The Orphans

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THE ORPHANS

AND

“iD. P.O Z..

Stories for Children,

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH,

AUTHOR OF ‘“‘TARLTON,” “THE PURPLE JAR,”
ETC. ETO,

LONDON: :
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET,







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THE ORPHANS.

Near the ruins of the castle of Ross-
more, in Ireland, is a small cabin, in
which there once lived a widow and her
four children. As long as she was able
to work, she was very industrious, and
was accounted the best spinner in the
parish; but she overworked herself at

—< Jast, and fell ill, so that she could not

sit to her wheel as she used to do, and
was obliged to give it up to her eldest
daughter, Mary.

Mary was at this time about twelve
years old. One evening she was sitting
at the foot of her mother’s bed, spinning,
and her little brother and sisters were

A 2 :



4A, THE ORPHANS.

gathered round the fire, eating their po-
tatoes and milk for supper. )

“Bless them, the poor young crea-
tures!’ said the widow; who, as she
lay on the bed, which she knew must
be her death-bed, was thinking of what
would become of her children after she
was gone. Mary stopped her wheel;
for she was afraid that the noise of it
had walened her mother, and would
hinder her from going to sleep again.

“No need to stoop the wheel, Mary
dear, for me,”’ said her mother, “ I was
not asleep; nor is it that which keeps
me from sleep. But don’t overwork
yourself, Mary.”’ “Oh, no fear of that,”’
replied Mary; “Fm _ strong and
hearty.” “So was I once,” said her
mother. “And so you will be again,
I hope,” said Mary, “when the fine
weather comés again.”

“The fine weather will never come



THE ORPHANS. 5

again to me,” said her mother. “*Tis
a folly, Mary, to hope for that; but
what I hope is, that you'll find some
friend—some help—orphans as you'll
soon all of you be. And one thing
comforts my heart, even as I am lying
here, that not a soul in the wide
world I am leaving has to complain of
me. Though poor, I have lived honest,
and I have brought you up to be the
same, Mary; and I am sure the little
ones will take after you; for you'll be
good to them—as good to them as you
ean.’

eating their suppers, came round the
bed, to listen to what their mother was
saying. She was tired of speaking, for
she was very weak; but she took their
little hands, as they laid them on the
bed, and joining them all together, she
said, “ Bless you, dears; bless you; love

Here the children, who had finished

bod



6 | THE ORPHANS.

and help one another all you can. Good
night !—good-bye!”’

Mary took the children away to their
bed, for she saw that their mother was
too ill to say more; but Mary did not
herself know how ill she was. Her
mother never spoke rightly afterwards,
but talked in a confused way about some
debts, and one in particular which she
owed to a schoolmistress for Mary’s
schooling; and then she charged Mary
to go and pay it, because she was not
able to go im with it. At the end of the
week she was dead and buried; and
the orphans were left alone in their
cabin.

The two youngest girls, Pegey and
Nancy, were six and seven years old;
Edmund was not yet nine; but he was
a stout-grown healthy boy, and well
disposed to work. He had been used to
bring home turf from the bog on his



THE ORPHANS. 3

hack, to lead car-horses, and often to go
on errands for gentlemen’s families, who
paid him sixpence or a shilling, accord-
ing to the distance which he went: so
that Edmund, by some or other of these
little employments, was, as he said,
likely enough to earn his bread; and he
~told Mary to have a good heart, for that
he should every year grow able to do
more and more, and that he should
never forget his mother’s words when
she last gave him her blessing, and
joined their hands all together.

As for Peggy and Nancy, it was little
that they coulddo; but they were good.
children: and Mary, when she considered
that so much depended upon her, was
resolved to exert herself to the utmost.
Her first care was to pay.those debts

_ which her mother had mentioned to her,
for which she left money done up care-
fully in separate papers. When all these



§ THE ORPHANS.

were paid away, there was not enough
left to pay both the rent of the cabin
and a year’s schooling for herself and
sisters which was due to the school-
mistress in a neighbouring village.
Mary was in hopes that the rent
would not be called for immediately ;
but in this she was disappointed. Mr.
Harvey, the gentleman on whose estate
she lived, was in England, and in his
absence all was managed by a Mr. Hop-
kins, an agent, who was a hard man.*
The driver came to Mary about a week
after her mother’s death, and told her
that the rent must be brought in the
next day, and that she must leave the
eabin, for anew tenant was coming into
1t; that she was too young to have a
house to herself, and that the only thing
the had to do was to get some neigh-





* A hard-hearted man.



THE ORPHANS. 9

bour to take her and her brother and
sisters in for charity’s sake.

The driver finished by hinting that.
she would not be so hardly used if she
had not brought upon herself the ill-will
of Miss Alice, the agent’s daughter. |
Mary, itis true, had refused to give Miss —
Alice a goat upon which she had set her
fancy ; but this was the only offence of
which she had been guilty, and at the
time she refused it her mother wanted
the goat’s milk, which was the only
thing she then liked to drink.

Mary went immediately to Mr. Hop-
kins, the agent, to pay her rent; and she
begged of him to let her stay another
year in her cabin; but this he refused.
It was now the 25th of September, and
he said that the new tenant must come
in on the 29th; so that she must quit
it directly. Mary coyld not bear the
thoughts of begging any of the neigh-



10 THE ORPHANS.

bours to take her and her brother and ~
sisters in for charity’s sake; for the
neighbours were all poor enough them-
selves. So she bethought herself that
she might find shelter in the ruins of
the old castle of Rossmore, where she
and her brother, in better times, had
often played at hide-and-seek. The
kitchen and two other rooms near it
were yet covered in tolerably well; and
a little thatch, she thought, would make »
them comfortable through the winter.
The agent consented to let her and her
brother and sisters go in there, upon her
paying him half-a-guinea in hand, and
promising to pay the same yearly.

Into these lodgings the orphans now
removed, taking with them two bed-
steads, a stool, chair, and a table, a sort
of press, which contained what little
clothes they had, and a chest in which
they had two hundred of meal. The



THE ORPHANS. il

chest was carried for them by some of
the charitable neighbours, who likewise
added to their scanty stock of. potatoes
and turf whatwould make it last through
the winter. 3 i
These children were well thought of
and pitied, because their mother was
known to have been all her life honest
and industrious. “Sure,’’ says one of
the neighbours, “we can do no less than
give a helping hand to the poor orphans,
that are so ready to help themselves.”’
So one helped to thatch the room in
which they were to sleep, and another
took their cow to graze upon his bit of
land on condition of having half the.
milk; and one and all said they should
be welcome to take share of their pota«
toes and buttermilk if they should find
their own ever fall short.
The half-guinea which Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, required for letting Mary



12 THE ORPHANS.

into the castle, was part of what she had
to pay to the schoolmistress, to whom
above a guinea was due. Mary went to
her, and took her goat along with her,
and offered it in part of payment of the
debt, as she had no more money left;
but the. schoolmistress would not re-
ceive the goat. She said that she could
afford to wait for her money till Mary
was able to pay it; that she knew her
to be an honest, industrious little girl,
and she would trust her with more than
a guinea. Mary thanked her; and she
was glad to take the goat home again,
as she was very fond of it.

_ Being now settled in their house, they
went every day regularly to work: Mary
spun nine cuts'a day, besides doing all
that was to be done in the house; Ed-
mund got fourpence a day by his work;
and Peggy and Anne earned twopence
apicce at the paper-mills near Navan,



| e
THE ORPHANS. 13
%,
where they were employed to sort rags,
and to cut them into small pieces.

When they had done work one day,
Anne went to the master of the paper-
mill, and asked him if she might have
two sheets of large white paper which
were lying on the press. She offered a
penny for the paper; but the master
would not take anything from her, but
gave her the paper when he found that
she wanted it to make a garland for her
mother’s grave. Anne and Peggy cut
out the garland, and Mary, when it was
finished, went along with them and Hd.
mundto put it up. It was just a montl,
after their mother’s death.

It happened, at the time the orphans
were putting up this garland, that two
young ladies, who were returning home
after their evening walk, stopped at the
gate of the churchyard to look at the
red light which the setting sun cast



14 THE ORPHANS.

upon the window of the church. As the
ladies were standing at the gate, they
heard a voice near them crying, “O
mother! mother! are you gone for
ever?’ They could not see any one;
so they walked softly round to the other —
side of the church, and there they saw
Mary kneeling beside a grave, on which
her brother and sisters were hanging
their white garlands. .

The children all stood still when they
saw the two ladies passing near them ;
but Mary did not know anybody was
passing, for her face was hid in her
hands.

Isabella and Caroline (so these ladies
were called) would not disturb the poor
children; but they stopped in the vil-
lage to inquire abows them. It was at
the house of the schoolmistress that
they stopped, and she gave them a good
account of these orphans. She particu-



THE ORPHANS. 15

larly commended Mary’s j honesty, in
having immediately paid all her mo-
ther’s debts to the utmost farthing, as |
far as her money would go. She told
the ladies how Mary had been turned
out of her house, and how she had
offered her goat, of which she was very —
fond, to discharge a@debt due for her
schooling; and, in short, the schoolmis-
tress, who had known Mary for several
years, spoke so well of her that these
ladies resolved that they would go to
the old castle of Rossmore to see her
_ the next day.

When they went there, they found
the room in which the children lived
as clean and neat as such a ruined place
could be made. Edmund was out work-
ing with a farmer, Mary was spinning,
and her little sisters were measuring out
some bogberries, of which they had ga-
thered a basketful, for sale. Isabella,



16 TIE ORPHANS.

after telling Mary what an excellent
character she had heard of her, inquired
what it was she most wanted; and Mary
said that she had just worked up all her
flax, and she was most in want of more
flax for her wheel.

Isabella promised that she would send
her a fresh supply of flax, and Caroline
bought the bogberries from the little
girls, and gave them money enough to
buy a pound of coarse cotton for knit-
ting, as Mary said that she could teach
them how to knit.

The supply of flax, which Isabella
sent the next day, was of great service —
to Mary, as it kept her in employment
for above a month; and when she sold
the yarn which she had spun with it,
she had money enough to buy some
warm flannel for winter wear. Besides
spinning well, she had learned at school
to do plain work tolerably neatly, and



TIE ORPHANS. 17

Isabella and Caroline employed her to
work for them; by which she earned a
great deal more than she could by spin-
ning. At her leisure hours she taught
her sisters to read and write; and Hd-
mund, with part,of the money which
he earned by his work out of doors, paid
a schoolmaster for teaching him a little
arithmetic. When the winter nights
came on, he used to light his rush can-
dles for Mary to work by. He had ga-
thered and stripped a good provision of
rushes in the month of August, and a
neighbour gave him grease to dip them
in.

One evening, just as he had lighted
his candle, a footman came in, who was -
sent by Isabella with some plain work
to Mary. This servant was an English-
man, and he was but newly come over
to Ireland. The rush candles caught
his attention; for he had never seen

B





18 THE ORPHANS.

any of them before, as he came from a
part of England where they were not
used. . Edmund, who was ready to
oblige, and proud that his candles were
noticed, showed the Englishman how
they were made, and gave him a bundle
of rushes.*

The servant was pleased with his
good-nature in this trifling instance,
and remembered it long after it was

eee

* in his Natural History of Selborne, ‘‘ seems to
be the Juncus effusus, or common soft rush,
which is to be found in moist pastures, by the
sides of streams, and under hedges. These
rushes ate in best condition in the height of
summer, but may be gathered so as to serve the
purpose well quite on to autumn. The largest
and longest are best. Decayed labourers,
women and children, make it their business to
procure and prepare them. As soon as they are
cut, they must be flung into water, and kept
there, for otherwise they will dry and shrink,



THE ORPHANS. 19

forgotten by Edmund. Whenever his
master wanted to send a messenger any-
where, Gilbert (for that was the ser-
vant’s name) always employed his little
friend Edmund, whom, upon further
acquaintance, he liked better and better.
He found that Bdmund was both quick
and exact in executing commissions.
One day, after he had waited a great
while at a gentleman’s house for an

and the peel will not run. When these junce
are thus far prepared, they must le out on the
grass to be bleached, and take the dew for some
nights, and afterwards be dried in the sun.
Some address is required in dipping these rushes
in the scalding fat, or grease; but this knack is
also to be attained by practice. A pound of
common grease may be procured for fourpence,
and about six pounds of grease will dip a pound
of rushes, and one pound of rushes may be
bought for one shilling; so,that a pound of
rushes, medicated and ready for use, will cost
three shillings.

B2

,
“te Ne



20 THE ORPHANS.

“answer t6 a letter, he was so impatient
to get home that he ran off without it.
‘When he was questioned by Gilbert why ©
he did not bring an answer, he did not
attempt to make any excuse: he did
not say, “ There was no answer, please
your honour,” or, “They hid me not
wait,’ &e.; but he told exactly the
truth ; and though Gilbert scolded him
for being so impatient as not to wait,
yet his telling the truth was more to
the boy’s advantage than any excuse he
could have made. After this he was
always believed when he said, “ There
was no answer,”’ or, “ They bid me not
wait ;°’ for Gilbert knew that he would
not tell a lie to save himself from being
scolded.

The orphans continued to assist one
another in their work, according to their
strength and abilities; and they went
onin this manner for three years. With



THE ORPHANS. 23.

what Mary got by her spinning and.
plain work, and Edmund by leading of
car-horses, going on errands, &c., and
with little Peggy and Anne’s earnings,

the family contrived to live comfortably.

Isabella and Caroline often visited them,
and sometimes gave them clothes, and
sometimes flax or cotton for their spin-
ning and knitting; and these children
did not expect, that because the ladies
did something for them, they should do
everything. They did not grow idle or
wasteful.

When Edmund was about twelve
years old, his friend Gilbert sent for him
one day, and told him that his master
had given him leave to have a boy in
the house to assist him, and that his
master told him he might choose one
in the neighbourhood. Several were
anxious to get into such a goodplace; but
Gilbert said that he preferred Edmund



29, THE ORPHANS.

before them all, because he knew him to
be an industrious, honest, good-natured
lad, who always told the truth. So
Edmund went into service at the vicar-
age; and his master was the father of
Isabella and Caroline. He found his
new way of life very pleasant; for he
was well fed, well clothed, and well
treated; and he every day learned more
of his business, in which at first he was
rather awkward. He was mindful todo
all that Mr. Gilbert required of him,
and he was so obliging to all his fellow-
servants that they could not help liking
him. But there was one thing which
was at first rather disagreeable to him:
he was obliged to wear shoes and stock-
ings, and they hurt his feet. Besides
this, when he waited at dinner he made
such a noise in walking that his fellow-
servants laughed at him. He told his
sister Mary of this his distress; and she



THE ORPHANS. 23

made fer him, after many trials, a pair
of cloth shoes, with soles of platted
hemp.* In these he could walk with-
out making the least noise; and as
these shoes could not be worn out of
doors, he was always sure to change
them before he went out; and conse-
quently he had always clean shoes to
wear in the house. It was soon re-
marked by the mén-servants that he
had left off clumping so heavily, and 16
was observed by the maids that he never
dirted the stairs or passages with his
shoes. When he was praised for these
things, he said it was his sister Mary
who should be thanked, and not he;
and he showed the shoes which she had
made for him.

Isabella’s maid bespoke a pair imme-

* The author has seen a pair of shoes, such as
are here described, made in a few hours,



2A THE ORPHANS,

diately, and sent Mary a piece of pretty
calico for the outside. The last-maker
made a last for her, and over this Mary
sewed the calico vamps tight. Her
brother advised her to try platted pack-
thread instead of hemp for the soles, and
she found that this looked more neat
than the hemp soles, and was likely to
last longer. She platted the packthread
together in strands of about half an inch
thick, and these were sewed firmly toge-
ther at the bottom of the shoe. When
they were finished they fitted well, and
the maid showed them to her mistress.
Isabella and Caroline were so well |
pleased with Mary’s ingenuity and kind-
ness to her brother, that they bespoke
from her two dozen of these shoes, and
gave her three yards of coloured fustian
to make them of, and galoon for the
binding. When the shoes were com-
pleted, Isabella and Caroline disposed of



THE ORPHANS. 25

them for her amongst. their acquaint-
ance, and got three shillings a pair for
them. The young ladies, as soon as
they had collected the money, walked to
the old castle, where they found every-
thing neat and clean as usual. They
had great pleasure in giving to this in-
dustrious girl the reward of her inge-
nuity, which she received with some
surprise and more gratitude. They ad-
vised her to continue the shoe-making
trade, as they found the shoes were
liked, and they knew that they could
have a sale for them at the Repository
in Dublin. | |
Mary, encouraged by these kind
friends, went on with her little manu-
facture with increased activity. Peggy
and Anne platted the packthread, and
pasted the vamps and the linings toge-
ther ready for her. Edmund was al-
lowed to come home for an hour every



26 THE ORPHANS.

morning, provided he was back again
before eight o’clock. It was summer
time, and he got up early, because he
liked to go home to see his sisters, and
he took his share in the manufactory.
It was his business to hammer the soles
flat: and as soon as he came home every
morning, he performed his task with so
much cheerfulness, and sang so merrily
at his work, that the hour of his arrival |
was always an hour of joy to the family.

Mary had presently employment
enough upon her hands. Orders came
to her for shoes from-many families in
the neighbourhood, and she could not
get them finished fast enough. She,
however, in the midst of her hurry,
found time to make a very pretty pair
with neat roses as a present for her
schoolmistress, who, now that she saw
her pupil in a good way of business,
consented to receive the amount of her



THE ORPHANS. oF

old debt. Several of the children who
went to her school were delighted with
the sight of Mary’s present, and went
to the little manufactory at Rossmore
Castle, to find out how these shoes were
made. Some went from curiosity, others
from idleness; but when they saw how
happy the little shoemakers seemed
whilst busy at work, they longed to take
some share in what was going forwara.
One begged Mary to let her plat some
packthread for the soles; another helped
Peggy and Anne to baste in the linings ;
and all who could get employment were
pleased, for the idle ones were shoved
out of the way. It became a custom
with the children of the village to resort
to the old castle at their play-hours;
and it was surprising to see how much
was done by ten or twelve of them, each
doing but a little at a time.

One morning Edmund and the little



28 THE ORPHANS,

manufacturers were assembled very early,
and they were busy at their work, all
sitting round the meal-chest, which
served them for a table.

“My hands must be washed,” said
George, a little boy who came running
in; “Tran so fast that I might be in
time to go to work along with you all,
that I tumbled down, and look how I
have dirted my hands, Most haste
worst speed. My hands must be washed
before I can do anything.” |

Whilst George waswashing his hands,
two other little children, who had just
finished their morning’s work, came to
him to beg that he would blow some
soap-bubbles for them, and they were
all three eagerly blowing bubbles, and
watching them mount into the air, when
suddenly they were startled by a noise
as loudas thunder. They were in asort
of outer court of the castle, next to the



THE ORPHANS. 29

room in which all their companions were
at work, and they ran precipitately into
the room, exclaiming, “‘ Did you Hd
that noise ?”

“T thought I heard a clap of thun-
der,” said Mary: “but why do you look
so frightened ?”

As she finished speaking, another and
a louder noise, and the walls round about
them shook. The children turned pale,
and stood motionless; but Hdmund
threw down his hammer, and ran out to
see what was the matter. Mary fol-
lowed him, and they saw that a great
chimney of the old ruins at the farthest
side of the castle had fallen down, and
this was the cause of the prodigious
noise. The part of the castle in which
they lived, seemed, as Edmund said, to
be perfectly safe; but the children of
the village were terrified, and thinking
that the whole would come tumbling



30 THE ORPHANS,

down directly, they ran to their homes
as fast as they could. Edmund, who
was a courageous lad, and proud of show-
ing his courage, laughed at their cow-
ardice ; but Mary, who was very prudent,
persuaded her brother to ask an expe-
rienced mason, who was building at his
master’s, to come and give his opinion,
whether their part of the castle was safe
to live in or not. The mason came,
and gave it as his opinion, that the
rooms they inhabited might last through
the winter, but that no part of the
ruins could staid another year. Mary
was sorry to leave a place of which
she had grown fond, poor as it was,
having lived in it in peace and content
ever since her mother’s death, which
was now nearly four years; but she

determined to look out for some other
place to live in; and she had now
money enough to pay the rent of a



THE ORPHANS. 81

comfortable cabin. Without losing any
time, she went to a village that was at
the end of the avenue leading to the
wicarage, for she wished to get a lodg-
ing in this village, because it was so
near to her brother, and to the ladies
who had been so kind to her. She
found that there was one newly-built
house in this village unoccupied: it
belonged to Mr. Harvey, her landlord,
who was still in England; it was slated,
and neatly fitted up within side; but
the rent of it was six guineas a-year,
and this was far above what Mary could
afford to pay. ‘Three guineas a-year
she thought was the highest rent for
which she could venture to engage.
Besides, she heard that several pro-
posals had been made to Mr. Harvey
for this house, and she knew that Mr.
Hopkins, the agent, was not her friend;
therefore she despaired of getting it.



32 THE ORPHANS.

There was no other to be had in this
village. Her brother was still more
vexed than she was, that she could not~
find a place near him. He offered to
give a guinea yearly towards the rent
out of his wages; and Mr. Gilbert
spoke about it for him to the steward,
and inquired whether, amongst any of
those who had given in proposals, there
might not be one who would be content
with a part of the house, and who would
join with Mary in paying the rent.
None could be found but a woman who
was a great scold, and a man who was
famous for going to law about every
trifle with his neighbours. Mary did
not choose to have anything to do with
these people. She did not like to speak
either to Miss Isabella or Caroline about
it, because she was not of an encroach-
ing temper; and when they had done
so much for her, she would have been



we

THE ORPHANS. 39

ashamed to beg for more. She returned
home to the old castle, mortified that
she had no good news to tell Anne and
Pegey, who she knew expected to hear
that she had found a nice house for
them in the village near their brother.

“Bad news for you, Peggy,’ cried
sne, as soonas she got home. “ And bad
news for you, Mary,’’ replied her sisters,
who looked very sorrowful. ‘ What’s
the matter ?”’ “ Your poor goatis dead,”
replied Peggy. “There she is yonder,
lying under the great corner-stone ; you
can just see her leg. We cannot lift the
stone from off her, it is so heavy. Betsy
(one of the neighbour's girls) says she
remembers, when she came to us to work
early this morning, she saw the goat
rubbing itself, and butting with its
horns against that old tottering chim-
ney.”

“Many’s the time,” said Mary, “that

Cc



ot THE ORPHANS.

I have driven the poor thing away from
that place; I was always afraid she
would shake that great ugly stone down ~
upon her at last.”

The goat, who had long been the
favourite of Mary and her sisters, was
lamented by them all. When Edmund
came, he helped them to move the great
stone from off the poor animal, who was
crushed so as to bea terrible sight. As
they were moving away this stone, in
order to bury the goat, Anne found an
odd-looking piece of money, which
seemed neither like a halfpenny, nor a
shilling, nor a guinea. |

“Here are more, a great many more
of them,” cried Peggy; and upon search-
ing amongst the rubbish, they disco-
vered a small iron pot, which seemed as
if it had been filled with these coins; as
a vast number of them were found about
the spot where it fell. On examining



WHE ORPHANS. 30

these coins, Edmund thought that
several of them looked like gold, and
the girls exclaimed with great joy—“ O
Mary! Mary! this is come to us Just in
right time—now you can pay for the
slated house. Never was anything so
lucky!”

But Mary, though nothing could have
pleased her better than to have been
able to pay for the house, observed, that
they could not honestly touch any of
this treasure, as it belonged to the
‘owner of the castle. Edmund agreed
with her, that they ought to carry it. all
immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the agent.
Peggy and Anne were convinced by
what Mary said, and they begged to go
along with her and their brother, to take
the coins to Mr. Hopkins. In their way
they stopped at the vicarage, to show
the treasure to Mr. Gilbert, who took it

to the young ladies, Isabella and Caro-
C2





36 THE ORPHANS.

line, and told them how it had been
found.

It is not only by their superior riches,
but it is yet more by their superior
knowledge, that persons in the higher
ranks of life may assist those in a lower
condition.

Isabella, who had some knowledge of
chemistry, discovered, by touching the
coins with nitric acid, that several of
them were of gold, and consequently of
ereat value. Caroline also found out
that many of the coins were very valu-
able as curiosities. She recollected her
father’s having shown to her the prints
of the coins at the end of each king’s
reign, in Rapin’s History of England ;
and upon comparing these impres-
sions with the coins found by the
orphans, she perceived that many of
them were of the reign of Henry the
Seventh, which, from their scarcity,



THE ORPHANS. 37

were highly appreciated by numismatic
collectors.

Isabella and Caroline, knowing some-
thing of the character of Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, had the precaution to count
the coins, and to mark each of them
with a cross, so small that it was scarcely
visible to the naked eye, though it was
easily to be seen through a magnifying-
glass. They also begged their father, who
was well acquainted with Mr. Harvey,
the gentleman to whom Rossmore Castle
‘belonged, to write to him, and tell him
how well these orphans had behaved
about the treasure which they had found.
The value of the coins was estimated at
about thirty or forty guineas.

A few days after the fall of the chim-
ney at Rossmore Castle, as Mary and
her sisters were sitting at their work,
there came hobbling in an old woman,
leaning on a crab-stick, that seemed to



38 THE ORPHANS.

have been newly cut. She had a broken
tobacco-pipe in her mouth; her head
was wrapped up in two large red and
blue handkerchiefs, with their crooked
corners hanging far downover the back of
her neck, no shoes on her broad feet, nor
stockings on her many-coloured legs.
Her petticoat was jagged at the bottom,
and the skirt of her gown turned up
over her shoulders, to serve instead of
her cloak, which she had sold for whis-
key. This old woman was well known
amongst the country people by the name
of Goody Grope :* because she had, for
many years, been in the habit of groping

* Goody is not a word used in Ireland.
Collyogh is the Irish appellation of an old
woman ; but as Collyogh might sound strangely to
English ears, we have translated it by the word
Goody.



THE ORPHANS. 89

in old castles, and in moats,* and at the
bottom of a round tower? in the neigh-
bourhood, in search of treasure. In her
youth she had heard some one talking,
in a whisper, of an old prophecy, found
in a bog, which said that before many

‘¢St. Patrick’s days should come about,
There would be found
A treasure under ground,
By one within twenty miles round.”

This prophecy made a deep impres-
sion upon her. She also dreamed of it
three times: and as the dream, she
thought, was a sure token that the pro-

* What are in Ireland called moats, are, in
England, called Danish mounts, or barrows.

++ Near Kells, in Ireland, there is a round
tower, which was in imminent danger of being
pulled down, by an old woman’s rooting at its.
foundation, in hopes cf finding treasure.



549 THE ORPHANS.

phecy was to come true, she, from that.
time forwards, gave up her spinning-
wheel and her knitting, and could think
of nothing but hunting for the treasure,
that was to be found by one “ within
twenty miles round.”

Year after year St. Patrick’s day
came about, without her ever finding a
farthing by all her groping; and as she
was always idle, she grew poorer and
poorer. Besides, to comfort herself for
her disappointments, and to give her
spirits for fresh searches, she took to
drinking. She sold all she had by de-
grees; but still she fancied that. the.
lucky day would come sooner or later,
that would pay for all.

Goody Grope, however, réached her
sixtieth year, without ever seeing this
lucky day ; and now, in her old age, she
was a beggar, without a house to shelter
her, a bed to lie on, or food to put into



THE ORPHANS. 41

her mouth, but what she begged from
the charity of those who had trusted
more than she had to industry and less
to luck. :

“Ah! Mary, honey !—give me a po-
tato, and a sup of something, for the
love o’ mercy; for not a bit have I had
all day, except half-a-glass of whiskey
and a halfpenny-worth of tobacco !”’

_ Mary immediately set before her some
milk, and picked a good potato out of
the bowl for her. She was sorry to see
such an old woman in such a wretched
condition. Goody Grope said she would
rather have spirits of some kind or other
than milk; but Mary had no spirits to
give her; so she sat herself down close
to the fire, and after she had sighed and
groaned, and smoked for some time, she
said to Mary—*“ Well, and what have
you done with the treasure you had the
luck to find?” Mary told her that she



42 THE ORPHANS.

had carried it to Mr. Hopkins, the
agent.

“That’s not what I would have done
in your place,” replied the old woman.
“When good luck came to you, what a
shame to turn your back upon it! But
it is idle talking of what’s done—that’s
past; but Pll try my luck in this here
castle before next St. Patrick’s day comes
about. I was told it was more than
twenty miles from our bog, or I would
have been pone long ago: but better late
than never.’

Mary was much alarmed, and not
without reason, at this speech: for she
knew that if Goody Grope once set to
work at the foundation of the old castle
of Rossmore, she would soon bring it
all down. It was in vain to talk to
Goody Grope of the danger of burying
herself under the ruins, or of the impro-
_bability of her meeting with another



THE ORPHANS. 3 43

pot of gold coins. She set her elbow
upon her knees, and stopping her ears
with her hands, bid Mary and her sis-
ters not to waste their breath advising
their elders ; for that, let them say what
they would, she would fall to work the
next morning: “barring you'll make it
worth my while to let it alone.”

¢ And what will make it worth your
~ while to let it alone?” said Mary; for
she saw that she must either get into a
quarrel, or give up her habitation, or
comply with the conditions of this pro-
voking old woman. :

Half-a-crown, Goody Grope said,
was the least she could be content to
take.

Mary paid the half-crown, and was in
hopes that she had got rid for ever of
her tormentor: but she was mistaken;
for scarcely was the week at an end, be-
fore the old woman appeared before her



4A THE ORPHANS.

again, and repeated her threats of falling
to work the next morning, unless she
had something a to her to buy
tobacco.

The next day, and the next, and the
next, Goody Grope came on the same
errand; and poor Mary, who could ill
afford to supply her constantly with
halfpence, at last exclaimed—“I am
sure the finding of this treasure has not
been any good luck to, us, but quite the
contrary; and I wish we never had
found it.”

Mary did not yet know how much she
was to suffer on account of this unfor-
tunate pot of gold coins. Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, imagined that no one knew
of the discovery of this treasure but him-
self and these poor children; so, not
being as honest as they were, he resolved
to keep it for his own use. He was sur-
prised some weeks afterwards to receive



THE ORPHANS. 45

a letter from his employer, Mr. Harvey,
demanding from him the coins which
had. been discovered at Rossmore Castle.
Hopkins had sold the gold coins, and
some of the others; but he flattered him-
self that the children, and the young
ladies to whom he now found they had
been shown, could not tell whether what
they had seen were gold or not; and he
was not in the least apprehensive that
those of Henry the Seventh’s reign
should be reclaimed from him, as he
thought they had escaped attention. So
he sent over the silver coins, and others
of little value, and apologised for his not
having mentioned them before, by say-
ing that he considered them as mere
rubbish.

Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed that
he could not consider as rubbish the
gold coins which were amongst them
when they were discovered; and he in-



46 THE ORPHANS.

quired why these gold coins, and those
of the reign of Henry the Seventh, were
not now sent to him.

Mr. Hopkins denied that he had ever
received any such; but he was thunder-
struck when Mr. Harvey, in reply.to ‘
this falsehood, sent him a list of the
coins which the orphans had deposited
with him, and exact drawings of those
that were missing. He informed him
that this list and these drawings came
from two ladies who had seen the coins
in question.

Mr. Hopkins thought that he had no
means of escape but by boldly persisting
in falsehood. He replied, that it was
very likely such coins had been found at
Rossmore Castle, and that the ladies al-
luded to had probably seen them; but
he positively declared that they never
came to his hands; that he had restored
all that were deposited with him; and



THE ORPHANS. 47

that, as to the others, he supposed they
_ must have been taken out of the pot
by the children, or by Edmund or Mary
in their way from the ladies’ house to
his.

The orphans were shocked and aston-
ished when they heard, from Isabella
and Caroline, the charge that was made
against them. They looked at one
another in silence for some moments.
Then Peggy exclaimed—‘“ Sure! Mr.
Hopkins has forgotten himself strangely!
Does not he remember Edmund’s count-
ing the things to him upon the great
table in his hall, and we all standing by?
I remember it as well as if it was this
instant.”

“ And so do J,” cried Anne. “ And
don’t you recollect, Mary, your picking
out the gold ones, and telling Mr. Hop-
kins that they were gold; and he said
you knew nothing of the matter; and



48 THE ORPHANS.

I was going to tell him that Miss Isa-
bella had tried them, and knew that
they were gold; but just then there
came in some tenants to pay their rent,
and he pushed us out, and twitehed from
my hand the piece of gold which I had
taken up to show him the bright spot
which Miss Isabella had cleaned by the
stuff that she had poured on itP I be-
lieve he was afraid I should steal it; he
twitched it from my hand in such a
hurry. Do, Edmund; do, Mary—let
us go to him, and put him in mind of
all this.”’

“T’ll go to him no more,” said Hd-
mund, sturdily. “ Heis a bad man—
I'll never go to him again. Mary, don’t
be cast down—we have no need to be
cast down—we are honest.”

“True,” said Mary; “but is not ita
hard case that we, who have lived, as
my mother did all her life before us, in



THE ORPHANS. 49

peace and honesty with all the world,
should now have our good name taken
from us, when *? Mary’s voice fal-
tered and stopped.

“It can’t be taken from us,’’ cried
Edmund, “ poor orphans though we are,
and he a rich gentieman, as he calls
himself. Let him say and do what he —
will, he can’t hurt our good name.”

Edmund was mistaken, alas! and
Mary had but too much reason for her
fears. The affair wasa great deal talked
of; and the agent spared no pains to
have the story told his own way. The
orphans, conscious of their own inno-
cence, took no pains about the matter;
and the consequence was, that all who
knew them well had no doubt of their
honesty ; but many, who knew nothing
of them, concluded that the agent must
be in the right and the children in the

wrong. The buzz of scandal went on for
D





50 THE ORPHANS.

some time without reaching their ears,
because they lived very retiredly. But
one day, when Mary went to sell some
stockings of Peggy’s knitting at the
neighbouring fair, the man to whom she
sold them bid her write her name on
the back of a note, and exclaimed, on ©
seeing it, “Ho! ho! mistress: I’d not
have had any dealings with you, had I
known your name sooner. Where’s
the gold that you found at Rossmore
Castle ?” )

It was in vain that Mary related the
fact. Shesaw that she gained no belief,
as her character was not known to this
man, or to any of those who were pre-
sent. - She left the fair as soon as she
could ; and though she struggled against
it, she felt very melancholy. Still she
exerted herself every day at her little
manufacture; and she endeavoured to
console herself by reflecting that she had



THE ORPHANS. 51

two friends left who would not give
up her character, and who continued
steadily to protect her and her sisters.
Isabella and Caroline everywhere as-
serted their belief in the integrity of the
orphans, but to prove it was in this in-
stance out of their power. Mr. Hop-
kins, the agent, and his friends, con-
stantly repeated that the gold coins were
taken away in coming from their house
to his; and these ladies were blamed by
many people for continuing to counte-
nance those that were, with great rea-
son, suspected to be thieves. The or-
phans were in a worse condition than
ever when the winter came on, and their
benefactresses left the country to spend
some monthsin Dublin. The old castle,
it was true, was likely to last through
the winter, as the mason said; but
though. the want of a comfortable house

to live in was, a little while ago, the
D2



52 THE ORPHANS.

uppermost thing in Mary’s thoughts,
now it was not so.

One night, as Mary was going to bed,
she heard some one knocking hard at
the door :—“ Mary, are you up ?—let
us in,” cried a voice, which she knew to
be the voice of Betsy Green, the post-
master’s daughter, who lived in the vil-
lage near them. .

She let Betsy in, and asked what she
could want at such a time of night.

“Give me sixpence, and I'll tell
you,” said Betsy; “but waken Anne
and Peggy. Here’s a letter just
come by post for you, and I stepped
over to you with it; because I
guessed. you'd be glad to have it,
seeing it is your brother’s hand-
writing.”

Peggy and Anne were soon roused,
when they heard that there was a letter
from Edmund. It was by one of his





VHE ORPHANS. 53

-push-candles that Mary read it; andthe
letter was as follows :—

“ Dear Mary, Nancy, and little Peg,

“ Joy! joy !—lI always said the truth
would come out at last; and that he
could not take our good name from us.
But I will not tell you how it all came
about till we meet, which will be next
week, as we are (I mean master and
mistress, and the young ladies,—bless
them !—and Mr. Gilbert and I) coming
down to the vicarage to keep the Christ-
mas: and a happy Christmas ’tis likely
to be for honest folks. As for they that
are not honest, it is not for them to ex-
pect to be happy, at Christmas or any
other time. You shall know all when
we meet. So, till then, fare ye well,
dear Mary, Nancy, and little Peg!

“ Your joyful and affectionate brother,

“ EDMUND.”



54, THE ORPHANS.

To comprehend why Edmund is joy-
ful, our readers must be informed of
certain things which happened after
Isabella and Caroline went to Dublin.
One morning they went with their father
and mother to see the magnificent library —
of a nobleman, who took generous and
polite pleasure in thus sharing the ad-
vantages of his wealth and station with
all who had any pretensions to science
or literature. Knowing that the gen-
tleman who was now come to see his
library was skilled in antiquities, the
nobleman opened a drawer of medals, to
ask his opinion concerning the age of
some coins, which he had lately pur-
chased at a high price. They were the
very same which the orphans had found
at Rossmore Castle. Isabella and Caro-
line knew them again instantly ; and as
the cross which Isabella had made on
each of them was still visible through a



THE ORPHANS. 55

magnifying glass, there could be no pos-
sibility of doubt.

The nobleman, who was much in-
terested both by the story of these or-
phans, and the manner in which it was
told to him, sent immediately for the
person from whom he had purchased
the coins. He was a Jew broker. At
first he refused to tell from whom he
got them, because he had bought them,
he said, under a promise of secrecy. Be-
ing further pressed, he acknowledged
_ that it was made a condition in his bar-
gain that he should not sell them to any
one in Ireland, but that he had been
tempted by the high price the present
noble possessor had offered.

At last, when the Jew was informed
that the coins were stolen, and that he
would be proceeded against as a receiver
of stolen goods, if he did not confess
the whole truth, he declared that he

#



56 THE ORPHANS.

had purchased them from a gentleman,
whom he had never seen before or since;
but he added, that he could swear to his
person, if he saw him again.

Now Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was at
this time in Dublin, and Caroline’s
father posted the Jew, the next day, in
the back-parlour of a banker’s house,
with whom Mr. Hopkins had, on this
day, appointed to settle some accounts.
Mr. Hopkins came—the Jew knew him
—swore that he was the man who had
sold the coins to him; and thus the
guilt of the agent and the innocence of
the orphans were completely proved.

A. full account of all that happened
was sent to England to Mr. Harvey,
their landlord, and a few posts afterwards
there came a letter from him, containing
a dismissal of the dishonest agent, and
a reward for the honest and industrious
orphans. Mr. Harvey desired that



THE ORPHANS. 57

Mary and her sisters might have the
slated house, rent-free, from this time
forward, under the care of ladies Isabella
and Caroline, as long as Mary or her
sisters should carry on in it any useful
business. This was the joyful news
which Edmund had to tell his sisters.
All the neighbours shared in their
joy, and the day of their removal from
the ruins of Rossmore Castle to their
new house was the happiest of the
Christmas holidays. They were not
envied for their prosperity; because
everybody saw that it was the reward
of their good conduct; everybody ex-
cept Goody Grope. She exclaimed, as
she wrung her hands with violent ex-
pressions of sorrow—“ Bad luck to me!
bad luck to me!—Why didn’t I go
sooner to that there castle? It is all
luck, all luck in this world; but I never
had no luck. Think of the luck of



58 THE ORPHANS.

these childer, that have found a pot of
gold, and such great, grand friends, and
a slated house, and all: and here am I,
with scarce a rag to cover me, and not

a potato to put into my mouth !—I,°

that have been looking under ground all
my days for treasure, not to havea half-
penny at the last, to buy me tobacco !”

“That is the very reason that you

have not a halfpenny,” said Betsy.
“Here Mary has been working hard,
and so have her two little sisters and her
brother, for these five years past; and
they have made money for themselves
by their own industry—and friends too
—not by luck, but by 4

“Phoo! phoo!’’ interrupted Goody
Grope; “don’t be prating; don’t I
know as well as you do, that they found
a pot of gold, by good-luck ; and is not
that the cause why they are going to
live in the slated house now P”





THE ORPHANS. 59

“No,” replied the postmaster’s
daughter; “this house is given to
them as a reward—that was the word
in the letter, for I saw it. Edmund
showed it to me, and will show it to
any one that wants to see. ‘This house
was given to them ‘as areward for their
honesty.’ ”’



OLD PO Z,

Lucy, daughter to the Justice.
Mrs. Bustuz, landlady of the Sa-
racen’s Head.

JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.

Op Man. :

Witriam, a Servant.

SCENE I.
The house of Justice Headstrong—a hall

—Lucy watering some myrtles—A
servant behind the scenes is heard to
say—
I TELL you my master is not up.— You
can’t see him, so go about your business,
q say.



OLD POZ. 61

Lucy. To whom are you speaking,
William? = Who’s that P .

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

Lucy. O then, don’t send him away—
don’t send him away.

Will. But master has not had _ his
chocolate, ma’am. He wont 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. (Lait Servant.)

(Lucy sings, and goes on water-
ing her myrtles;—the ser-
vant shows m 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



62 OLD POZ.

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 myr-

- tle is quite dead—quite dead.

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

Lucy (aside). I wonder what can
make him sigh so!—(Aloud.) My father
wont make you wait long.

Old M. O, 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 P

Old UM, Ah, miss; because, though it



OLD POZ. 638

is a small matter in itself, it is not a
small mattér 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 wont
trouble you about it.

Lucy. But it wont 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 down-stairs ; follow
me. ‘You may tell me your story as we
go along.

Old M. I slept at the Sassi 8
Lead, miss, and





(Lait talking.)



64 OLD POZ.

SCENE II.
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
as leaning on the arm of his chair.)

Just. Well, well, my darling, pre-
sently ; I’ll see him presently.

Lucy. Whilst you are drinking your
chocolate, papa ?

Just. No, no, no—I never see any-
body till I have done my chocolate, dar-
ling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There’s
‘no sugar in this, child.

Lucy. Yes, indeed, papa.

Just. No, child—there’s no sugar, I

| tell you; that’s poz!
| ' Luey. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I
put in two lumps myself.

Just. There’s no sugar, I say; why



edt



OLD POZ. 65

will you contradict me, child, for ever?
—there’s no sugar, I say.

(Lucy leans over him playfully, and
with his tea-spoon 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 busi-
ness to do. Go and send William to
me; do you hear, love P

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

E



66 OLD POZ.

he can’t wait, he can go about his busi~
ness, can’t he?

Lucy. Oh, sir, he can wait.—It was
not hewho 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 the dish
away); and at any rate there was not
sugar enough—send William, send Wil-
liam, child; and I’ll finish my own bu-
siness, and then:

(Exit Lucy, dancing, “ And then!
—and then!’’)



JusticH, alone.

O this foot of mine!—(twinges)—O
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



OLD POz. 67

it; I can’t, and I wont, for all the Dr.
Spareribs in Christendom ; that’s poz!

Enter W1ILLIaM.

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 im-
mediately, sir.

Just. Ah, that’s well—immediately ?

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

Just. O show her up; show Mrs.
Bustle in.

Enter Mas. Bustun, the landlady o
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

. E2



68 OLD POZ.

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. O your worship’s always very
good (setiling 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. Tn the oven it is. I put it in
with my own hands; andif 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-







OLD. POZ. 69

pie as ever your worship set your eyes
upon.

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

Land, O 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. A luncheon wont go
down with nobody now-a-days (laughs).
I expect hostler and boots will be
calling for their sandwiches just now
(laughs again). Ym sure I beg your
worship’s pardon for mentioning a
luncheon.

Just. O 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



70 OLD POZ.

thought I was up in remarkably good
time, too.

Land. Well, and to be sure so it
was, remarkably good time for your
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 early little body; though
I say it that should not say it—I am an
early little body.

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

Land. For dinner, as sure as the clock
strikes four—but I mustn’t stay prating,
for it may be spoiling ifI’m away; so
I must wish your worship a good morn-
ing. _ (She curtsies.)

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


OLD POZ. val

Enter Witi1aM, to take away the choco-
late—The Landlady is putting on her
shawl.

Just. You. may let that man know,
William, that I have despatched my own
business, and I 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 a travelling
man, in my opinion, sir,—or something
that way; I take it. 3

(At these words the Landlady turns
round mquisitively, and delays,
that she may listen, while she 1s
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



72 OLD POZ.

the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me

the goose-pie for dinner ;—four o’elock,

do you hear? And show the old man
in now. i

(Lhe Landlady looks eagerly to-

wards the door, as it opens, and
exclaims—)

Land. My old gentleman, as I hope

to breathe!

Enter the Oud Man.

(Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe—
The Justice leans back, and looks con-
sequential—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 P—Ay, you little thought, I warrant
ye, to meet me here with his worship—
but there you reckoned without your

‘eee



OLD POZ. 73

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
you warning; so you may go further
and fare worse—and spare your breath
to cool your porridge.

Just. (waves his hand with dignity).
Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remem-
ber 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 P and what is your business with
me?

Land. Sir, if your worship will give
me leave—(Justice makes a sign to het
to be silent).



74 OLD POZ.

Old M. Please your worship, Iam an
old soldier.

Land. (interrupting). An old hypo-
crite, 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 interzupt). 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 POZ. 75

Old M. 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 pre-
sently. —

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. But what? proceed, pray, to
the point.

Old M. But last night I slept here in
- town, please your worship, at the Sara-
cen’s Head.

Land. (in a rage). At the Saracen’s





76 OLD POZ.

Head! Yes, forsooth, none such ever
slept at the Saracen’s Head afore, or
ever shall after, 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—he shall speak
first, since I’ve said it—that’s poz!
Speak on, friend: youslept last night at
the Saracen’s Head.

Old M. Yes, please your worship, and
T accuse nobody—but, at night, I had
my little money safe, and in the morn-
ing it was gone.

Land. Gone!—gone, indeed, in my
house! and this is the way I’m to be
treated! Is it soP—I couldn’t but
speak, please 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



OLD POZ. 97

chair, beside you, to silence me—(turn-
ing 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, you wheedling hypocrite?
And the thanks I receive is to call me
and mine a pack of thieves.

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

Land. Ay, I thought when J came 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 wont com-
mand 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 will want me at home—(re-
turning and whispering)—shall I send





78 OLD -POZ.

the goose-pie up, your worship, if it’s
ready P

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. O, for that matter, your wor-
ship knows best, to be sure.

(Exit Landlady, angry.)

SCENE IIT.

Justion Hzapstrone, Ord May, and
Lucy.

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 told me not.

Just. O darling, you shall contradict

ie a





OLD POZ. 79

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 Ma-
jesty’s subjects may have justice, and
speak his mind before the first man 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
wont 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 P—and
you missed it this morning? Are you
sure you had it safe at night ?

Old M. Oh, please your worship, quite
sure; for 1 took it out, and looked at it,
just before I said my prayers.



80 OLD POZ.

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
Talways put it—always—in my tobacco-
box. ;

Just. Your tobacco-box! I never heard.
of such a thing—to make a strong box
of 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 be-
lieve that! 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 POZ. 81

Old M. If I were, please your wor-
ship, 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 WM. 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 wont 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 hox, did you, papa P

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 ——

E



82 OLD POZ.

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
Pll tell you more, if my Lord Chief-Jus-
tice 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! darling ;—go
to your dolls, darling, and don’t be posi-
tive—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



‘OLD POZ. 83

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 P—Recollect
yourself, I’ll give you time to recollect
yourself,

(A pause.)

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

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

dust. What, contradict me again, after
I gave you time to recollect yourself—
TP’ve done with you; I have done. Con-
tradict 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
F 2



s a





84 OLD POZ.

law !—and J’ll make you know it too.
Oue hour J’ll give you to recollect your-
self, and if you don’t give up this idle
story —P1I—T’Il commit youasa 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

believe it—that’s poz!
(Lucy speaks to the Old Man ashe

as going off.)

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

Old M. Tf tell the truth—(éurning
up his eyes.)

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

Lucy. One moment—answer me one
question — because of something that





OLD POZ 85

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.—J// I tell

_ the truth—oh! (Zuit.)

SCENE IV.
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
persists in a lie? Take the money
and leave the box! Obstinate block-
head! Here, William (showing the com-
mittal), take this old gentleman to
Holdfast, the constable, and give him
this warrant.



86 OLD POZ.

Enter Lucy, running, out of breath.

Lucy. V’ve found it! I’ve found it!
T’ve found it! Here, old man; here’s
your money—here it is all—a guinea
and ahalf, and a shilling, and a sixpence,
—just as he said, papa.

Enter LANDLADY.

Land. O la! your worship, did you
ever hear the like P

Just. I’ve heard nothing yet that I
can understand. First, have you se-
cured 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 P

Just. Yes, child, by all means; and
now I shall hear what possessed him to
leave the box—I don’t understand—





OLD POZ. 87

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-examin-
ing the thief.

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

Re-enter Lucy, with a huge wicker cage
im 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 mag-
pie—Who’d have thought 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



$8 OLD POZ.

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 P

Land. Oh, of all days in the year ; but
Task pardon, miss.

LIncy. Well, that day I heard my
uncle and another gentleman telling
stories of magpies hiding money; and
they laid a wager about this old mag-
pie; 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!



——

OLD POZ. 89

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.—No man would have
taken the money, and left the box. You
see I was right; no man would 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 so 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 I told you
no lies. Say no more—say no more. I



90 OLD POZ.

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 a true 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. Yow'll drink my health,
wont you,—hey P

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



OLD POZ. 91

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’’—TI don’t know
whether it tells well for me; but
Ill never be positive any more—that’s
pow f-

THE END.





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THE ORPHANS

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Stories for Children,

BY

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THE ORPHANS.

Near the ruins of the castle of Ross-
more, in Ireland, is a small cabin, in
which there once lived a widow and her
four children. As long as she was able
to work, she was very industrious, and
was accounted the best spinner in the
parish; but she overworked herself at

—< Jast, and fell ill, so that she could not

sit to her wheel as she used to do, and
was obliged to give it up to her eldest
daughter, Mary.

Mary was at this time about twelve
years old. One evening she was sitting
at the foot of her mother’s bed, spinning,
and her little brother and sisters were

A 2 :
4A, THE ORPHANS.

gathered round the fire, eating their po-
tatoes and milk for supper. )

“Bless them, the poor young crea-
tures!’ said the widow; who, as she
lay on the bed, which she knew must
be her death-bed, was thinking of what
would become of her children after she
was gone. Mary stopped her wheel;
for she was afraid that the noise of it
had walened her mother, and would
hinder her from going to sleep again.

“No need to stoop the wheel, Mary
dear, for me,”’ said her mother, “ I was
not asleep; nor is it that which keeps
me from sleep. But don’t overwork
yourself, Mary.”’ “Oh, no fear of that,”’
replied Mary; “Fm _ strong and
hearty.” “So was I once,” said her
mother. “And so you will be again,
I hope,” said Mary, “when the fine
weather comés again.”

“The fine weather will never come
THE ORPHANS. 5

again to me,” said her mother. “*Tis
a folly, Mary, to hope for that; but
what I hope is, that you'll find some
friend—some help—orphans as you'll
soon all of you be. And one thing
comforts my heart, even as I am lying
here, that not a soul in the wide
world I am leaving has to complain of
me. Though poor, I have lived honest,
and I have brought you up to be the
same, Mary; and I am sure the little
ones will take after you; for you'll be
good to them—as good to them as you
ean.’

eating their suppers, came round the
bed, to listen to what their mother was
saying. She was tired of speaking, for
she was very weak; but she took their
little hands, as they laid them on the
bed, and joining them all together, she
said, “ Bless you, dears; bless you; love

Here the children, who had finished

bod
6 | THE ORPHANS.

and help one another all you can. Good
night !—good-bye!”’

Mary took the children away to their
bed, for she saw that their mother was
too ill to say more; but Mary did not
herself know how ill she was. Her
mother never spoke rightly afterwards,
but talked in a confused way about some
debts, and one in particular which she
owed to a schoolmistress for Mary’s
schooling; and then she charged Mary
to go and pay it, because she was not
able to go im with it. At the end of the
week she was dead and buried; and
the orphans were left alone in their
cabin.

The two youngest girls, Pegey and
Nancy, were six and seven years old;
Edmund was not yet nine; but he was
a stout-grown healthy boy, and well
disposed to work. He had been used to
bring home turf from the bog on his
THE ORPHANS. 3

hack, to lead car-horses, and often to go
on errands for gentlemen’s families, who
paid him sixpence or a shilling, accord-
ing to the distance which he went: so
that Edmund, by some or other of these
little employments, was, as he said,
likely enough to earn his bread; and he
~told Mary to have a good heart, for that
he should every year grow able to do
more and more, and that he should
never forget his mother’s words when
she last gave him her blessing, and
joined their hands all together.

As for Peggy and Nancy, it was little
that they coulddo; but they were good.
children: and Mary, when she considered
that so much depended upon her, was
resolved to exert herself to the utmost.
Her first care was to pay.those debts

_ which her mother had mentioned to her,
for which she left money done up care-
fully in separate papers. When all these
§ THE ORPHANS.

were paid away, there was not enough
left to pay both the rent of the cabin
and a year’s schooling for herself and
sisters which was due to the school-
mistress in a neighbouring village.
Mary was in hopes that the rent
would not be called for immediately ;
but in this she was disappointed. Mr.
Harvey, the gentleman on whose estate
she lived, was in England, and in his
absence all was managed by a Mr. Hop-
kins, an agent, who was a hard man.*
The driver came to Mary about a week
after her mother’s death, and told her
that the rent must be brought in the
next day, and that she must leave the
eabin, for anew tenant was coming into
1t; that she was too young to have a
house to herself, and that the only thing
the had to do was to get some neigh-





* A hard-hearted man.
THE ORPHANS. 9

bour to take her and her brother and
sisters in for charity’s sake.

The driver finished by hinting that.
she would not be so hardly used if she
had not brought upon herself the ill-will
of Miss Alice, the agent’s daughter. |
Mary, itis true, had refused to give Miss —
Alice a goat upon which she had set her
fancy ; but this was the only offence of
which she had been guilty, and at the
time she refused it her mother wanted
the goat’s milk, which was the only
thing she then liked to drink.

Mary went immediately to Mr. Hop-
kins, the agent, to pay her rent; and she
begged of him to let her stay another
year in her cabin; but this he refused.
It was now the 25th of September, and
he said that the new tenant must come
in on the 29th; so that she must quit
it directly. Mary coyld not bear the
thoughts of begging any of the neigh-
10 THE ORPHANS.

bours to take her and her brother and ~
sisters in for charity’s sake; for the
neighbours were all poor enough them-
selves. So she bethought herself that
she might find shelter in the ruins of
the old castle of Rossmore, where she
and her brother, in better times, had
often played at hide-and-seek. The
kitchen and two other rooms near it
were yet covered in tolerably well; and
a little thatch, she thought, would make »
them comfortable through the winter.
The agent consented to let her and her
brother and sisters go in there, upon her
paying him half-a-guinea in hand, and
promising to pay the same yearly.

Into these lodgings the orphans now
removed, taking with them two bed-
steads, a stool, chair, and a table, a sort
of press, which contained what little
clothes they had, and a chest in which
they had two hundred of meal. The
THE ORPHANS. il

chest was carried for them by some of
the charitable neighbours, who likewise
added to their scanty stock of. potatoes
and turf whatwould make it last through
the winter. 3 i
These children were well thought of
and pitied, because their mother was
known to have been all her life honest
and industrious. “Sure,’’ says one of
the neighbours, “we can do no less than
give a helping hand to the poor orphans,
that are so ready to help themselves.”’
So one helped to thatch the room in
which they were to sleep, and another
took their cow to graze upon his bit of
land on condition of having half the.
milk; and one and all said they should
be welcome to take share of their pota«
toes and buttermilk if they should find
their own ever fall short.
The half-guinea which Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, required for letting Mary
12 THE ORPHANS.

into the castle, was part of what she had
to pay to the schoolmistress, to whom
above a guinea was due. Mary went to
her, and took her goat along with her,
and offered it in part of payment of the
debt, as she had no more money left;
but the. schoolmistress would not re-
ceive the goat. She said that she could
afford to wait for her money till Mary
was able to pay it; that she knew her
to be an honest, industrious little girl,
and she would trust her with more than
a guinea. Mary thanked her; and she
was glad to take the goat home again,
as she was very fond of it.

_ Being now settled in their house, they
went every day regularly to work: Mary
spun nine cuts'a day, besides doing all
that was to be done in the house; Ed-
mund got fourpence a day by his work;
and Peggy and Anne earned twopence
apicce at the paper-mills near Navan,
| e
THE ORPHANS. 13
%,
where they were employed to sort rags,
and to cut them into small pieces.

When they had done work one day,
Anne went to the master of the paper-
mill, and asked him if she might have
two sheets of large white paper which
were lying on the press. She offered a
penny for the paper; but the master
would not take anything from her, but
gave her the paper when he found that
she wanted it to make a garland for her
mother’s grave. Anne and Peggy cut
out the garland, and Mary, when it was
finished, went along with them and Hd.
mundto put it up. It was just a montl,
after their mother’s death.

It happened, at the time the orphans
were putting up this garland, that two
young ladies, who were returning home
after their evening walk, stopped at the
gate of the churchyard to look at the
red light which the setting sun cast
14 THE ORPHANS.

upon the window of the church. As the
ladies were standing at the gate, they
heard a voice near them crying, “O
mother! mother! are you gone for
ever?’ They could not see any one;
so they walked softly round to the other —
side of the church, and there they saw
Mary kneeling beside a grave, on which
her brother and sisters were hanging
their white garlands. .

The children all stood still when they
saw the two ladies passing near them ;
but Mary did not know anybody was
passing, for her face was hid in her
hands.

Isabella and Caroline (so these ladies
were called) would not disturb the poor
children; but they stopped in the vil-
lage to inquire abows them. It was at
the house of the schoolmistress that
they stopped, and she gave them a good
account of these orphans. She particu-
THE ORPHANS. 15

larly commended Mary’s j honesty, in
having immediately paid all her mo-
ther’s debts to the utmost farthing, as |
far as her money would go. She told
the ladies how Mary had been turned
out of her house, and how she had
offered her goat, of which she was very —
fond, to discharge a@debt due for her
schooling; and, in short, the schoolmis-
tress, who had known Mary for several
years, spoke so well of her that these
ladies resolved that they would go to
the old castle of Rossmore to see her
_ the next day.

When they went there, they found
the room in which the children lived
as clean and neat as such a ruined place
could be made. Edmund was out work-
ing with a farmer, Mary was spinning,
and her little sisters were measuring out
some bogberries, of which they had ga-
thered a basketful, for sale. Isabella,
16 TIE ORPHANS.

after telling Mary what an excellent
character she had heard of her, inquired
what it was she most wanted; and Mary
said that she had just worked up all her
flax, and she was most in want of more
flax for her wheel.

Isabella promised that she would send
her a fresh supply of flax, and Caroline
bought the bogberries from the little
girls, and gave them money enough to
buy a pound of coarse cotton for knit-
ting, as Mary said that she could teach
them how to knit.

The supply of flax, which Isabella
sent the next day, was of great service —
to Mary, as it kept her in employment
for above a month; and when she sold
the yarn which she had spun with it,
she had money enough to buy some
warm flannel for winter wear. Besides
spinning well, she had learned at school
to do plain work tolerably neatly, and
TIE ORPHANS. 17

Isabella and Caroline employed her to
work for them; by which she earned a
great deal more than she could by spin-
ning. At her leisure hours she taught
her sisters to read and write; and Hd-
mund, with part,of the money which
he earned by his work out of doors, paid
a schoolmaster for teaching him a little
arithmetic. When the winter nights
came on, he used to light his rush can-
dles for Mary to work by. He had ga-
thered and stripped a good provision of
rushes in the month of August, and a
neighbour gave him grease to dip them
in.

One evening, just as he had lighted
his candle, a footman came in, who was -
sent by Isabella with some plain work
to Mary. This servant was an English-
man, and he was but newly come over
to Ireland. The rush candles caught
his attention; for he had never seen

B


18 THE ORPHANS.

any of them before, as he came from a
part of England where they were not
used. . Edmund, who was ready to
oblige, and proud that his candles were
noticed, showed the Englishman how
they were made, and gave him a bundle
of rushes.*

The servant was pleased with his
good-nature in this trifling instance,
and remembered it long after it was

eee

* in his Natural History of Selborne, ‘‘ seems to
be the Juncus effusus, or common soft rush,
which is to be found in moist pastures, by the
sides of streams, and under hedges. These
rushes ate in best condition in the height of
summer, but may be gathered so as to serve the
purpose well quite on to autumn. The largest
and longest are best. Decayed labourers,
women and children, make it their business to
procure and prepare them. As soon as they are
cut, they must be flung into water, and kept
there, for otherwise they will dry and shrink,
THE ORPHANS. 19

forgotten by Edmund. Whenever his
master wanted to send a messenger any-
where, Gilbert (for that was the ser-
vant’s name) always employed his little
friend Edmund, whom, upon further
acquaintance, he liked better and better.
He found that Bdmund was both quick
and exact in executing commissions.
One day, after he had waited a great
while at a gentleman’s house for an

and the peel will not run. When these junce
are thus far prepared, they must le out on the
grass to be bleached, and take the dew for some
nights, and afterwards be dried in the sun.
Some address is required in dipping these rushes
in the scalding fat, or grease; but this knack is
also to be attained by practice. A pound of
common grease may be procured for fourpence,
and about six pounds of grease will dip a pound
of rushes, and one pound of rushes may be
bought for one shilling; so,that a pound of
rushes, medicated and ready for use, will cost
three shillings.

B2

,
“te Ne
20 THE ORPHANS.

“answer t6 a letter, he was so impatient
to get home that he ran off without it.
‘When he was questioned by Gilbert why ©
he did not bring an answer, he did not
attempt to make any excuse: he did
not say, “ There was no answer, please
your honour,” or, “They hid me not
wait,’ &e.; but he told exactly the
truth ; and though Gilbert scolded him
for being so impatient as not to wait,
yet his telling the truth was more to
the boy’s advantage than any excuse he
could have made. After this he was
always believed when he said, “ There
was no answer,”’ or, “ They bid me not
wait ;°’ for Gilbert knew that he would
not tell a lie to save himself from being
scolded.

The orphans continued to assist one
another in their work, according to their
strength and abilities; and they went
onin this manner for three years. With
THE ORPHANS. 23.

what Mary got by her spinning and.
plain work, and Edmund by leading of
car-horses, going on errands, &c., and
with little Peggy and Anne’s earnings,

the family contrived to live comfortably.

Isabella and Caroline often visited them,
and sometimes gave them clothes, and
sometimes flax or cotton for their spin-
ning and knitting; and these children
did not expect, that because the ladies
did something for them, they should do
everything. They did not grow idle or
wasteful.

When Edmund was about twelve
years old, his friend Gilbert sent for him
one day, and told him that his master
had given him leave to have a boy in
the house to assist him, and that his
master told him he might choose one
in the neighbourhood. Several were
anxious to get into such a goodplace; but
Gilbert said that he preferred Edmund
29, THE ORPHANS.

before them all, because he knew him to
be an industrious, honest, good-natured
lad, who always told the truth. So
Edmund went into service at the vicar-
age; and his master was the father of
Isabella and Caroline. He found his
new way of life very pleasant; for he
was well fed, well clothed, and well
treated; and he every day learned more
of his business, in which at first he was
rather awkward. He was mindful todo
all that Mr. Gilbert required of him,
and he was so obliging to all his fellow-
servants that they could not help liking
him. But there was one thing which
was at first rather disagreeable to him:
he was obliged to wear shoes and stock-
ings, and they hurt his feet. Besides
this, when he waited at dinner he made
such a noise in walking that his fellow-
servants laughed at him. He told his
sister Mary of this his distress; and she
THE ORPHANS. 23

made fer him, after many trials, a pair
of cloth shoes, with soles of platted
hemp.* In these he could walk with-
out making the least noise; and as
these shoes could not be worn out of
doors, he was always sure to change
them before he went out; and conse-
quently he had always clean shoes to
wear in the house. It was soon re-
marked by the mén-servants that he
had left off clumping so heavily, and 16
was observed by the maids that he never
dirted the stairs or passages with his
shoes. When he was praised for these
things, he said it was his sister Mary
who should be thanked, and not he;
and he showed the shoes which she had
made for him.

Isabella’s maid bespoke a pair imme-

* The author has seen a pair of shoes, such as
are here described, made in a few hours,
2A THE ORPHANS,

diately, and sent Mary a piece of pretty
calico for the outside. The last-maker
made a last for her, and over this Mary
sewed the calico vamps tight. Her
brother advised her to try platted pack-
thread instead of hemp for the soles, and
she found that this looked more neat
than the hemp soles, and was likely to
last longer. She platted the packthread
together in strands of about half an inch
thick, and these were sewed firmly toge-
ther at the bottom of the shoe. When
they were finished they fitted well, and
the maid showed them to her mistress.
Isabella and Caroline were so well |
pleased with Mary’s ingenuity and kind-
ness to her brother, that they bespoke
from her two dozen of these shoes, and
gave her three yards of coloured fustian
to make them of, and galoon for the
binding. When the shoes were com-
pleted, Isabella and Caroline disposed of
THE ORPHANS. 25

them for her amongst. their acquaint-
ance, and got three shillings a pair for
them. The young ladies, as soon as
they had collected the money, walked to
the old castle, where they found every-
thing neat and clean as usual. They
had great pleasure in giving to this in-
dustrious girl the reward of her inge-
nuity, which she received with some
surprise and more gratitude. They ad-
vised her to continue the shoe-making
trade, as they found the shoes were
liked, and they knew that they could
have a sale for them at the Repository
in Dublin. | |
Mary, encouraged by these kind
friends, went on with her little manu-
facture with increased activity. Peggy
and Anne platted the packthread, and
pasted the vamps and the linings toge-
ther ready for her. Edmund was al-
lowed to come home for an hour every
26 THE ORPHANS.

morning, provided he was back again
before eight o’clock. It was summer
time, and he got up early, because he
liked to go home to see his sisters, and
he took his share in the manufactory.
It was his business to hammer the soles
flat: and as soon as he came home every
morning, he performed his task with so
much cheerfulness, and sang so merrily
at his work, that the hour of his arrival |
was always an hour of joy to the family.

Mary had presently employment
enough upon her hands. Orders came
to her for shoes from-many families in
the neighbourhood, and she could not
get them finished fast enough. She,
however, in the midst of her hurry,
found time to make a very pretty pair
with neat roses as a present for her
schoolmistress, who, now that she saw
her pupil in a good way of business,
consented to receive the amount of her
THE ORPHANS. oF

old debt. Several of the children who
went to her school were delighted with
the sight of Mary’s present, and went
to the little manufactory at Rossmore
Castle, to find out how these shoes were
made. Some went from curiosity, others
from idleness; but when they saw how
happy the little shoemakers seemed
whilst busy at work, they longed to take
some share in what was going forwara.
One begged Mary to let her plat some
packthread for the soles; another helped
Peggy and Anne to baste in the linings ;
and all who could get employment were
pleased, for the idle ones were shoved
out of the way. It became a custom
with the children of the village to resort
to the old castle at their play-hours;
and it was surprising to see how much
was done by ten or twelve of them, each
doing but a little at a time.

One morning Edmund and the little
28 THE ORPHANS,

manufacturers were assembled very early,
and they were busy at their work, all
sitting round the meal-chest, which
served them for a table.

“My hands must be washed,” said
George, a little boy who came running
in; “Tran so fast that I might be in
time to go to work along with you all,
that I tumbled down, and look how I
have dirted my hands, Most haste
worst speed. My hands must be washed
before I can do anything.” |

Whilst George waswashing his hands,
two other little children, who had just
finished their morning’s work, came to
him to beg that he would blow some
soap-bubbles for them, and they were
all three eagerly blowing bubbles, and
watching them mount into the air, when
suddenly they were startled by a noise
as loudas thunder. They were in asort
of outer court of the castle, next to the
THE ORPHANS. 29

room in which all their companions were
at work, and they ran precipitately into
the room, exclaiming, “‘ Did you Hd
that noise ?”

“T thought I heard a clap of thun-
der,” said Mary: “but why do you look
so frightened ?”

As she finished speaking, another and
a louder noise, and the walls round about
them shook. The children turned pale,
and stood motionless; but Hdmund
threw down his hammer, and ran out to
see what was the matter. Mary fol-
lowed him, and they saw that a great
chimney of the old ruins at the farthest
side of the castle had fallen down, and
this was the cause of the prodigious
noise. The part of the castle in which
they lived, seemed, as Edmund said, to
be perfectly safe; but the children of
the village were terrified, and thinking
that the whole would come tumbling
30 THE ORPHANS,

down directly, they ran to their homes
as fast as they could. Edmund, who
was a courageous lad, and proud of show-
ing his courage, laughed at their cow-
ardice ; but Mary, who was very prudent,
persuaded her brother to ask an expe-
rienced mason, who was building at his
master’s, to come and give his opinion,
whether their part of the castle was safe
to live in or not. The mason came,
and gave it as his opinion, that the
rooms they inhabited might last through
the winter, but that no part of the
ruins could staid another year. Mary
was sorry to leave a place of which
she had grown fond, poor as it was,
having lived in it in peace and content
ever since her mother’s death, which
was now nearly four years; but she

determined to look out for some other
place to live in; and she had now
money enough to pay the rent of a
THE ORPHANS. 81

comfortable cabin. Without losing any
time, she went to a village that was at
the end of the avenue leading to the
wicarage, for she wished to get a lodg-
ing in this village, because it was so
near to her brother, and to the ladies
who had been so kind to her. She
found that there was one newly-built
house in this village unoccupied: it
belonged to Mr. Harvey, her landlord,
who was still in England; it was slated,
and neatly fitted up within side; but
the rent of it was six guineas a-year,
and this was far above what Mary could
afford to pay. ‘Three guineas a-year
she thought was the highest rent for
which she could venture to engage.
Besides, she heard that several pro-
posals had been made to Mr. Harvey
for this house, and she knew that Mr.
Hopkins, the agent, was not her friend;
therefore she despaired of getting it.
32 THE ORPHANS.

There was no other to be had in this
village. Her brother was still more
vexed than she was, that she could not~
find a place near him. He offered to
give a guinea yearly towards the rent
out of his wages; and Mr. Gilbert
spoke about it for him to the steward,
and inquired whether, amongst any of
those who had given in proposals, there
might not be one who would be content
with a part of the house, and who would
join with Mary in paying the rent.
None could be found but a woman who
was a great scold, and a man who was
famous for going to law about every
trifle with his neighbours. Mary did
not choose to have anything to do with
these people. She did not like to speak
either to Miss Isabella or Caroline about
it, because she was not of an encroach-
ing temper; and when they had done
so much for her, she would have been
we

THE ORPHANS. 39

ashamed to beg for more. She returned
home to the old castle, mortified that
she had no good news to tell Anne and
Pegey, who she knew expected to hear
that she had found a nice house for
them in the village near their brother.

“Bad news for you, Peggy,’ cried
sne, as soonas she got home. “ And bad
news for you, Mary,’’ replied her sisters,
who looked very sorrowful. ‘ What’s
the matter ?”’ “ Your poor goatis dead,”
replied Peggy. “There she is yonder,
lying under the great corner-stone ; you
can just see her leg. We cannot lift the
stone from off her, it is so heavy. Betsy
(one of the neighbour's girls) says she
remembers, when she came to us to work
early this morning, she saw the goat
rubbing itself, and butting with its
horns against that old tottering chim-
ney.”

“Many’s the time,” said Mary, “that

Cc
ot THE ORPHANS.

I have driven the poor thing away from
that place; I was always afraid she
would shake that great ugly stone down ~
upon her at last.”

The goat, who had long been the
favourite of Mary and her sisters, was
lamented by them all. When Edmund
came, he helped them to move the great
stone from off the poor animal, who was
crushed so as to bea terrible sight. As
they were moving away this stone, in
order to bury the goat, Anne found an
odd-looking piece of money, which
seemed neither like a halfpenny, nor a
shilling, nor a guinea. |

“Here are more, a great many more
of them,” cried Peggy; and upon search-
ing amongst the rubbish, they disco-
vered a small iron pot, which seemed as
if it had been filled with these coins; as
a vast number of them were found about
the spot where it fell. On examining
WHE ORPHANS. 30

these coins, Edmund thought that
several of them looked like gold, and
the girls exclaimed with great joy—“ O
Mary! Mary! this is come to us Just in
right time—now you can pay for the
slated house. Never was anything so
lucky!”

But Mary, though nothing could have
pleased her better than to have been
able to pay for the house, observed, that
they could not honestly touch any of
this treasure, as it belonged to the
‘owner of the castle. Edmund agreed
with her, that they ought to carry it. all
immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the agent.
Peggy and Anne were convinced by
what Mary said, and they begged to go
along with her and their brother, to take
the coins to Mr. Hopkins. In their way
they stopped at the vicarage, to show
the treasure to Mr. Gilbert, who took it

to the young ladies, Isabella and Caro-
C2


36 THE ORPHANS.

line, and told them how it had been
found.

It is not only by their superior riches,
but it is yet more by their superior
knowledge, that persons in the higher
ranks of life may assist those in a lower
condition.

Isabella, who had some knowledge of
chemistry, discovered, by touching the
coins with nitric acid, that several of
them were of gold, and consequently of
ereat value. Caroline also found out
that many of the coins were very valu-
able as curiosities. She recollected her
father’s having shown to her the prints
of the coins at the end of each king’s
reign, in Rapin’s History of England ;
and upon comparing these impres-
sions with the coins found by the
orphans, she perceived that many of
them were of the reign of Henry the
Seventh, which, from their scarcity,
THE ORPHANS. 37

were highly appreciated by numismatic
collectors.

Isabella and Caroline, knowing some-
thing of the character of Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, had the precaution to count
the coins, and to mark each of them
with a cross, so small that it was scarcely
visible to the naked eye, though it was
easily to be seen through a magnifying-
glass. They also begged their father, who
was well acquainted with Mr. Harvey,
the gentleman to whom Rossmore Castle
‘belonged, to write to him, and tell him
how well these orphans had behaved
about the treasure which they had found.
The value of the coins was estimated at
about thirty or forty guineas.

A few days after the fall of the chim-
ney at Rossmore Castle, as Mary and
her sisters were sitting at their work,
there came hobbling in an old woman,
leaning on a crab-stick, that seemed to
38 THE ORPHANS.

have been newly cut. She had a broken
tobacco-pipe in her mouth; her head
was wrapped up in two large red and
blue handkerchiefs, with their crooked
corners hanging far downover the back of
her neck, no shoes on her broad feet, nor
stockings on her many-coloured legs.
Her petticoat was jagged at the bottom,
and the skirt of her gown turned up
over her shoulders, to serve instead of
her cloak, which she had sold for whis-
key. This old woman was well known
amongst the country people by the name
of Goody Grope :* because she had, for
many years, been in the habit of groping

* Goody is not a word used in Ireland.
Collyogh is the Irish appellation of an old
woman ; but as Collyogh might sound strangely to
English ears, we have translated it by the word
Goody.
THE ORPHANS. 89

in old castles, and in moats,* and at the
bottom of a round tower? in the neigh-
bourhood, in search of treasure. In her
youth she had heard some one talking,
in a whisper, of an old prophecy, found
in a bog, which said that before many

‘¢St. Patrick’s days should come about,
There would be found
A treasure under ground,
By one within twenty miles round.”

This prophecy made a deep impres-
sion upon her. She also dreamed of it
three times: and as the dream, she
thought, was a sure token that the pro-

* What are in Ireland called moats, are, in
England, called Danish mounts, or barrows.

++ Near Kells, in Ireland, there is a round
tower, which was in imminent danger of being
pulled down, by an old woman’s rooting at its.
foundation, in hopes cf finding treasure.
549 THE ORPHANS.

phecy was to come true, she, from that.
time forwards, gave up her spinning-
wheel and her knitting, and could think
of nothing but hunting for the treasure,
that was to be found by one “ within
twenty miles round.”

Year after year St. Patrick’s day
came about, without her ever finding a
farthing by all her groping; and as she
was always idle, she grew poorer and
poorer. Besides, to comfort herself for
her disappointments, and to give her
spirits for fresh searches, she took to
drinking. She sold all she had by de-
grees; but still she fancied that. the.
lucky day would come sooner or later,
that would pay for all.

Goody Grope, however, réached her
sixtieth year, without ever seeing this
lucky day ; and now, in her old age, she
was a beggar, without a house to shelter
her, a bed to lie on, or food to put into
THE ORPHANS. 41

her mouth, but what she begged from
the charity of those who had trusted
more than she had to industry and less
to luck. :

“Ah! Mary, honey !—give me a po-
tato, and a sup of something, for the
love o’ mercy; for not a bit have I had
all day, except half-a-glass of whiskey
and a halfpenny-worth of tobacco !”’

_ Mary immediately set before her some
milk, and picked a good potato out of
the bowl for her. She was sorry to see
such an old woman in such a wretched
condition. Goody Grope said she would
rather have spirits of some kind or other
than milk; but Mary had no spirits to
give her; so she sat herself down close
to the fire, and after she had sighed and
groaned, and smoked for some time, she
said to Mary—*“ Well, and what have
you done with the treasure you had the
luck to find?” Mary told her that she
42 THE ORPHANS.

had carried it to Mr. Hopkins, the
agent.

“That’s not what I would have done
in your place,” replied the old woman.
“When good luck came to you, what a
shame to turn your back upon it! But
it is idle talking of what’s done—that’s
past; but Pll try my luck in this here
castle before next St. Patrick’s day comes
about. I was told it was more than
twenty miles from our bog, or I would
have been pone long ago: but better late
than never.’

Mary was much alarmed, and not
without reason, at this speech: for she
knew that if Goody Grope once set to
work at the foundation of the old castle
of Rossmore, she would soon bring it
all down. It was in vain to talk to
Goody Grope of the danger of burying
herself under the ruins, or of the impro-
_bability of her meeting with another
THE ORPHANS. 3 43

pot of gold coins. She set her elbow
upon her knees, and stopping her ears
with her hands, bid Mary and her sis-
ters not to waste their breath advising
their elders ; for that, let them say what
they would, she would fall to work the
next morning: “barring you'll make it
worth my while to let it alone.”

¢ And what will make it worth your
~ while to let it alone?” said Mary; for
she saw that she must either get into a
quarrel, or give up her habitation, or
comply with the conditions of this pro-
voking old woman. :

Half-a-crown, Goody Grope said,
was the least she could be content to
take.

Mary paid the half-crown, and was in
hopes that she had got rid for ever of
her tormentor: but she was mistaken;
for scarcely was the week at an end, be-
fore the old woman appeared before her
4A THE ORPHANS.

again, and repeated her threats of falling
to work the next morning, unless she
had something a to her to buy
tobacco.

The next day, and the next, and the
next, Goody Grope came on the same
errand; and poor Mary, who could ill
afford to supply her constantly with
halfpence, at last exclaimed—“I am
sure the finding of this treasure has not
been any good luck to, us, but quite the
contrary; and I wish we never had
found it.”

Mary did not yet know how much she
was to suffer on account of this unfor-
tunate pot of gold coins. Mr. Hopkins,
the agent, imagined that no one knew
of the discovery of this treasure but him-
self and these poor children; so, not
being as honest as they were, he resolved
to keep it for his own use. He was sur-
prised some weeks afterwards to receive
THE ORPHANS. 45

a letter from his employer, Mr. Harvey,
demanding from him the coins which
had. been discovered at Rossmore Castle.
Hopkins had sold the gold coins, and
some of the others; but he flattered him-
self that the children, and the young
ladies to whom he now found they had
been shown, could not tell whether what
they had seen were gold or not; and he
was not in the least apprehensive that
those of Henry the Seventh’s reign
should be reclaimed from him, as he
thought they had escaped attention. So
he sent over the silver coins, and others
of little value, and apologised for his not
having mentioned them before, by say-
ing that he considered them as mere
rubbish.

Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed that
he could not consider as rubbish the
gold coins which were amongst them
when they were discovered; and he in-
46 THE ORPHANS.

quired why these gold coins, and those
of the reign of Henry the Seventh, were
not now sent to him.

Mr. Hopkins denied that he had ever
received any such; but he was thunder-
struck when Mr. Harvey, in reply.to ‘
this falsehood, sent him a list of the
coins which the orphans had deposited
with him, and exact drawings of those
that were missing. He informed him
that this list and these drawings came
from two ladies who had seen the coins
in question.

Mr. Hopkins thought that he had no
means of escape but by boldly persisting
in falsehood. He replied, that it was
very likely such coins had been found at
Rossmore Castle, and that the ladies al-
luded to had probably seen them; but
he positively declared that they never
came to his hands; that he had restored
all that were deposited with him; and
THE ORPHANS. 47

that, as to the others, he supposed they
_ must have been taken out of the pot
by the children, or by Edmund or Mary
in their way from the ladies’ house to
his.

The orphans were shocked and aston-
ished when they heard, from Isabella
and Caroline, the charge that was made
against them. They looked at one
another in silence for some moments.
Then Peggy exclaimed—‘“ Sure! Mr.
Hopkins has forgotten himself strangely!
Does not he remember Edmund’s count-
ing the things to him upon the great
table in his hall, and we all standing by?
I remember it as well as if it was this
instant.”

“ And so do J,” cried Anne. “ And
don’t you recollect, Mary, your picking
out the gold ones, and telling Mr. Hop-
kins that they were gold; and he said
you knew nothing of the matter; and
48 THE ORPHANS.

I was going to tell him that Miss Isa-
bella had tried them, and knew that
they were gold; but just then there
came in some tenants to pay their rent,
and he pushed us out, and twitehed from
my hand the piece of gold which I had
taken up to show him the bright spot
which Miss Isabella had cleaned by the
stuff that she had poured on itP I be-
lieve he was afraid I should steal it; he
twitched it from my hand in such a
hurry. Do, Edmund; do, Mary—let
us go to him, and put him in mind of
all this.”’

“T’ll go to him no more,” said Hd-
mund, sturdily. “ Heis a bad man—
I'll never go to him again. Mary, don’t
be cast down—we have no need to be
cast down—we are honest.”

“True,” said Mary; “but is not ita
hard case that we, who have lived, as
my mother did all her life before us, in
THE ORPHANS. 49

peace and honesty with all the world,
should now have our good name taken
from us, when *? Mary’s voice fal-
tered and stopped.

“It can’t be taken from us,’’ cried
Edmund, “ poor orphans though we are,
and he a rich gentieman, as he calls
himself. Let him say and do what he —
will, he can’t hurt our good name.”

Edmund was mistaken, alas! and
Mary had but too much reason for her
fears. The affair wasa great deal talked
of; and the agent spared no pains to
have the story told his own way. The
orphans, conscious of their own inno-
cence, took no pains about the matter;
and the consequence was, that all who
knew them well had no doubt of their
honesty ; but many, who knew nothing
of them, concluded that the agent must
be in the right and the children in the

wrong. The buzz of scandal went on for
D


50 THE ORPHANS.

some time without reaching their ears,
because they lived very retiredly. But
one day, when Mary went to sell some
stockings of Peggy’s knitting at the
neighbouring fair, the man to whom she
sold them bid her write her name on
the back of a note, and exclaimed, on ©
seeing it, “Ho! ho! mistress: I’d not
have had any dealings with you, had I
known your name sooner. Where’s
the gold that you found at Rossmore
Castle ?” )

It was in vain that Mary related the
fact. Shesaw that she gained no belief,
as her character was not known to this
man, or to any of those who were pre-
sent. - She left the fair as soon as she
could ; and though she struggled against
it, she felt very melancholy. Still she
exerted herself every day at her little
manufacture; and she endeavoured to
console herself by reflecting that she had
THE ORPHANS. 51

two friends left who would not give
up her character, and who continued
steadily to protect her and her sisters.
Isabella and Caroline everywhere as-
serted their belief in the integrity of the
orphans, but to prove it was in this in-
stance out of their power. Mr. Hop-
kins, the agent, and his friends, con-
stantly repeated that the gold coins were
taken away in coming from their house
to his; and these ladies were blamed by
many people for continuing to counte-
nance those that were, with great rea-
son, suspected to be thieves. The or-
phans were in a worse condition than
ever when the winter came on, and their
benefactresses left the country to spend
some monthsin Dublin. The old castle,
it was true, was likely to last through
the winter, as the mason said; but
though. the want of a comfortable house

to live in was, a little while ago, the
D2
52 THE ORPHANS.

uppermost thing in Mary’s thoughts,
now it was not so.

One night, as Mary was going to bed,
she heard some one knocking hard at
the door :—“ Mary, are you up ?—let
us in,” cried a voice, which she knew to
be the voice of Betsy Green, the post-
master’s daughter, who lived in the vil-
lage near them. .

She let Betsy in, and asked what she
could want at such a time of night.

“Give me sixpence, and I'll tell
you,” said Betsy; “but waken Anne
and Peggy. Here’s a letter just
come by post for you, and I stepped
over to you with it; because I
guessed. you'd be glad to have it,
seeing it is your brother’s hand-
writing.”

Peggy and Anne were soon roused,
when they heard that there was a letter
from Edmund. It was by one of his


VHE ORPHANS. 53

-push-candles that Mary read it; andthe
letter was as follows :—

“ Dear Mary, Nancy, and little Peg,

“ Joy! joy !—lI always said the truth
would come out at last; and that he
could not take our good name from us.
But I will not tell you how it all came
about till we meet, which will be next
week, as we are (I mean master and
mistress, and the young ladies,—bless
them !—and Mr. Gilbert and I) coming
down to the vicarage to keep the Christ-
mas: and a happy Christmas ’tis likely
to be for honest folks. As for they that
are not honest, it is not for them to ex-
pect to be happy, at Christmas or any
other time. You shall know all when
we meet. So, till then, fare ye well,
dear Mary, Nancy, and little Peg!

“ Your joyful and affectionate brother,

“ EDMUND.”
54, THE ORPHANS.

To comprehend why Edmund is joy-
ful, our readers must be informed of
certain things which happened after
Isabella and Caroline went to Dublin.
One morning they went with their father
and mother to see the magnificent library —
of a nobleman, who took generous and
polite pleasure in thus sharing the ad-
vantages of his wealth and station with
all who had any pretensions to science
or literature. Knowing that the gen-
tleman who was now come to see his
library was skilled in antiquities, the
nobleman opened a drawer of medals, to
ask his opinion concerning the age of
some coins, which he had lately pur-
chased at a high price. They were the
very same which the orphans had found
at Rossmore Castle. Isabella and Caro-
line knew them again instantly ; and as
the cross which Isabella had made on
each of them was still visible through a
THE ORPHANS. 55

magnifying glass, there could be no pos-
sibility of doubt.

The nobleman, who was much in-
terested both by the story of these or-
phans, and the manner in which it was
told to him, sent immediately for the
person from whom he had purchased
the coins. He was a Jew broker. At
first he refused to tell from whom he
got them, because he had bought them,
he said, under a promise of secrecy. Be-
ing further pressed, he acknowledged
_ that it was made a condition in his bar-
gain that he should not sell them to any
one in Ireland, but that he had been
tempted by the high price the present
noble possessor had offered.

At last, when the Jew was informed
that the coins were stolen, and that he
would be proceeded against as a receiver
of stolen goods, if he did not confess
the whole truth, he declared that he

#
56 THE ORPHANS.

had purchased them from a gentleman,
whom he had never seen before or since;
but he added, that he could swear to his
person, if he saw him again.

Now Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was at
this time in Dublin, and Caroline’s
father posted the Jew, the next day, in
the back-parlour of a banker’s house,
with whom Mr. Hopkins had, on this
day, appointed to settle some accounts.
Mr. Hopkins came—the Jew knew him
—swore that he was the man who had
sold the coins to him; and thus the
guilt of the agent and the innocence of
the orphans were completely proved.

A. full account of all that happened
was sent to England to Mr. Harvey,
their landlord, and a few posts afterwards
there came a letter from him, containing
a dismissal of the dishonest agent, and
a reward for the honest and industrious
orphans. Mr. Harvey desired that
THE ORPHANS. 57

Mary and her sisters might have the
slated house, rent-free, from this time
forward, under the care of ladies Isabella
and Caroline, as long as Mary or her
sisters should carry on in it any useful
business. This was the joyful news
which Edmund had to tell his sisters.
All the neighbours shared in their
joy, and the day of their removal from
the ruins of Rossmore Castle to their
new house was the happiest of the
Christmas holidays. They were not
envied for their prosperity; because
everybody saw that it was the reward
of their good conduct; everybody ex-
cept Goody Grope. She exclaimed, as
she wrung her hands with violent ex-
pressions of sorrow—“ Bad luck to me!
bad luck to me!—Why didn’t I go
sooner to that there castle? It is all
luck, all luck in this world; but I never
had no luck. Think of the luck of
58 THE ORPHANS.

these childer, that have found a pot of
gold, and such great, grand friends, and
a slated house, and all: and here am I,
with scarce a rag to cover me, and not

a potato to put into my mouth !—I,°

that have been looking under ground all
my days for treasure, not to havea half-
penny at the last, to buy me tobacco !”

“That is the very reason that you

have not a halfpenny,” said Betsy.
“Here Mary has been working hard,
and so have her two little sisters and her
brother, for these five years past; and
they have made money for themselves
by their own industry—and friends too
—not by luck, but by 4

“Phoo! phoo!’’ interrupted Goody
Grope; “don’t be prating; don’t I
know as well as you do, that they found
a pot of gold, by good-luck ; and is not
that the cause why they are going to
live in the slated house now P”


THE ORPHANS. 59

“No,” replied the postmaster’s
daughter; “this house is given to
them as a reward—that was the word
in the letter, for I saw it. Edmund
showed it to me, and will show it to
any one that wants to see. ‘This house
was given to them ‘as areward for their
honesty.’ ”’
OLD PO Z,

Lucy, daughter to the Justice.
Mrs. Bustuz, landlady of the Sa-
racen’s Head.

JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.

Op Man. :

Witriam, a Servant.

SCENE I.
The house of Justice Headstrong—a hall

—Lucy watering some myrtles—A
servant behind the scenes is heard to
say—
I TELL you my master is not up.— You
can’t see him, so go about your business,
q say.
OLD POZ. 61

Lucy. To whom are you speaking,
William? = Who’s that P .

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

Lucy. O then, don’t send him away—
don’t send him away.

Will. But master has not had _ his
chocolate, ma’am. He wont 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. (Lait Servant.)

(Lucy sings, and goes on water-
ing her myrtles;—the ser-
vant shows m 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
62 OLD POZ.

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 myr-

- tle is quite dead—quite dead.

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

Lucy (aside). I wonder what can
make him sigh so!—(Aloud.) My father
wont make you wait long.

Old M. O, 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 P

Old UM, Ah, miss; because, though it
OLD POZ. 638

is a small matter in itself, it is not a
small mattér 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 wont
trouble you about it.

Lucy. But it wont 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 down-stairs ; follow
me. ‘You may tell me your story as we
go along.

Old M. I slept at the Sassi 8
Lead, miss, and





(Lait talking.)
64 OLD POZ.

SCENE II.
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
as leaning on the arm of his chair.)

Just. Well, well, my darling, pre-
sently ; I’ll see him presently.

Lucy. Whilst you are drinking your
chocolate, papa ?

Just. No, no, no—I never see any-
body till I have done my chocolate, dar-
ling. (He tastes his chocolate.) There’s
‘no sugar in this, child.

Lucy. Yes, indeed, papa.

Just. No, child—there’s no sugar, I

| tell you; that’s poz!
| ' Luey. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I
put in two lumps myself.

Just. There’s no sugar, I say; why



edt
OLD POZ. 65

will you contradict me, child, for ever?
—there’s no sugar, I say.

(Lucy leans over him playfully, and
with his tea-spoon 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 busi-
ness to do. Go and send William to
me; do you hear, love P

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

E
66 OLD POZ.

he can’t wait, he can go about his busi~
ness, can’t he?

Lucy. Oh, sir, he can wait.—It was
not hewho 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 the dish
away); and at any rate there was not
sugar enough—send William, send Wil-
liam, child; and I’ll finish my own bu-
siness, and then:

(Exit Lucy, dancing, “ And then!
—and then!’’)



JusticH, alone.

O this foot of mine!—(twinges)—O
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
OLD POz. 67

it; I can’t, and I wont, for all the Dr.
Spareribs in Christendom ; that’s poz!

Enter W1ILLIaM.

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 im-
mediately, sir.

Just. Ah, that’s well—immediately ?

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

Just. O show her up; show Mrs.
Bustle in.

Enter Mas. Bustun, the landlady o
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

. E2
68 OLD POZ.

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. O your worship’s always very
good (setiling 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. Tn the oven it is. I put it in
with my own hands; andif 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-




OLD. POZ. 69

pie as ever your worship set your eyes
upon.

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

Land, O 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. A luncheon wont go
down with nobody now-a-days (laughs).
I expect hostler and boots will be
calling for their sandwiches just now
(laughs again). Ym sure I beg your
worship’s pardon for mentioning a
luncheon.

Just. O 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
70 OLD POZ.

thought I was up in remarkably good
time, too.

Land. Well, and to be sure so it
was, remarkably good time for your
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 early little body; though
I say it that should not say it—I am an
early little body.

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

Land. For dinner, as sure as the clock
strikes four—but I mustn’t stay prating,
for it may be spoiling ifI’m away; so
I must wish your worship a good morn-
ing. _ (She curtsies.)

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

Enter Witi1aM, to take away the choco-
late—The Landlady is putting on her
shawl.

Just. You. may let that man know,
William, that I have despatched my own
business, and I 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 a travelling
man, in my opinion, sir,—or something
that way; I take it. 3

(At these words the Landlady turns
round mquisitively, and delays,
that she may listen, while she 1s
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
72 OLD POZ.

the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me

the goose-pie for dinner ;—four o’elock,

do you hear? And show the old man
in now. i

(Lhe Landlady looks eagerly to-

wards the door, as it opens, and
exclaims—)

Land. My old gentleman, as I hope

to breathe!

Enter the Oud Man.

(Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe—
The Justice leans back, and looks con-
sequential—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 P—Ay, you little thought, I warrant
ye, to meet me here with his worship—
but there you reckoned without your

‘eee
OLD POZ. 73

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
you warning; so you may go further
and fare worse—and spare your breath
to cool your porridge.

Just. (waves his hand with dignity).
Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remem-
ber 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 P and what is your business with
me?

Land. Sir, if your worship will give
me leave—(Justice makes a sign to het
to be silent).
74 OLD POZ.

Old M. Please your worship, Iam an
old soldier.

Land. (interrupting). An old hypo-
crite, 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 interzupt). 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 POZ. 75

Old M. 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 pre-
sently. —

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. But what? proceed, pray, to
the point.

Old M. But last night I slept here in
- town, please your worship, at the Sara-
cen’s Head.

Land. (in a rage). At the Saracen’s


76 OLD POZ.

Head! Yes, forsooth, none such ever
slept at the Saracen’s Head afore, or
ever shall after, 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—he shall speak
first, since I’ve said it—that’s poz!
Speak on, friend: youslept last night at
the Saracen’s Head.

Old M. Yes, please your worship, and
T accuse nobody—but, at night, I had
my little money safe, and in the morn-
ing it was gone.

Land. Gone!—gone, indeed, in my
house! and this is the way I’m to be
treated! Is it soP—I couldn’t but
speak, please 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
OLD POZ. 97

chair, beside you, to silence me—(turn-
ing 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, you wheedling hypocrite?
And the thanks I receive is to call me
and mine a pack of thieves.

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

Land. Ay, I thought when J came 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 wont com-
mand 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 will want me at home—(re-
turning and whispering)—shall I send


78 OLD -POZ.

the goose-pie up, your worship, if it’s
ready P

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. O, for that matter, your wor-
ship knows best, to be sure.

(Exit Landlady, angry.)

SCENE IIT.

Justion Hzapstrone, Ord May, and
Lucy.

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 told me not.

Just. O darling, you shall contradict

ie a


OLD POZ. 79

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 Ma-
jesty’s subjects may have justice, and
speak his mind before the first man 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
wont 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 P—and
you missed it this morning? Are you
sure you had it safe at night ?

Old M. Oh, please your worship, quite
sure; for 1 took it out, and looked at it,
just before I said my prayers.
80 OLD POZ.

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
Talways put it—always—in my tobacco-
box. ;

Just. Your tobacco-box! I never heard.
of such a thing—to make a strong box
of 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 be-
lieve that! 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 POZ. 81

Old M. If I were, please your wor-
ship, 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 WM. 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 wont 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 hox, did you, papa P

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 ——

E
82 OLD POZ.

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
Pll tell you more, if my Lord Chief-Jus-
tice 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! darling ;—go
to your dolls, darling, and don’t be posi-
tive—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
‘OLD POZ. 83

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 P—Recollect
yourself, I’ll give you time to recollect
yourself,

(A pause.)

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

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

dust. What, contradict me again, after
I gave you time to recollect yourself—
TP’ve done with you; I have done. Con-
tradict 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
F 2



s a


84 OLD POZ.

law !—and J’ll make you know it too.
Oue hour J’ll give you to recollect your-
self, and if you don’t give up this idle
story —P1I—T’Il commit youasa 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

believe it—that’s poz!
(Lucy speaks to the Old Man ashe

as going off.)

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

Old M. Tf tell the truth—(éurning
up his eyes.)

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

Lucy. One moment—answer me one
question — because of something that


OLD POZ 85

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.—J// I tell

_ the truth—oh! (Zuit.)

SCENE IV.
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
persists in a lie? Take the money
and leave the box! Obstinate block-
head! Here, William (showing the com-
mittal), take this old gentleman to
Holdfast, the constable, and give him
this warrant.
86 OLD POZ.

Enter Lucy, running, out of breath.

Lucy. V’ve found it! I’ve found it!
T’ve found it! Here, old man; here’s
your money—here it is all—a guinea
and ahalf, and a shilling, and a sixpence,
—just as he said, papa.

Enter LANDLADY.

Land. O la! your worship, did you
ever hear the like P

Just. I’ve heard nothing yet that I
can understand. First, have you se-
cured 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 P

Just. Yes, child, by all means; and
now I shall hear what possessed him to
leave the box—I don’t understand—


OLD POZ. 87

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-examin-
ing the thief.

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

Re-enter Lucy, with a huge wicker cage
im 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 mag-
pie—Who’d have thought 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
$8 OLD POZ.

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 P

Land. Oh, of all days in the year ; but
Task pardon, miss.

LIncy. Well, that day I heard my
uncle and another gentleman telling
stories of magpies hiding money; and
they laid a wager about this old mag-
pie; 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!
——

OLD POZ. 89

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.—No man would have
taken the money, and left the box. You
see I was right; no man would 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 so 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 I told you
no lies. Say no more—say no more. I
90 OLD POZ.

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 a true 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. Yow'll drink my health,
wont you,—hey P

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
OLD POZ. 91

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’’—TI don’t know
whether it tells well for me; but
Ill never be positive any more—that’s
pow f-

THE END.


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