The Parent’s Assistant by Maria Edgeworth (page 9)

Arthur carried off the drawings, and one day, when his master was better than usual, and when he was at leisure, eating a dessert of Francisco’s grapes, he entered respectfully, with his little portfolio under his arm, and begged permission to show his master a few drawings done by the gardener’s son, whose grapes he was eating.

Though not quite so partial a judge as the enthusiastic Carlo, this gentleman was both pleased and surprised at the sight of these drawings, considering how short a time Francisco had applied himself to this art, and what slight instructions he had received. Arthur was desired to summon the young artist. Francisco’s honest, open manner, joined to the proofs he had given of his abilities, and the character Arthur gave him for strict honesty, and constant kindness to his parents, interested Mr. Lee, the name of this English gentleman, much in his favour. Mr. Lee was at this time in treaty with an Italian painter, whom he wished to engage to copy for him exactly some of the cornices, mouldings, tablets, and antique ornaments which are to be seen amongst the ruins of the ancient city of Herculaneum. *

* We must give those of our young English readers who may not be acquainted with the ancient city of Herculaneum, some idea of it. None can be ignorant that near Naples is the celebrated volcanic mountain of Vesuvius;–that, from time to time, there happen violent eruptions from this mountain; that is to say, flames and immense clouds of smoke issue from different openings, mouths, or CRATERS, as they are called, but more especially from the summit of the mountain, which is distinguished by the name of THE crater. A rumbling, and afterwards a roaring noise is heard within, and prodigious quantities of stones and minerals burnt into masses (scoriae), are thrown out of the crater, sometimes to a great distance. The hot ashes from Mount Vesuvius have often been seen upon the roofs of the houses of Naples, from which it is six miles distant. Streams of lava run down the sides of the mountains during the time of an eruption, destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses and vineyards which are in the neighbourhood.

About 17OO years ago, during the reign of the Roman Emperor Titus, there happened a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius; and a large city called Herculaneum, which was situated at about four miles’ distance from the volcano, was overwhelmed by the streams of lava which poured into it, filled up the streets, and quickly covered over the tops of the houses, so that the whole was no more visible. It remained for many years buried. The lava which covered it became in time fit for vegetation, plants grew there, a new soil was formed, and a new town called Portici was built over this place where Herculaneum formerly stood. The little village of Resina is also situated near the spot. About fifty years ago, in a poor man’s garden at Resina, a hole in a well about thirty feet below the surface of the earth was observed. Some persons had the curiosity to enter into this hole, and, after creeping underground for some time, they came to the foundations of houses. The peasants, inhabitants of the village, who had probably never heard of Herculaneum, were somewhat surprised at their discovery.** About the same time, in a pit in the town of Portici, a similar passage underground was discovered, and, by orders of the King of Naples, workmen were employed to dig away the earth, and clear the passage. They found, at length, the entrance into the town, which, during the reign of Titus, was buried under lava. It was about eighty-eight Neapolitan palms (a palm contains near nine inches) below the top of the pit. The workmen, as they cleared the passages, marked their way with chalk when they came to any turning, lest they should lose themselves. The streets branched out in many directions, and, lying across them, the workmen often found large pieces of timber, beams, and rafters; some broken in the fall, others entire. These beams and rafters are burned quite black like charcoal, except those that were found in moist places, which have more the colour of rotten wood, and which are like a soft paste, into which you might run your hand. The walls of the houses slant, some one way, some another, and some are upright. Several magnificent buildings of brick, faced with marble of different colours, are partly seen, where the workmen have cleared away the earth and lava with which they were encrusted. Columns of red and white marble, and flights of steps, are seen in different places; and out of the ruins of the palaces some very fine statues and pictures have been dug. Foreigners who visit Naples are very curious to see this subterraneous city, and are desirous to carry with them into their own country some proofs of their having examined this wonderful place.

** Philosophical Transactions, vol. ix. p. 440.

CHAPTER III.

Tutte le gran faciende si fanno di poca cosa. What great events from trivial causes spring.

Signor Camillo, the artist employed by Mr. Lee to copy some of the antique ornaments in Herculaneum, was a liberal minded man, perfectly free from that mean jealousy which would repress the efforts of rising genius.

“Here is a lad scarcely fifteen, a poor gardener’s son, who, with merely the instructions he could obtain from a common carpenter, has learned to draw these plans and elevations, which you see are tolerably neat. What an advantage your instruction would be to him,” said Mr. Lee, as he introduced Francisco to Signor Camillo. “I am interested in this lad from what I have learned of his good conduct. I hear he is strictly honest, and one of the best of sons. Let us do something for him. If you will give him some knowledge of your art, I will, as far as money can recompense you for your loss of time, pay whatever you may think reasonable for his instruction.”

Signor Camillo made no difficulties; he was pleased with his pupil’s appearance, and every day he liked him better and better. In the room where they worked together there were some large books of drawings and plates, which Francisco saw now and then opened by his master, and which he had a great desire to look over; but when he was left in the room by himself he never touched them, because he had not permission. Signor Camillo, the first day he came into this room with his pupil, said to him, “Here are many valuable books and drawings, young man. I trust, from the character I have heard of you, that they will be perfectly safe here.”

Some weeks after Francisco had been with the painter, they had occasion to look for the front of a temple in one of these large books. “What! don’t you know in which book to look for it, Francisco?” cried his master, with some impatience. “Is it possible that you have been here so long with these books, and that you cannot find the print I mean? Had you half the taste I gave you credit for, you would have singled it out from all the rest, and have it fixed in your memory.”

“But, signor, I never saw it,” said Francisco, respectfully, “or, perhaps, I should have preferred it.”

“That you never saw it, young man, is the very thing of which I complain. Is a taste for the arts to be learned, think you, by looking at the cover of a book like this? Is it possible that you never thought of opening it?”

“Often and often,” cried Francisco, “have I longed to open it; but I thought it was forbidden me, and however great my curiosity in your absence, I have never touched them. I hoped indeed, that the time would come when you would have the goodness to show them to me.”

“And so the time is come, excellent young man,” cried Camillo; “much as I love taste, I love integrity more. I am now sure of your having the one, and let me see whether you have, as I believe you have, the other. Sit you down here beside me; and we will look over these books together.”

The attention with which his young pupil examined everything, and the pleasure he unaffectedly expressed in seeing these excellent prints, sufficiently convinced his judicious master that it was not from the want of curiosity or taste that he had never opened these tempting volumes. His confidence in Francisco was much increased by this circumstance, slight as it may appear.

One day, Signor Camillo came behind Francisco, as he was drawing with much intentness, and tapping him upon the shoulder, he said to him: “Put up your pencils and follow me, I can depend upon your integrity; I have pledged myself for it. Bring your note-book with you, and follow me; I will this day show you something that will entertain you at least as much as my large book of prints. Follow me.”

Francisco followed, till they came to the pit near the entrance of Herculaneum. “I have obtained leave for you to accompany me,” said his master, “and you know, I suppose, that this is not a permission granted to everyone?” Paintings of great value, besides ornaments of gold and silver, antique bracelets, rings, etc., are from time to time found amongst these ruins, and therefore it is necessary that no person should be admitted whose honesty cannot be depended upon. Thus, even Francisco’s talents could not have advanced him in the world, unless they had been united to integrity. He was much delighted and astonished by the new scene that was now opened to his view; and as, day after day, he accompanied his master to this subterraneous city, he had leisure for observation. He was employed, as soon as he had gratified his curiosity, in drawing. There are niches in the walls in several places, from which pictures have been dug, and these niches are often adorned with elegant masques, figures and animals, which have been left by the ignorant or careless workmen, and which are going fast to destruction. Signor Camillo, who was copying these for his English employer, had a mind to try his pupil’s skill, and, pointing to a niche bordered with grotesque figures, he desired him to try if he could make any hand of it. Francisco made several trials, and at last finished such an excellent copy, that his enthusiastic and generous master, with warm encomiums, carried it immediately to his patron, and he had the pleasure to receive from Mr. Lee a purse containing five guineas, as a reward and encouragement for his pupil.

Francisco had no sooner received this money, than he hurried to his father and mother’s cottage. His mother, some months before this time, had taken a small dairy farm; and her son had once heard her express a wish that she was but rich enough to purchase a remarkably fine brindled cow, which belonged to a farmer in the neighbourhood.

“Here, my dear mother,” cried Francisco, pouring the guineas into her lap; “and here,” continued he, emptying a bag which contained about as much more, in small Italian coins, the profits of trade-money he had fairly earned during the two years he sold fruit amongst the little Neapolitan merchants; “this is all yours, dearest mother, and I hope it will be enough to pay for the brindled cow. Nay, you must not refuse me- -I have set my heart upon the cow being milked by you this very evening; and I’ll produce my best bunches of grapes, and my father, perhaps, will give us a melon; for I’ve had no time for melons this season; and I’ll step to Naples and invite–may I, mother?–my good friends, dear Carlo and your favourite little Rosetta, and my old drawing master, and my friend Arthur, and we’ll sup with you at your dairy.”

The happy mother thanked her son, and the father assured him that neither melon nor pine-apple should be spared, to make a supper worthy of his friends.

The brindled cow was bought, and Arthur and Carlo and Rosetta most joyfully accepted their invitation.

The carpenter had unluckily appointed to settle a long account that day with one of his employers, and he could not accompany his children. It was a delicious evening; they left Naples just as the sea-breeze, after the heats of the day, was most refreshingly felt. The walk to Resina, the vineyard, the dairy, and most of all, the brindled cow, were praised by Carlo and Rosetta, with all the Italian superlatives which signify, “Most beautiful! most delightful! most charming!” Whilst the English Arthur, with as warm a heart, was more temperate in his praise, declaring that this was “the most like an English summer’s evening of any he had ever felt since he came to Italy: and that, moreover, the cream was almost as good as what he had been used to drink in Cheshire.” The company, who were all pleased with each other, and with the gardener’s good fruit, which he produced in great abundance, did not think of separating till late.

It was a bright moonlight night, and Carlo asked his friend if he would walk with them part of the way to Naples. “Yes, all the way most willingly,” cried Francisco, “that I may have the pleasure of giving to your father, with my own hands, this fine bunch of grapes, that I have reserved for him out of my own share.”

“Add this fine pine-apple for my share, then,” said his father, “and a pleasant walk to you, my young friends.”

They proceeded gaily along, and when they reached Naples, as they passed through the square where the little merchants held their market, Francisco pointed to the spot where he found Carlo’s rule. He never missed an opportunity of showing his friends that he did not forget their former kindness to him. “That rule,” said he, “has been the cause of all my present happiness, and I thank you for–“

“Oh, never mind thanking him now,” interrupted Rosetta, “but look yonder, and tell me what all those people are about.” She pointed to a group of men, women and children, who were assembled under a piazza, listening in various attitudes of attention to a man, who was standing upon a flight of steps speaking in a loud voice, and with much action, to the people who surrounded him. Francisco, Carlo and Rosetta joined his audience. The moon shone full upon his countenance, which was very expressive and which varied frequently according to the characters of the persons whose history he was telling, according to all the changes of their fortune. This man was one of those who are called Improvisatori–persons who, in Italian towns, go about reciting verses or telling stories, which they are supposed to invent as they go on speaking. Some of these people speak with great fluency, and collect crowds round them in the public streets. When an Improvisatore sees the attention of his audience fixed, and when he comes to some very interesting part of his narrative, he dexterously drops his hat upon the ground, and pauses till his auditors have paid tribute to his eloquence. When he thinks the hat sufficiently full, he takes it up again, and proceeds with his story. The hat was dropped just as Francisco and his two friends came under the piazza. The orator had finished one story, and was going to commence another. He fixed his eyes upon Francisco, then glanced at Carlo and Rosetta, and after a moment’s consideration he began a story which bore some resemblance to one that our young English readers may, perhaps, know by the name of “Cornaro, or the Grateful Turk.”

Francisco was deeply interested in this narrative, and when the hat was dropped, he eagerly threw in his contribution. At the end of the story, when the speaker’s voice stopped, there was a momentary silence, which was broken by the orator himself, who exclaimed, as he took up the hat which lay at his feet, “My friends, here is some mistake! this is not my hat; it has been changed whilst I was taken up with my story. Pray, gentlemen, find my hat amongst you; it was a remarkably good one, a present from a nobleman for an epigram I made. I would not lose my hat for twice its value. It has my name written withinside of it, Dominicho, Improvisatore. Pray, gentlemen, examine your hats.”

Everybody present examined their hats, and showed them to Dominicho, but his was not amongst them. No one had left the company; the piazza was cleared, and searched in vain. “The hat has vanished by magic,” said Dominicho.

“Yes, and by the same magic a statue moves,” cried Carlo, pointing to a figure standing in a niche, which had hitherto escaped observation. The face was so much in the shade, that Carlo did not at first perceive that the statue was Piedro. Piedro, when he saw himself discovered, burst into a loud laugh, and throwing down Dominicho’s hat, which he held in his hand behind him, cried, “A pretty set of novices! Most excellent players at hide-and-seek you would make.”

Whether Piedro really meant to have carried off the poor man’s hat, or whether he was, as he said, merely in jest, we leave it to those who know his general character to decide.

Carlo shook his head. “Still at your old tricks, Piedro,” said he. “Remember the old proverb: No fox so cunning but he comes to the furrier’s at last.” *

* Tutte le volpi si trovano in pellicera.

“I defy the furrier and you, too,” replied Piedro, taking up his own ragged hat. “I have no need to steal hats; I can afford to buy better than you’ll have upon your head. Francisco, a word with you, if you have done crying at the pitiful story you have been listening to so attentively.”

“And what would you say to me?” said Francisco, following him a few steps. “Do not detain me long, because my friends will wait for me.”

“If they are friends, they can wait,” said Piedro. “You need not be ashamed of being seen in my company now, I can tell you; for I am, as I always told you I should be, the richest man of the two.”

“Rich! you rich?” cried Francisco. “Well, then, it was impossible you could mean to trick that poor man out of his good hat.”

“Impossible!” said Piedro. Francisco did not consider that those who have habits of pilfering continue to practise them often, when the poverty which first tempted them to dishonesty ceases. “Impossible! You stare when I tell you I am rich; but the thing is so. Moreover, I am well with my father at home. I have friends in Naples, and I call myself Piedro the Lucky. Look you here,” said he, producing an old gold coin. “This does not smell of fish, does it? My father is no longer a fisherman, nor I either. Neither do I sell sugar-plums to children: nor do I slave myself in a vineyard, like some folks; but fortune, when I least expected it, has stood my friend. I have many pieces of gold like this. Digging in my father’s garden, it was my luck to come to an old Roman vessel full of gold. I have this day agreed for a house in Naples for my father. We shall live, whilst we can afford it, like great folks, you will see; and I shall enjoy the envy that will be felt by some of my old friends, the little Neapolitan merchants, who will change their note when they see my change of fortune. What say you to all this, Francisco the Honest?”

“That I wish you joy of your prosperity, and hope you may enjoy it long and well.”

“Well, no doubt of that. Everyone who has it enjoys it WELL. He always dances well to whom fortune pipes.” *

* Assai ben balla a chi fortuna suona.

“Yes, no longer pipe, no longer dance,” replied Francisco; and here they parted; for Piedro walked away abruptly, much mortified to perceive that his prosperity did not excite much envy, or command any additional respect from Francisco.

“I would rather,” said Francisco, when he returned to Carlo and Rosetta, who waited for him under the portico, where he left them–“I would rather have such good friends as you, Carlo and Arthur, and some more I could name, and, besides that, have a clear conscience, and work honestly for my bread, than be as lucky as Piedro. Do you know he has found a treasure, he says, in his father’s garden–a vase full of gold? He showed me one of the gold pieces.”

“Much good may they do him. I hope he came honestly by them,” said Carlo; “but ever since the affair of the double measure, I suspect double-dealing always from him. It is not our affair, however. Let him make himself happy his way, and we ours.

“He that would live in peace and rest, Must hear, and see, and say the best.” *

* Odi, vedi, taci, se vuoi viver in pace.

All Piedro’s neighbours did not follow this peaceable maxim; for when he and his father began to circulate the story of the treasure found in the garden, the village of Resina did not give them implicit faith. People nodded and whispered, and shrugged their shoulders; then crossed themselves, and declared that they would not, for all the riches of Naples, change places with either Piedro or his father. Regardless, or pretending to be regardless, of these suspicions, Piedro and his father persisted in their assertions. The fishing-nets were sold, and everything in their cottage was disposed of; they left Resina, went to live at Naples, and, after a few weeks, the matter began to be almost forgotten in the village.

The old gardener, Francisco’s father, was one of those who endeavoured to THINK THE BEST; and all that he said upon the subject was, that he would not exchange Francisco the Honest for Piedro the Lucky; that one can’t judge of the day till one sees the evening as well as the morning. *

* La vita il fine,–e di loda la sera. “Compute the morn and evening of their day.”–Pope.

Not to leave our readers longer in suspense, we must inform them that the peasants of Resina were right in their suspicions. Piedro had never found any treasure in his father’s garden, but he came by his gold in the following manner:–

After he was banished from the little wood-market for stealing Rosetta’s basketful of wood, after he had cheated the poor woman, who let glasses out to hire, out of the value of the glasses which he broke, and, in short, after he had entirely lost his credit with all who knew him, he roamed about the streets of Naples, reckless of what became of him.

He found the truth of the proverb, “that credit lost is like a Venice glass broken–it can’t be mended again.” The few shillings which he had in his pocket supplied him with food for a few days. At last he was glad to be employed by one of the peasants who came to Naples to load their asses with manure out of the streets. They often follow very early in the morning, or during the night-time, the trace of carriages that are gone, or that are returning from the opera; and Piedro was one night at this work, when the horses of a nobleman’s carriage took fright at the sudden blaze of some fireworks. The carriage was overturned near him; a lady was taken out of it, and was hurried by her attendants into a shop, where she stayed till her carriage was set to rights. She was too much alarmed for the first ten minutes after her accident to think of anything; but after some time, she perceived that she had lost a valuable diamond cross, which she had worn that night at the opera. She was uncertain where she had dropped it; the shop, the carriage, the street, were searched for it in vain.

Piedro saw it fall as the lady was lifted out of the carriage, seized upon it, and carried it off. Ignorant as he was of the full value of what he had stolen, he knew not how to satisfy himself as to this point, without trusting someone with the secret.

After some hesitation, he determined to apply to a Jew, who, as it was whispered, was ready to buy everything that was offered to him for sale, without making any TROUBLESOME inquiries. It was late; he waited till the streets were cleared, and then knocked softly at the back door of the Jew’s house. The person who opened the door for Piedro was his own father. Piedro started back; but his father had fast hold of him.

“What brings you here?” said the father, in a low voice, a voice which expressed fear and rage mixed.

“Only to ask my way–my shortest way,” stammered Piedro.

“No equivocations! Tell me what brings you here at this time of the night? I WILL know.”

Piedro, who felt himself in his father’s grasp, and who knew that his father would certainly search him, to find out what he had brought to sell, thought it most prudent to produce the diamond cross. His father could but just see its lustre by the light of a dim lamp, which hung over their heads in the gloomy passage in which they stood.

“You would have been duped, if you had gone to sell this to the Jew. It is well it has fallen into my hands. How came you by it?” Piedro answered that he had found it in the street. “Go your ways home, then,” said his father; “it is safe with me. Concern yourself no more about it.”

Piedro was not inclined thus to relinquish his booty, and he now thought proper to vary in his account of the manner in which he found the cross. He now confessed that it had dropped from the dress of a lady, whose carriage was overturned as she was coming home from the opera, and he concluded by saying that, if his father took his prize from him without giving him his share of the profits, he would go directly to the shop where the lady stopped whilst her servants were raising the carriage, and that he would give notice of his having found the cross.

Piedro’s father saw that his SMART son, though scarcely sixteen years of age, was a match for him in villainy. He promised him that he should have half of whatever the Jew would give for the diamonds, and Piedro insisted upon being present at the transaction.

We do not wish to lay open to our young readers scenes of iniquity. It is sufficient to say that the Jew, who was a man old in all the arts of villainy, contrived to cheat both his associates, and obtained the diamond cross for less than half its value. The matter was managed so that the transaction remained undiscovered. The lady who lost the cross, after making fruitless inquiries, gave up the search, and Piedro and his father rejoiced in the success of their manoeuvres.

It is said, that “Ill gotten wealth is quickly spent”; * and so it proved in this instance. Both father and son lived a riotous life as long as their money lasted, and it did not last many months. What his bad education began, bad company finished, and Piedro’s mind was completely ruined by the associates with whom he became connected during what he called his PROSPERITY. When his money was at an end, these unprincipled friends began to look cold upon him, and at last plainly told him–“If you mean to LIVE WITH US, you must LIVE AS WE DO.” They lived by robbery.

* Vien presto consumato l’ingiustamente acquistato.

Piedro, though familiarized to the idea of fraud, was shocked at the thought of becoming a robber by profession. How difficult it is to stop in the career of vice! Whether Piedro had power to stop, or whether he was hurried on by his associates, we shall, for the present, leave in doubt.

CHAPTER IV

We turn with pleasure from Piedro the Cunning to Francisco the Honest. Francisco continued the happy and useful course of his life. By his unremitting perseverance, he improved himself rapidly under the instructions of his master and friend, Signor Camillo; his friend, we say, for the fair and open character of Francisco won, or rather earned, the friendship of this benevolent artist. The English gentleman seemed to take a pride in our hero’s success and good conduct. He was not one of those patrons who think that they have done enough when they have given five guineas. His servant Arthur always considered every generous action of his master’s as his own, and was particularly pleased whenever this generosity was directed towards Francisco.

As for Carlo and the little Rosetta, they were the companions of all the pleasant walks which Francisco used to take in the cool of the evening, after he had been shut up all day at his work. And the old carpenter, delighted with the gratitude of his pupil, frequently repeated–“that he was proud to have given the first instructions to such a GENIUS; and that he had always prophesied Francisco would be a GREAT man.”

“And a good man, papa,” said Rosetta; “for though he has grown so great, and though he goes into palaces now, to say nothing of that place underground, where he has leave to go, yet, notwithstanding all this, he never forgets my brother Carlo and you.”

“That’s the way to have good friends,” said the carpenter. “And I like his way; he does more than he says. Facts are masculine, and words are feminine.” *

* I fatti sono maschii, le parole femmine.

These goods friends seemed to make Francisco happier than Piedro could be made by his stolen diamonds.

One morning, Francisco was sent to finish a sketch of the front of an ancient temple, amongst the ruins of Herculaneum. He had just reached the pit, and the men were about to let him down with cords, in the usual manner, when his attention was caught by the shrill sound of a scolding woman’s voice. He looked, and saw at some paces distant this female fury, who stood guarding the windlass of a well, to which, with threatening gestures and most voluble menaces, she forbade all access. The peasants–men, women and children, who had come with their pitchers to draw water at this well–were held at bay by the enraged female. Not one dared to be the first to advance; whilst she grasped with one hand the handle of the windlass, and, with the other tanned muscular arm extended, governed the populace, bidding them remember that she was padrona, or mistress of the well. They retired, in hopes of finding a more gentle padrona at some other well in the neighbourhood; and the fury, when they were out of sight, divided the long black hair which hung over her face, and, turning to one of the spectators, appealed to them in a sober voice, and asked if she was not right in what she had done? “I, that am padrona of the well,” said she, addressing herself to Francisco, who, with great attention, was contemplating her with the eye of a painter–“I, that am padrona of the well, must in times of scarcity do strict justice, and preserve for ourselves alone the water of our well. There is scarcely enough even for ourselves. I have been obliged to make my husband lengthen the ropes every day for this week past. If things go on at this rate, there will soon be not one drop of water left in my well.”

“Nor in any of the wells of the neighbourhood,” added one of the workmen, who was standing by; and he mentioned several in which the water had lately suddenly decreased; and a miller affirmed that his mill had stopped for want of water.

Francisco was struck by these remarks. They brought to his recollection similar facts, which he had often heard his father mention in his childhood, as having been observed previous to the last eruption of Mount Vesuvius. * He had also heard from his father, in his childhood, that it is better to trust to prudence than to fortune; and therefore, though the peasants and workmen, to whom he mentioned his fears, laughed, and said, “That as the burning mountain had been favourable to them for so many years, they would trust to it and St. Januarius one day longer,” yet Francisco immediately gave up all thoughts of spending this day amidst the ruins of Herculaneum. After having inquired sufficiently, after having seen several wells, in which the water had evidently decreased, and after having seen the mill-wheels that were standing still for want of their usual supply, he hastened home to his father and mother, reported what he had heard and seen, and begged of them to remove, and to take what things of value they could to some distance from the dangerous spot where they now resided.

* Phil. Trans. vol. ix.

Some of the inhabitants of Resina, whom he questioned, declared that they had heard strange rumbling noises underground; and a peasant and his son, who had been at work the preceding day in a vineyard, a little above the village, related that they had seen a sudden puff of smoke come out of the earth, close to them; and that they had, at the same time, heard a noise like the going off of a pistol. *

* These facts are mentioned in Sir William Hamilton’s account of an eruption of Mount Vesuvius.–See Phil. Trans. 1795, first part.

The villagers listened with large eyes and open ears to these relations; yet such was their habitual attachment to the spot they lived upon, or such the security in their own good fortune, that few of them would believe that there could be any necessity for removing.–“We’ll see what will happen to-morrow; we shall be safe here one day longer,” said they.

Francisco’s father and mother, more prudent than the generality of their neighbours, went to the house of a relation, at some miles’ distance from Vesuvius, and carried with them all their effects.

In the meantime, Francisco went to the villa where his English friends resided. The villa was in a most dangerous situation, near Terre del Greco–a town that stands at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. He related all the facts that he had heard to Arthur, who, not having been, like the inhabitants of Resina, familiarized to the idea of living in the vicinity of a burning mountain, and habituated to trust in St. Januarius, was sufficiently alarmed by Francisco’s representations. He ran to his master’s apartment, and communicated all that he had just heard. The Count de Flora and his lady, who were at this time in the house, ridiculed the fears of Arthur, and could not be prevailed upon to remove even as far as Naples. The lady was intent upon preparations for her birthday, which was to be celebrated in a few days with great magnificence at their villa; and she observed that it would be a pity to return to town before that day, and they had everything arranged for the festival. The prudent Englishman had not the gallantry to appear to be convinced by these arguments, and he left the place of danger. He left it not too soon, for the next morning exhibited a scene–a scene which we shall not attempt to describe.

We refer our young readers to the account of this dreadful eruption of Mount Vesuvius, published by Sir W. Hamilton in the “Philosophical Transactions.” It is sufficient here to say that, in the space of about five hours, the wretched inhabitants of Torre del Greco saw their town utterly destroyed by the streams of burning lava which poured from the mountain. The villa of Count de Flora, with some others, which were at a little distance from the town, escaped; but they were absolutely surrounded by the lava. The count and countess were obliged to fly from their house with the utmost precipitation in the night-time; and they had not time to remove any of their furniture, their plate, clothes, or jewels.

A few days after the eruption, the surface of the lava became so cool that people could walk upon it, though several feet beneath the surface it was still exceedingly hot. Numbers of those who had been forced from their houses now returned to the ruins to try to save whatever they could. But these unfortunate persons frequently found their houses had been pillaged by robbers, who, in these moments of general confusion, enrich themselves with the spoils of their fellow-creatures.

“Has the count abandoned his villa? and is there no one to take care of his plate and furniture? The house will certainly be ransacked before morning,” said the old carpenter to Francisco, who was at his house giving him an account of their flight. Francisco immediately went to the count’s house in warn him of his danger. The first person he saw was Arthur, who, with a face of terror, said to him, “Do you know what has happened? It is all over with Resina!”

“All over with Resina! What, has there been a fresh eruption? Has the lava reached Resina?”

“No; but it will inevitably be blown up. There,” said Arthur, pointing to a thin figure of an Italian, who stood pale and trembling, and looking up to heaven as he crossed himself repeatedly. “There,” said Arthur, “is a man who has left a parcel of his cursed rockets and fireworks, with I don’t know how much gunpowder, in the count’s house, from which we have just fled. The wind blows that way. One spark of fire, and the whole is blown up.”

Francisco waited not to hear more; but instantly, without explaining his intentions to anyone, set out for the count’s villa, and, with a bucket of water in his hand, crossed the beds of lava with which the house was encompassed; when, reaching the hall where the rockets and gunpowder were left, he plunged them into the water, and returned with them in safety over the lava, yet warm under his feet.

What was the surprise and joy of the poor firework-maker when he saw Francisco return from this dangerous expedition! He could scarcely believe his eyes, when he saw the rockets and the gunpowder all safe.

The count, who had given up the hopes of saving his palace, was in admiration when he heard of this instance of intrepidity, which properly saved not only his villa, but the whole village of Resina, from destruction. These fireworks had been prepared for the celebration of the countess’ birthday, and were forgotten in the hurry of the night on which the inhabitants fled from Torre del Greco.

“Brave young man!” said the count to Francisco, “I thank you, and shall not limit my gratitude to thanks. You tell me that there is danger of my villa being pillaged by robbers. It is from this moment your interest, as well as mine, to prevent their depredations; for (trust to my liberality) a portion of all that is saved of mine shall be yours.”

“Bravo! bravissimo!” exclaimed one, who started from a recessed window in the hall where all this passed. “Bravo! bravissimo!”–Francisco thought he knew the voice and the countenance of this man, who exclaimed with so much enthusiasm. He remembered to have seen him before, but when, or where, he could not recollect. As soon as the count left the hall, the stranger came up to Francisco. “Is it possible,” said he, “that you don’t know me? It is scarcely a twelvemonth since I drew tears from your eyes.”

“Tears from my eyes?” repeated Francisco, smiling; “I have shed but few tears. I have had but few misfortunes in my life.” The stranger answered him by two extempore Italian lines, which conveyed nearly the same idea that has been so well expressed by an English poet:–

“To each their sufferings–all are men Condemn’d alike to groan;
The feeling for another’s woes,
Th’ unfeeling for his own.”

“I know you now perfectly well,” cried Francisco; “you are the Improvisatore who, one fine moonlight night last summer, told us the story of Cornaro the Turk.”

“The same,” said the Improvisatore; “the same, though in a better dress, which I should not have thought would have made so much difference in your eyes, though it makes all the difference between man and man in the eyes of the stupid vulgar. My genius has broken through the clouds of misfortune of late. A few happy impromptu verses I made on the Count de Flora’s fall from his horse attracted attention. The count patronizes me. I am here now to learn the fate of an ode I have just composed for his lady’s birthday. My ode was to have been set to music, and to have been performed at his villa near Torre del Greco, if these troubles had not intervened. Now that the mountain is quiet again, people will return to their senses. I expect to be munificently rewarded. But, perhaps, I detain you. Go; I shall not forget to celebrate the heroic action you have performed this day. I still amuse myself amongst the populace in my tattered garb late in the evenings, and I shall sound your praises through Naples in a poem I mean to recite on the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Adieu.”

The Improvisatore was as good as his word. That evening, with more than his usual enthusiasm, he recited his verses to a great crowd of people in one of the public squares. Amongst the crowd were several to whom the name of Francisco was well known, and by whom he was well beloved. These were his young companions, who remembered him as a fruit-seller amongst the little merchants. They rejoiced to hear his praises, and repeated the lines with shouts of applause.

“Let us pass. What is all this disturbance in the streets?” said a man, pushing his way through the crowd. A lad who held by his arm stopped suddenly on hearing the name of Francisco, which the people were repeating with so much enthusiasm.

“Ha! I have found at last a story that interests you more than that of Cornaro the Turk,” cried the Improvisatore, looking in the face of the youth, who had stopped so suddenly. “You are the young man who, last summer, had liked to have tricked me out of my new hat. Promise me you won’t touch it now,” said he, throwing down the hat at his feet, “or you hear not one word I have to say. Not one word of the heroic action performed at the villa of the Count de Flora, near Torre del Greco, this morning, by Signor Francisco.”

“SIGNOR Francisco!” repeated the lad with disdain. “Well, let us hear what you have to tell of him,” added he. “Your hat is very safe, I promise you; I shall not touch it. What of SIGNOR Francisco?”

“SIGNOR Francisco I may, without impropriety, call him,” said the Improvisatore, “for he is likely to become rich enough to command the title from those who might not otherwise respect his merit.”

“Likely to become rich! how?” said the lad, whom our readers have probably before this time discovered to be Piedro. “How, pray, is he likely to become rich enough to be a signor?”

“The Count de Flora has promised him a liberal portion of all the fine furniture, plate and jewels that can be saved from his villa at Torre del Greco. Francisco is gone down hither now with some of the count’s domestics to protect the valuable goods against those villainous plunderers, who robbed their fellow-creatures of what even the flames of Vesuvius would spare.”

“Come, we have had enough of this stuff,” cried the man whose arm Piedro held. “Come away,” and he hurried forwards.

This man was one of the villains against whom the honest orator expressed such indignation. He was one of those with whom Piedro got acquainted during the time that he was living extravagantly upon the money he gained by the sale of the stolen diamond cross. That robbery was not discovered; and his success, as he called it, hardened him in guilt. He was both unwilling and unable to withdraw himself from the bad company with whom his ill gotten wealth connected him. He did not consider that bad company leads to the gallows. *

* La mala compagnia e quella che mena uomini a la forca.

The universal confusion which followed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius was to these villains a time of rejoicing. No sooner did Piedro’s companion hear of the rich furniture, plate, etc., which the imprudent orator had described as belonging to the Count de Flora’s villa, than he longed to make himself master of the whole.

“It is a pity,” said Piedro, “that the count has sent Francisco, with his servants down to guard it.”

“And who is this Francisco of whom you seem to stand in so much awe?”

“A boy, a young lad only, of about my own age; but I know him to be sturdily honest. The servants we might corrupt; but even the old proverb of ‘Angle with a silver hook,’ * won’t hold good with him.”

* Pescar col hamo d’argento.

“And if he cannot be won by fair means, he must be conquered by foul,” said the desperate villain; “but if we offer him rather more than the count has already promised for his share of the booty, of course he will consult at once his safety and his interest.”

“No,” said Piedro; “that is not his nature. I know him from a child, and we had better think of some other house for to-night’s business.”

“None other; none but this,” cried his companion, with an oath. “My mind is determined upon this, and you must obey your leader: recollect the fate of him who failed me yesterday.”

The person to whom he alluded was one of the gang of robbers who had been assassinated by his companions for hesitating to commit some crime suggested by their leader. No tyranny is so dreadful as that which is exercised by villains over their young accomplices, who become their slaves. Piedro, who was of a cowardly nature, trembled at the threatening countenance of his captain, and promised submission.

In the course of the morning, inquiries were made secretly amongst the count’s servants; and the two men who were engaged to sit up at the villa that night along with Francisco, were bribed to second the views of this gang of thieves. It was agreed that about midnight the robbers should be let into the house; that Francisco should be tied hand and foot, whilst they carried off their booty. “He is a stubborn chap, though so young, I understand,” said the captain of the robbers to his men; “but we carry poniards, and know how to use them. Piedro, you look pale. You don’t require to be reminded of what I said to you when we were alone just now?”

Piedro’s voice failed, and some of his comrades observed that he was young and new to the business. The captain, who, from being his pretended friend during his wealthy days, had of late become his tyrant, cast a stern look at Piedro, and bid him be sure to be at the old Jew’s, which was the place of meeting, in the dusk of the evening. After saying this he departed.

Piedro, when he was alone, tried to collect his thoughts–all his thoughts were full of horror. “Where am I?” said he to himself; “what am I about? Did I understand rightly what he said about poniards? Francisco; oh, Francisco! Excellent, kind, generous Francisco! Yes, I recollect your look when you held the bunch of grapes to my lips, as I sat by the sea-shore deserted by all the world; and now, what friends have I. Robbers and–” The word MURDERERS he could not utter. He again recollected what had been said about poniards, and the longer his mind fixed upon the words, and the look that accompanied them, the more he was shocked. He could not doubt but that it was the serious intention of his accomplices to murder Francisco, if he should make any resistance.

Piedro had at this moment no friend in the world to whom he could apply for advice or assistance. His wretched father died some weeks before this time, in a fit of intoxication. Piedro walked up and down the street, scarcely capable of thinking, much less of coming to any rational resolution.

The hours passed away, the shadows of the houses lengthened under his footsteps, the evening came on, and when it grew dusk, after hesitating in great agony of mind for some time, his fear of the robbers’ vengeance prevailed over every other feeling, and he went at the appointed hour to the place of meeting.

The place of meeting was at the house of that Jew to whom he, several months before, sold the diamond cross. That cross which he thought himself so lucky to have stolen, and to have disposed of undetected, was, in fact, the cause of his being in his present dreadful situation. It was at the Jew’s that he connected himself with this gang of robbers, to whom he was now become an absolute slave.

“Oh, that I dared to disobey!” said he to himself, with a deep sigh, as he knocked softly at the back door of the Jew’s house. The back door opened into a narrow, unfrequented street, and some small rooms at this side of the house were set apart for the reception of guests who desired to have their business kept secret. These rooms were separated by a dark passage from the rest of the house, and numbers of people came to the shop in the front of the house, which looked into a creditable street, without knowing anything more, from the ostensible appearance of the shop, than that it was a kind of pawnbroker’s, where old clothes, old iron, and all sorts of refuse goods, might be disposed of conveniently.

At the moment Piedro knocked at the back door, the front shop was full of customers; and the Jew’s boy, whose office it was to attend to these signals, let Piedro in, told him that none of his comrades were yet come, and left him in a room by himself.

He was pale and trembling, and felt a cold dew spread over him. He had a leaden image of Saint Januarius tied round his neck, which, in the midst of his wickedness, he superstitiously preserved as a sort of charm, and on this he kept his eyes stupidly fixed, as he sat alone in this gloomy place.

He listened from time to time, but he heard no noise at the side of the house where he was. His accomplices did not arrive, and, in a sort of impatient terror, the attendant upon an evil conscience, he flung open the door of his cell, and groped his way through the passage which he knew led to the public shop. He longed to hear some noise, and to mix with the living. The Jew, when Piedro entered the shop, was bargaining with a poor, thin-looking man about some gunpowder.

“I don’t deny that it has been wet,” said the man, “but since it was in the bucket of water, it has been carefully dried. I tell you the simple truth, that so soon after the grand eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the people of Naples will not relish fireworks. My poor little rockets, and even my Catherine-wheels, will have no effect. I am glad to part with all I have in this line of business. A few days ago I had fine things in readiness for the Countess de Flora’s birthday, which was to have been celebrated at the count’s villa.”

“Why do you fix your eyes on me, friend? What is your discourse to me?” said Piedro, who imagined that the man fixed his eyes upon him as he mentioned the name of the count’s villa.

“I did not know that I fixed my eyes upon you; I was thinking of my fireworks,” said the poor man, simply. “But now that I do look at you and hear your voice, I recollect having had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

“When? where?” said Piedro.

“A great while ago; no wonder you have forgotten me,” said the man; “but I can recall the night to your recollection. You were in the street with me the night I let off that unlucky rocket, which frightened the horses, and was the cause of overturning a lady’s coach. Don’t you remember the circumstance?”

“I have a confused recollection of some such thing,” said Piedro, in great embarrassment; and he looked suspiciously at this man, in doubt whether he was cunning, and wanted to sound him, or whether he was so simple as he appeared.

“You did not, perhaps, hear, then,” continued the man, “that there was a great search made, after the overturn, for a fine diamond cross, belonging to the lady in the carriage? That lady, though I did not know it till lately, was the Countess de Flora.”

“I know nothing of the matter,” interrupted Piedro, in great agitation. His confusion was so marked, that the firework-maker could not avoid taking notice of it; and a silence of some moments ensued. The Jew, more practised in dissimulation than Piedro, endeavoured to turn the man’s attention back to his rockets and his gunpowder–agreed to take the gunpowder–paid for it in haste, and was, though apparently unconcerned, eager to get rid of him. But this was not so easily done. The man’s curiosity was excited, and his suspicions of Piedro were increased every moment by all the dark changes of his countenance. Piedro, overpowered with the sense of guilt, surprised at the unexpected mention of the diamond cross, and of the Count de Flora’s villa, stood like one convicted, and seemed fixed to the spot, without power of motion.

“I want to look at the old cambric that you said you had–that would do for making–that you could let me have cheap for artificial flowers,” said the firework-maker to the Jew; and as he spoke, his eye from time to time looked towards Piedro.

Piedro felt for the leaden image of the saint, which he wore round his neck. The string which held it cracked, and broke with the pull he gave it. This slight circumstance affected his terrified and superstitious mind more than all the rest. He imagined that at this moment his fate was decided; that Saint Januarius deserted him, and that he was undone. He precipitately followed the firework-man the instant he left the shop, and seizing hold of his arm, whispered, “I must speak to you.”

“Speak, then,” said the man, astonished.

“Not here; this way,” said he, drawing him towards the dark passage: “what I have to say must not be overheard. You are going to the Count de Flora’s, are not you?”

“I am,” said the man. He was going there to speak to the countess about some artificial flowers; but Piedro thought he was going to speak to her about the diamond cross.

“You are going to give information against me? Nay, hear me, I confess that I purloined that diamond cross; but I can do the count a great service, upon condition that he pardons me. His villa is to be attacked this night by four well armed men. They will set out five hours hence. I am compelled, under the threat of assassination, to accompany them; but I shall do no more. I throw myself upon the count’s mercy. Hasten to him–we have no time to lose.”

The poor man, who heard this confession, escaped from Piedro the moment he loosed his arm. With all possible expedition he ran to the count’s palace in Naples, and related to him all that had been said by Piedro. Some of the count’s servants, on whom he could most depend, were at a distant part of the city attending their mistress, but the English gentleman offered the services of his man Arthur. Arthur no sooner heard the business, and understood that Francisco was in danger, than he armed himself without saying one word, saddled his English horse, and was ready to depart before anyone else had finished their exclamations and conjectures.

“But we are not to set out yet,” said the servant; “it is but four miles to Torre del Greco; the sbirri (officers of justice) are summoned–they are to go with us–we must wait for them.”

They waited, much against Arthur’s inclination, a considerable time for these sbirri. At length they set out, and just as they reached the villa, the flash of the pistol was seen from one of the apartments in the house. The robbers were there. This pistol was snapped by their captain at poor Francisco, who had bravely asserted that he would, as long as he had life, defend the property committed to his care. The pistol missed fire, for it was charged with some of the damaged powder which the Jew had bought that evening from the firework maker, and which he had sold as excellent immediately afterwards to his favourite customers–the robbers who met at his house.

Arthur, as soon as he perceived the flash of the piece, pressed forward through all the apartments, followed by the count’s servants and the officers of justice. At the sudden appearance of so many armed men, the robbers stood dismayed. Arthur eagerly shook Francisco’s hand, congratulating him upon his safety, and did not perceive, till he had given him several rough friendly shakes, that his arm was wounded, and that he was pale with the loss of blood.

“It is not much–only a slight wound,” said Francisco; “one that I should have escaped, if I had been upon my guard; but the sight of a face that I little expected to see in such company took from me all presence of mind; and one of the ruffians stabbed me here in the arm, whilst I stood in stupid astonishment.”

“Oh! take me to prison! take me to prison–I am weary of life–I am a wretch not fit to live!” cried Piedro, holding his hands to be tied by the sbirri.

The next morning Piedro was conveyed to prison; and as he passed through the streets of Naples he was met by several of those who had known him when he was a child. “Ay,” said they, as he went by, “his father encouraged him in cheating when he was BUT A CHILD; and see what he is come to, now he is a man!” He was ordered to remain twelve months in solitary confinement. His captain and his accomplices were sent to the galleys, and the Jew was banished from Naples.

And now, having got these villains out of the way, let us return to honest Francisco. His wound was soon healed. Arthur was no bad surgeon, for he let his patient get well as fast as he pleased; and Carlo and Rosetta nursed him with so much kindness, that he was almost sorry to find himself perfectly recovered.

“Now that you are able to go out,” said Francisco’s father to him, “you must come and look at my new house, my dear son.”

“Your new house, father?”

“Yes, son, and a charming one it is, and a handsome piece of land near it–all at a safe distance, too, from Mount Vesuvius; and can you guess how I came by it?–it was given to me for having a good son.”

“Yes,” cried Carlo; “the inhabitants of Resina, and several who had property near Terre del Greco, and whose houses and lives were saved by your intrepidity in carrying the materials for the fireworks and the gunpowder out of this dangerous place, went in a body to the duke, and requested that he would mention your name and these facts to the king, who, amongst the grants he has made to the sufferers by the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius, has been pleased to say that he gives this house and garden to your father, because you have saved the property and lives of many of his subjects.”

The value of a handsome portion of furniture, plate, etc., in the Count de Flora’s villa, was, according to the count’s promise, given to him; and this money he divided between his own family and that of the good carpenter who first put a pencil into his hands. Arthur would not accept of any present from him. To Mr. Lee, the English gentleman, he offered one of his own drawings–a fruit-piece.

“I like this very well,” said Arthur, as he examined the drawing, “but I should like this melon better if it was a little bruised. It is now three years ago since I was going to buy that bruised melon from you; you showed me your honest nature then, though you were but a boy; and I have found you the same ever since. A good beginning makes a good ending–an honest boy will make an honest man; and honesty is the best policy, as you have proved to all who wanted the proof, I hope.”

“Yes,” added Francisco’s father, “I think it is pretty plain that Piedro the Cunning has not managed quite so well as Francisco the Honest.”

TARLTON.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,– To teach the young idea how to shoot,– To pour the fresh instruction o’er the mind,– To breathe th’ enlivening spirit,–and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast. THOMSON.

Young Hardy was educated by Mr. Freeman, a very excellent master, at one of our rural Sunday schools. He was honest, obedient, active and good- natured, hence he was esteemed by his master; and being beloved by all his companions who were good, he did not desire to be loved by the bad; nor was he at all vexed or ashamed when idle, mischievous or dishonest boys attempted to plague or ridicule him. His friend Loveit, on the contrary, wished to be universally liked, and his highest ambition was to be thought the best natured boy in the school–and so he was. He usually went by the name of POOR LOVEIT, and everybody pitied him when he got into disgrace, which he frequently did, for though he had a good disposition, he was led to do things which he knew to be wrong merely because he could never have the courage to say “NO,” because he was afraid to offend the ill-natured, and could not bear to be laughed at by fools.

One fine autumn evening, all the boys were permitted to go out to play in a pleasant green meadow near the school. Loveit and another boy, called Tarlton, began to play a game of battledore and shuttlecock, and a large party stood by to look on, for they were the best players at battledore and shuttlecock in the school, and this was a trial of skill between them. When they had got it up to three hundred and twenty, the game became very interesting. The arms of the combatants tired that they could scarcely wield the battledores. The shuttlecock began to waver in the air; now it almost touched the ground, and now, to the astonishment of the spectators, mounted again high over their heads: yet the strokes became feebler and feebler; and “Now, Loveit!” “Now, Tarlton!” resounded on all sides. For another minute the victory was doubtful; but at length the setting sun, shining full in Loveit’s face, so dazzled his eyes that he could no longer see the shuttlecock, and it fell at his feet.

After the first shout for Tarlton’s triumph was over, everybody exclaimed, “Poor Loveit! he’s the best natured fellow in the world! What a pity that he did not stand with his back to the sun!”

“Now, I dare you all to play another game with me,” cried Tarlton, vauntingly; and as he spoke, he tossed the shuttlecock up with all his force–with so much force that it went over the hedge and dropped into a lane, which went close beside the field. “Hey-day!” said Tarlton, “what shall we do now?”

The boys were strictly forbidden to go into the lane; and it was upon their promise not to break this command, that they were allowed to play in the adjoining field.

No other shuttlecock was to be had and their play was stopped. They stood on the top of the bank, peeping over the hedge. “I see it yonder,” said Tarlton; “I wish somebody would get it. One could get over the gate at the bottom of the field, and be back again in half a minute,” added he, looking at Loveit. “But you know we must not go into the lane,” said Loveit, hesitatingly. “Pugh!” said Tarlton, “why, now, what harm could it do?”

“I don’t know,” said Loveit, drumming upon his battledore; “but–“

“You don’t know, man! why, then, what are you afraid of, I ask you?” Loveit coloured, went on drumming, and again, in a lower voice, said “HE DIDN’T KNOW.” But upon Tarlton’s repeating, in a more insolent tone, “I ask you, man, what you’re afraid of?” he suddenly left off drumming, and looking round, said, “he was not afraid of anything that he knew of.”

“Yes, but you are,” said Hardy, coming forward.

“Am I?” said Loveit; “of what, pray, am I afraid?”

“Of doing wrong!”

“Afraid OF DOING WRONG!” repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, so that he made everybody laugh. “Now, hadn’t you better say afraid of being flogged?”

“No,” said Hardy, coolly, after the laugh had somewhat subsided, “I am as little afraid of being flogged as you are, Tarlton; but I meant–“

“No matter what you meant; why should you interfere with your wisdom and your meanings; nobody thought of asking YOU to stir a step for us; but we asked Loveit, because he’s the best fellow in the world.”

“And for that very reason you should not ask him, because, you know he can’t refuse you anything.”

“Indeed, though,” cried Loveit, piqued, “THERE you’re mistaken, for I could refuse if I chose it.”

Hardy smiled; and Loveit, half afraid of his contempt, and half afraid of Tarlton’s ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had recourse to his battledore, which he balanced most curiously upon his forefinger. “Look at him!–now do look at him!” cried Tarlton; “did you ever in your life see anybody look so silly?–Hardy has him quite under his thumb; he’s so mortally afraid of Parson Prig, that he dare not, for the soul of him, turn either of his eyes from the tip of his nose; look how he squints!”

“I don’t squint,” said Loveit, looking up, “and nobody has me under his thumb! and what Hardy said was only for fear I should get in disgrace; he’s the best friend I have.”

Loveit spoke this with more than usual spirit, for both his heart and his pride were touched.

“Come along, then,” said Hardy, taking him by the arm in an affectionate manner; and he was just going, when Tarlton called after him, “Ay, go along with its best friend, and take care it does not get into a scrape;- -good-bye, Little Panado!”

“Whom do they call Little Panado?” said Loveit, turning his head hastily back.

“Never mind,” said Hardy, “what does it signify?”

“No,” said Loveit, “to be sure it does not signify; but one does not like to be called Little Panado: besides,” added he, after going a few steps farther, “they’ll all think it so ill-natured. I had better go back, and just tell them that I’m very sorry I can’t get their shuttlecock; do come back with me.”

“No,” said Hardy, “I can’t go back; and you’d better not.”

“But, I assure you, I won’t stay a minute; wait for me,” added Loveit; and he slunk back again to prove that he was not Little Panado.

Once returned, the rest followed, of course; for to support his character of good-nature he was obliged to yield to the entreaties of his companions, and to show his spirit, leapt over the gate, amidst the acclamations of the little mob:–he was quickly out of sight.

“Here,” cried he, returning in about five minutes, quite out of breath, “I’ve got the shuttlecock; and I’ll tell you what I’ve seen,” cried he, panting for breath.

“What?” cried everybody, eagerly.

“Why, just at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane”–panting.

“Well,” said Tarlton, impatiently, “do go on.”

“Let me just take breath first.”

“Pugh–never mind your breath.”

“Well, then, just at the turn of the corner, at the end of the lane, as I was looking about for the shuttlecock, I heard a great rustling somewhere near me, and so I looked where it could come from; and I saw, in a nice little garden, on the opposite side of the way, a boy, about as big as Tarlton, sitting in a great tree, shaking the branches: so I called to the boy, to beg one; but he said he could not give me one, for that they were his grandfather’s; and just at that minute, from behind a gooseberry bush, up popped the uncle; the grandfather poked his head out of the window; so I ran off as fast as my legs would carry me though I heard him bawling after me all the way.”

“And let him bawl,” cried Tarlton; “he shan’t bawl for nothing; I’m determined we’ll have some of his fine large rosy apples before I sleep to-night.”

At this speech a general silence ensued; everybody kept their eyes fixed upon Tarlton, except Loveit, who looked down, apprehensive that he should be drawn on much farther than he intended. “Oh, indeed!” said he to himself, “as Hardy told me, I had better not have come back!”

Regardless of this confusion, Tarlton continued, “But before I say any more, I hope we have no spies amongst us. If there is any one of you afraid to be flogged, let him march off this instant!”

Loveit coloured, bit his lips, wished to go, but had not the courage to move first. He waited to see what everybody else would do: nobody stirred; so Loveit stood still.

“Well, then,” cried Tarlton, giving his hand to the boy next him, then to the next, “your word and honour that you won’t betray me; but stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.” Each boy gave his hand and his promise; repeating, “Stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.”

Loveit hung back till the last; and had almost twisted off the button of the boy’s coat who screened him, when Tarlton came up, holding out his hand, “Come, Loveit, lad, you’re in for it: stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.”

“Indeed, Tarlton,” expostulated he, without looking him in the face, “I do wish you’d give up this scheme; I daresay all the apples are gone by this time; I wish you would. Do, pray, give up this scheme.”

“What scheme, man? you have’n’t heard it yet; you may as well know your text before you begin preaching.”

The corners of Loveit’s mouth could not refuse to smile, though in his heart he felt not the slightest inclination to laugh.

“Why, I don’t know you, I declare I don’t know you to-day,” said Tarlton; “you used to be the best natured most agreeable lad in the world, and would do anything one asked you; but you’re quite altered of late, as we were saying just now, when you skulked away with Hardy: come,–do, man, pluck up a little spirit, and be one of us, or you’ll make us all HATE YOU.”

“HATE me!” repeated Loveit, with terror; “no, surely, you won’t all HATE me!” and he mechanically stretched out his hand which Tarlton shook violently, saying, “Ay, now, that’s right.”

“Ay, now, that’s wrong!” whispered Loveit’s conscience; but his conscience was of no use to him, for it was always overpowered by the voice of numbers; and though he had the wish, he never had the power, to do right. “Poor Loveit! I knew he would not refuse us,” cried his companions; and even Tarlton, the moment he shook hands with him, despised him. It is certain that weakness of mind is despised both by the good and the bad.

The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed all the airs of commander, explained his schemes, and laid the plan of attack upon the poor old man’s apple-tree. It was the only one he had the world. We shall not dwell upon their consultation; for the amusement of contriving such expeditions is often the chief thing which induces idle boys to engage in them.

There was a small window at the end of the back staircase, through which, between nine and ten o’clock at night, Tarlton, accompanied by Loveit and another boy, crept out. It was a moonlight night, and after crossing the field, and climbing the gate, directed by Loveit, who now resolved to go through the affair with spirit, they proceeded down the lane with rash yet fearful steps.

At a distance Loveit saw the white washed cottage, and the apple-tree beside it. They quickened their pace, and with some difficulty scrambled through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not without being scratched and torn by the briers. Everything was silent. Yet now and then, at every rustling of the leaves, they started, and their hearts beat violently. Once, as Loveit was climbing the apple-tree, he thought he heard a door in the cottage open, and earnestly begged his companions to desist and return home. This, however, he could by no means persuade them to do, until they had filled their pockets with apples; then, to his great joy, they returned, crept in at the window and each retired, as softly as possible, to his own apartment.

Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left fast asleep, and whom he now was extremely afraid of awakening. All the apples were emptied out of Loveit’s pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the morning, for fear the smell should betray the secret to Hardy. The room door was apt to creak, but it was opened with such precaution, that no noise could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as fast asleep as when he left him.

“Ah,” said he to himself, “how quietly he sleeps! I wish I had been sleeping too.” The reproaches of Loveit’s conscience, however, served no other purpose but to torment him; he had not sufficient strength of mind to be good. The very next night, in spite of all his fears, and all his penitence, and all his resolutions, by a little fresh ridicule and persuasion he was induced to accompany the same party on a similar expedition. We must observe, that the necessity for continuing their depredations became stronger the third day; for, though at first only a small party had been in the secret, by degrees it was divulged to the whole school; and it was necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the booty.

Everyone was astonished that Hardy, with all his quickness and penetration, had not yet discovered their proceedings; but Loveit could not help suspecting that he was not quite so ignorant as he appeared to be. Loveit had strictly kept his promise of secrecy; but he was by no means an artful boy; and in talking to his friend, conscious that he had something to conceal, he was perpetually on the point of betraying himself; then recollecting his engagement, he blushed, stammered, bungled; and upon Hardy’s asking what he meant, would answer with a silly, guilty countenance, that he did not know; or abruptly break off, saying, “Oh nothing! nothing at all!”

It was in vain that he urged Tarlton to permit him to consult his friend. A gloom overspread Tarlton’s brow when he began to speak on the subject, and he always returned a peremptory refusal, accompanied with some such taunting expression as this–“I wish we had nothing to do with such a sneaking fellow; he’ll betray us all, I see, before we have done with him.”

“Well,” said Loveit to himself, “so I am abused after all, and called a sneaking fellow for my pains; that’s rather hard, to be sure, when I’ve got so little by the job.”

In truth he had not got much; for in the division of the booty only one apple, and half of another, which was only half ripe, happened to fall to his share; though, to be sure, when they had all eaten their apples, he had the satisfaction to hear everybody declare they were very sorry they had forgotten to offer some of theirs to “POOR LOVEIT.”

In the meantime, the visits to the apple-tree had been now too frequently repeated to remain concealed from the old man who lived in the cottage. He used to examine his only tree very frequently, and missing numbers of rosy apples, which he had watched ripening, he, though not prone to suspicion, began to think that there was something going wrong; especially as a gap was made in his hedge, and there were several small footsteps in his flower beds.

The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to any living creature, much less to children, of whom he was particularly fond. Nor was he in the least avaricious, for though he was not rich, he had enough to live upon, because he had been very industrious in his youth; and he was always very ready to part with the little he had. Nor was he a cross old man. If anything would have made him angry, it would have been the seeing his favourite tree robbed, as he had promised himself the pleasure of giving his red apples to his grandchildren on his birthday. However, he looked up at the tree in sorrow rather than in anger, and leaning upon his staff, he began to consider what he had best do.

“If I complain to their master,” said he to himself, “they will certainly be flogged, and that I should be sorry for: yet they must not be let to go on stealing; that would be worse still, for it would surely bring them to the gallows in the end. Let me see–oh, ay, that will do; I will borrow farmer Kent’s dog Barker, he’ll keep them off, I’ll answer for it.”

Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour, at the same time, to be sure to chain him well, for he was the fiercest mastiff in England. The old man, with farmer Kent’s assistance, chained him fast to the trunk of the apple-tree.

Night came; and Tarlton, Loveit and his companions, returned at the usual hour. Grown bolder now by frequent success, they came on talking and laughing. But the moment they had set their foot in the garden, the dog started up; and, shaking the chain as he sprang forward, barked with unremitting fury. They stood still as if fixed to the spot. There was just moonlight enough to see the dog. “Let us try the other side of the tree,” said Tarlton. But to whichever side they turned, the dog flew round in an instant, barking with increased fury.

“He’ll break his chain and tear us to pieces,” cried Tarlton; and, struck with terror, he immediately threw down the basket he had brought with him, and betook himself to flight, with the greatest precipitation. “Help me! oh, pray, help me! I can’t get through the hedge,” cried Loveit, in a lamentable tone, whilst the dog growled hideously, and sprang forward to the extremity of his chain. “I can’t get out! Oh, for God’s sake, stay for me one minute, dear Tarlton!” He called in vain; he was left to struggle through his difficulties by himself; and of all his dear friends not one turned back to help him. At last, torn and terrified, he got through the hedge and ran home, despising his companions for their selfishness. Nor could he help observing that Tarlton, with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run away from the appearance of danger.

The next morning Loveit could not help reproaching the party with their conduct. “Why could not you, any of you, stay one minute to help me?” said he.

“We did not hear you call,” answered one.

“I was so frightened,” said another, “I would not have turned back for the whole world.”

“And you, Tarlton?”

“I,” said Tarlton; “had not I enough to do to take care of myself, you blockhead? Everyone for himself in this world!”

“So I see,” said Loveit, gravely.

“Well, man! is there anything strange in that?”

“Strange! why, yes; I thought you all loved me!”

“Lord love you, lad! so we do; but we love ourselves better.”

“Hardy would not have served me so, however,” said Loveit, turning away in disgust. Tarlton was alarmed. “Pugh!” said he; “what nonsense have you taken into your brain! Think no more about it. We are all very sorry, and beg your pardon; come, shake hands, forgive and forget.”

Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly. “I forgive it with all my heart,” said he; “but I cannot forget it so soon!”

“Why, then, you are not such a good humoured fellow as we thought you were. Surely you cannot bear malice, Loveit.” Loveit smiled, and allowed that he certainly could not bear malice. “Well, then, come; you know at the bottom we all love you, and would do anything in the world for you.” Poor Loveit, flattered in his foible, began to believe that they did love him at the bottom, as they said, and even with his eyes open consented again to be duped.

“How strange it is,” thought he, “that I should set such value upon the love of those I despise! When I’m once out of this scrape, I’ll have no more to do with them, I’m determined.”

Compared with his friend Hardy, his new associates did indeed appear contemptible; for all this time Hardy had treated him with uniform kindness, avoided to pry into his secrets, yet seemed ready to receive his confidence, if it had been offered.

After school in the evening, as he was standing silently beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, Tarlton, in his brutal manner, came up, and seizing him by the arm, cried, “Come along with me, Loveit, I’ve something to say to you.”

“I can’t come now,” said Loveit, drawing away his arm.

“Ah, do come now,” said Tarlton, in a voice of persuasion.

“Well, I’ll come presently.”

“Nay, but do, pray; there’s a good fellow, come now, because I have something to say to you.”

“What is it you’ve got to say to me? I wish you’d let me alone,” said Loveit; yet at the same time he suffered himself to he led away.

Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring him into temper again; and even though he was not very apt to part with his playthings, went so far as to say, “Loveit, the other day you wanted a top; I’ll give you mine if you desire it.”

Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the thought of possessing this top. “But what did you want to say to me just now?”

“Ay, we’ll talk of that presently; not yet–when we get out of hearing.”

“Nobody is near us,” said Loveit.

“Come a little farther however,” said Tarlton, looking round suspiciously.

“Well now, well?”

“You know the dog that frightened us last night?”

“Yes.”

“It will never frighten us again.”

“Won’t it? how so?”

“Look here,” said Tarlton, drawing something from his pocket wrapped in a blue handkerchief.

“What’s that?” Tarlton opened it. “Raw meat!” exclaimed Loveit. “How came you by it?”

“Tom, the servant boy, Tom got it for me; and I’m to give him sixpence.”

“And is it for the dog?”

“Yes; I vowed I’d be revenged on him, and after this he’ll never bark again.”

“Never bark again! What do you mean? Is it poison?” exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror.

“Only poison for A DOG,” said Tarlton, confused; “you could not look more shocking if it was poison for a Christian.”

Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound silence. “Tarlton,” said he at last, in a changed tone and altered manner, “I did not know you; I will have no more to do with you.”

“Nay, but stay,” said Tarlton, catching hold of his arm, “stay; I was only joking.”

“Let go my arm–you were in earnest.”

“But then that was before I knew there was any harm. If you think there’s any harm?”

“IF,” said Loveit.

“Why, you know, I might not know; for Tom told me it’s a thing that’s often done. Ask Tom.”

“I’ll ask nobody! Surely we know better what’s right and wrong than Tom does.”

“But only just ask him, to hear what he’ll say.”

“I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” cried Loveit, vehemently: “the dog will die in agonies–in agonies! There was a dog poisoned at my father’s–I saw him in the yard. Poor creature! He lay and howled and writhed himself!”

“Poor creature! Well, there’s no harm done now,” cried Tarlton, in a hypocritical tone. But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his purpose.

Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his mind was in such agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like himself; and two or three times his heart was so full that he was ready to burst into tears.

“How good-natured you are to me,” said he to Hardy, as he was trying vainly to entertain him; “but if you knew–” Here he stopped short, for the bell for evening prayer rang, and they all took their places, and knelt down. After prayers, as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped Tarlton,–“WELL!” asked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing his eyes upon him.

“WELL!” replied Tarlton, in an audacious tone, as if he meant to set his inquiring eye at defiance.

“What do you mean to do to-night?”

“To go to sleep, as you do, I suppose,” replied Tarlton, turning away abruptly, and whistling as he walked off.

“Oh, he has certainly changed his mind!” said Loveit to himself, “else he could not whistle.”

About ten minutes after this, as he and Hardy were undressing, Hardy suddenly recollected that he had left his new kite out upon the grass. “Oh,” said he, “it will be quite spoiled before morning!”

“Call Tom,” said Loveit, “and bid him bring it in for you in a minute.” They both went to the top of the stairs to call Tom; no one answered. They called again louder, “Is Tom below?”

“I’m here,” answered he at last, coming out of Tarlton’s room with a look of mixed embarrassment and effrontery. And as he was receiving Hardy’s commission, Loveit saw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of his pocket. This excited fresh suspicions in Loveit’s mind; but, without saying one word, he immediately stationed himself at the window in his room, which looked out towards the lane; and, as the moon was risen, he could see if anyone passed that way.

“What are you doing there?” said Hardy, after he had been watching some time; “why don’t you come to bed?” Loveit returned no answer, but continued standing at the window. Nor did he watch long in vain. Presently he saw Tom gliding slowly along a by-path, and get over the gate into the lane.

“He’s gone to do it!” exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an emotion which he could not command.

“Who’s gone? to do what?” cried Hardy, starting up.

“How cruel! how wicked!” continued Loveit.

“What’s cruel–what’s wicked? speak out at once!” returned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves entitled to assume towards weak ones. Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent manner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without saying one syllable.

“For God’s sake, what are you going to do?” said Loveit, in great anxiety. “They’ll never forgive me! don’t betray me! they’ll never forgive! pray, speak to me! only say you won’t betray us.”

“I will not betray you, trust to me,” said Hardy: and he left the room, and Loveit stood in amazement; while, in the meantime, Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all possible speed across the meadow, then down the lane. He came up with Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the old man’s garden. Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, seized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with a firm grasp, whilst he panted for utterance.

“What, Master Hardy, is it you? what’s the matter? what do you want?”

“I want the poisoned meat that you have in your pocket.”

“Who told you that I had any such thing?” said Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket.

“Give it me quietly, and I’ll let you off.”

“Sir, upon my word I haven’t! I didn’t! I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two. “Indeed, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” said Hardy, with great indignation: and a violent struggle immediately commenced.

The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrageously. Tom was terrified lest the old man should come out to see what was the matter; his strength forsook him, and flinging the handkerchief and meat over the hedge, he ran away with all his speed. The handkerchief fell within reach of the dog, who instantly snapped at it; luckily it did not come untied. Hardy saw a pitchfork on a dunghill close beside him, and, seizing upon it, stuck it into the handkerchief. The dog pulled, tore, growled, grappled, yelled; it was impossible to get the handkerchief from between his teeth; but the knot was loosed, the meat, unperceived by the dog, dropped out, and while he dragged off the handkerchief in triumph, Hardy, with inexpressible joy, plunged the pitchfork into the poisoned meat, and bore it away.

Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from a field of battle. Full of the pleasure of successful benevolence, Hardy tripped joyfully home, and vaulted over the window sill, when the first object he beheld was Mr. Power, the usher, standing at the head of the stairs, with his candle in his hand.

“Come up, whoever you are,” said Mr. William Power, in a stern voice. “I thought I should find you out at last. Come up, whoever you are!” Hardy obeyed without reply.–“Hardy!” exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with astonishment; “is it you, Mr. Hardy?” repeated he, holding the light to his face. “Why, sir,” said he, in a sneering tone, “I’m sure if Mr. Trueman was here he wouldn’t believe his own eyes; but for my part I saw through you long since; I never liked saints, for my share. Will you please to do me the favour, sir, if it is not too much trouble, to empty your pockets.” Hardy obeyed in silence. “Heyday! meat! raw meat! what next?”

“That’s all,” said Hardy, emptying his pockets inside out.

“This is ALL,” said Mr. Power, taking up the meat.

“Pray, sir,” said Hardy, eagerly, “let that meat be burned, it is poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop out of his fingers; “you wretch!” looking at him with a menacing air: “what is all this? Speak.” Hardy was silent. “Why don’t you speak?” cried he, shaking him by the shoulder impatiently. Still Hardy was silent. “Down upon your knees this minute and confess all: tell me where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing, and who are your accomplices, for I know there is a gang of you; so,” added he, pressing heavily upon Hardy’s shoulder, “down upon your knees this minute, and confess the whole, that’s your only way now to get off yourself. If you hope for MY pardon, I can tell you it’s not to be had without asking for.”

“Sir,” said Hardy, in a firm but respectful voice, “I have no pardon to ask, I have nothing to confess; I am innocent; but if I were not, I would never try to get off myself by betraying my companions.”

“Very well, sir! very well! very fine! stick to it, stick to it, I advise you, and we shall see. And how will you look to-morrow, Mr. Innocent, when my uncle, the doctor, comes home?”

“As I do now, sir,” said Hardy, unmoved.

His composure threw Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance. “Sir,” continued Hardy, “ever since I have been at school, I never told a lie, and therefore, sir, I hope you will believe me now. Upon my word and honour, sir, I have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong? Better and better! what, when I caught you going out at night?”

“THAT, to be sure, was wrong,” said Hardy, recollecting himself; “but except that–“

“Except that, sir! I will except nothing. Come along with me, young gentleman, your time for pardon is past.”

Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow passage to a small closet, set apart for desperate offenders, and usually known by the name of the BLACK HOLE. “There, sir, take up your lodging there for to- night,” said he, pushing him in; “tomorrow I’ll know more, or I’ll know why,” added he, double locking the door, with a tremendous noise, upon his prisoner, and locking also the door at the end of the passage, so that no one could have access to him. “So now I think I have you safe!” said Mr. William Power to himself, stalking off with steps which made the whole gallery resound, and which made many a guilty heart tremble.

The conversation which had passed between Hardy and Mr. Power at the head of the stairs had been anxiously listened to; but only a word or two here and there had been distinctly overheard.

The locking of the black hole door was a terrible sound–some knew not what it portended, and others knew TOO WELL. All assembled in the morning with faces of anxiety. Tarlton and Loveit’s were the most agitated: Tarlton for himself, Loveit for his friend, for himself, for everybody. Every one of the party, and Tarlton at their head, surrounded him with reproaches; and considered him as the author of the evils which hung over them. “How could you do so? and why did you say anything to Hardy about it? when you had promised, too! Oh! what shall we all do? what a scrape you have brought us into, Loveit, it’s all your fault!”

“ALL MY FAULT!” repeated poor Loveit, with a sigh; “well, that is hard.”

“Goodness! there’s the bell,” exclaimed a number of voices at once. “Now for it!” They all stood in a half circle for morning prayers. They listened–“Here he is coming! No–Yes–Here he is!” And Mr. William Power, with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place at the head of the room. They knelt down to prayers, and the moment they rose, Mr. William Power, laying his hand upon the table, cried, “Stand still, gentlemen, if you please.” Everybody stood stock still; he walked out of the circle; they guessed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole room was in commotion. Each with eagerness asked each what none could answer, “HAS HE TOLD?” “WHAT has he told?” “Who has he told of?” “I hope he has not told of me,” cried they.

“I’ll answer for it he has told of all of us,” said Tarlton.

“And I’ll answer for it he has told of none of us,” answered Loveit, with a sigh.

“You don’t think he’s such a fool, when he can get himself off,” said Tarlton.

At this instant the prisoner was led in, and as he passed through the circle, every eye was fixed upon him. His eye fell upon no one, not even upon Loveit, who pulled him by the coat as he passed–everyone felt almost afraid to breathe.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Power, sitting down in Mr. Trueman’s elbow-chair, and placing the prisoner opposite to him; “well, sir, what have you to say to me this morning?”

“Nothing, sir,” answered Hardy, in a decided, yet modest manner; “nothing but what I said last night.”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more, sir.”

“But I have something more to say to you, sir, then; and a great deal more, I promise you, before I have done with you;” and then, seizing him in a fury, he was just going to give him a severe flogging, when the schoolroom door opened, and Mr. Trueman appeared, followed by an old man whom Loveit immediately knew. He leaned upon his stick as he walked, and in his other hand carried a basket of apples. When they came within the circle, Mr. Trueman stopped short. “Hardy!” exclaimed he, with a voice of unfeigned surprise, whilst Mr. William Power stood with his hand suspended.–“Ay, Hardy, sir,” repeated he. “I told him you’d not believe your own eyes.”

Mr. Trueman advanced with a slow step. “Now, sir, give me leave,” said the usher, eagerly drawing him aside, and whispering.

“So, sir,” said Mr. T. when the whisper was done, addressing himself to Hardy, with a voice and manner which, had he been guilty, must have pierced him to the heart, “I find I have been deceived in you; it is but three hours ago that I told your uncle I never had a boy in my school in whom I placed so much confidence; but, after all this show of honour and integrity, the moment my back is turned, you are the first to set an example of disobedience of my orders. Why do I talk of disobeying my commands–you are a thief!”

“I, sir?” exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repress his feelings.

“You, sir,–you and some others,” said Mr. Trueman, looking round the room with a penetrating glance–“you and some others.”

“Ay, sir,” interrupted Mr. William Power, “get that out of him if you can–ask him.”

“I will ask him nothing; I shall neither put his truth nor his honour to the trial; truth and honour are not to be expected amongst thieves.”

“I am not a thief! I have never had anything to do with thieves,” cried Hardy, indignantly.

“Have you not robbed this old man? Don’t you know the taste of these apples?” said Mr. Trueman, taking one out of the basket.

“No, sir; I do not. I never touched one of that old man’s apples.”

“Never touched one of them! I suppose this is some vile equivocation; you have done worse, you have had the barbarity, the baseness, to attempt to poison his dog; the poisoned meat was found in your pocket last night.”

“The poisoned meat was found in my pocket, sir; but I never intended to poison the dog–I saved his life.”

“Lord bless him!” said the old man.

“Nonsense–cunning!” said Mr. Power. “I hope you won’t let him impose upon you, sir.”

“No, he cannot impose upon me; I have a proof he is little prepared for,” said Mr. Trueman, producing the blue handkerchief in which the meat had been wrapped.

Tarlton turned pale; Hardy’s countenance never changed.

“Don’t you know this handkerchief, sir?”

“I do, sir.”

“Is it not yours?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you know whose it is?” cried Mr. Power. Hardy was silent.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Trueman, “I am not fond of punishing you; but when I do it, you know, it is always in earnest. I will begin with the eldest of you; I will begin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this handkerchief is owned.”

“I’m sure it’s not mine,” and “I’m sure it’s none of mine,” burst from every mouth, whilst they looked at each other in dismay; for none but Hardy, Loveit and Tarlton knew the secret. “My cane,” said Mr. Trueman, and Mr. Power handed him the cane. Loveit groaned from the bottom of his heart. Tarlton leaned back against the wall with a black countenance. Hardy looked with a steady eye at the cane.

“But first,” said Mr. Trueman, laying down the cane, “let us see. Perhaps we may find out the owner of this handkerchief another way,” examining the corners. It was torn almost to pieces; but luckily the corner that was marked remained.

“J. T.!” cried Mr. Trueman. Every eye turned upon the guilty Tarlton, who, now as pale as ashes and trembling in every limb, sank down upon his knees, and in a whining voice begged for mercy. “Upon my word and honour, sir, I’ll tell you all; I’d never have thought of stealing the apples if Loveit had not first told me of them; and it was Tom who first put the poisoning the dog into my head. It was he that carried the meat, WASN’T IT?” said he, appealing to Hardy, whose word he knew must be believed. “Oh, dear sir!” continued he as Mr. Trueman began to move towards him, “do let me off; pray do let me off this time! I’m not the only one, indeed, sir! I hope you won’t make me an example for the rest. It’s very hard I’m to be flogged more than they!”

“I’m not going to flog you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tarlton, getting up and wiping his eyes.

“You need not thank me,” said Mr. Trueman. “Take your handkerchief–go out of this room–out of this house; let me never see you more.”

“If I had any hopes of him,” said Mr. Trueman, as he shut the door after him;–“if I had any hopes of him, I would have punished him;–but I have none. Punishment is meant only to make people better; and those who have any hopes of themselves will know how to submit to it.”

At these words Loveit first, and immediately all the rest of the guilty party, stepped out of the ranks, confessed their fault, and declared themselves ready to bear any punishment their master thought proper.

“Oh, they have been punished enough,” said the old man; “forgive them, sir.”

Hardy looked as if he wished to speak. “Not because you ask it,” said Mr. Trueman to the guilty penitents, “though I should be glad to oblige you–it wouldn’t be just; but there,” pointing to Hardy, “there is one who has merited a reward; the highest I can give him is that of pardoning his companions.”

Hardy bowed and his face glowed with pleasure, whilst everybody present sympathized in his feelings.

“I am sure,” thought Loveit, “this is a lesson I shall never forget.”

“Gentlemen,” said the old man, with a faltering voice, “it wasn’t for the sake of my apples that I spoke; and you, sir,” said he to Hardy, “I thank you for saving my dog. If you please, I’ll plant on that mount, opposite the window, a young apple-tree, from my old one. I will water it, and take care of it with my own hands for your sake, as long as I am able. And may God bless you!” laying his trembling hand on Hardy’s head; “may God bless you–I’m sure God WILL bless all such boys as you are.”

THE BASKET-WOMAN.

“Toute leur etude etait de se complaire et de s’entr’aider.” * PAUL ET VIRGINIE.

At the foot of a steep, slippery, white hill, near Dunstable, in Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather a hovel, which travellers could scarcely suppose could be inhabited, if they did not see the smoke rising from its peaked roof. An old woman lives in this hovel, ** and with her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar who died, and left these orphans perishing with hunger. They thought themselves very happy when the good old woman first took them into her hut and bid them warm themselves at her small fire, and gave them a crust of mouldy bread to eat. She had not much to give, but what she had she gave with good-will. She was very kind to these poor children, and worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting, to support herself and them. She earned money also in another way. She used to follow all the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill, and when the horses stopped to take breath or to rest themselves, she put stones behind the carriage wheels to prevent them from rolling backwards down the steep, slippery hill.

* “Their whole study was how to please and to help one another.” ** This was about the close of the 18th century.

The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good natured old woman’s spinning-wheel when she was spinning, and to talk to her. At these times she taught them something, which, she said, she hoped they would remember all their lives. She explained to them what is meant by telling the truth, and what it is to be honest. She taught them to dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be useful.

One evening, as they were standing beside her, the little boy said to her, “Grandmother,” for that was the name by which she liked that these children should call her–“grandmother, how often you are forced to get up from your spinning-wheel, and to follow the chaises and coaches up that steep hill, to put stones underneath the wheels, to hinder them from rolling back! The people who are in the carriages give you a halfpenny or a penny for doing this, don’t they?”

“Yes, child.”

“But it is very hard work for you to go up and down that hill. You often say that you are tired, and then you know that you cannot spin all that time. Now if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the wheels, you could sit still at your work, and would not the people give us the halfpence? and could not we bring them all to you? Do, pray, dear grandmother, try us for one day–to-morrow, will you?”

“Yes,” said the old woman; “I will try what you can do; but I must go up the hill along with you for the first two or three times, for fear you should get yourselves hurt.”

So, the next day, the little boy and girl went with their grandmother, as they used to call her, up the steep hill; and she showed the boy how to prevent the wheels from rolling back, by putting stones behind them; and she said, “This is called scotching the wheels;” and she took off the boy’s hat and gave it to the little girl, to hold up to the carriage- windows, ready for the halfpence.

When she thought that the children knew how to manage by themselves, she left them, and returned to her spinning-wheel. A great many carriages happened to go by this day, and the little girl received a great many halfpence. She carried them all in her brother’s hat to her grandmother in the evening; and the old woman smiled, and thanked the children. She said that they had been useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on finely, because she had been able to sit still at her wheel all day. “But, Paul my boy,” said she, “what is the matter with your hand?”

“Only a pinch–only one pinch that I got, as I was putting a stone behind a wheel of a chaise. It does not hurt me much, grandmother; and I’ve thought of a good thing for to-morrow. I shall never be hurt again, if you will only be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken crutch, grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the chimney- corner, and that is of no use. I’ll make it of some use, if I may have it.”

“Take it then, dear,” said the old woman; “and you’ll find the handle of the broken crutch under my bed.”

Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of the pole into the block of wood, so as to make something like a dry-rubbing brush. “Look, grandmamma, look at my SCOTCHER. I call this thing my SCOTCHER,” said Paul, “because I shall always scotch the wheels with it. I shall never pinch my fingers again; my hands, you see, will be safe at the end of this long stick; and, sister Anne, you need not be at the trouble of carrying any more stones after me up the hill; we shall never want stones any more. My scotcher will do without anything else, I hope. I wish it was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I might run up the hill, and try my scotcher.”

“And I wish that as many chaises may go by to-morrow as there did to-day, and that we may bring you as many halfpence, grandmother,” said the little girl.

“So do I, my dear Anne,” said the old woman; “for I mean that you and your brother shall have all the money that you get to-morrow. You may buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some of those ripe plums that you saw at the fruit-stall the other day, which is just going into Dunstable. I told you then that I could not afford to buy such things for you; but now that you can earn halfpence for yourselves, children, it is fair should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once and a way in your lives.”

“We’ll bring some of the gingerbread home to her, shan’t we, brother?” whispered little Anne. The morning came; but no carriages were heard, though Paul and his sister had risen at five o’clock, that they might be