._ _She_!—who is _she_?

_Violet._ Louisa.

_Lady P._ (_patting Violetta’s cheek_). You are a little fool. Miss Talbot is only playing with you.

_Violet._ No, indeed, mamma; she is in earnest; are not you, Louisa?—Oh, say yes!

_Louisa_. Yes.

_Violet._ (_claps her hands_). _Yes_, mamma; do you hear _yes_?

_Louisa_. If Lady Piercefield will trust you to my care, I am persuaded that I should be much happier as your governess, my good little Violetta, than as an humble dependent of Miss Bursal’s. (_Aside to her mother_.) You see that, now I am put to the trial, I keep to my resolution, dear mother.

_Mrs. T._ Your ladyship would not be surprised at this offer of my Louisa, if you had heard, as we have done within these few hours, of the loss of the East India ship in which almost our whole property was embarked.

_Louisa_. The _Bombay Castle_ is wrecked.

_Lady P._ The _Bombay Castle_! I have the pleasure to tell you that you are misinformed—it was the _Airly Castle_ that was wrecked.

_Louisa and Mrs. T._ Indeed!

_Lady P._ Yes; you may depend upon it—it was the _Airly Castle_ that was lost. You know I am just come from Portsmouth, where I went to meet my brother, Governor Morton, who came home with the last India fleet, and from whom I had the intelligence.

(_Here Violetta interrupts_, _to ask her mother for her nosegay_—_Lady P. gives it to her_, _then goes on speaking_.)

_Lady P._ They were in such haste, foolish people! to carry their news to London, that they mistook one castle for another. But do you know that Mr. Bursal loses fifty thousand pounds, it is said, by the _Airly Castle_! When I told him she was lost, I thought he would have dropped down. However, I found he comforted himself afterwards with a bottle of Burgundy: but poor Miss Bursal has been in hysterics ever since.

_Mrs. T._ Poor girl! My Louisa, _you_ did not fall into hysterics, when I told you of the loss of our whole fortune.

(_Violetta_, _during this dialogue_, _has been seated on the ground
making up a nosegay_.)

_Violet._ (_aside_). Fall into hysterics! What are hysterics, I wonder.

_Louisa_. Miss Bursal is much to be pitied; for the loss of wealth will be the loss of happiness to her.

_Lady P._ It is to be hoped that the loss may at least check the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, as my son tells me—

(_A cry of_ “Huzza! huzza!” _behind the scenes_.)

_Enter_ LORD JOHN.

_Lord J._ (_hastily_). How d’ye do, mother! Miss Talbot, I give you joy.

_Lady P._ Take breath—take breath.

_Louisa_. It is my brother.

_Mrs. T._ Here he is!—Hark! hark!

(_A cry behind the scenes of_ “Talbot and truth for ever! Huzza!”)

_Louisa_. They are chairing him.

_Lord J._ Yes, they are chairing him; and he has been chosen for his honourable conduct, not for his electioneering skill; for, to do him justice, Coriolanus himself was not a worse electioneerer.

_Enter_ RORY O’RYAN _and another Eton lad_, _carrying_ TALBOT _in a chair_, _followed by a crowd of Eton lads_.

_Rory_. By your _lave_, _my lord_—by your _lave_, ladies.

_Omnes_. Huzza! Talbot and truth for ever! Huzza!

_Talb._ Set me down! There’s my mother! There’s my sister!

_Rory_. Easy, easy. Set him down? No such _ting_! give him t’other huzza! There’s nothing like a good loud huzza in this world. Yes, there is! for, as my Lord John said just now, out of some book, or out of his own head,—

“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs,
Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.”

* * * * *

CURTAIN FALLS.

* * * * *

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

IN the neighbourhood of a seaport town in the west of England, there lived a gardener, who had one son, called Maurice, to whom he was very partial. One day his father sent him to the neighbouring town to purchase some garden seeds for him. When Maurice got to the seed-shop, it was full of people, who were all impatient to be served: first a great tall man, and next a great fat woman pushed before him; and he stood quietly beside the counter, waiting till somebody should be at leisure to attend to him. At length, when all the other people who were in the shop had got what they wanted, the shopman turned to Maurice—“And what do you want, my patient little fellow?” said he.

“I want all these seeds for my father,” said Maurice, putting a list of seeds into the shopman’s hand; “and I have brought money to pay for them all.”

The seedsman looked out all the seeds that Maurice wanted, and packed them up in paper: he was folding up some painted lady-peas, when, from a door at the back of the shop, there came in a square, rough-faced man, who exclaimed, the moment he came in, “Are the seeds I ordered ready?—The wind’s fair—they ought to have been aboard yesterday. And my china jar, is it packed up and directed? where is it?”

“It is up there on the shelf over your head, sir,” answered the seedsman. “It is very safe, you see; but we have not had time to pack it yet. It shall be done to-day; and we will get the seeds ready for you, sir, immediately.”

“Immediately! then stir about it. The seeds will not pack themselves up. Make haste, pray.”

“Immediately, sir, as soon as I have done up the parcel for this little boy.”

“What signifies the parcel for this little boy? He can wait, and I cannot—wind and tide wait for no man. Here, my good lad, take your parcel, and sheer off,” said the impatient man; and, as he spoke, he took up the parcel of seeds from the counter, as the shopman stooped to look for a sheet of thick brown paper and packthread to tie it up.

The parcel was but loosely folded up, and as the impatient man lifted it, the weight of the peas which were withinside of it burst the paper, and all the seeds fell out upon the floor, whilst Maurice in vain held his hands to catch them. The peas rolled to all parts of the shop; the impatient man swore at them, but Maurice, without being out of humour, set about collecting them as fast as possible.

Whilst the boy was busied in this manner, the man got what seeds he wanted; and as he was talking about them, a sailor came into the shop, and said, “Captain, the wind has changed within these five minutes, and it looks as if we should have ugly weather.”

“Well, I’m glad of it,” replied the rough faced man, who was the captain of a ship. “I am glad to have a day longer to stay ashore, and I’ve business enough on my hands.” The captain pushed forward towards the shop door. Maurice, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up his seeds, saw that the captain’s foot was entangled in some packthread which hung down from the shelf on which the china jar stood. Maurice saw that, if the captain took one more step forward, he must pull the string, so that it would throw down the jar, round the bottom of which the packthread was entangled. He immediately caught hold of the captain’s leg, and stopped him. “Stay! Stand still, sir!” said he, “or you will break your china jar.”

The man stood still, looked, and saw how the packthread had caught in his shoe buckle, and how it was near dragging down his beautiful china jar. “I am really very much obliged to you, my little fellow,” said he. “You have saved my jar, which I would not have broken for ten guineas, for it is for my wife, and I’ve brought it safe from abroad many a league. It would have been a pity if I had broken it just when it was safe landed. I am really much obliged to you, my little fellow, this was returning good for evil. I am sorry I threw down your seeds, as you are such a good natured, forgiving boy. Be so kind,” continued he, turning to the shopman, “as to reach down that china jar for me.”

The shopman lifted down the jar very carefully, and the captain took off the cover, and pulled out some tulip roots. “You seem, by the quantity of seeds you have got, to belong to a gardener. Are you fond of gardening?” said he to Maurice.

“Yes, sir,” replied Maurice, “very fond of it; for my father is a gardener, and he lets me help him at his work, and he has given me a little garden of my own.”

“Then here are a couple of tulip-roots for you; and if you take care of them, I’ll promise you that you will have the finest tulips in England in your little garden. These tulips were given to me by a Dutch merchant, who told me that they were some of the rarest and finest in Holland. They will prosper with you, I’m sure, wind and weather permitting.”

Maurice thanked the gentleman, and returned home, eager to show his precious tulip-roots to his father, and to a companion of his, the son of a nurseryman, who lived near him. Arthur was the name of the nurseryman’s son.

The first thing Maurice did, after showing his tulip-roots to his father, was to run to Arthur’s garden in search of him. Their gardens were separated only by a low wall of loose stones: “Arthur! Arthur! where are you? Are you in your garden! I want you.” But Arthur made no answer, and did not, as usual, come running to meet his friend. “I know where you are,” continued Maurice, “and I’m coming to you as fast as the raspberry-bushes will let me. I have good news for you—something you’ll be delighted to see, Arthur!—Ha!—but here is something that I am not delighted to see, I am sure,” said poor Maurice, who, when he had got through the raspberry-bushes, and had come in sight of his own garden, beheld his bell-glass—his beloved bell-glass, under which his cucumbers were grown so finely—his only bell-glass, broken to pieces!

“I am sorry for it,” said Arthur, who stood leaning upon his spade in his own garden; “I am afraid you will be very angry with me.”

“Why, was it you, Arthur, broke my bell-glass! Oh, how could you do so?”

“I was throwing weeds and rubbish over the wall, and by accident a great lump of couch-grass, with stones hanging to the roots, fell upon your bell-glass, and broke it, as you see.”

Maurice lifted up the lump of couch-grass, which had fallen through the broken glass upon his cucumbers, and he looked at his cucumbers for a moment in silence—“Oh, my poor cucumbers! you must all die now. I shall see all your yellow flowers withered to-morrow; but it is done, and it cannot be helped; so, Arthur, let us say no more about it.”

“You are very good; I thought you would have been angry. I am sure I should have been exceedingly angry if you had broken the glass, if it had been mine.”

“Oh, forgive and forget, as my father always says; that’s the best way. Look what I have got for you.” Then he told Arthur the story of the captain of the ship, and the china jar; the seeds having been thrown down, and of the fine tulip-roots which had been given to him; and Maurice concluded by offering one of the precious roots to Arthur, who thanked him with great joy, and repeatedly said, “How good you were not to be angry with me for breaking your bell-glass! I am much more sorry for it than if you had been in a passion with me!”

Arthur now went to plant his tulip-root: and Maurice looked at the beds which his companion had been digging, and at all the things which were coming up in his garden.

“I don’t know how it is,” said Arthur, “but you always seem as glad to see the things in my garden coming up, and doing well, as if they were all your own. I am much happier since my father came to live here, and since you and I have been allowed to work and to play together, than I ever was before; for you must know, before we came to live here, I had a cousin in the house with me, who used to plague me. He was not nearly so good-natured as you are. He never took pleasure in looking at my garden, or at anything that I did that was well done; and he never gave me a share of anything that he had; and so I did not like him; how could I? But, I believe that hating people makes us unhappy; for I know I never was happy when I was quarrelling with him; and I am always happy with you, Maurice. You know we never quarrel.”

It would be well for all the world if they could be convinced, like Arthur, that to live in friendship is better than to quarrel. It would be well for all the world if they followed Maurice’s maxim of “Forgive and Forget,” when they receive, or when they imagine that they receive, an injury.

Arthur’s father, Mr. Oakly, the nurseryman, was apt to take offence at trifles; and when he thought that any of his neighbours disobliged him, he was too proud to ask them to explain their conduct; therefore he was often mistaken in his judgment of them. He thought that it showed _spirit_, to remember and to resent an injury; and, therefore, though he was not an ill-natured man, he was sometimes led, by this mistaken idea of _spirit_, to do ill-natured things: “A warm friend and a bitter enemy,” was one of his maxims, and he had many more enemies than friends. He was not very rich, but he was proud; and his favourite proverb was, “Better live in spite than in pity.”

When first he settled near Mr. Grant, the gardener, he felt inclined to dislike him, because he was told that Mr. Grant was a Scotchman, and he had a prejudice against Scotchmen; all of whom he believed to be cunning and avaricious, because he had once been over-reached by a Scotch peddler. Grant’s friendly manners in some degree conquered this prepossession but still he secretly suspected that _this civility_, as he said, “_was all show_, _and that he was not_, _nor could not_, _being a Scotchman_, _be such a hearty friend as a true-born Englishman_.”

Grant had some remarkably fine raspberries. The fruit was so large, as to be quite a curiosity. When it was in season, many strangers came from the neighbouring town, which was a sea-bathing place, to look at these raspberries, which obtained the name of Brobdingnag raspberries.

“How came you, pray, neighbour Grant, if a man may ask, by these wonderful fine raspberries?” said Mr. Oakly, one evening, to the gardener.

“That’s a secret,” replied Grant, with an arch smile.

“Oh, in case it’s a secret, I’ve no more to say; for I never meddle with any man’s secrets that he does not choose to trust me with. But I wish, neighbour Grant, you would put down that book. You are always poring over some book or another when a man comes to see you, which is not, according to my notions (being a plain, _unlarned_ Englishman bred and born), so civil and neighbourly as might be.”

Mr. Grant hastily shut his book, but remarked, with a shrewd glance at his son, that it was in that book he found his Brobdingnag raspberries.

“You are pleased to be pleasant upon them that have not the luck to be as book-_larned_ as yourself, Mr. Grant; but I take it, being only a plain spoken Englishman, as I observed afore, that one is to the full as like to find a raspberry in one’s garden as in one’s book, Mr. Grant.”

Grant, observing that his neighbour spoke rather in a surly tone, did not contradict him; being well versed in the Bible, he knew that “A soft word turneth away wrath,” and he answered, in a good humoured voice, “I hear, neighbour Oakly, you are likely to make a great deal of money of your nursery this year. Here’s to the health of you and yours, not forgetting the seedling larches, which I see are coming on finely.”

“Thank ye, neighbour, kindly; the larches are coming on tolerably well, that’s certain; and here’s to your good health, Mr. Grant—you and yours, not forgetting your, what dye call ’em raspberries”—(_drinks_)—and, after a pause, resumes, “I’m not apt to be a beggar, neighbour, but if you could give me—”

Here Mr. Oakly was interrupted by the entrance of some strangers, and he did finish making his request—Mr. Oakly was not, as he said of himself, apt to ask favours, and nothing but Grant’s cordiality could have conquered his prejudices, so far as to tempt him to ask a favour from a Scotchman. He was going to have asked for some of the Brobdingnag raspberry-plants. The next day the thought of the raspberry-plants recurred to his memory, but being a bashful man, he did not like to go himself on purpose to make his request, and he desired his wife, who was just setting out to market, to call at Grant’s gate, and, if he was at work in his garden, to ask him for a few plants of his raspberries.

The answer which Oakly’s wife brought to him was that Mr. Grant had not a raspberry-plant in the world to give him, and that if he had ever so many, he would not give one away, except to his own son.

Oakly flew into a passion when he received such a message, declared it was just such a mean, shabby trick as might have been expected from a Scotchman—called himself a booby, a dupe, and a blockhead, for ever having trusted to the civil speeches of a Scotchman—swore that he would die in the parish workhouse before he would ever ask another favour, be it ever so small, from a Scotchman; related to his wife, for the hundredth time, the way in which he had been taken in by the Scotch peddler ten years ago, and concluded by forswearing all further intercourse with Mr. Grant, and all belonging to him.

“Son Arthur,” said he, addressing himself to the boy, who just then came in from work—“Son Arthur, do you hear me? let me never again see you with Grant’s son.”

“With Maurice, father?”

“With Maurice Grant, I say; I forbid you from this day and hour forward to have anything to do with him.”

“Oh, why, dear father?”

“Ask no questions but do as I bid you.”

Arthur burst out a crying, and only said, “Yes, father, I’ll do as you bid me, to be sure.”

“Why now, what does the boy cry for? Is there no other boy, simpleton, think you, to play with, but this Scotchman’s son! I’ll find out another play-fellow for ye, child, if that be all.”

“That’s not all, father,” said Arthur, trying to stop himself from sobbing; “but the thing is, I shall never have such another play-fellow,—I shall never have such another friend as Maurice Grant.”

“Like father like son—you may think yourself well off to have done with him.”

“Done with him! Oh, father, and shall I never go again to work in his garden, and may not he come to mine?”

“No,” replied Oakly, sturdily; “his father has used me uncivil, and no man shall use me uncivil twice. I say no. Wife, sweep up this hearth. Boy, don’t take on like a fool; but eat thy bacon and greens, and let’s hear no more of Maurice Grant.”

Arthur promised to obey his father. He only begged that he might once more speak to Maurice, and tell him that it was by his father’s orders he acted. This request was granted; but when Arthur further begged to know what reason he might give for this separation, his father refused to tell his reasons. The two friends took leave of one another very sorrowfully.

Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavoured to discover what could have offended his neighbour; but all explanation was prevented by the obstinate silence of Oakly.

Now, the message which Grant really sent about the Brobdingnag raspberries was somewhat different from that which Mr. Oakly received. The message was, that the raspberries were not Mr. Grant’s; that therefore he had no right to give them away; that they belonged to his son Maurice, and that this was not the right time of year for planting them. This message had been unluckily misunderstood. Grant gave his answer to his wife; she to a Welsh servant-girl, who did not perfectly comprehend her mistress’ broad Scotch; and she in her turn could not make herself intelligible to Mrs. Oakly, who hated the Welsh accent, and whose attention, when the servant-girl delivered the message, was principally engrossed by the management of her own horse. The horse, on which Mrs. Oakly rode this day being ill-broken, would not stand still quietly at the gate, and she was extremely impatient to receive her answer, and to ride on to market.

Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his neighbour Grant, could not long remain without finding out fresh causes of complaint. There was in Grant’s garden a plum-tree, which was planted close to the loose stone wall that divided the garden from the nursery. The soil in which the plum tree was planted happened not to be quite so good as that which was on the opposite side of the wall, and the plum-tree had forced its way through the wall, and gradually had taken possession of the ground which it liked best.

Oakly thought the plum-tree, as it belonged to Mr. Grant, had no right to make its appearance on his ground: an attorney told him that he might oblige Grant to cut it down; but Mr. Grant refused to cut down his plum-tree at the attorney’s desire, and the attorney persuaded Oakly to go to law about the business, and the lawsuit went on for some months.

The attorney, at the end of this time, came to Oakly with a demand for money to carry on his suit, assuring him that, in a short time, it would be determined in his favour. Oakly paid his attorney ten golden guineas, remarked that it was a great sum for him to pay, and that nothing but the love of justice could make him persevere in this lawsuit about a bit of ground, “which, after all,” said he, “is not worth twopence. The plum-tree does me little or no damage, but I don’t like to be imposed upon by a Scotchman.”

The attorney saw and took advantage of Oakly’s prejudice against the natives of Scotland; and he persuaded him, that to show the _spirit_ of a true-born Englishman it was necessary, whatever it might cost him, to persist in this law suit.

It was soon after this conversation with the attorney that Mr. Oakly walked, with resolute steps, towards the plum-tree, saying to himself, “If it cost me a hundred pounds I will not let this cunning Scotchman get the better of me.”

Arthur interrupted his father’s reverie, by pointing to a book and some young plants which lay upon the wall. “I fancy, father,” said he, “those things are for you, for there is a little note directed to you, in Maurice’s handwriting. Shall I bring it to you?”

“Yes, let me read it, child, since I must.” It contained these words:

“DEAR MR. OAKLY,—I don’t know why you have quarrelled with us; I am
very sorry for it. But though you are angry with me, I am not angry
with you. I hope you will not refuse some of my Brobdingnag
raspberry-plants, which you asked for a great while ago, when we were
all good friends. It was not the right time of the year to plant
them, which was the reason they were not sent to you; but it is just
the right time to plant them now; and I send you the book, in which
you will find the reason why we always put seaweed ashes about their
roots; and I have got some seaweed ashes for you. You will find the
ashes in the flower-pot upon the wall. I have never spoken to
Arthur, nor he to me, since you bid us not. So, wishing your
Brobdingnag raspberries may turn out as well as ours, and longing to
be all friends again, I am, with love to dear Arthur and self,

“Your affectionate neighbour’s son,
“MAURICE GRANT.

“P.S.—It is now about four months since the quarrel began, and that
is a very long while.”

A great part of the effect of this letter was lost upon Oakly, because he was not very expert in reading writing, and it cost him much trouble to spell it and put it together. However, he seemed affected by it, and said, “I believe this Maurice loves you well enough, Arthur, and he seems a good sort of boy; but as to the raspberries, I believe all that he says about them is but an excuse; and, at anyrate, as I could not get ’em when I asked for them, I’ll not have ’em now. Do you hear me, I say, Arthur? What are you reading there?”

Arthur was reading the page that was doubled down in the book, which Maurice had left along with the raspberry-plants upon the wall. Arthur read aloud as follows:—

(_Monthly Magazine_, Dec. ’98, p. 421.)

“There is a sort of strawberry cultivated at Jersey, which is almost
covered with seaweed in the winter, in like manner as many plants in
England are with litter from the stable. These strawberries are
usually of the largeness of a middle-sized apricot, and the flavour
is particularly grateful. In Jersey and Guernsey, situate scarcely
one degree farther south than Cornwall, all kinds of fruit, pulse,
and vegetables are produced in their seasons a fortnight or three
weeks sooner than in England, even on the southern shores; and snow
will scarcely remain twenty-four hours on the earth. Although this
may be attributed to these islands being surrounded with a salt, and
consequently a moist atmosphere, yet the ashes (seaweed ashes) made
use of as manure, may also have their portion of influence.” {181}

“And here,” continued Arthur, “is something written with a pencil, on a slip of paper, and it is Maurice’s writing. I will read it to you.

“‘When I read in this book what is said about the strawberries growing as large as apricots, after they had been covered over with seaweed, I thought that perhaps seaweed ashes might be good for my father’s raspberries; and I asked him if he would give me leave to try them. He gave me leave, and I went directly and gathered together some seaweed that had been cast on shore; and I dried it, and burned it, and then I manured the raspberries with it, and the year afterwards the raspberries grew to the size that you have seen. Now, the reason I tell you this is, first, that you may know how to manage your raspberries, and next, because I remember you looked very grave, as if you were not pleased with my father, Mr. Grant, when he told you that the way by which he came by his Brobdingnag raspberries was a secret. Perhaps this was the thing that has made you so angry with us all; for you never have come to see father since that evening. Now I have told you all I know; and so I hope you will not be angry with us any longer.’”

Mr. Oakly was much pleased by this openness, and said, “Why now, Arthur, this is something like, this is telling one the thing one wants to know, without fine speeches. This is like an Englishman more than a Scotchman. Pray, Arthur, do you know whether your friend Maurice was born in England or in Scotland?”

“No, indeed, sir, I don’t know—I never asked—I did not think it signified. All I know is, that wherever he was born, he is _very_ good. Look, papa, my tulip is blowing.”

“Upon my word,” said his father, “this will be a beautiful tulip!”

“It was given to me by Maurice.”

“And did you give him nothing for it?” was the father’s inquiry.

“Nothing in the world; and he gave it to me just at the time when he had good cause to be angry with me, just when I had broken his bell-glass.”

“I have a great mind to let you play together again,” said Arthur’s father.

“Oh, if you would,” cried Arthur, clapping his hands, “how happy we should be! Do you know, father, I have often sat for an hour at a time up in that crab-tree, looking at Maurice at work in his garden, and wishing that I was at work with him.”

Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, who came to ask Mr. Oakly some question about the lawsuit concerning the plum-tree. Oakly showed him Maurice’s letter; and to Arthur’s extreme astonishment, the attorney had no sooner read it, than he exclaimed, “What an artful little gentleman this is! I never, in the course of all my practice, met with anything better. Why, this is the most cunning letter I ever read.”

“Where’s the cunning?” said Oakly, and he put on his spectacles.

“My good sir, don’t you see, that all this stuff about Brobdingnag raspberries is to ward off your suit about the plum-tree? They know—that is, Mr. Grant, who is sharp enough, knows—that he will be worsted in that suit; that he must, in short, pay you a good round sum for damages, if it goes on—”

“Damages!” said Oakly, staring round him at the plum-tree; “but I don’t know what you mean. I mean nothing but what’s honest. I don’t mean to ask for any good round sum; for the plum-tree has done me no great harm by coming into my garden; but only I don’t choose it should come there without my leave.”

“Well, well,” said the attorney, “I understand all that; but what I want to make you, Mr. Oakly, understand, is, that this Grant and his son only want to make up matters with you, and prevent the thing’s coming to a fair trial, by sending on, in this underhand sort of way, a bribe of a few raspberries.”

“A bribe!” exclaimed Oakly, “I never took a bribe, and I never will”; and, with sudden indignation, he pulled the raspberry plants from the ground in which Arthur was planting them; and he threw them over the wall into Grant’s garden.

Maurice had put his tulip, which was beginning to blow, in a flower-pot, on the top of the wall, in hopes that his friend Arthur would see it from day to day. Alas! he knew not in what a dangerous situation he had placed it. One of his own Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, swung by the angry arm of Oakly, struck off the head of his precious tulip! Arthur, who was full of the thought of convincing his father that the attorney was mistaken in his judgment of poor Maurice, did not observe the fall of the tulip.