Chapter VII (4)

George saw the tear, and was vexed with himself that he had caused it; but at present he was not sufficiently subdued to say he was sorry, and he continued to roll upon the carpet backwards and forwards, till he rolled over against a small rose-wood cabinet which stood in one corner of the apartment. The slender fabric shook, and down rolled a beautiful little vase, which had been sent for Mrs. Danvers by a particular friend, and on which both the children knew she set a great value. George started up, and he and Ellen looked at each other. The vase was broken into twenty pieces. Ellen burst into tears, and George looked very sorrowful; but the vase was broken, and could not be restored. At this moment the door was opened, and a little favourite terrier dog bounded into the room, and began to play amongst the scattered fragments. He was followed by a servant, from whom he had made his escape, for she had been ordered to wash the dog, and the dog had resisted, and ran away from the bath designed for him.

'Why, what a piece of work is here,' said the servant. 'Pompey, you little tiresome thing; now to come bouncing in here, and making all this mischief. What will mistress say when she sees her china broken, and all through you, you little tiresome puppy?'

George and Ellen looked at each other for a moment. Had they not been well instructed to abhor a lie, and speak the truth, the temptation was a strong one, and they might have yielded to it; but they knew that although they might deceive the servant, there was One who could not be deceived, and by an instantaneous movement of honesty they both at once exclaimed:

'It was not poor Pompey, Ann; it was----' Here Ellen stopped, unwilling to accuse her brother; but George with great firmness added: 'It was I, Ann.'

'Well, it's a sad business,' said Ann, 'but I dare say my mistress will not be very angry. I am sure I should not have known but what it was Pompey;' and in saying this Ann, who was herself a good well-principled girl, silently resolved that her mistress should certainly know how the young gentleman and lady 'scorned,' as she said, 'to tell a lie.'

Pompey was now removed, and George and Ellen were again left together. Ellen picked up the broken pieces, and then asked George if he had not better go and dress himself. 'His nice clean trousers,' she said, 'were quite green and dirty from rubbing about upon the grass, and the flue of the carpet was come off upon his jacket.' George, however, was not yet quite himself, though he was very much softened by the last misfortune. Ellen then asked him if she should get some quiet play for him--maps, puzzles, or bricks? But nothing would go right with George this day; all Ellen's efforts to amuse him were in vain, and at length he resolved upon going out of doors again. Ellen reminded him that mother had recommended him to stay indoors.

'Yes, but she did not order me,' said George; 'besides, I think I ought to go down and ask how Tom Fletcher is, for I gave him that horrible blow in his face.'

'But you could not help it, I am sure,' said Ellen.

'I did not do it on purpose,' said George, 'but I did it in a passion, and that is as bad.'

'Oh, this unlucky day,' said Ellen, 'and this morning I thought you so happy, but I think you had better stay till evening before you go down to Mr. Fletcher's. I am sure mother thought you had better stay quiet this morning, and mother is always so kind.'

George felt all this, and went out of the room, and returned into it several times, from irresolution and dissatisfaction with himself. He kissed Ellen, and told her not to mind his being cross, upon which she threw her arm across his shoulder, and entreated him to sit quietly at home, and not to go out and heat himself and make himself uncomfortable just as he was beginning to get cool.

George seemed to long to stay with Ellen, and even when he got to steps which led from the hall into the pleasure-grounds, he went very slowly down, dragging one leg after the other, half inclined to return, but at this moment that frisking little Pompey came by looking very bright and clean after his washing, and he jumped upon George, and invited him to play. George then gave him a call, and they bounded together over the fields and hedges, and were very soon lost to the sight of Ellen, who returned into the house, and could scarcely refrain from shedding tears.

George passed with his frolicsome companion through the same field where Mr. and Mrs. Danvers had noticed the donkey browsing in the hedges, and the animal was still browsing, and picking up nettles and flowers, and enjoying his freedom. George might just as well have walked quietly through the field, and have left the poor donkey to his repast, but he was in a very odd sort of a humour still, and thought it would be very good fun to have a little scamper round the field upon the donkey's back. He had heard his father and mother say that the donkey had never been properly broken in, and that he was not fit to be ridden, but George thought that if he could ride a pony, which he sometimes did, he certainly could ride a donkey, and at any rate he was determined to try. He went back to the stable therefore to ask the groom for a halter, but the groom was not in the stable, unfortunately, or he would have known better, it is to be hoped, than to have encouraged the young gentleman in what he knew to be wrong. So George helped himself to an old piece of rope which he found under the cartshed, and, taking a small hunting-whip of his own, returned to the field with the intention of having a good ride. He had some difficulty in catching the animal, which was better pleased to graze at liberty than to be confined, and have a burthen put upon his back. It must be owned, nevertheless, that it was not a very heavy burthen preparing for him, nothing compared to the great weights many, many poor donkeys are compelled to toil under, and never stopping to rest, perhaps, from morning till night. Still, the donkey had rather been left in the hedges, and many a race round and round the field did he give George, and many a time did he kick up his hinder legs in defiance before George at length succeeded in throwing the halter over his head. The mighty feat, however, was, after repeated failures, accomplished, and George felt not a little satisfied when he found himself safely seated on the animal. He certainly was seated, but as to riding, it was what the donkey seemed resolved he should not do, and there he continued to sit, perfectly still and quiet, for some minutes, for although the animal had shown great fleetness and alacrity when George was attempting to stop him, it was very different now George was endeavouring to make him go on. George kicked as hard as he could kick with both his heels, and flogged with all his might, but the stubborn beast would not stir an inch. He then got off his back, and led him into the road, which he had some difficulty in accomplishing, and when there he would not go a bit better than in the field. He had no preference to the turnpike road, and George, after fatiguing himself, and getting into a violent heat by beating and thumping the animal's impenetrable skin, considered that he had better get him back again into the field, and there leave him. But here again the stubborn beast perplexed him; he would not budge an inch, no, not even when George pulled and dragged him by the halter till his arms ached so much he was obliged to desist. Now what was to be done? The donkey was not his father's; it was borrowed. If he left it on the road it would be lost or stolen, and as to riding it or leading it away it seemed entirely impossible. He was standing in not a very happy mood, and leaning against the donkey's neck, when a butcher's boy came jogging along upon his shaggy and bareboned pony.

'Do you want to get him on, sir?' said the boy.

'Yes, but he won't stir,' said George.

'Oh, trust me to making him stir,' replied the hatless, greasy-haired lad. 'Get upon his back, sir, and I'll send him on for you.'

George was upon his back in a minute, but with all the famed prowess of the butcher's boy as a donkey driver, and with all George's renewed thumps and kicks, the animal would not move from the spot where he had fixed himself. The butcher's boy was quite in a rage, and he was venting his spleen upon the stubbornness of all donkeys, and of this donkey in particular, when the sudden sound of a horn made both the donkey and the pony prick up their ears. In a few moments a stage coach was in sight, and in a few more the horn and the rattling wheels approached with great velocity towards the two equestrians. George would have jumped off to save himself from being run over, but the donkey saved him for the present the trouble. All his energies were suddenly roused, and he darted forward in a pelting gallop; the butcher's pony did the same. Away they both flew before the leaders of the stage, scarcely distancing them by a horse's length, and all the passengers thought that mischief was inevitable. A gentleman on the box begged the coachman to pull in, but the coachman seemed to enjoy the fun, and only whipped on his horses. The pony and the donkey were still galloping furiously, both their riders keeping their seats. Butchers' boys always seem glued to their saddles, so that there appeared nothing astonishing in Jem Rattle's not getting a fall; but how George, without his saddle, and not much accustomed to riding, sat so long was something more remarkable. Whether he might have got to the end of his race without accident if his father and mother had not now appeared by the side of the road it is impossible to say; but certain it is that the sight of them diverted the attention which had before been entirely given to keeping his eye steadily before him. At the same instant the donkey gave a little curve out of the line in which he had been going, and most providential was it that he did so, for by this inclination George was thrown sufficiently to the right of the road to clear the wheels of the coach. The pony had given in some few minutes before, and the donkey, having once checked himself, stopped suddenly, and stood quietly by the roadside as if nothing had happened. The gentleman on the box now insisted upon the coachman's drawing up, to see if the young gentleman had sustained any injury; and Mr. and Mrs. Danvers, in a state of harassing alarm, also hastened to approach the spot.

Mr. and Mrs. Danvers were more alarmed than George was hurt; he certainly got a few bruises, but he received no serious injury. He immediately jumped on his legs, and relieved the anxiety of his parents, when, after Mr. Danvers had thanked the gentleman for his kind interference, and joined with him in condemning the coachman for not having before checked his horses, the coach drove on, and George joined his father and mother. The butcher boy was commissioned, with the promise of a shilling, to bring back the donkey to Mr. Danvers' field, and George looked not a little foolish as he began his walk home by the side of his father.

'I thought you had been remaining quietly at home, George,' said Mrs. Danvers.

'And certainly, if you had been out,' added Mr. Danvers, 'you had no business to have been riding that donkey. You must have heard me say that it was not fit to be ridden, for it is always playing tricks of some sort. And you may be very thankful that you did not get either a broken limb or a severe blow on your head.'

George made no reply, but he burst into tears, for his ill-humour had now entirely given way to sorrow; and he continued crying as he walked by the side of his father.

'I am afraid you have too much indulgence,' said Mr. Danvers, 'and too much liberty in disposing of your time; you are not the happier for it, you see. When left to yourself to amuse yourself as you please the whole day, you almost constantly get into some trouble or other before the day is over. In future I shall take care that your time is better employed than in riding races with butchers' boys, and trying to tame incorrigible donkeys.'

Here George tried to put his father right as to his riding with the butcher's boy being entirely accidental; but his sobs prevented his speaking articulately, and they had nearly arrived at home before Mr. and Mrs. Danvers could exactly understand how the accident had happened.

'And how came Fletcher by his black eye?' said Mr. Danvers.

'Oh, that was done in a passion,' replied George. 'I was tired before I began to play, and I did not like to be beat by a boy so near my own size.'

'And how would you have felt,' said Mr. Danvers, 'had you deprived your companion of the sight of his eye, which was very near being the case? Accidents of this sort have sometimes happened from cricket-balls; but this, instead of accidental, would have been the consequence of pettish ill-humour. I shall allow no more cricket for some days; indeed, I fear it will be some days before Fletcher will be well enough to play; and certainly I shall allow no more whole days of play.'

'I wish you would not, father,' said George, 'for they always end unhappily; and you have not heard all the unhappiness of this.'

George was endeavouring to commence his relation of the broken vase, when the lads from the cricket-field, who had just finished their game, approached to bid Mr. and Mrs. Danvers a good-morning, and inquire of their young companion why he and Tom Fletcher had not again joined them. In pity to the confusion visibly stamped on George's countenance, Mr. Danvers undertook to explain the cause of their absence, and begged that they themselves would come, whenever it was pleasant to them, to play in his field. As to Tom, he thought he would not be able to play again within a week; but on that day se'nnight, if his eye was well enough to allow of his playing, Mr. Danvers would himself take a part in the game, and he invited all the party to take tea and refreshments after its conclusion. The boys seemed delighted with this proposition, and took their leave, when George accompanied his father and mother into the house, where they were joined by little Ellen. The accident of the broken vase was related, at which Mrs. Danvers expressed great regret; but her vexation was accompanied with the pleasing reflection that the word of her children might be taken without scruple, for the good-natured Ann was not easy till she had informed her mistress of all that she knew respecting the accident.

From this day, Ellen never wished that she was a boy to do nothing but play from morning till night. She saw, in the example of her brother George, that idleness generally leads to mischief, and consequently to unhappiness; and she felt how necessary it was to have performed her duty well before she could enjoy her play.

Waste Not, Want Not

or

Two Strings to Your Bow

Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable industry and economy, accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy. He did not propose to live in idleness and extravagance; for such a life would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles. He was fond of children; and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt one of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old. They had been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branch of the family. His father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father's family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that 'gentlemen should be above being careful and saving'; and he had unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance was the sign of a generous disposition, and economy of an avaricious one.

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight. His father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son should early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous.

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's they were eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and exclamations.

'Oh, what an excellent motto!' exclaimed Ben, when he read the following words, which were written in large characters over the chimneypiece in his uncle's spacious kitchen--

'WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.'

'"Waste not, want not!"' repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous tone; 'I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman's servants, cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring them in the face.'

Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and gentleman's servants, made no reply to these observations.

Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his nephews were looking at the other rooms in the house. Some time afterwards he heard their voices in the hall.

'Boys,' said he, 'what are you doing there?'

'Nothing, sir,' said Hal. 'You were called away from us, and we did not know which way to go.'

'And have you nothing to do?' said Mr. Gresham.

'No, sir--nothing,' answered Hal in a careless tone, like one who was well content with the state of habitual idleness.

'No, sir--nothing,' replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.

'Come,' said Mr. Gresham, 'if you have nothing to do, lads, will you unpack those two parcels for me?'

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good whipcord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the sealing-wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, and tried, first at one corner and then at another, to pull the string off by force.

'I wish these people wouldn't tie up their parcels so tight, as if they were never to be undone!' cried he, as he tugged at the cord; and he pulled the knot closer instead of loosening it. 'Ben! why, how did you get yours undone, man? What's in your parcel? I wonder what is in mine. I wish I could get this string off. I must cut it.'

'Oh no,' said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, and who drew out the length of string with exultation, 'don't cut it, Hal. Look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same. It's a pity to cut it. "_Waste not, want not!_" you know.'

'Pooh!' said Hal, 'what signifies a bit of packthread?'

'It is whipcord,' said Ben.

'Well, whipcord. What signifies a bit of whipcord? You can get a bit of whipcord twice as long as that for twopence, and who cares for twopence? Not I, for one! So here it goes,' cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and he cut the cord precipitately in sundry places.

'Lads, have you undone the parcels for me?' said Mr. Gresham, opening the parlour door as he spoke.

'Yes, sir,' cried Hal; and he dragged off his half-cut, half-entangled string. 'Here's the parcel.'

'And here's my parcel, uncle; and here's the string,' said Ben.

'You may keep the string for your pains,' said Mr. Gresham.

'Thank you, sir,' said Ben. 'What an excellent whipcord it is!'

'And you, Hal,' continued Mr. Gresham--'you may keep your string, too, if it will be of any use to you.'

'It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir,' said Hal.

'No, I am afraid not, if this be it,' said his uncle, taking up the jagged knotted remains of Hal's cord.

A few days after this Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new top.

'But how's this?' said Hal. 'These tops have no strings. What shall we do for strings?'

'I have a string that will do very well for mine,' said Ben; and he pulled out of his pocket the fine, long, smooth string which had tied up the parcel.

With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.

'Oh, how I wish I had but a string!' said Hal. 'What shall I do for a string? I'll tell you what: I can use the string that goes round my hat!'

'But, then,' said Ben, 'what will you do for a hatband?'

'I'll manage to do without one,' said Hal, and he took the string off his hat for his top.

It was soon worn through, and he split his top by driving the peg too tightly into it. His Cousin Ben let him set up his the next day, but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he meddled with other people's things than when he managed his own. He had scarcely played half an hour before he split it by driving the peg too violently.

Ben bore this misfortune with good-humour.

'Come,' said he, 'it can't be helped; but give me the string, because _that_ may still be of use for something else.'

It happened some time afterwards that a lady, who had been intimately acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath--that is to say, who had frequently met her at the card-table during the winter--now arrived at Clifton. She was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's, and her sons, who were _friends_ of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the next day with them.

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or at least something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think it was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady, and her two sons intended to be very _great_ gentlemen. He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his uncle's door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door little Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped his pocket-handkerchief.

'Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, child?' cried Hal, 'for Lady Di's sons are waiting for me.'

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di's sons; but as she was very good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or other, in a desperate hurry, she ran downstairs as fast as she possibly could towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay; but, alas! before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down a whole flight of stairs, and when her fall was at last stopped by the landing-place, she did not cry out; she writhed, as if she was in great pain.

'Where are you hurt, my love?' said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly on hearing the noise of someone falling downstairs. 'Where are you hurt, my dear?'

'Here, papa,' said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she had decently covered with her gown. 'I believe I am hurt here, but not much,' added she, trying to rise; 'only it hurts me when I move.'

'I'll carry you; don't move, then,' said her father, and he took her up in his arms.

'My shoe! I've lost one of my shoes,' said she.

Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whipcord, which was entangled round one of the banisters. When this cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with running up and down stairs, whipping the banisters with it, as he thought he could convert it to no better use; and, with his usual carelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he happened to throw it when the dinner-bell rang. Poor little Patty's ankle was terribly strained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes' sons had not hurried him away.

In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat upon the sofa, and she said that she did not feel the pain of her ankle _so much_ whilst Ben was so good as to play at _Jack Straws_ with her.

'That's right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those who are younger and weaker than yourself,' said his uncle, smiling at seeing him produce his whipcord to indulge his little cousin with a game at her favourite cat's-cradle. 'I shall not think you one bit less manly, because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a little child of six years old.'

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion; for when he returned in the evening, and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing at cat's-cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries after Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes'--news which he thought would make him appear a person of vast importance.

'Do you know, uncle--do you know, Ben,' said he, 'there's to be the most _famous_ doings that ever were heard of upon the Downs here, the first day of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars? I wish the fortnight was over. I shall think of nothing else, I know, till that happy day comes.'

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much happier than any other day in the year.

'Why,' replied Hal, 'Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a _famous_ rider, and archer, and _all that_----'

'Very likely,' said Mr. Gresham soberly; 'but what then?'

'Dear uncle,' cried Hal, 'but you shall hear! There's to be a race upon the Downs on the first of September, and after the race there's to be an archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one of _them_. And after the ladies have done shooting--now, Ben, comes the best part of it!--we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a prize to the best marksman amongst us of a very handsome bow and arrow. Do you know, I've been practising already, and I'll show you to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the _famous_ bow and arrow that Lady Diana has given me; but perhaps,' added he, with a scornful laugh, 'you like a cat's-cradle better than a bow and arrow.'

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to use it very well.

'Ben,' said his uncle, 'you seem to be a good marksman, though you have not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow, and perhaps, if you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be over, for you will have something to do.'

'Oh, sir,' interrupted Hal, 'but if you mean that Ben should put in for the prize, he must have a uniform.'

'Why _must_ he?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Why, sir, because everybody has--I mean everybody that's anybody; and Lady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner time, and it's settled, all about it, except the buttons. The young Sweepstakes are to get theirs made first for patterns. They are to be white, faced with green, and they'll look very handsome, I'm sure; and I shall write to mother to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine, and I shall tell her to be sure to answer my letter without fail by return of post; and then, if mother makes no objection--which I know she won't, because she never thinks much about expense, and _all that_--then I shall bespeak my uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Diana and the young Sweepstakes.'

'Mercy upon us!' said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced. 'I don't pretend to understand these things,' added he, with an air of simplicity, 'but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case; and if it is necessary--or if you think it necessary that you shall have a uniform--why, I'll give you one.'

'_You_, uncle? Will you, _indeed_?' exclaimed Hal, with amazement painted in his countenance. 'Well, that's the last thing in the world I should have expected! You are not at all the sort of person I should have thought would care about a uniform; and now I should have supposed you'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for one day. And I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do, for when I told her of that motto over your kitchen chimney--"WASTE NOT, WANT NOT"--she laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and that my mother was the proper person to write to about my uniform; but I'll tell Lady Diana, uncle, how good you are, and how much she was mistaken.'

'Take care how you do that,' said Mr. Gresham, 'for perhaps the lady was not mistaken.'

'Nay, did not you say just now you would give poor Ben a uniform?'

'I said I would if he thought it necessary to have one.'

'Oh, I'll answer for it he'll think it necessary,' said Hal, laughing, 'because it is necessary.'

'Allow him, at least, to judge for himself,' said Mr. Gresham.

'My dear uncle, but I assure you,' said Hal earnestly, 'there's no judging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana said distinctly that her sons were to have uniforms--white, faced with green--and a green and white cockade in their hats.'

'May be so,' said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calm simplicity. 'Put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know a gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will inquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seen him--it is not eleven o'clock yet--we shall have time enough to walk on to Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform if it is necessary.'

'I cannot tell what to make of all he says,' whispered Hal, as he reached down his hat. 'Do you think, Ben, he means to give you this uniform or not?'

'I think,' said Ben, 'that he means to give me one if it is necessary; or, as he said, if I think it is necessary.'

'And that to be sure you will, won't you? or else you'll be a great fool, I know, after all I've told you. How can anyone in the world know so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but yesterday, and heard all about it from beginning to end? And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he knows anything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do.'

'We shall hear,' said Ben, with a degree of composure which Hal could by no means comprehend when a uniform was in question.

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons who were all to be at this archery meeting, and they unanimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, that they had not thought of buying uniforms for this grand occasion, and that, amongst the number of their acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to be at such an _unnecessary_ expense. Hal stood amazed.

'Such are the varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life,' said Mr. Gresham, looking at his nephews. 'What amongst one set of people you hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear from another set of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my dear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves which opinions and which people are the most reasonable.'

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable than of what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense of what his uncle said to him, replied with childish petulance:

'Indeed, sir, I don't know what other people think; but I only know what Lady Diana Sweepstakes said.'

The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress all present with respect. He was highly astonished when, as he looked round, he saw a smile of contempt upon everyone's countenance; and he was yet further bewildered when he heard her spoken of as a very silly, extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would ask upon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned instead of being imitated.

'Ay, my dear Hal,' said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement, 'these are some of the things that young people must learn from experience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters. You will hear the same person admired in one company and blamed in another; so that we must still come round to the same point--_Judge for yourself_.'

Hal's thoughts were, however, at present too full of the uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as their visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from Prince's Buildings towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the same arguments which he had formerly used respecting necessity, the uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply, and longer had the young gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon his imagination, had not his senses been forcibly assailed at this instant by the delicious odours and tempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a pastrycook's shop.

'Oh, uncle,' said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner to pursue the road to Bristol, 'look at those jellies!' pointing to a confectioner's shop. 'I must buy some of those good things, for I have got some halfpence in my pocket.'

'Your having halfpence in your pocket is an excellent reason for eating,' said Mr. Gresham, smiling.

'But I really am hungry,' said Hal. 'You know, uncle, it is a good while since breakfast.'

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as they pleased.

'Come, then, Ben, if you've any halfpence in your pocket.'

'I'm not hungry,' said Ben.

'I suppose _that_ means that you've no halfpence,' said Hal, laughing, with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think _the rich_ might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty or economy.

'Waste not, want not,' said Ben to himself.

Contrary to his cousin's surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of halfpence actually in his pocket.

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastrycook's shop a poor, industrious man with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom, instantly produced his twopence.

'I wish I had more halfpence for you, my good man,' said he; 'but I've only twopence.'

Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful of cakes in his hand. Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door, and he looked up with a wistful, begging eye at Hal, who was eating a queen-cake. Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a whole queen-cake to the dog, who swallowed it at a single mouthful.

'There goes twopence in the form of a queen-cake,' said Mr. Gresham.

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but they thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were not hungry; so he ate and ate as he walked along, till at last he stopped and said:

'This bun tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear it!' and he was going to fling it from him into the river.

'Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet,' said Ben. 'Give it me rather than throw it away.'

'Why, I thought you said you were not hungry,' said Hal.

'True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never be hungry again.'

'Well, there is the cake for you. Take it, for it has made me sick, and I don't care what becomes of it.'

Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

'I'm beginning to be exceeding tired or sick or something,' said Hal; 'and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we not better take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?'

'For a stout archer,' said Mr. Gresham, 'you are more easily tired than one might have expected. However, with all my heart, let us take a coach, for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday; and I believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I am not sick with eating good things.'

'_The cathedral!_' said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness--'the cathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? I thought we came out to see about a uniform.'

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's countenance as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a dream, which made both his uncle and his cousin burst out a-laughing.

'Why,' said Hal, who was now piqued, 'I'm sure you _did_ say, uncle, you would go to Mr. Hall's to choose the cloth for the uniform.'

'Very true, and so I will,' said Mr. Gresham; 'but we need not make a whole morning's work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot we see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?'

They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full of the uniform to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben's embarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on the Gothic window, and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor and walls.

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome.

'Come, come, we shall be late indeed!' said Hal. 'Surely you've looked long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window.'

'I'm only thinking about these coloured shadows,' said Ben.

'I can show you when we go home, Ben,' said his uncle, 'an entertaining paper upon such shadows.'[A]

'Hark!' cried Ben; 'did you hear that noise?'

They all listened, and they heard a bird singing in the cathedral.

'It's our old robin, sir,' said the lad who had opened the cathedral door for them.

'Yes,' said Mr. Gresham, 'there he is, boys--look--perched upon the organ; he often sits there, and sings whilst the organ is playing.'

'And,' continued the lad who showed the cathedral, 'he has lived here these many, many winters. They say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame, poor fellow! that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feed in my hand.'

'I've a bit of bun here,' cried Ben joyfully, producing the remains of the bun which Hal but an hour before would have thrown away. 'Pray, let us see the poor robin eat out of your hand.'

The lad crumbled the bun and called to the robin, who fluttered and chirped and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.

'He is afraid of _us_,' said Ben; 'he is not used to eat before strangers, I suppose.'

'Ah, no, sir,' said the young man, with a deep sigh, 'that is not the thing. He is used enough to eat afore company. Time was he'd have come down for me before ever so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs out of my hand at my first call; but, poor fellow! it's not his fault now. He does not know me now, sir, since my _accident_, because of this great black patch.'

The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a huge black patch. Ben asked what _accident_ he meant; and the lad told him that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone, which reached him as he was passing under the rocks at Clifton, unluckily when the workmen were blasting.

'I don't mind so much for myself, sir,' said the lad; 'but I can't work so well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, who has had a _stroke_ of the palsy; and I've a many little brothers and sisters not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be as willing as willing can be.'

'Where does your mother live?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Hard by, sir, just close to the church here. It was _her_ that always had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poor limbs.'

'Shall we, may we, uncle, go that way? This is the house, is it not?' said Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.

They went into the house. It was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it. The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four meagre, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker.

'What a horrid place it is!' said Hal, sighing; 'I did not know there were such shocking places in the world. I've often seen terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in mother's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them, and I never saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that people are forced to live in this way. I wish mother would send me some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. I had half a crown; but,' continued he, feeling in his pockets, 'I'm afraid I spent the last shilling of it this morning upon those cakes that made me sick. I wish I had my shilling now; I'd give it to _these poor people_.'

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative cousin for all these poor people. But there was some difference between the sorrow of these two boys.

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattled through the busy streets of Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot the spectacle of misery which he had seen, and the gay shops in Wine Street and the idea of his green and white uniform wholly occupied his imagination.

'Now for our uniforms!' cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper's door.

'Uncle,' said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of the carriage, 'I don't think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I'm very much obliged to you, but I would rather not have one. I have a very good coat, and I think it would be waste.'

'Well, let me get out of the carriage, and we will see about it,' said Mr. Gresham. 'Perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and the epaulette--have you ever considered the epaulettes?--may tempt you to change your mind.'

'Oh, no,' said Ben, laughing; 'I shall not change my mind.'

The green cloth and the white cloth and the epaulettes were produced, to Hal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated for a few minutes. Then showing the back of the letter upon which he was writing to his nephews:

'Cast up these sums, boys,' said he, 'and tell me whether I am right.'

'Ben, do you do it,' said Hal, a little embarrassed; 'I am not quick at figures.'

Ben _was_, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously.

'It is right, is it?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Yes, sir, quite right.'

'Then, by this calculation I find I could, for less than half the money your uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warm greatcoat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon the downs.'

'Oh, sir,' said Hal with an alarmed look, 'but it is not winter _yet_; it is not cold weather _yet_. We shan't want greatcoats _yet_.'

'Don't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, in that sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the downs? and winter will come, though it is not come yet. I am sure I should like to have a good warm greatcoat very much.'

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse; and he placed three of them before Hal and three before Ben.

'Young gentlemen,' said he, 'I believe your uniforms would come to about three guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as you please. Hal, what say you?'

'Why, sir,' said Hal, 'a greatcoat is a good thing, to be sure; and then, after the greatcoat, as you said it would only cost half as much as the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?'

'Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings.'

'Five-and-twenty shillings? I could buy and do a great many things, to be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, _the thing is_, I must go without the uniform if I have the greatcoat.'

'Certainly,' said his uncle.

'Ah!' said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulette, 'uncle, if you would not be displeased if I choose the uniform----'

'I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,' said Mr. Gresham.

'Well, then, thank you, sir,' said Hal, 'I think I had better have the uniform, because, if I have not the uniform now directly, it will be of no use to me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know; and as to the greatcoat, perhaps between this time and the very cold weather, which perhaps won't be till Christmas, father will buy a greatcoat for me; and I'll ask mother to give me some pocket-money to give away, and she will, perhaps.'

To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which depended upon the word _perhaps_, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes' sons' tailor to be made up. The measure of Hal's happiness was now complete.

'And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?' said Mr. Gresham. 'Speak; what do you wish for first?'

'A greatcoat, uncle, if you please.'

Mr. Gresham bought the coat, and after it was paid for five-and-twenty shillings of Ben's three guineas remained.

'What next, my boy?' said his uncle.

'Arrows, uncle, if you please--three arrows.'

'My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows.'

'No, uncle, you only said a bow.'

'Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I'm glad you are so exact, however. It is better to claim less than more than what is promised. The three arrows you shall have. But go on. How shall I dispose of these five-and-twenty shillings for you?'

'In clothes, if you will be so good, uncle, for that poor boy who has the great black patch on his eye.'

'I always believed,' said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, 'that economy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies, as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose the poor, blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There's no occasion for my praising you about the matter. Your best reward is in your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken. Now jump into the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall be late, I'm afraid,' continued he, as the coach drove on; 'but I must let you stop, Ben, with your goods, at the poor boy's door.'

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with his parcel under his arm.

'Stay, stay! you must take me with you,' said his pleased uncle; 'I like to see people made happy as well as you do.'

'And so do I, too,' said Hal. 'Let me come with you. I almost wish my uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do.' And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor boy received the clothes which Ben gave him, and when he heard the mother and children thank him, Hal sighed, and said: 'Well, I hope mother will give me some more pocket-money soon.'

Upon his return home, however, the sight of the _famous_ bow and arrow, which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination all the joys of his green-and-white uniform, and he no longer wished that it had not been sent to the tailor's.

'But I don't understand, Cousin Hal,' said little Patty, 'why you call this bow a _famous_ bow. You say _famous_ very often, and I don't know exactly what it means--a _famous_ uniform, _famous_ doings. I remember you said there are to be _famous_ doings, the first of September, upon the Downs. What does _famous_ mean?'

'Oh, why _famous_ means--now, don't you know what _famous_ means? It means--it is a word that people say--it is the fashion to say it--it means--it means _famous_.'

Patty laughed, and said:

'_This_ does not explain it to me.'

'No,' said Hal, 'nor can it be explained. If you don't understand it, that's not my fault. Everybody but little children, I suppose, understands it; but there's no explaining _those sort_ of words, if you don't _take them_ at once. There's to be _famous_ doings upon the Downs, the first of September--that is grand, fine. In short, what does it signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow, for I must go out upon the Downs and practise.'

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle had now given to him, and every day these two boys went out upon the Downs and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Where equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly equal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen; and before the day of trial they were so exactly matched in point of dexterity that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.