“Frederick! my son!”
“Yes, mother, I’m not hurt half so much as I deserve; I’ll tell you—”
“Nay,” interrupted Bertha, “let my brother tell the story this time. Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better.”
“A story never tells so well the second time, to be sure,” said Mrs. Theresa; “but Mr. Eden will certainly make the best of it.”
Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words. “Your son,” concluded he, “will quickly put off his dirty dress. The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable. When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son. I speak plainly, friend, for that is best. But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper? He will want to go home,” said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa. Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.
“Here is a catastrophe indeed! Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry. A new suit of clothes!—the bare faced villain! gone! no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere. The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him. I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly. The wretch!—a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat. I never heard of such a thing! I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion,” added Mrs. Theresa.
“Madam,” replied Mr. Montague, with a look of much civil contempt, “I think the loss of a suit of clothes, and even the disgrace that my son has been brought to this evening, fortunate circumstances in his education. He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future. Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called ‘The best mimic in the world.’”
THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.
“The mother of mischief,” says an old proverb, “is no bigger than a midge’s wing.”
At Doctor Middleton’s school, there was a great tall dunce of the name of Fisher, who never could be taught how to look out a word in the dictionary. He used to torment everybody with—“Do pray help me! I can’t make out this one word.” The person who usually helped him in his distress was a very clever, good natured boy, of the name of De Grey, who had been many years under Dr. Middleton’s care, and who, by his abilities and good conduct, did him great credit. The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of him; but he was so well beloved, or so much esteemed by his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the odious name of favourite, until the arrival of a new scholar of the name of Archer.