Chapter III (1)

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

“Oh, ma’am,” said Frederick, “I cannot promise you any such thing, indeed. I am much obliged to you; but indeed I cannot come.”

“Why not, my dear sir? why not? You don’t think I mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and mamma will be home.”

“If they do come home, I will ask them about it,” said Frederick, hesitating; for though he by no means wished to accept the invitation, he had not yet acquired the necessary power of decidedly saying No.

“Ask them!” repeated Mrs. Theresa. “My dear sir, at your age, must you ask your papa and mamma about such things?”

“Must! no, ma’am,” said Frederick; “but I said I would. I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself almost about everything.”

“And about this, I am sure,” cried Marianne. “Papa and mamma, you know, just as they were going away, said, ‘If Mrs. Theresa asks you to come, do as you think best.’”

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Theresa, “you know it rests with yourselves, if you may do as you please.”

“To be sure I may, madam,” said Frederick, colouring from that species of emotion which is justly called false shame, and which often conquers real shame; “to be sure, ma’am, I may do as I please.”

“Then I may make sure of you,” said Mrs. Theresa; “for now it would be downright rudeness to tell a lady you won’t do as she pleases. Mr. Frederick Montague, I’m sure, is too wellbred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a thing!”

The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense. A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings. They hesitate between new motives and old principles. From the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children act like fools. But all this they feel only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.

“Ma’am,” Frederick began, “I don’t mean to be rude; but I hope you’ll excuse me from coming to drink tea with you to-morrow, because my father and mother are not acquainted with Lady Battersby, and maybe they might not like—”

“Take care, take care,” said Mrs. Theresa, laughing at his perplexity: “you want to get off from obliging me, and you don’t know how. You had very nearly made a most shocking blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby. Now you know it’s impossible that Mr. and Mrs. Montague could have in nature the slightest objection to introducing you to my Lady Battersby at my own house; for, don’t you know, that, besides her ladyship’s many unquestionable qualities, which one need not talk of, she is cousin, but once removed, to the Trotters of Lancashire—your mother’s great favourites? And there is not a person at the Wells, I’ll venture to say, could be of more advantage to your sister Sophy, in the way of partners, when she comes to go the balls, which it’s to be supposed she will, some time or other; and as you are so good a brother, that’s a thing to be looked to, you know. Besides, as to yourself, there’s nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she’ll quite adore you!”

“But I don’t want her to adore me, ma’am,” said Frederick, bluntly; then, correcting himself, added, “I mean for being a mimic.”

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

Frederick looked surprised; for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant: but she explained herself farther.

“As to the old Quaker who lodges above, old Ephraim Eden—my Lady Battersby and I have so much diversion about him. He is the best character, the oddest creature! If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-brimmed hat! One knows him a mile off! But then his voice and way, and altogether, if one could get them to the life, they’d be better than anything on the stage; better even than anything I’ve seen to-night; and I think you’d make a capital Quaker for my Lady Battersby; but then the thing is, one can never get to hear the old quiz talk. Now you, who have so much invention and cleverness—I have no invention myself; but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so that you might get him by heart? I’m sure you, who are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him, for half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one with laughing. But I have no invention.”

“Oh, as to the invention,” said Frederick, “I know an admirable way of doing the thing, if that is all; but then remember, I don’t say I will do the thing, for I will not. But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing him, without his knowing me to be there.”

“Oh, tell it me, you charming, clever creature!”

“But, remember, I do not say I will do it.”

“Well, well, let us hear it; and you shall do as you please afterwards. Merciful goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, “do my ears deceive me? I declare I looked round, and thought I heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room!”

“So did I, Frederick, I declare,” cried Marianne, laughing, “I never heard anything so like his voice in my life.”

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

“Now,” continued he, “this fellow is just my height. The old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to change clothes with the chimney-sweeper, I’ll answer for it, would never know me.”

“Oh, it’s an admirable invention! I give you infinite credit for it!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. “It shall, it must be done. I’ll ring, and have the fellow up this minute.”

“Oh, no; do not ring,” said Frederick, stopping her hand, “I don’t mean to do it. You know you promised that I should do as I pleased. I only told you my invention.”

“Well, well; but only let me ring, and ask whether the chimney-sweepers are below. You shall do as you please afterwards.”

“Christopher, shut the door. Christopher,” said she to the servant who came up when she rang, “pray are the sweeps gone yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But have they been up to old Eden yet?”

“Oh, no, ma’am; nor be not to go till the bell rings; for Miss Bertha, ma’am, was asleep a-lying down, and her brother wouldn’t have her wakened on no account whatsomever. He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though; but wouldn’t have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no account. But Miss Bertha’s bell will ring when she wakens for the sweeps, ma’am. ’Twas she wanted to see the boy as her brother saved, and I suppose sent for him to give him something charitable, ma’am.”

“Well, never mind your suppositions,” said Mrs. Theresa; “run down this very minute to the little squeaking chimney-sweep, and send him up to me. Quick, but don’t let the other bear come up with him.”

Christopher, who had curiosity, as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.

“That will do, Christopher! Christopher, that will do, I say,” Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain. She was obliged to say, “Christopher, you may go,” before he would depart.

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

“Well, I’ll only change clothes with him, just to show you for one minute.”

“But,” said Marianne to Mrs. Theresa whilst Frederick was changing his clothes, “I think Frederick is right about—”

“About what, love?”

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

“Why, pray, Miss Marianne?”

“Why, because he is so good-natured to his sister. He would not let her be wakened.”

“Dear, it’s easy to be good in such little things; and he won’t have long to be good to her neither; for I don’t think she will trouble him long in this world, anyhow.”

“What do you mean?” said Marianne.

“That she’ll die, child.”

“Die! die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks! How sorry her poor, poor brother will be! But she will not die, I’m sure, for she walks about and runs upstairs so lightly! Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope.”

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

“He would frighten her to death, perhaps,” said Marianne. “I hope Frederick won’t go up to disturb her.”

“Lud, child, you are turned simpleton all of a sudden; how can your brother disturb her more than the real chimney-sweeper?”

“But I don’t think it’s right,” persisted Marianne, “and I shall tell him so.”

“Nay, Miss Marianne, I don’t commend you now. Young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and I presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what’s right as well as Miss Marianne. Hush! here he is. Oh, the capital figure!” cried Mrs. Theresa. “Bravo, bravo!” cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney-sweeper’s dress; and as he spoke, saying, “I’m afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your ladyship’s carpet,” she broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him “her charming chimney-sweeper!” and repeating that she knew beforehand the character would do for him.

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

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

“That’s the lady’s bell, and we must go,” said the blunt chimney-sweeper.

“Go, then, about your business,” said Mrs. Theresa, “and here’s a shilling for you, to drink, my honest fellow. I did not know you were so much bruised when I first saw you. I won’t detain you. Go,” said she, pushing Frederick towards the door. Marianne sprang forward to speak to him; but Mrs. Theresa kept her off; and, though Frederick resisted, the lady shut the door upon him by superior force, and, having locked it, there was no retreat. Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frederick’s return.

“I hear them,” cried Marianne, “I hear them coming downstairs.” They listened again, and all was silent. At length they suddenly heard a great noise of many steps in the hall.

“Merciful!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, “it must be your father and mother come back.” Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall. The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people, all the servants in the house having gathered together.

As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face. His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him. “Merciful! what will become of me?” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa. “Bleeding! he’ll bleed to death! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? A key, a large key down his back—a key—has nobody a key? Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding. A key! cobwebs! a puff ball! for mercy’s sake! Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute? Gracious me! he’ll bleed to death, I believe.”

“He’ll bleed to death! Oh, my brother!” cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, “Sophy, oh, Sophy! come down this minute, or he’ll be dead! My brother’s bleeding to death! Sophy! Sophy! come down, or he’ll be dead!”

“Let go the basin, you,” said Christopher, pulling the basin out of the chimney-sweeper’s hand, who had all this time stood in silence; “you are not fit to hold the basin for a gentleman.”

“Let him hold it,” said Frederick; “he did not mean to hurt me.”

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

“I did not know he was a gentleman!” said the chimney-sweeper, “how could I?”

“How could he, indeed!” said Frederick; “he shall hold the basin.”

“Gracious me! I’m glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate,” cried Mrs. Theresa. “And here comes Miss Sophy, too.”

“Sophy!” cried Frederick. “Oh, Sophy, don’t you come—don’t look at me; you’ll despise me.”

“My brother! where? where?” said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.

“It’s Frederick,” said Marianne: “that’s my brother.”

“Miss Sophy, don’t be alarmed,” Mrs. Theresa began; “but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha—”

At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. “Oh, Miss Bertha!” cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. “Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven’s sake.” But she pressed forward.

“It’s my brother, will he die?” cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. “Will he bleed to death?”

“No, my love!” answered a sweet voice: “do not frighten thyself.”

“I’ve done bleeding,” said Frederick.

“Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout,” cried Mrs. Tattle. “Miss Bertha, it’s nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma’am. You see he’s stopped bleeding. I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his eye, but I see it’s only his nose. All’s well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we’ll keep your counsel. Pray, ma’am, let us ask no questions; it’s only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I’ll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us.”

“Do not be afraid of thy father and mother. They are surely thy best friends,” said a voice. It was the voice of an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick.

“Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Eden,” said Frederick, turning to him.

“Don’t betray me! for goodness’ sake!” whispered Mrs. Tattle, “say nothing about me.”

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

“No, but for your own sake, my dear sir, your papa and mamma. Bless me! is not that Mrs. Montague’s carriage?”

“My brother, ma’am,” said Sophy, “is not afraid of my father and mother’s coming back. Let him speak; he was going to speak the truth.”

“To be sure, Miss Sophia, I wouldn’t hinder him from speaking the truth; but it’s not proper, I presume, ma’am, to speak truth at all times, and in all places, and before everybody, servants and all. I only wanted, ma’am, to hinder your brother from exposing himself. A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanation.”

“Here,” said Mr. Eden, opening the door of his room, which was on the opposite side of the hall to Mrs. Tattle’s. “Here is a place,” said he to Frederick, “where thou mayst speak the truth at all times, and before everybody.”

“Nay, my room’s at Mr. Frederick Montague’s service, and my door’s open too. This way, pray,” said she, pulling his arm. But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.

“Oh, sir, will you forgive me?” cried he.

“Forgive thee!—and what have I to forgive!”

“Forgive, brother, without asking what,” said Bertha, smiling.

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

“The other hand, friend,” said the Quaker, gently withdrawing his right hand, which everybody now observed was much swelled, and putting it into his bosom again. “This, and welcome,” offering his other hand to Frederick, and shaking his with a smile.

“Oh, that other hand!” said Frederick, “that was hurt, I remember. How ill I have behaved—extremely ill! But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live. I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman.”

“And like a man—and like a good man, I am sure thou wilt,” said the good Quaker, shaking Frederick’s hand affectionately; “or I am much mistaken, friend, in that black countenance.”

“You are not mistaken,” cried Marianne. “Frederick will never be persuaded again by anybody to do what he does not think right: and now, brother, you may wash your black countenance.”

Just when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door. It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague. “What will you do now?” whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.

“A chimney-sweeper covered with blood!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.

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

“Frederick! my son!”

“Yes, mother, I’m not hurt half so much as I deserve; I’ll tell you—”

“Nay,” interrupted Bertha, “let my brother tell the story this time. Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better.”

“A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure,” said Mrs. Theresa; “but Mr. Eden will certainly make the best of it.”

Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words. “Your son,” concluded he, “will quickly put off his dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper? He will want to go home,” said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa. Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.

“Here is a catastrophe indeed! Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit of clothes!—the bare faced villain! gone! no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere. The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly. The wretch!—a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I never heard of such a thing! I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion,” added Mrs. Theresa.

“Madam,” replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much civil contempt, “I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this evening, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future. Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called ‘The best mimic in the world.’”

THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.

“THE mother of mischief,” says an old proverb, “is no bigger than a midge’s wing.”

At Doctor Middleton’s school, there was a great tall dunce of the name of Fisher, who never could be taught how to look out a word in the dictionary. He used to torment everybody with—“Do pray help me! I can’t make out this one word.” The person who usually helped him in his distress was a very clever, good natured boy, of the name of De Grey, who had been many years under Dr. Middleton’s care, and who, by his abilities and good conduct, did him great credit. The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of him; but he was so well beloved, or so much esteemed by his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the odious name of favourite, until the arrival of a new scholar of the name of Archer.

[Picture: The Barring Out]

Till Archer came, the ideas of _favourites_ and _parties_ were almost unknown at Dr. Middleton’s; but he brought all these ideas fresh from a great public school, at which he had been educated—at which he had acquired a sufficient quantity of Greek and Latin, and a superabundant quantity of party spirit. His aim, the moment he came to a new school, was to get to the head of it, or at least to form the strongest party. His influence, for he was a boy of considerable abilities, was quickly felt, though he had a powerful rival, as he thought proper to call him, in De Grey; and, with _him_, a rival was always an enemy. De Grey, so far from giving him any cause of hatred, treated him with a degree of cordiality, which would probably have had an effect upon Archer’s mind, if it had not been for the artifices of Fisher.

It may seem surprising, that a _great dunce_ should be able to work upon a boy like an Archer, who was called a great genius; but when genius is joined to a violent temper, instead of being united to good sense, it is at the mercy even of dunces.

Fisher was mortally offended one morning by De Grey’s refusing to translate his whole lesson for him. He went over to Archer, who, considering him as a partisan deserting from the enemy, received him with open arms, and translated his whole lesson without expressing _much_ contempt for his stupidity. From this moment Fisher forgot all De Grey’s former kindness, and considered only how he could in his turn mortify the person whom he felt to be so much his superior.

De Grey and Archer were now reading for a premium, which was to be given in their class. Fisher betted on Archer’s head, who had not sense enough to despise the bet of a blockhead. On the contrary he suffered him to excite the spirit of rivalship in its utmost fury by collecting the bets of all the school. So that this premium now became a matter of the greatest consequence, and Archer, instead of taking the means to secure a judgment in his favour, was listening to the opinions of all his companions. It was a prize which was to be won by his own exertions; but he suffered himself to consider it as an affair of chance. The consequence was, that he trusted to chance—his partisans lost their wagers, and he the premium—and his temper.

“Mr. Archer,” said Dr. Middleton, after the grand affair was decided, “you have done all that genius alone could do; but you, De Grey, have done all that genius and industry united could do.”

“Well!” cried Archer, with affected gaiety, as soon as the doctor had left the room—“Well, I’m content with _my_ sentence. Genius alone! for me—industry for those who _want_ it,” added he, with a significant look at De Grey.

Fisher applauded this as a very spirited speech; and, by insinuations that Dr. Middleton “always gave the premium to De Grey,” and that “those who had lost their bets might thank themselves for it, for being such simpletons as to bet against the favourite,” he raised a murmur highly flattering to Archer, amongst some of the most credulous boys; whilst others loudly proclaimed their belief in Dr. Middleton’s impartiality. These warmly congratulated De Grey. At this Archer grew more and more angry, and when Fisher was proceeding to speak nonsense _for_ him, pushed forward into the circle to De Grey, crying, “I wish, Mr. Fisher, you would let me fight my own battles!”

“And _I_ wish,” said young Townsend, who was fonder of diversions than of premiums, or battles, or of anything else—“_I_ wish, that we were not to have any battles; after having worked like horses, don’t set about to fight like dogs. Come,” said he, tapping De Grey’s shoulder, “let us see your new playhouse, do—it’s a holiday, and let us make the most of it. Let us have the ‘School for Scandal,’ do; and I’ll play Charles for you, and you, De Grey, shall be _my little Premium_. Come, do open this new playhouse of yours to-night.”

“Come then!” said De Grey, and he ran across the playground to a waste building at the farthest end of it, in which, at the earnest request of the whole community, and with the permission of Dr. Middleton, he had with much pain and ingenuity erected a theatre.

“The new theatre is going to be opened! Follow the manager! Follow the manager!” echoed a multitude of voices.

“_Follow the manager_!” echoed very disagreeably in Archer’s ear; but as he could not be _left alone_, he was also obliged to follow the manager. The moment that the door was unlocked, the crowd rushed in: the delight and wonder expressed at the sight was great, and the applause and thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long and loud.

Archer at least thought them long, for he was impatient till his voice could be heard. When at length the acclamations had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with a knowing air, and looking round contemptuously.

“And is _this_ your famous playhouse?” cried he. “I wish you had, any of you, seen the playhouse _I_ have been used to?”

These words made a great and visible change in the feelings and opinions of the public. “Who would be a servant of the public? or who would toil for popular applause?” A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators. All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of something better justified to the capricious multitude their disdain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent.

Everyone now began to criticise. One observed, “that the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up.” Another attacked the scenes; “Scenes! they were not like real scenes—Archer must know best, because he was used to these things.” So everybody crowded to hear something of the _other_ playhouse. They gathered round Archer to hear the description of his playhouse, and at every sentence insulting comparisons were made. When he had done, his auditors looked round, sighed and wished that Archer had been their manager. They turned from De Grey as from a person who had done them an injury. Some of his friends—for he had friends who were not swayed by the popular opinion—felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to express their feelings; but De Grey stopped them, and begged that he might speak for himself.

“Gentlemen,” said he, coming forward, as soon as he felt that he had sufficient command of himself. “My friends, I see you are discontented with me and my playhouse. I have done my best to please you; but if anybody else can please you better, I shall be glad of it. I did not work so hard for the glory of being your manager. You have my free leave to tear down—” Here his voice faltered, but he hurried on—“You have my free leave to tear down all my work as fast as you please. Archer, shake hands first, however, to show that there’s no malice in the case.”

Archer, who was touched by what his rival said, and, stopping the hand of his new partisan, Fisher, cried, “No, Fisher! no!—no pulling down. We can alter it. There is a great deal of ingenuity in it, considering.”

In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to reason,—the time for reason was passed: enthusiasm had taken hold of their minds. “Down with it! Down with it! Archer for ever!” cried Fisher, and tore down the curtain. The riot once begun, nothing could stop the little mob, till the whole theatre was demolished. The love of power prevailed in the mind of Archer; he was secretly flattered by the zeal of his _party_, and he mistook their love of mischief for attachment to himself. De Grey looked on superior. “I said I could bear to see all this, and I can,” said he; “now it is all over.” And now it was all over, there was silence. The rioters stood still to take breath, and to look at what they had done. There was a blank space before them.

In this moment of silence there was heard something like a voice. “Hush! What strange voice is that?” said Archer. Fisher caught fast hold of his arm. Everybody looked round to see where the voice came from. It was dusk. Two window-shutters at the farthest end of the building were seen to move slowly inwards. De Grey, and in the same instant Archer, went forward; and, as the shutters opened, there appeared through the hole the dark face and shrivelled hands of a very old gipsy. She did not speak; but she looked first at one and then at another. At length she fixed her eyes on De Grey. “Well, woman,” said he, “what do you want with me?”

“Want!—nothing—with _you_,” said the old woman; “do you want nothing with _me_?”

“Nothing,” said De Grey. Her eye immediately turned upon Archer,—“_You_ want something with me,” said she, with emphasis.

“I—what do I want?” replied Archer.

“No,” said she, changing her tone, “you want nothing—nothing will you ever want, or I am much mistaken in that _face_.”

In that _watch-chain_, she should have said, for her quick eye had espied Archer’s watch-chain. He was the only person in the company who had a watch, and she therefore judged him to be the richest.

“Had you ever your fortune told, sir, in your life?”

“Not I!” said he, looking at De Grey, as if he was afraid of his ridicule, if he listened to the gipsy.

“Not you! No! for you will make your own fortune, and the fortune of all that belong to you!”

“There’s good news for my friends!” cried Archer.

“And I’m one of them, remember that,” cried Fisher. “And I,” “And I,” joined a number of voices.

“Good luck to them!” cried the gipsy, “good luck to them all!”

Then, as soon as they had acquired sufficient confidence in her good will, they pressed up to the window. “There,” cried Townsend, as he chanced to stumble over the carpenter’s mitre box, which stood in the way, “there’s a good omen for me. I’ve stumbled on the mitre box; I shall certainly be a bishop.”

Happy he who had sixpence, for he bid fair to be a judge upon the bench. And happier he who had a shilling, for he was in the high road to be one day upon the woolsack, Lord High Chancellor of England. No one had half a crown, or no one would surely have kept it in his pocket upon such an occasion, for he might have been an archbishop, a king, or what he pleased.

Fisher, who like all weak people was extremely credulous, kept his post immovable in the front row all the time, his mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed upon the gipsy, in whom he felt implicit faith.

Those who have least confidence in their own powers, and who have least expectation from the success of their own exertions, are always most disposed to trust in fortune-tellers and fortune. They hope to _win_, when they cannot _earn_; and as they can never be convinced by those who speak sense, it is no wonder they are always persuaded by those who talk nonsense.

“I have a question to put,” said Fisher, in a solemn tone.

“Put it, then,” said Archer, “what hinders you?”

“But they will hear me,” said he, looking suspiciously at De Grey.

“_I_ shall not hear you,” said De Grey, “I am going.” Everybody else drew back, and left him to whisper his question in the gipsy’s ear.

“What is become of my Livy?”

“Your _sister_ Livy, do you mean?” said the gipsy.

“No, my _Latin_ Livy.”

The gipsy paused for information. “It had a leaf torn out in the beginning, and _I hate Dr. Middleton_—”

“Written in it,” interrupted the gipsy.

“Right—the very book!” cried Fisher with joy. “But how _could_ you know it was Dr. Middleton’s name? I thought I had scratched it, so that nobody could make it out.”

“Nobody _could_ make it out but _me_,” replied the gipsy. “But never think to deceive me,” said she, shaking her head at him in a manner that made him tremble.

“I don’t deceive you indeed, I tell you the whole truth. I lost it a week ago.”

“True.”

“And when shall I find it?”

“Meet me here at this hour to-morrow evening, and I will answer you. No more! I must be gone. Not a word more to-night.”

She pulled the shutters towards her, and left the youth in darkness. All his companions were gone. He had been so deeply engaged in this conference, that he had not perceived their departure. He found all the world at supper, but no entreaties could prevail upon him to disclose his secret. Townsend rallied in vain. As for Archer, he was not disposed to destroy by ridicule the effect which he saw that the old woman’s predictions in his favour had had upon the imagination of many of his little partisans. He had privately slipped two good shillings into the gipsy’s hand to secure her; for he was willing to pay any price for _any_ means of acquiring power.

The watch-chain had not deceived the gipsy, for Archer was the richest person in the community. His friends had imprudently supplied him with more money than is usually trusted to boys of his age. Dr. Middleton had refused to give him a larger monthly allowance than the rest of his companions; but he brought to school with him secretly the sum of five guineas. This appeared to his friends and to himself an inexhaustible treasure.

Riches and talents would, he flattered himself, secure to him that ascendancy of which he was so ambitious. “Am I your manager, or not?” was now his question. “I scorn to take advantage of a hasty moment; but since last night you have had time to consider. If you desire me to be your manager, you shall see what a theatre I will make for you. In this purse,” said he, showing through the network a glimpse of the shining treasure—“in this purse is Aladdin’s wonderful lamp. Am I your manager? Put it to the vote.”

It was put to the vote. About ten of the most reasonable of the assembly declared their gratitude and high approbation of their old friend, De Grey; but the numbers were in favour of the new friend. And as no metaphysical distinctions relative to the idea of a majority had ever entered their thoughts, the most numerous party considered themselves as now beyond dispute in the right. They drew off on one side in triumph, and their leader, who knew the consequence of a name in party matters, immediately distinguished his partisans by the gallant name of _Archers_, stigmatizing the friends of De Grey by the odious epithet of Greybeards.

Amongst the Archers was a class not very remarkable for their mental qualifications; but who, by their bodily activity, and by the peculiar advantages annexed to their way of life, rendered themselves of the highest consequence, especially to the rich and enterprising.

The judicious reader will apprehend that I allude to the persons called day scholars. Amongst these, Fisher was distinguished by his knowledge of all the streets and shops in the adjacent town; and, though a dull scholar, he had such reputation as a man of business, that whoever had commissions to execute at the confectioner’s, was sure to apply to him. Some of the youngest of his employers had, it is true, at times complained that he made mistakes of halfpence and pence in their accounts; but as these affairs could never be brought to a public trial, Fisher’s character and consequence were undiminished, till the fatal day when his Aunt Barbara forbade his visits to the confectioner’s; or, rather, till she requested the confectioner, who had his private reasons for obeying her, not _to receive_ her nephew’s visits, as he had made himself sick at his house, and Mrs. Barbara’s fears for his health were incessant.

Though his visits to the confectioner’s were thus at an end, there were many other shops open to him; and with officious zeal he offered his services to the new manager, to purchase whatever might be wanting for the theatre.

Since his father’s death Fisher had become a boarder at Dr. Middleton’s, but his frequent visits to his Aunt Barbara afforded him opportunities of going into the town. The carpenter, De Grey’s friend, was discarded by Archer, for having said “_lack-a-daisy_!” when he saw that the old theatre was pulled down. A new carpenter and paper hanger, recommended by Fisher, were appointed to attend, with their tools, for orders, at two o’clock. Archer, impatient to show his ingenuity and his generosity, gave his plan and his orders in a few minutes, in a most decided manner; “These things,” he observed, “should be done with some spirit.”

To which the carpenter readily assented, and added, that “gentlemen of spirit never looked to the _expense_, but always to the _effect_.” Upon this principle Mr. Chip set to work with all possible alacrity. In a few hours’ time he promised to produce a grand effect. High expectations were formed. Nothing was talked of but the new playhouse; and so intent upon it was every head, that no lessons could be got. Archer was obliged, in the midst of his various occupations, to perform the part of grammar and dictionary for twenty different people.

“O ye Athenians!” he exclaimed, “how hard do I work to obtain your praise!”

Impatient to return to the theatre, the moment the hours destined for instruction, or, as they are termed by schoolboys, school-hours, were over, each prisoner started up with a shout of joy.

“Stop one moment, gentlemen, if you please,” said Dr. Middleton, in an awful voice. “Mr. Archer, return to your place. Are you all here?” The names of all the boys were called over, and when each had answered to his name, Dr. Middleton said—

“Gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt your amusements; but, till you have contrary orders from me, no one, on pain of my serious displeasure, must go into _that_ building” (pointing to the place where the theatre was erecting). “Mr. Archer, your carpenter is at the door. You will be so good as to dismiss him. I do not think proper to give my reasons for these orders; but you who _know_ me,” said the doctor, and his eye turned towards De Grey, “will not suspect me of caprice. I depend, gentlemen, upon your obedience.”

To the dead silence with which these orders were received, succeeded in a few minutes a universal groan. “So!” said Townsend, “all our diversion is over.” “So,” whispered Fisher in the manager’s ear, “this is some trick of the Greybeard’s. Did you not observe how he looked at De Grey?”

Fired by this thought, which had never entered his mind before, Archer started from his reverie, and striking his hand upon the table, swore that he “would not be outwitted by any Greybeard in Europe—no, nor by all of them put together. The Archers were surely a match for them. He would stand by them, if they would stand by him,” he declared, with a loud voice, “against the whole world, and Dr. Middleton himself, with ‘_Little Premiums_’ at his right hand.”

Everybody admired Archer’s spirit, but were a little appalled at the sound of standing against Dr. Middleton.

“Why not?” resumed the indignant manager. “Neither Dr. Middleton nor any doctor upon earth shall treat me with injustice. This, you see, is a stroke at me and my party, and I won’t bear it.”

“Oh, you are mistaken!” said De Grey, who was the only one who dared to oppose reason to the angry orator. “It cannot be a stroke aimed at ‘you and your party,’ for he does not know that you _have_ a party.”

“I’ll make him know it, and I’ll make _you_ know it, too,” said Archer. “Before I came here you reigned alone, now your reign is over, Mr. De Grey. Remember my majority this morning, and your theatre last night.”

“He has remembered it,” said Fisher. “You see, the moment he was not to be our manager, we were to have no theatre, no playhouse, no plays. We must all sit down with our hands before us—all for ‘_good reasons_’ of Dr. Middleton’s, which he does not vouchsafe to tell us.”

“I won’t be governed by any man’s reasons that he won’t tell me,” cried Archer. “He cannot have good reasons, or why not tell them?”

“Nonsense!” said De Grey. “_We shall not suspect him of caprice_!”

“Why not?”

“Because we who know him, have never known him capricious.”

“Perhaps not. _I_ know nothing about him,” said Archer.

“No,” said De Grey; “for that very reason _I_ speak who do know him. Don’t be in a passion, Archer.”

“I will be in a passion. I won’t submit to tyranny. I won’t be made a fool of by a few soft words. You don’t know me, De Grey. I’ll go through with what I’ve begun. I am manager, and I will be manager; and you shall see my theatre finished in spite of you, and _my_ party triumphant.”

“Party,” repeated De Grey. “I cannot imagine what is in the word ‘party’ that seems to drive you mad. We never heard of parties till you came amongst us.”

“No; before I came, I say, nobody dared oppose you; but I dare; and I tell you to your face, take care of me—a warm friend and a bitter enemy is my motto.”

“I am not your enemy! I believe you are out of your senses, Archer!” said he, laughing.

“Out of my senses! No; you are my enemy! Are you not my rival? Did not you win the premium? Did not you want to be manager? Answer me, are not you, in one word, a Greybeard?”

“You called me a Greybeard, but my name is De Grey,” said he, still laughing.

“Laugh on!” cried the other, furiously. “Come, _Archers_, follow me. _We_ shall laugh by-and-by, I promise you.” At the door Archer was stopped by Mr. Chip. “Oh, Mr. Chip, I am ordered to discharge you.”

“Yes, sir; and here’s a little bill—”

“Bill, Mr. Chip! why, you have not been at work for two hours!”

“Not much over, sir; but if you’ll please to look into it, you’ll see ’tis for a few things you ordered. The stuff is all laid out and delivered. The paper and the festoon-bordering for the drawing room scene is cut out, and left yAnder within.”

“Y_a_nder, within! I wish you had not been in such a confounded hurry—six-and-twenty shillings!” cried he; “but I can’t stay to talk about it now. I’ll tell you, Mr. Chip,” said Archer, lowering his voice, “what you must do for me, my good fellow.”

Then, drawing Mr. Chip aside, he begged him to pull down some of the wood work which had been put up, and to cut it into a certain number of wooden bars, of which he gave him the dimensions, with orders to place them all, when ready, under a haystack, which he pointed out.

Mr. Chip scrupled and hesitated, and began to talk of “_the doctor_.” Archer immediately began to talk of the bill, and throwing down a guinea and a half, the conscientious carpenter pocketed the money directly, and made his bow.

“Well, Master Archer,” said he, “there’s no refusing you nothing. You have such a way of talking one out of it. You manage me just like a child.”

“Ay, ay!” said Archer, knowing that he had been cheated, and yet proud of managing a carpenter, “ay, ay! I know the way to manage everybody. Let the things be ready in an hour’s time, and hark’e! leave your tools by mistake behind you, and a thousand of twenty-penny nails. Ask no questions, and keep your own counsel like a wise man. Off with you, and take care of ‘_the doctor_.’”

“Archers, Archers, to the Archers’ tree! Follow your leader,” cried he, sounding his well known whistle as a signal. His followers gathered round him, and he, raising himself upon the mount at the foot of the tree, counted his numbers, and then, in a voice lower than usual, addressed them thus:—“My friends, is there a Greybeard amongst us? If there is, let him walk off at once, he has my free leave.” No one stirred. “Then we are all Archers, and we will stand by one another. Join hands, my friends.” They all joined hands. “Promise me not to betray me, and I will go on. I ask no security but your honour.” They all gave their honour to be secret and _faithful_, as he called it, and he went on. “Did you ever hear of such a thing as a ‘_Barring Out_,’ my friends?” They had heard of such a thing, but they had only heard of it.

Archer gave the history of a “Barring Out,” in which he had been concerned at his school, in which the boys stood out against the master, and gained their point at last, which was a week’s more holidays at Easter. {256} “But if _we_ should not succeed,” said they, “Dr. Middleton is so steady; he never goes back from what he has said.”

“Did you ever try to push him back? Let us be steady and he’ll tremble. Tyrants always tremble when—”

“Oh,” interrupted a number of voices; “but he is not a tyrant—is he?”

“All schoolmasters are tyrants—are not they?” replied Archer; “and is not he a schoolmaster?”

To this logic there was no answer; but, still reluctant, they asked, “What they should _get_ by a Barring Out?”

“Get!—everything!—what we want!—which is everything to lads of spirit—victory and liberty! Bar him out till he repeals his tyrannical law; till he lets us into our own theatre again, or till he tells us his ‘_good reasons_’ against it.”

“But perhaps he has reasons for not telling us.”

“Impossible!” cried Archer, “that’s the way we are always to be governed by a man in a wig, who says he has good reasons, and can’t tell them. Are you fools? Go! go back to De Grey! I see you are all Greybeards. Go! Who goes first?” Nobody would go _first_. “I will have nothing to do with ye, if ye are resolved to be slaves!” “We won’t be slaves!” they all exclaimed at once. “Then,” said Archer, “stand out in the right and be free.”

“_The right_.” It would have taken up too much time to examine what “the right” was. Archer was always sure that “_the right_” was what his party chose to do; that is, what he chose to do himself; and such is the influence of numbers upon each other, in conquering the feelings of shame and in confusing the powers of reasoning, that in a few minutes “the right” was forgotten, and each said to himself, “To be sure, Archer is a very clever boy, and he can’t be mistaken”; or, “to be sure, Townsend thinks so, and he would not do anything to get us into a scrape”; or, “to be sure, everybody will agree to this but myself, and I can’t stand out alone, to be pointed at as a Greybeard and a slave. Everybody thinks it is right, and everybody can’t be wrong.”

By some of these arguments, which passed rapidly through the mind without his being conscious of them, each boy decided, and deceived himself—what none would have done alone, none scrupled to do as a party. It was determined, then, that there should be a Barring Out. The arrangement of the affair was left to their new manager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience. Obedience, it seems, is necessary, even from rebels to their ringleaders; not reasonable, but implicit obedience.

Scarcely had the assembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, when Fisher, with an important length of face, came up to the manager, and desired to speak one word to him. “My advice to you, Archer, is, to do nothing in this till we have consulted, _you know who_, about whether it’s right or wrong.”

“‘_You know who_!’ Whom do you mean? Make haste, and don’t make so many faces, for I’m in a hurry. Who is ‘_You know who_?’”

“The old woman,” said Fisher, gravely; “the gipsy.”

“You may consult the old woman,” said Archer, bursting out a-laughing, “about what’s right and wrong, if you please; but no old woman shall decide for me.”

“No; but you don’t _take_ me,” said Fisher; “you don’t _take_ me. By right and wrong, I mean lucky and unlucky.”

“Whatever _I_ do will be lucky,” replied Archer. “My gipsy told you that already.”