THE MIMIC

Lucy,daughter to the Justice.Mrs. Bustle,landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'Justice Headstrong.Old Man.William,a Servant.SCENE IThe House of Justice Headstrong—A hall—Lucy watering some myrtles—A servant behind the scenes is heard to say—I tellyou my master is not up. You can't see him, so go about your business, I say.Lucy.To whom are you speaking, William? Who's that?Will.Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.Lucy.Oh, then, don't send him away—don't send him away.Will.But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am. He won't ever see anybody before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma'am.Lucy.But let the old man, then, come in here. Perhaps he can wait a little while. Call him.(Exit servant.)(Lucy sings, and goes on watering her myrtles; the servant shows in the Old Man.)Will.You can't see my master this hour; but miss will let you stay here.Lucy(aside). Poor old man! how he trembles as he walks. (Aloud.) Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon; pray sit down.(He hesitates; she pushes a chair towards him.)Lucy.Pray sit down.(He sits down.)Old Man.You are very good, miss; very good.(Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)Lucy.Ah! I'm afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead—quite dead.(The Old Man sighs, and she turns round.)Lucy(aside). I wonder what can make him sigh so! (Aloud.) My father won't make you wait long.Old M.Oh, ma'am, as long as he pleases. I'm in no haste—no haste. It's only a small matter.Lucy.But does a small matter make you sigh so?Old M.Ah, miss; because though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me (sighing again); it was my all, and I've lost it.Lucy.What do you mean? What have you lost?Old M.Why, miss—but I won't trouble you about it.Lucy.But it won't trouble me at all—I mean, I wish to hear it; so tell it me.Old M.Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town—the 'Saracen's Head'——Lucy(interrupts him). Hark! there is my father coming downstairs; follow me. You may tell me your story as we go along.Old M.I slept at the 'Saracen's Head,' miss, and——(Exit talking.)SCENE IIJustice Headstrong's Study(He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool—a table and chocolate beside him—Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)Just.Well, well, my darling, presently; I'll see him presently.Lucy.Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?Just.No, no, no—I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There's no sugar in this, child.Lucy.Yes, indeed, papa.Just.No, child—there'snosugar, I tell you; that's poz!Lucy.Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.Just.There'snosugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever? There's no sugar, I say.(Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his teaspoon pulls out two lumps of sugar.)Lucy.What's this, papa?Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.—Oh, my foot, girl, my foot!—you kill me. Go, go, I'm busy. I've business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?Lucy.And the old man, papa?Just.What old man? I tell you what, I've been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can't wait, let him go about his business. Don't you know, child, I never see anybody till I've drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke—that's poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can't wait, he can go about his business, can't he?Lucy.Oh, sir, hecanwait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don't be angry.Just.Well, well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing his dish away); and at any rate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I'll finish my own business, and then——(Exit Lucy, dancing, 'And then!—and then!')Justice,alone.Just.Oh, this foot of mine!—(twinges)—Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it's nonsense; it's all nonsense; I can't do it; I can't, and I won't for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that's poz!EnterWilliam.Just.William—oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the 'Saracen's Head'? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?Will.Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir.Just.Ah, that's well—immediately?Will.Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.Just.Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in.i024Lucy.What's this, papa?Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.EnterMrs. Bustle,the landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'Land.Good-morrow to your worship! I'm glad to see your worship look so purely. I came up with all speed (taking breath). Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it.Just.True, true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray——Land.Oh, your worship's always very good (settling her apron). I came up just as I was—only threw my shawl over me. I thought your worship would excuse—I'm quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty——Just.Oh, I'm very hearty (coughing), always hearty, and thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle. And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say?Land.In the oven it is. I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie—though I say it that should not say it—as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon.Just.Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.Land.Oh, no, your worship!—I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up; or more proper,my sandwich, I should say, for the fashion's sake, to be sure. Aluncheonwon't go down with nobody nowadays (laughs). I expect hostler and boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (laughs again). I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon for mentioning aluncheon.Just.Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word's a good word, for it means a good thing—ha! ha! ha! (pulls out his watch); but pray, is it luncheon time? Why, it's past one, I declare; and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.Land.Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkably good time foryour worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know. I've been up and about these seven hours.Just.(stretching). Seven hours!Land.Ay, indeed—eight, I might say, for I am an earlylittle body; though I say it that should not say it—Iaman early little body.Just.An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle—so I shall have my goose-pie for dinner, hey?Land.For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four—but I mustn't stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I'm away; so I must wish your worship a good morning.(She curtsies.)Just.No ceremony—no ceremony; good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.EnterWilliam,to take away the chocolate. The Landlady is putting on her shawl.Just.You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched myownbusiness, and am at leisure for his now (taking a pinch of snuff). Hum! pray, William (Justice leans back gravely), what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?Will.Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir—or something that way, I take it.(At these words the Landlady turns round inquisitively, and delays, that she may listen, while she is putting on and pinning her shawl.)Just.Hum! a sort of a travelling man. Hum! lay my books out open at the title Vagrant; and, William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner. Four o'clock, do you hear? And show the old man in now.(The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door, as it opens, and exclaims,)Land.My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!Enter theOld Man.(Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe—The Justice leans back and looks consequential—The Landlady sets her arms akimbo—The Old Man starts as he sees her.)Just.What stops you, friend? Come forward, if you please.Land.(advancing). So, sir, is it you, sir? Ay, you little thought, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship; but there you reckoned without your host—Out of the frying-pan into the fire.Just.What is all this? What is this?Land.(running on). None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship no more than with me, I give youwarning; so you may go further and far worse, and spare your breath to cool your porridge.Just.(waves his hand with dignity). Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are. Silence! silence! Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.(The Old Man comes forward.)Just.Who and what may you be, friend, and what is your business with me?Land.Sir, if your worship will give me leave——(Justice makes a sign to her to be silent.)Old M.Please your worship, I am an old soldier.Land.(interrupting). An old hypocrite, say.Just.Mrs. Bustle, pray, I desire, let the man speak.Old M.For these two years past—ever since, please your worship—I wasn't able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.Land.(eager to interrupt). You work—you——Just.Let him finish his story, I say.Lucy.Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle——Land.(turning suddenly round to Lucy). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma'am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.(Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)Old Man.But, please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.Land.Flummery! flummery!Just.(angrily). Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that's poz! You shall have your turn presently.Old M.For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?) I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—but(sighing)——Just.Butwhat? Proceed, pray, to the point.Old M.But last night I slept here in town, please your worship, at the 'Saracen's Head.'Land.(in a rage). At the 'Saracen's Head!' Yes, forsooth! none such ever slept at the 'Saracen's Head' afore, or ever shall afterwards, as long as my name's Bustle and the 'Saracen's Head' is the 'Saracen's Head.'Just.Again! again! Mrs. Landlady, this is downright—I have said you should speak presently. Heshallspeak first, since I've said it—that's poz! Speak on, friend. You slept last night at the 'Saracen's Head.'i025'Five times have I commanded silence, and I won't command anything five times in vain—that's poz!'Old M.Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody; but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it was gone.Land.Gone!—gone, indeed, in my house! and this is the way I'm to be treated! Is it so? I couldn't but speak, your worship, to such an inhuman like, out o' the way, scandalous charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting in your worship's chair, beside you, to silence me (turning to the Old Man). And this is your gratitude, forsooth! Didn't you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, wheedling hypocrite? And the thanks I receive is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.Old M.Oh, no, no, no,No—a pack of thieves, by no means.Land.Ay, I thought whenIcame to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in——Just.(imperiously). Silence! Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won't command anything five times in vain—that's poz!Land.(in a pet, aside). Old Poz! (Aloud.) Then, your worship, I don't see any business I have to be waiting here; the folks want me at home (returning and whispering). Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it's ready?Just.(with magnanimity). I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle. Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.Land.Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.(Exit Landlady, angry.)SCENE IIIJustice Headstrong,Old Man,andLucyLucy.Ah, now, I'm glad he can speak; now tell papa; and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good-natured. Don't contradict him, though, because he toldmenot.Just.Oh, darling,youshall contradict me as often as you please—only not before I've drunk my chocolate, child—hey? Go on, my good friend; you see what it is to live in Old England, where, thank Heaven, the poorest of His Majesty's subjects may have justice, and speak his mind before the first in the land. Now speak on; and you hear she tells you that you need not be afraid of me. Speak on.Old M.I thank your worship, I'm sure.Just.Thank me! for what, sir? I won't be thanked for doing justice, sir; so—but explain this matter. You lost your money, hey, at the 'Saracen's Head'? You had it safe last night, hey?—and you missed it this morning? Are you sure you had it safe at night?Old M.Oh, please your worship, quite sure; for I took it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers.Just.You did—did ye so?—hum! Pray, my good friend, where might you put your money when you went to bed?Old M.Please, your worship, where I always put it—always—in my tobacco-box.Just.Your tobacco-box! I never heard of such a thing—to make astrong boxof a tobacco-box. Ha! ha! ha! hum!—and you say the box and all were gone in the morning?Old M.No, please your worship, no; not the box—the box was never stirred from the place where I put it. They left me the box.Just.Tut, tut, tut, man!—took the money and left the box? I'll never believethat! I'll never believe that any one could be such a fool. Tut, tut! the thing's impossible! It's well you are not upon oath.Old M.If I were, please your worship, I should say the same; for it is the truth.Just.Don't tell me, don't tell me; I say the thing is impossible.Old M.Please your worship, here's the box.Just.(goes on without looking at it). Nonsense! nonsense! it's no such thing; it's no such thing, I say—no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box. I won't believe it. Nothing shall make me believe it ever—that's poz.Lucy(takes the box and holds it up before her father's eyes). You did not see the box, did you, papa?Just.Yes, yes, yes, child—nonsense! it's all a lie from beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a hundred. All a lie!—all a lie!Old M.If your worship would give me leave——Just.Sir, it does not signify—it does not signify! I've said it, I've said it, and that's enough to convince me, and I'll tell you more; if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to me, I would not believe it—that's poz!Lucy(still playing with the box). But how comes the box here, I wonder?Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw! darling. Go to your dolls, darling, and don't be positive—go to your dolls, and don't talk of what you don't understand. What can you understand, I want to know, of the law?Lucy.No, papa, I didn't mean about the law, but about the box; because, if the man had taken it, how could it be here, you know, papa?Just.Hey, hey, what? Why, what I say is this, that I don't dispute that that box, that you hold in your hands, is a box; nay, for aught I know, it may be a tobacco-box—but it's clear to me that if they left the box they did not take the money; and how do you dare, sir, to come before Justice Headstrong with a lie in your mouth? recollect yourself, I'll give you time to recollect yourself.(A pause.)Just.Well, sir; and what do you say now about the box?Old M.Please your worship, with submission, Icansay nothing but what I said before.Just.What, contradict me again, after I gave you time to recollect yourself! I've done with you; I have done. Contradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon me; I defy you to impose upon me!Old M.Impose!Just.I know the law!—I know the law!—and I'll make you know it, too. One hour I'll give you to recollect yourself, and if you don't give up this idle story, I'll—I'll commit you as a vagrant—that's poz! Go, go, for the present. William, take him into the servants' hall, do you hear?—What, take the money, and leave the box? I'll never do it—that's poz!(Lucy speaks to the Old Man as he is going off.)Lucy.Don't be frightened! don't be frightened!—I mean, if you tell the truth, never be frightened.Old M.IfI tell the truth—(turning up his eyes).(Old Man is still held back by the young lady.)Lucy.One moment—answer me one question—because of something that just came into my head. Was the box shut fast when you left it?Old M.No, miss, no!—open—it was open; for I could not find the lid in the dark—my candle went out.IfI tell the truth—oh!(Exit.)SCENE IVJustice's Study—the Justice is writingOld M.Well!—I shall have but few days' more misery in this world!Just.(looks up). Why! why—why then, why will you be so positive to persist in a lie? Take the money and leave the box! Obstinate blockhead! Here, William (showing the committal), take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the constable, and give him this warrant.EnterLucy,running, out of breath.Lucy.I've found it! I've found it! Here, old man; here's your money—here it is all—a guinea and a half, and a shilling and a sixpence, just as he said, papa.EnterLandlady.Land.Oh la! your worship, did you ever hear the like?Just.I've heard nothing yet that I can understand. First, have you secured the thief, I say?Lucy(makes signs to the landlady to be silent). Yes, yes, yes! we have him safe—we have him prisoner. Shall he come in, papa?Just.Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box. I don't understand—there's something deep in all this; I don't understand it. Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.(Landlady puts her finger upon her lips—Everybody looks eagerly towards the door.)Re-enterLucy,with a huge wicker cage in her hand, containing a magpie—The Justice drops the committal out of his hand.Just.Hey!—what, Mrs. Landlady—the old magpie? hey?Land.Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who'd havethought it? Miss was very clever—it was she caught the thief. Miss was very clever.Old M.Very good! very good!Just.Ay, darling, her father's own child! How was it, child? Caught the thief,with the mainour, hey? Tell us all; I will hear all—that's poz.Lucy.Oh! then first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magpie. Do you remember, papa, that day last summer when I went with you to the bowling-green at the 'Saracen's Head'?Land.Oh, of all days in the year! but I ask pardon, miss.Lucy.Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman telling stories of magpies hiding money; and they laid a wager about this old magpie and they tried him—they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it and hid it; so I thought that he might do so again, you know, this time.Just.Right, right. It's a pity, child, you are not upon the Bench—ha! ha! ha!Lucy.And when I went to his old hiding-place, there it was; but you see, papa, he did not take the box.Just.No, no, no! because the thief was a magpie. Nomanwould have taken the money and left the box. You see I was right; nomanwould have left the box, hey?Lucy.Certainly not, I suppose; but I'm so very glad, old man, that you have obtained your money.Just.Well then, child, here—take my purse, and add that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal—hey?Land.Ay, and I fear I was, too; but when one is touched about the credit of one's house, one's apt to speak warmly.Old M.Oh, I'm the happiest old man alive! You are all convinced that I told you no lies. Say no more—say no more. I am the happiest man! Miss, you have made me the happiest man alive! Bless you for it!Land.Well, now, I'll tell you what. I know what I think—you must keep that there magpie, and make a show of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest penny; for it's atrue story, and folks would like to hear it, I hopes——Just.(eagerly). And, friend, do you hear? You'll dine here to-day, you'll dine here. We have some excellent ale. I will have you drink my health—that's poz!—hey? You'll drink my health, won't you—hey?i026'And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.'Old M.(bows). Oh! and the young lady's, if you please.Just.Ay, ay, drink her health—she deserves it. Ay, drink my darling's health.Land.And please your worship, it's the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pie now; and a charming pie it is, and it's on the table.Will.And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.Just.Then let us say no more, but do justice immediately to the goose-pie; and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner.(After they go out, the Justice stops.)'Tell this story'—I don't know whether it tells well for me; but I'll never be positive any more—that's poz!THE MIMICCHAPTER IMr.andMrs. Montaguespent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in forming the characters and the manners, they were now anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which would strike the minds of their children should appear in a just point of view.'Let children see and judge for themselves,' is often inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part they cannot judge of the whole; and from the superficial view which they can have in short visits and desultory conversation, they can form only a false estimate of the objects of human happiness, a false notion of the nature of society, and false opinions of characters.For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation before their children became part of their education.When they came to Clifton, they wished to have a house entirely to themselves; but, as they came late in the season, almost all the lodging-houses were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the apartments were already occupied.During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything of one of the families who lodged on the same floor with them. An elderly Quaker and his sister Bertha were their silent neighbours. The blooming complexion of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs. They could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account of her health.Besides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had struck them with admiration; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of the carriage, as he handed her in. From this circumstance, and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke, and could be seen only for a moment.Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground-floor. On the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was continually visible; and she appeared to possess the art of being present in all these places at once. Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious. The very first day she met Mrs. Montague's children on the stairs, she stopped to tell Marianne that she was a charming dear, and a charming little dear; to kiss her, to inquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle,' a circumstance of which there was little danger of their long remaining in ignorance; for, in the course of one morning, at least twenty single and as many double raps at the door were succeeded by vociferations of 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant!' 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle at home?' 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle not at home!'No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle. She had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton. She had for years kept a register of arrivals. She regularly consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and the lists at the Ball and the Pump rooms; so that, with a memory unencumbered with literature and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing and correct list of births, deaths, and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, which are necessary to theconversation of a water-drinking place, and essential to the character of a 'very pleasant woman.''A very pleasant woman' Mrs. Tattle was usually called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather all that could be told about them. The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified in courting the acquaintance. She courted it first by nods and becks and smiles at Marianne whenever she met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that a lady who smiled so much could not be ill-natured. Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was sometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door. One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to say 'Pretty Poll'; and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she would do her the honour to walk in and see 'Pretty Poll,' at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plum-cake.i027The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague.The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague, 'to apologise for the liberty she had taken in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss Marianne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll, and for the still greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece of plum-cake—inconsiderate creature that she was!—which might possibly have disagreed with her, and which certainly were liberties she never should have been induced to take, if she had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miss Marianne's striking though highly flattering resemblance to a young gentleman (an officer) with whom she had danced, now nearly twelve years ago, of the name of Montague, a most respectable young man, and of a most respectable family, with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, she herself was someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were cousins to the Mainwarings of Bedfordshire, who married into the family of the Griffiths, the eldest branch of which, she understood, had the honour to be cousin-german to Mr. Montague; on which account she had been impatient to pay a visit, so likely to beproductive of most agreeable consequences, by the acquisition of an acquaintance whose society must do her infinite honour.'Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further acquaintance. In the course of the first week she only hinted to Mr. Montague that 'some people thought his system of education rather odd; that she should be obliged to him if he would, some time or other, when he had nothing else to do, just sit down and make her understand his notions, that she might have something to say to her acquaintance, as she always wished to have when she heard any friend attacked, or any friend's opinions.'Mr. Montague declining to sit down and make this lady understand a system of education only to give her something to say, and showing unaccountable indifference about the attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophesying, in a most serious whisper, 'that the charming Miss Marianne would shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not immediately provided with a back-board, a French dancing-master, and a pair of stocks.'This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because three days afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip and shoulder.This danger vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, 'hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague that she was greatly distressed about her daughter Sophy; that she was convinced her lungs were affected; and that she certainly ought to drink the waters morning and evening; and, above all things, must keep one of the patirosa lozenges constantly in her mouth, and directly consult Dr. Cardamum, the best physician in the world, and the person she would send for herself upon her death-bed; because, to her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a relation of her own, after she had lost one wholeglobe14of her lungs.'The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight. Neither was thisuniversal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want some one to perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead languages, of which, she observed, it would be impertinent for a woman to talk; only she might venture to repeat what she had heard said by good authority, that a competency of the dead tongues could be had nowhere but at a public school, or else from a private tutor who had been abroad (after the advantage of a classical education, finished in one of the universities) with a good family; without which introduction it was idle to think of reaping solid advantages from any continental tour; all which requisites, from personal knowledge, she could aver to be concentrated in the gentleman she had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had no further occasion for him, having, unfortunately for himself and his family, been killed in an untimely duel.All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children, and her success soon became apparent. On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flattery. Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very desirous of winning the favour of strangers. She was about thirteen—that dangerous age at which ill-educated girls, in their anxiety to display their accomplishments, are apt to become dependent for applause upon the praise of every idle visitor; when the habits not being formed, and the attention being suddenly turned to dress and manners, girls are apt to affect and imitate, indiscriminately, everything that they conceive to be agreeable.Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into these errors. She found that she could please those whom she wished to please, without affecting to be anything but what she really was; and her friends listened to what she said, though she never repeated the sentiments, or adopted the phrases, which she might easily have copied from the conversation of those who were older or more fashionable than herself.This wordfashionable, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had notobserved that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her remarks concerning grace and manners much attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy that it was best to let herself alone, and not to distort either her person or her mind in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the fashion of the moment can support, and which is always detected and despised by people of real good sense and politeness.'Bless me!' said Mrs. Tattle, to herself, 'if I had such a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart. Thank heaven, I am not a mother! if I were, Miss Marianne for me!'Miss Marianne had heard so often from Mrs. Tattle that she was very charming, that she could not help believing it; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, she in a short time grew so conceited, that she could neither speak, look, move, nor be silent, without imagining that everybody was, or ought to be, looking at her; and when Mrs. Theresa saw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave upon these occasions, she, to repair the ill she had done, would say, after praising Marianne's hair or her eyes, 'Oh, but little ladies should never think about their beauty, you know. Nobody loves anybody for being handsome, but for being good.' People must think children are very silly, or else they can never have reflected upon the nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that children will believe the words that are said to them, by way of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every concomitant circumstance tell them a different tale. Children are excellent physiognomists—they quickly learn the universal language of looks; and what is saidofthem always makes a greater impression than what is saidtothem, a truth of which those prudent people surely cannot be aware who comfort themselves, and apologise to parents, by saying, 'Oh, but I would not say so and so to the child.'Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague 'that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incomparable mimic'; but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited. Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he becamequite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters and manners, that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic.Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they foresaw that their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children. They did not choose to exact any promise from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only said at parting, 'If Mrs. Theresa Tattle should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper.'Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage got out of hearing when a note was brought, directed to 'Frederick Montague, Junior, Esq.,' which he immediately opened, and read as follows:—'Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague; she hopes he will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and bring his charming sister, Miss Marianne, with him, as Mrs. Theresa will be quite alone with a shocking headache, and is sensible her nerves are affected; and Dr. Cardamum says that (especially in Mrs. T. T.'s case) it is downright death to nervous patients to be alone an instant. She therefore trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her laugh. Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond of them the other day. Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party.'At the first reading of this note, 'the entertaining' Mr. Frederick and the 'charming' Miss Marianne laughedheartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that she should think it possible they could like such gross flattery; but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that it certainly was very good-natured of Mrs. Theresa to remember the macaroons; and Frederick allowed that it was wrong to laugh at the poor woman because she had the headache. Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy:—'Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an instant,' said Frederick, 'and tell us what answer can we send?''Can!—we can send what answer we please.''Yes, I know that,' said Frederick; 'I would refuse if I could; but we ought not to do anything rude, should we? So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say.''You have made such confusion,' replied Sophy, 'between "couldn't" and "wouldn't" and "shouldn't," that I can't understand you: surely they are all different things.''Different! no,' cried Frederick—'could,would,should,might, andoughtare all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know.'Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be confounded, even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked up soberly from her drawing, and answered 'that very likely those words might be signs of the same thing in the Latin grammar, but she believed that they meant perfectly different things in real life.''That's just as people please,' said her sophistical brother. 'You know words mean nothing in themselves. If I choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to you.''Then why have two words for the same thing?' said Sophy; 'and what has this to do withcouldandshould? You wanted to prove——''I wanted to prove,' interrupted Frederick, 'that it's not worth while to dispute for two hours about two words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me.''I was not disputing, I was reasoning.''Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no businessto do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?'At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.'There!' cried Frederick, exulting, 'now we shall see a philosopheress in a passion; I'd give sixpence, half-price, for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a passion. Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbing so fast in the water!'Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, 'Brother, I wish——''There! there!' cried Frederick, pointing to the colour which rose in her cheeks almost to her temples—'rising! rising! rising! look at the thermometer! blood heat! blood! fever heat! boiling water heat! Marianne.''Then,' said Sophy, smiling, 'you should stand a little farther off, both of you. Leave the thermometer to itself a little while. Give it time to cool. It will come down to "temperate" by the time you look again.''Oh, brother!' cried Marianne, 'she's so good-humoured, don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us dirty any more of her brushes. See! the sides of her tumbler are all manner of colours.''Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green, and yellow to show you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; she shall chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman.''But that's not fair, brother,' said Marianne, 'to say "woman" in that way. I'm sure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot, which papa showed us yesterday, long before you did, though you are a man.' 'Not long,' said Frederick. 'Besides, that was only a conjuring trick.''It was very ingenious, though,' said Marianne; 'and papa said so. Besides, she understood the "Rule of Three," which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a woman; and she can reason, too, mamma says.''Very well, let her reason away,' said the provoking wit. 'All I have to say is, that she'll never be able to make a pudding.''Why not, pray, brother?' inquired Sophy, looking up again, very gravely.'Why, you know papa himself, the other day at dinner, said that that woman who talks Greek and Latin as well as I do, is a fool after all; and that she had better have learned something useful; and Mrs. Tattle said, she'd answer for it she did not know how to make a pudding.''Well! but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?''No, but you are drawing, and that's the same thing.''The same thing! Oh, Frederick!' said little Marianne, laughing.'You may laugh; but I say it is the same sort of thing. Women who are always drawing and reasoning never know how to make puddings. Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday.''Mrs. Theresa Tattle might say so,' replied Sophy, calmly; 'but I do not perceive the reason, brother, why drawing should prevent me from learning how to make a pudding.''Well, I say you'll never learn how to make a good pudding.''I have learned,' continued Sophy, who was mixing her colours, 'to mix such and such colours together to make the colour that I want; and why should I not be able to learn to mix flour and butter, and sugar and egg, together, to produce the taste that I want?''Oh, but mixing will never do, unless you know the quantities, like a cook; and you would never learn the right quantities.''How did the cook learn them? Cannot I learn them as she did?''Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls right, by the recipe, like a cook.''Indeed! indeed! but she would,' cried Marianne, eagerly; 'and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully; and when I was ill she always weighed the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops so carefully: better than the cook. When mamma took me down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls: she dashed and splashed without minding exactness, or the recipe, or anything. I'm sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness only were wanting.'

Lucy,daughter to the Justice.Mrs. Bustle,landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'Justice Headstrong.Old Man.William,a Servant.

Lucy,daughter to the Justice.Mrs. Bustle,landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'Justice Headstrong.Old Man.William,a Servant.

The House of Justice Headstrong—A hall—Lucy watering some myrtles—A servant behind the scenes is heard to say—

I tellyou my master is not up. You can't see him, so go about your business, I say.

Lucy.To whom are you speaking, William? Who's that?

Will.Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.

Lucy.Oh, then, don't send him away—don't send him away.

Will.But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am. He won't ever see anybody before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma'am.

Lucy.But let the old man, then, come in here. Perhaps he can wait a little while. Call him.

(Exit servant.)

(Lucy sings, and goes on watering her myrtles; the servant shows in the Old Man.)

Will.You can't see my master this hour; but miss will let you stay here.

Lucy(aside). Poor old man! how he trembles as he walks. (Aloud.) Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon; pray sit down.

(He hesitates; she pushes a chair towards him.)

Lucy.Pray sit down.

(He sits down.)

Old Man.You are very good, miss; very good.

(Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)

Lucy.Ah! I'm afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead—quite dead.

(The Old Man sighs, and she turns round.)

Lucy(aside). I wonder what can make him sigh so! (Aloud.) My father won't make you wait long.

Old M.Oh, ma'am, as long as he pleases. I'm in no haste—no haste. It's only a small matter.

Lucy.But does a small matter make you sigh so?

Old M.Ah, miss; because though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me (sighing again); it was my all, and I've lost it.

Lucy.What do you mean? What have you lost?

Old M.Why, miss—but I won't trouble you about it.

Lucy.But it won't trouble me at all—I mean, I wish to hear it; so tell it me.

Old M.Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town—the 'Saracen's Head'——

Lucy(interrupts him). Hark! there is my father coming downstairs; follow me. You may tell me your story as we go along.

Old M.I slept at the 'Saracen's Head,' miss, and——

(Exit talking.)

Justice Headstrong's Study

(He appears in his nightgown and cap, with his gouty foot upon a stool—a table and chocolate beside him—Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair.)

Just.Well, well, my darling, presently; I'll see him presently.

Lucy.Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?

Just.No, no, no—I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There's no sugar in this, child.

Lucy.Yes, indeed, papa.

Just.No, child—there'snosugar, I tell you; that's poz!

Lucy.Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.

Just.There'snosugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever? There's no sugar, I say.

(Lucy leans over him playfully, and with his teaspoon pulls out two lumps of sugar.)

Lucy.What's this, papa?

Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.—Oh, my foot, girl, my foot!—you kill me. Go, go, I'm busy. I've business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?

Lucy.And the old man, papa?

Just.What old man? I tell you what, I've been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can't wait, let him go about his business. Don't you know, child, I never see anybody till I've drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke—that's poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can't wait, he can go about his business, can't he?

Lucy.Oh, sir, hecanwait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don't be angry.

Just.Well, well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing his dish away); and at any rate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I'll finish my own business, and then——

(Exit Lucy, dancing, 'And then!—and then!')

Justice,alone.

Just.Oh, this foot of mine!—(twinges)—Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it's nonsense; it's all nonsense; I can't do it; I can't, and I won't for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that's poz!

EnterWilliam.

Just.William—oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the 'Saracen's Head'? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?

Will.Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir.

Just.Ah, that's well—immediately?

Will.Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.

Just.Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in.

i024Lucy.What's this, papa?Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.

Lucy.What's this, papa?Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.

EnterMrs. Bustle,the landlady of the 'Saracen's Head.'

Land.Good-morrow to your worship! I'm glad to see your worship look so purely. I came up with all speed (taking breath). Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it.

Just.True, true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray——

Land.Oh, your worship's always very good (settling her apron). I came up just as I was—only threw my shawl over me. I thought your worship would excuse—I'm quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty——

Just.Oh, I'm very hearty (coughing), always hearty, and thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle. And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say?

Land.In the oven it is. I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie—though I say it that should not say it—as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon.

Just.Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.

Land.Oh, no, your worship!—I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up; or more proper,my sandwich, I should say, for the fashion's sake, to be sure. Aluncheonwon't go down with nobody nowadays (laughs). I expect hostler and boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (laughs again). I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon for mentioning aluncheon.

Just.Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word's a good word, for it means a good thing—ha! ha! ha! (pulls out his watch); but pray, is it luncheon time? Why, it's past one, I declare; and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.

Land.Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkably good time foryour worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know. I've been up and about these seven hours.

Just.(stretching). Seven hours!

Land.Ay, indeed—eight, I might say, for I am an earlylittle body; though I say it that should not say it—Iaman early little body.

Just.An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle—so I shall have my goose-pie for dinner, hey?

Land.For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four—but I mustn't stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I'm away; so I must wish your worship a good morning.

(She curtsies.)

Just.No ceremony—no ceremony; good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.

EnterWilliam,to take away the chocolate. The Landlady is putting on her shawl.

Just.You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched myownbusiness, and am at leisure for his now (taking a pinch of snuff). Hum! pray, William (Justice leans back gravely), what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?

Will.Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir—or something that way, I take it.

(At these words the Landlady turns round inquisitively, and delays, that she may listen, while she is putting on and pinning her shawl.)

Just.Hum! a sort of a travelling man. Hum! lay my books out open at the title Vagrant; and, William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner. Four o'clock, do you hear? And show the old man in now.

(The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door, as it opens, and exclaims,)

Land.My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!

Enter theOld Man.

(Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe—The Justice leans back and looks consequential—The Landlady sets her arms akimbo—The Old Man starts as he sees her.)

Just.What stops you, friend? Come forward, if you please.

Land.(advancing). So, sir, is it you, sir? Ay, you little thought, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship; but there you reckoned without your host—Out of the frying-pan into the fire.

Just.What is all this? What is this?

Land.(running on). None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship no more than with me, I give youwarning; so you may go further and far worse, and spare your breath to cool your porridge.

Just.(waves his hand with dignity). Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are. Silence! silence! Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.

(The Old Man comes forward.)

Just.Who and what may you be, friend, and what is your business with me?

Land.Sir, if your worship will give me leave——

(Justice makes a sign to her to be silent.)

Old M.Please your worship, I am an old soldier.

Land.(interrupting). An old hypocrite, say.

Just.Mrs. Bustle, pray, I desire, let the man speak.

Old M.For these two years past—ever since, please your worship—I wasn't able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.

Land.(eager to interrupt). You work—you——

Just.Let him finish his story, I say.

Lucy.Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle——

Land.(turning suddenly round to Lucy). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma'am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.

(Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)

Old Man.But, please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.

Land.Flummery! flummery!

Just.(angrily). Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that's poz! You shall have your turn presently.

Old M.For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?) I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—but(sighing)——

Just.Butwhat? Proceed, pray, to the point.

Old M.But last night I slept here in town, please your worship, at the 'Saracen's Head.'

Land.(in a rage). At the 'Saracen's Head!' Yes, forsooth! none such ever slept at the 'Saracen's Head' afore, or ever shall afterwards, as long as my name's Bustle and the 'Saracen's Head' is the 'Saracen's Head.'

Just.Again! again! Mrs. Landlady, this is downright—I have said you should speak presently. Heshallspeak first, since I've said it—that's poz! Speak on, friend. You slept last night at the 'Saracen's Head.'

i025'Five times have I commanded silence, and I won't command anything five times in vain—that's poz!'

'Five times have I commanded silence, and I won't command anything five times in vain—that's poz!'

Old M.Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody; but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it was gone.

Land.Gone!—gone, indeed, in my house! and this is the way I'm to be treated! Is it so? I couldn't but speak, your worship, to such an inhuman like, out o' the way, scandalous charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting in your worship's chair, beside you, to silence me (turning to the Old Man). And this is your gratitude, forsooth! Didn't you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, wheedling hypocrite? And the thanks I receive is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.

Old M.Oh, no, no, no,No—a pack of thieves, by no means.

Land.Ay, I thought whenIcame to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in——

Just.(imperiously). Silence! Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won't command anything five times in vain—that's poz!

Land.(in a pet, aside). Old Poz! (Aloud.) Then, your worship, I don't see any business I have to be waiting here; the folks want me at home (returning and whispering). Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it's ready?

Just.(with magnanimity). I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle. Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.

Land.Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.

(Exit Landlady, angry.)

Justice Headstrong,Old Man,andLucy

Lucy.Ah, now, I'm glad he can speak; now tell papa; and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good-natured. Don't contradict him, though, because he toldmenot.

Just.Oh, darling,youshall contradict me as often as you please—only not before I've drunk my chocolate, child—hey? Go on, my good friend; you see what it is to live in Old England, where, thank Heaven, the poorest of His Majesty's subjects may have justice, and speak his mind before the first in the land. Now speak on; and you hear she tells you that you need not be afraid of me. Speak on.

Old M.I thank your worship, I'm sure.

Just.Thank me! for what, sir? I won't be thanked for doing justice, sir; so—but explain this matter. You lost your money, hey, at the 'Saracen's Head'? You had it safe last night, hey?—and you missed it this morning? Are you sure you had it safe at night?

Old M.Oh, please your worship, quite sure; for I took it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers.

Just.You did—did ye so?—hum! Pray, my good friend, where might you put your money when you went to bed?

Old M.Please, your worship, where I always put it—always—in my tobacco-box.

Just.Your tobacco-box! I never heard of such a thing—to make astrong boxof a tobacco-box. Ha! ha! ha! hum!—and you say the box and all were gone in the morning?

Old M.No, please your worship, no; not the box—the box was never stirred from the place where I put it. They left me the box.

Just.Tut, tut, tut, man!—took the money and left the box? I'll never believethat! I'll never believe that any one could be such a fool. Tut, tut! the thing's impossible! It's well you are not upon oath.

Old M.If I were, please your worship, I should say the same; for it is the truth.

Just.Don't tell me, don't tell me; I say the thing is impossible.

Old M.Please your worship, here's the box.

Just.(goes on without looking at it). Nonsense! nonsense! it's no such thing; it's no such thing, I say—no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box. I won't believe it. Nothing shall make me believe it ever—that's poz.

Lucy(takes the box and holds it up before her father's eyes). You did not see the box, did you, papa?

Just.Yes, yes, yes, child—nonsense! it's all a lie from beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a hundred. All a lie!—all a lie!

Old M.If your worship would give me leave——

Just.Sir, it does not signify—it does not signify! I've said it, I've said it, and that's enough to convince me, and I'll tell you more; if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to me, I would not believe it—that's poz!

Lucy(still playing with the box). But how comes the box here, I wonder?

Just.Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw! darling. Go to your dolls, darling, and don't be positive—go to your dolls, and don't talk of what you don't understand. What can you understand, I want to know, of the law?

Lucy.No, papa, I didn't mean about the law, but about the box; because, if the man had taken it, how could it be here, you know, papa?

Just.Hey, hey, what? Why, what I say is this, that I don't dispute that that box, that you hold in your hands, is a box; nay, for aught I know, it may be a tobacco-box—but it's clear to me that if they left the box they did not take the money; and how do you dare, sir, to come before Justice Headstrong with a lie in your mouth? recollect yourself, I'll give you time to recollect yourself.

(A pause.)

Just.Well, sir; and what do you say now about the box?

Old M.Please your worship, with submission, Icansay nothing but what I said before.

Just.What, contradict me again, after I gave you time to recollect yourself! I've done with you; I have done. Contradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon me; I defy you to impose upon me!

Old M.Impose!

Just.I know the law!—I know the law!—and I'll make you know it, too. One hour I'll give you to recollect yourself, and if you don't give up this idle story, I'll—I'll commit you as a vagrant—that's poz! Go, go, for the present. William, take him into the servants' hall, do you hear?—What, take the money, and leave the box? I'll never do it—that's poz!

(Lucy speaks to the Old Man as he is going off.)

Lucy.Don't be frightened! don't be frightened!—I mean, if you tell the truth, never be frightened.

Old M.IfI tell the truth—(turning up his eyes).

(Old Man is still held back by the young lady.)

Lucy.One moment—answer me one question—because of something that just came into my head. Was the box shut fast when you left it?

Old M.No, miss, no!—open—it was open; for I could not find the lid in the dark—my candle went out.IfI tell the truth—oh!

(Exit.)

Justice's Study—the Justice is writing

Old M.Well!—I shall have but few days' more misery in this world!

Just.(looks up). Why! why—why then, why will you be so positive to persist in a lie? Take the money and leave the box! Obstinate blockhead! Here, William (showing the committal), take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the constable, and give him this warrant.

EnterLucy,running, out of breath.

Lucy.I've found it! I've found it! Here, old man; here's your money—here it is all—a guinea and a half, and a shilling and a sixpence, just as he said, papa.

EnterLandlady.

Land.Oh la! your worship, did you ever hear the like?

Just.I've heard nothing yet that I can understand. First, have you secured the thief, I say?

Lucy(makes signs to the landlady to be silent). Yes, yes, yes! we have him safe—we have him prisoner. Shall he come in, papa?

Just.Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box. I don't understand—there's something deep in all this; I don't understand it. Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.

(Landlady puts her finger upon her lips—Everybody looks eagerly towards the door.)

Re-enterLucy,with a huge wicker cage in her hand, containing a magpie—The Justice drops the committal out of his hand.

Just.Hey!—what, Mrs. Landlady—the old magpie? hey?

Land.Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who'd havethought it? Miss was very clever—it was she caught the thief. Miss was very clever.

Old M.Very good! very good!

Just.Ay, darling, her father's own child! How was it, child? Caught the thief,with the mainour, hey? Tell us all; I will hear all—that's poz.

Lucy.Oh! then first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magpie. Do you remember, papa, that day last summer when I went with you to the bowling-green at the 'Saracen's Head'?

Land.Oh, of all days in the year! but I ask pardon, miss.

Lucy.Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman telling stories of magpies hiding money; and they laid a wager about this old magpie and they tried him—they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it and hid it; so I thought that he might do so again, you know, this time.

Just.Right, right. It's a pity, child, you are not upon the Bench—ha! ha! ha!

Lucy.And when I went to his old hiding-place, there it was; but you see, papa, he did not take the box.

Just.No, no, no! because the thief was a magpie. Nomanwould have taken the money and left the box. You see I was right; nomanwould have left the box, hey?

Lucy.Certainly not, I suppose; but I'm so very glad, old man, that you have obtained your money.

Just.Well then, child, here—take my purse, and add that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal—hey?

Land.Ay, and I fear I was, too; but when one is touched about the credit of one's house, one's apt to speak warmly.

Old M.Oh, I'm the happiest old man alive! You are all convinced that I told you no lies. Say no more—say no more. I am the happiest man! Miss, you have made me the happiest man alive! Bless you for it!

Land.Well, now, I'll tell you what. I know what I think—you must keep that there magpie, and make a show of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest penny; for it's atrue story, and folks would like to hear it, I hopes——

Just.(eagerly). And, friend, do you hear? You'll dine here to-day, you'll dine here. We have some excellent ale. I will have you drink my health—that's poz!—hey? You'll drink my health, won't you—hey?

i026'And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.'

'And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.'

Old M.(bows). Oh! and the young lady's, if you please.

Just.Ay, ay, drink her health—she deserves it. Ay, drink my darling's health.

Land.And please your worship, it's the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pie now; and a charming pie it is, and it's on the table.

Will.And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.

Just.Then let us say no more, but do justice immediately to the goose-pie; and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner.

(After they go out, the Justice stops.)

'Tell this story'—I don't know whether it tells well for me; but I'll never be positive any more—that's poz!

Mr.andMrs. Montaguespent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.

Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in forming the characters and the manners, they were now anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which would strike the minds of their children should appear in a just point of view.

'Let children see and judge for themselves,' is often inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part they cannot judge of the whole; and from the superficial view which they can have in short visits and desultory conversation, they can form only a false estimate of the objects of human happiness, a false notion of the nature of society, and false opinions of characters.

For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation before their children became part of their education.

When they came to Clifton, they wished to have a house entirely to themselves; but, as they came late in the season, almost all the lodging-houses were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the apartments were already occupied.

During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything of one of the families who lodged on the same floor with them. An elderly Quaker and his sister Bertha were their silent neighbours. The blooming complexion of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs. They could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account of her health.

Besides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had struck them with admiration; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of the carriage, as he handed her in. From this circumstance, and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke, and could be seen only for a moment.

Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground-floor. On the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was continually visible; and she appeared to possess the art of being present in all these places at once. Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious. The very first day she met Mrs. Montague's children on the stairs, she stopped to tell Marianne that she was a charming dear, and a charming little dear; to kiss her, to inquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle,' a circumstance of which there was little danger of their long remaining in ignorance; for, in the course of one morning, at least twenty single and as many double raps at the door were succeeded by vociferations of 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant!' 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle at home?' 'Mrs. Theresa Tattle not at home!'

No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle. She had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton. She had for years kept a register of arrivals. She regularly consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and the lists at the Ball and the Pump rooms; so that, with a memory unencumbered with literature and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing and correct list of births, deaths, and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, which are necessary to theconversation of a water-drinking place, and essential to the character of a 'very pleasant woman.'

'A very pleasant woman' Mrs. Tattle was usually called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather all that could be told about them. The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified in courting the acquaintance. She courted it first by nods and becks and smiles at Marianne whenever she met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that a lady who smiled so much could not be ill-natured. Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was sometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door. One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to say 'Pretty Poll'; and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she would do her the honour to walk in and see 'Pretty Poll,' at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plum-cake.

i027The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague.

The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague.

The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague, 'to apologise for the liberty she had taken in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss Marianne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll, and for the still greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece of plum-cake—inconsiderate creature that she was!—which might possibly have disagreed with her, and which certainly were liberties she never should have been induced to take, if she had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miss Marianne's striking though highly flattering resemblance to a young gentleman (an officer) with whom she had danced, now nearly twelve years ago, of the name of Montague, a most respectable young man, and of a most respectable family, with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, she herself was someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were cousins to the Mainwarings of Bedfordshire, who married into the family of the Griffiths, the eldest branch of which, she understood, had the honour to be cousin-german to Mr. Montague; on which account she had been impatient to pay a visit, so likely to beproductive of most agreeable consequences, by the acquisition of an acquaintance whose society must do her infinite honour.'

Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further acquaintance. In the course of the first week she only hinted to Mr. Montague that 'some people thought his system of education rather odd; that she should be obliged to him if he would, some time or other, when he had nothing else to do, just sit down and make her understand his notions, that she might have something to say to her acquaintance, as she always wished to have when she heard any friend attacked, or any friend's opinions.'

Mr. Montague declining to sit down and make this lady understand a system of education only to give her something to say, and showing unaccountable indifference about the attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophesying, in a most serious whisper, 'that the charming Miss Marianne would shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not immediately provided with a back-board, a French dancing-master, and a pair of stocks.'

This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because three days afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip and shoulder.

This danger vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, 'hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague that she was greatly distressed about her daughter Sophy; that she was convinced her lungs were affected; and that she certainly ought to drink the waters morning and evening; and, above all things, must keep one of the patirosa lozenges constantly in her mouth, and directly consult Dr. Cardamum, the best physician in the world, and the person she would send for herself upon her death-bed; because, to her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a relation of her own, after she had lost one wholeglobe14of her lungs.'

The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight. Neither was thisuniversal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want some one to perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead languages, of which, she observed, it would be impertinent for a woman to talk; only she might venture to repeat what she had heard said by good authority, that a competency of the dead tongues could be had nowhere but at a public school, or else from a private tutor who had been abroad (after the advantage of a classical education, finished in one of the universities) with a good family; without which introduction it was idle to think of reaping solid advantages from any continental tour; all which requisites, from personal knowledge, she could aver to be concentrated in the gentleman she had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had no further occasion for him, having, unfortunately for himself and his family, been killed in an untimely duel.

All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children, and her success soon became apparent. On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flattery. Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very desirous of winning the favour of strangers. She was about thirteen—that dangerous age at which ill-educated girls, in their anxiety to display their accomplishments, are apt to become dependent for applause upon the praise of every idle visitor; when the habits not being formed, and the attention being suddenly turned to dress and manners, girls are apt to affect and imitate, indiscriminately, everything that they conceive to be agreeable.

Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into these errors. She found that she could please those whom she wished to please, without affecting to be anything but what she really was; and her friends listened to what she said, though she never repeated the sentiments, or adopted the phrases, which she might easily have copied from the conversation of those who were older or more fashionable than herself.

This wordfashionable, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had notobserved that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her remarks concerning grace and manners much attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy that it was best to let herself alone, and not to distort either her person or her mind in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the fashion of the moment can support, and which is always detected and despised by people of real good sense and politeness.

'Bless me!' said Mrs. Tattle, to herself, 'if I had such a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart. Thank heaven, I am not a mother! if I were, Miss Marianne for me!'

Miss Marianne had heard so often from Mrs. Tattle that she was very charming, that she could not help believing it; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, she in a short time grew so conceited, that she could neither speak, look, move, nor be silent, without imagining that everybody was, or ought to be, looking at her; and when Mrs. Theresa saw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave upon these occasions, she, to repair the ill she had done, would say, after praising Marianne's hair or her eyes, 'Oh, but little ladies should never think about their beauty, you know. Nobody loves anybody for being handsome, but for being good.' People must think children are very silly, or else they can never have reflected upon the nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that children will believe the words that are said to them, by way of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every concomitant circumstance tell them a different tale. Children are excellent physiognomists—they quickly learn the universal language of looks; and what is saidofthem always makes a greater impression than what is saidtothem, a truth of which those prudent people surely cannot be aware who comfort themselves, and apologise to parents, by saying, 'Oh, but I would not say so and so to the child.'

Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague 'that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incomparable mimic'; but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited. Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he becamequite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters and manners, that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic.

Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they foresaw that their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children. They did not choose to exact any promise from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only said at parting, 'If Mrs. Theresa Tattle should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper.'

Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage got out of hearing when a note was brought, directed to 'Frederick Montague, Junior, Esq.,' which he immediately opened, and read as follows:—

'Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague; she hopes he will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and bring his charming sister, Miss Marianne, with him, as Mrs. Theresa will be quite alone with a shocking headache, and is sensible her nerves are affected; and Dr. Cardamum says that (especially in Mrs. T. T.'s case) it is downright death to nervous patients to be alone an instant. She therefore trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her laugh. Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond of them the other day. Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party.'

At the first reading of this note, 'the entertaining' Mr. Frederick and the 'charming' Miss Marianne laughedheartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that she should think it possible they could like such gross flattery; but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that it certainly was very good-natured of Mrs. Theresa to remember the macaroons; and Frederick allowed that it was wrong to laugh at the poor woman because she had the headache. Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy:—

'Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an instant,' said Frederick, 'and tell us what answer can we send?'

'Can!—we can send what answer we please.'

'Yes, I know that,' said Frederick; 'I would refuse if I could; but we ought not to do anything rude, should we? So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say.'

'You have made such confusion,' replied Sophy, 'between "couldn't" and "wouldn't" and "shouldn't," that I can't understand you: surely they are all different things.'

'Different! no,' cried Frederick—'could,would,should,might, andoughtare all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know.'

Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be confounded, even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked up soberly from her drawing, and answered 'that very likely those words might be signs of the same thing in the Latin grammar, but she believed that they meant perfectly different things in real life.'

'That's just as people please,' said her sophistical brother. 'You know words mean nothing in themselves. If I choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to you.'

'Then why have two words for the same thing?' said Sophy; 'and what has this to do withcouldandshould? You wanted to prove——'

'I wanted to prove,' interrupted Frederick, 'that it's not worth while to dispute for two hours about two words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me.'

'I was not disputing, I was reasoning.'

'Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no businessto do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?'

At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.

'There!' cried Frederick, exulting, 'now we shall see a philosopheress in a passion; I'd give sixpence, half-price, for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a passion. Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbing so fast in the water!'

Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, 'Brother, I wish——'

'There! there!' cried Frederick, pointing to the colour which rose in her cheeks almost to her temples—'rising! rising! rising! look at the thermometer! blood heat! blood! fever heat! boiling water heat! Marianne.'

'Then,' said Sophy, smiling, 'you should stand a little farther off, both of you. Leave the thermometer to itself a little while. Give it time to cool. It will come down to "temperate" by the time you look again.'

'Oh, brother!' cried Marianne, 'she's so good-humoured, don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us dirty any more of her brushes. See! the sides of her tumbler are all manner of colours.'

'Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green, and yellow to show you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; she shall chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman.'

'But that's not fair, brother,' said Marianne, 'to say "woman" in that way. I'm sure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot, which papa showed us yesterday, long before you did, though you are a man.' 'Not long,' said Frederick. 'Besides, that was only a conjuring trick.'

'It was very ingenious, though,' said Marianne; 'and papa said so. Besides, she understood the "Rule of Three," which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a woman; and she can reason, too, mamma says.'

'Very well, let her reason away,' said the provoking wit. 'All I have to say is, that she'll never be able to make a pudding.'

'Why not, pray, brother?' inquired Sophy, looking up again, very gravely.

'Why, you know papa himself, the other day at dinner, said that that woman who talks Greek and Latin as well as I do, is a fool after all; and that she had better have learned something useful; and Mrs. Tattle said, she'd answer for it she did not know how to make a pudding.'

'Well! but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?'

'No, but you are drawing, and that's the same thing.'

'The same thing! Oh, Frederick!' said little Marianne, laughing.

'You may laugh; but I say it is the same sort of thing. Women who are always drawing and reasoning never know how to make puddings. Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday.'

'Mrs. Theresa Tattle might say so,' replied Sophy, calmly; 'but I do not perceive the reason, brother, why drawing should prevent me from learning how to make a pudding.'

'Well, I say you'll never learn how to make a good pudding.'

'I have learned,' continued Sophy, who was mixing her colours, 'to mix such and such colours together to make the colour that I want; and why should I not be able to learn to mix flour and butter, and sugar and egg, together, to produce the taste that I want?'

'Oh, but mixing will never do, unless you know the quantities, like a cook; and you would never learn the right quantities.'

'How did the cook learn them? Cannot I learn them as she did?'

'Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls right, by the recipe, like a cook.'

'Indeed! indeed! but she would,' cried Marianne, eagerly; 'and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully; and when I was ill she always weighed the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops so carefully: better than the cook. When mamma took me down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls: she dashed and splashed without minding exactness, or the recipe, or anything. I'm sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness only were wanting.'

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