Whilst the preceding conversation was passing, Lady Diana Chillingworth
was in Mrs. Bertrand's fruit-shop, occupied with her smelling-bottle and
Miss Burrage. Clara Hope was there also, and Mrs. Puffit, the milliner,
and Mrs. Bertrand, who was assuring her ladyship that not a word of the
affair about the young lady and the lace should go out of her house.
"Your la'ship need not be in the least uneasy," said Mrs. Bertrand,
"for I have satisfied the constable, and satisfied every body; and the
constable allows Miss Warwick's name was not mentioned in the warrant;
and as to the servant girl, she's gone before the magistrate, who, of
course, will send her to the house of correction; but that will no ways
implicate the young lady, and nothing shall transpire from this house
detrimental to the young lady, who is under your la'ship's protection.
And I'll tell your la'ship how Mrs. Puffit and I have settled to tell
the story: with your ladyship's approbation, I shall say--"
"Nothing, if you please," said her ladyship, with more than her usual
haughtiness. "The young lady to whom you allude is under Lady Frances
Somerset's protection, not mine; and whatever you do or say, I beg that
in this affair the name of Lady Diana Chillingworth may not be used."
She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as she finished this
speech, and walked to the furthest end of the long room, followed by the
constant flatterer of all her humours, Miss Burrage.
The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console themselves for the
mortification they had received from her ladyship's pride, and for the
insolent forgetfulness of her companion, by abusing them both in a low
voice. Mrs. Bertrand began with, "Her ladyship's so touchy and so proud;
she's as high as the moon, and higher."
"Oh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so," said Mrs. Puffit;
"but then, to be sure, they have a right to be so if any body has, for
they certainly are real high-horn people. But I can't tolerate to
see some people, that aren't no ways born nor entitled to it, give
themselves such airs as some people do. Now, there's that Miss Burrage,
that pretends not to know me, ma'am."
"And me, ma'am,--just the same: such provoking assurance--I that knew
her from this high."
"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," said Mrs. Puffit.
"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," echoed Mrs. Bertrand.
"So I told her this morning, ma'am," said Mrs. Puffit.
"And so I told her this evening, ma'am, when the three Miss Herrings
came in to give me a call in their way to the play; girls that she used
to walk with, ma'am, for ever and ever in the green, you know."
"Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea with, ma'am, when asked,
you know," said Mrs. Puffit.
"Well, ma'am," pursued Mrs. Bertrand, "here she had the impudence to
pretend not to know them. She takes up her glass--my Lady Di. herself
couldn't have done it better, and squeezes up her ugly face this way,
pretending to be near-sighted, though she can see as well as you or I
can."
"Such airs! _she_ near-sighted!" said Mrs. Puffit: "what will the world
come to!"
"Oh, I wish her pride may have a fall," resumed the provoked milliner,
as soon as she had breath. "I dare to say now she wouldn't know her
own relations if she was to meet them; I'd lay any wager she would
not vouchsafe a curtsy to that good old John Barker, the friend of her
father, you know, who gave up to this Miss Burrage I don't know how many
hundreds of pounds, that were due to him, or else miss wouldn't have had
a farthing in the world; yet now, I'll be bound, she'd forget this as
well as St. Augustin's Back, and wouldn't know John Barker from Abraham;
and I don't doubt that she'd pull out her glass at her aunt Dinah,
because she is a cheesemonger's widow."
"Oh no," said Mrs. Bertrand, "she couldn't have the baseness to be
near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred her up, and was all in all
to her."
Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit-shop walked the
very persons of whom she had been talking--Dinah Plait and Mr. Barker.
"Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand.
"I never was so glad to see you, Mrs. Plait and Mr. Barker, in all my
days," said Mrs. Puffit.
"Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, Mrs. Puffit, I don't
know," said Mr. Barker, laughing; "but I'm not surprised Dinah Plait
should be a welcome guest wherever she goes, especially with a purse
full of guineas in her hand."
"Friend Bertrand," said Dinah Plait, producing a purse which she held
under her cloak, "I am come to restore this purse to its rightful
owner: after a great deal of trouble, John Barker (who never thinks it a
trouble to do good) hath traced her to your house."
"There is a young lady here, to be sure," said Mrs. Bertrand, "but
you can't see her just at present, for she is talking on _petticlar_
business with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs."
"Tis well," said Dinah Plait: "I would willingly restore this purse, not
to the young creature herself, but to some of her friends,--for I fear
she is not quite in a right state of mind. If I could see any of the
young lady's friends."
"Miss Burrage," cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so loud that
she could not avoid hearing it, "are not you one of the young lady's
friends?"
"What young lady's friend?" replied Miss Burrage, without stirring from
her seat.
"Miss Burrage, here's a purse for a young lady," said Mrs. Puffit.
"A purse for whom? Where?" said Miss Burrage, at last deigning to rise,
and come out of her recess.
"There, ma'am," said the milliner. "Now for her glass!" whispered Mrs.
Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it had been predicted, Miss
Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through her glass, pretending not to know
her. "The purse is not mine," said she, coolly: "I know nothing of
it--nothing."
"Hetty!" exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still eyed her through
her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, Dinah thought that, however
strong the resemblance, she was mistaken. "No, it can't be Hetty. I beg
pardon, madam," said she, "but I took you for--Did not I hear you say
the name of Burrage, friend Puffit?"
"Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire," said the milliner,
with malicious archness.
"One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire: I beg pardon. But did you ever see
such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor niece, Hetty Burrage?"
Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned her back
upon her aunt. "A grotesque statue of starch,--one of your quakers, I
think, they call themselves: Bristol is full of such primitive figures,"
said Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the recess and
to Lady Di.
"So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester," said Dinah Plait, and she
wiped the tears from her eyes. "Though Hetty has neglected me so of
late, I have a tenderness for her; we cannot but have some for our own
relations."
"Grotesque or not, 'tis a statue that seems to have a heart, and a gude
one," said Clara Hope.
"I wish we could say the same of every body," said Mrs. Bertrand.
All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had been silent:
"Burrage of Dorsetshire!" said he; "I'll soon see whether she be or no;
for Hetty has a wart on her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget
whom and what she pleases."
Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, followed the young
lady to the recess; and, after looking her full in the face, exclaimed
in a loud voice, "Here's the wart!--'tis Hetty!"
"Sir!--wart!--man!--Lady Di.!" cried Miss Burrage, in accents of the
utmost distress and vexation.
Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by no means
relinquish her hand; but leading, or rather pulling her forwards, he
went on with barbarous steadiness: "Dinah," said he, "'tis your
own niece. Hetty, 'tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What,
struggle--Burrage of Dorsetshire!"
"There certainly," said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a solemn tone, "is
a conspiracy, this night, against my poor nerves. These people, amongst
them, will infallibly surprise me to death. What is the matter now?--why
do you drag the young lady, sir? She came here with _me_, sir,--with
Lady Diana Chillingworth; and, consequently, she is not a person to be
insulted."
"Insult her!" said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was not to be
baffled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss Burrage, or by the
imposing manner and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. "Insult her!
why, 'tis she insults us; she won't know us."
"How should Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any body here?" said Lady
Diana, looking round, as if upon beings of a species different from her
own.
"How should she know her own aunt that bred her up?" said the invincible
John Barker, "and me who have had her on my knee a hundred times, giving
her barley-sugar till she was sick?"
"Sick! I am sure you make me sick," said Lady Diana. "Sir, that young
lady is one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, as good a family as any in
England."
"Madam," said John Barker, replying in a solemnity of tone equal to
her ladyship's, "that young lady is one of the Burrages of Bristol,
drysalters; niece to Dinah Plait, who is widow to a man, who was, in his
time, as honest a cheesemonger as any in England."
"Miss Burrage!--My God!--don't you speak!" cried Lady Diana, in a voice
of terror.
"The young lady is bashful, my lady, among strangers," said Mrs.
Bertrand.
"Oh, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee?" said Dinah Plait, with in
accent of mixed sorrow and affection; "but thou art my niece, and I
forgive thee."
"A cheesemonger's niece!" cried Lady Diana, with horror; "how have I
been deceived! But this is the consequence of making acquaintance at
Buxton, and those watering-places: I've done with her, however. Lord
bless me! here comes my sister, Lady Frances! Good heavens! my dear,"
continued her ladyship, going to meet her sister, and drawing her
into the recess at the farthest end of the room, "here are more
misfortunes--misfortunes without end. What will the world say? Here's
this Miss Burrage,--take no more notice of her, sister; she's an
impostor; who do you think she turns out to be? Daughter to a drysalter,
niece to a cheesemonger! Only conceive!--a person that has been going
about with _me_ every where!--What will the world say?"
"That it is very imprudent to have _unknown friends_, my dear," replied
Lady Frances. "The best thing you can possibly do is to say nothing
about the matter, and to receive this penitent ward of yours without
reproaches; for if you talk of her _unknown friends_, the world will
certainly talk of yours."
Lady Diana drew back with haughtiness when her sister offered to put
Miss Warwick's hands into hers; but she condescended to say, after an
apparent struggle with herself, "I am happy to hear, Miss Warwick,
that you have returned to your senses. Lady Frances takes you under her
protection, I understand; at which, for all our sakes, I rejoice; and I
have only one piece of advice, Miss Warwick, to give you--"
"Keep it till after the play, my dear Diana," whispered Lady Frances;
"it will have more effect."
"The play!--Bless me!" said Lady Diana, "why, you have contrived to
make Miss Warwick fit to be seen, I protest. But, after all I have
gone through to-night, how can I appear in public? My dear, this Miss
Burrage's business has given me such a shock,--such nervous affections!"
"Nervous affections!--Some people, I do believe, have none but nervous
affections," thought Lady Frances.
"Permit me," said Mrs. Dinah Plait, coming up to Lady Frances, and
presenting Miss Warwick's purse--"permit me, as thou seemest to be a
friend to this young lady, to restore to thee her purse, which she left
by mistake at my house this forenoon. I hope she is better, poor thing!"
"She _is_ better, and I thank you for her, madam," said Lady Frances,
who was struck with the obliging manner and benevolent countenance of
Dinah Plait, and who did not think herself contaminated by standing in
the same room with the widow of a cheesemonger.
"Let me thank you myself, madam," said Angelina; "I am perfectly in my
senses _now_, I can assure you; and I shall never forget the kindness
which you and this benevolent gentleman showed me when you thought I was
in real distress."
"Some people are more grateful than other people," said Mrs. Puffit,
looking at Miss Burrage, who in mortified, sullen silence, followed the
aunt and the benefactor of whom she was ashamed, and who had reason to
be ashamed of her.
We do not imagine that our readers can be much interested for a young
lady who was such a compound of pride and meanness; we shall therefore
only add, that her future life was spent on St. Augustin's Back, where
she made herself at once as ridiculous and as unhappy as she deserved to
be.
As for our heroine, under the friendly and judicious care of Lady
Frances Somerset, she acquired that which is more useful to the
possessor than genius--good sense. Instead of rambling over the world
in search of an _unknown friend_, she attached herself to those of whose
worth she received proofs more convincing than a letter of three folio
sheets, stuffed with sentimental nonsense. In short, we have now, in the
name of Angelina Warwick, the pleasure to assure all those whom it may
concern, that it is possible for a young lady of sixteen to cure herself
of the affectation of sensibility, and the folly of romance.
THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS
Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robespierre, was Mad. de
Rosier, a lady of good family, excellent understanding, and most amiable
character. Her husband, and her only son, a promising young man of about
fourteen, were dragged to the horrid prison of the Conciergerie, and
their names, soon afterward, appeared in the list of those who fell
a sacrifice to the tyrant's cruelty. By the assistance of a faithful
domestic, Mad. de Rosier, who was destined to be the next victim,
escaped from France, and took refuge in England--England!--that generous
country, which, in favour of the unfortunate, forgets her national
prejudices, and to whom, in their utmost need, even her "_natural
enemies_" fly for protection. English travellers have sometimes been
accused of forgetting the civilities which they receive in foreign
countries; but their conduct towards the French emigrants has
sufficiently demonstrated the injustice of this reproach.
Mad. de Rosier had reason to be pleased by the delicacy of several
families of distinction in London, who offered her their services under
the name of gratitude; but she was incapable of encroaching upon the
kindness of her friends. Misfortune had not extinguished the energy
of her mind, and she still possessed the power of maintaining herself
honourably by her own exertions. Her character and her abilities being
well known, she easily procured recommendations as a preceptress. Many
ladies anxiously desired to engage such a governess for their children,
but Mrs. Harcourt had the good fortune to obtain the preference.
Mrs. Harcourt was a widow, who had been a very fine woman, and continued
to be a very fine lady; she had good abilities, but, as she lived in
a constant round of dissipation, she had not time to cultivate her
understanding, or to attend to the education of her family; and she had
satisfied her conscience by procuring for her daughters a fashionable
governess and expensive masters. The governess whose place Mad. de
Rosier was now to supply, had quitted her pupils, to go abroad with a
lady of quality, and Mrs. Harcourt knew enough of the world to bear her
loss without emotion;--she, however, stayed at home one whole evening,
to receive Mad. de Rosier, and to introduce her to her pupils. Mrs.
Harcourt had three daughters and a son--Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta,
and Herbert. Isabella was about fourteen; her countenance was
intelligent, but rather too expressive of confidence in her own
capacity, for she had, from her infancy, been taught to believe that she
was a genius. Her memory had been too much cultivated; she had learned
languages with facility, and had been taught to set a very high value
upon her knowledge of history and chronology. Her temper had been hurt
by flattery, yet she was capable of feeling all the generous passions.
Matilda was a year younger than Isabella; she was handsome, but her
countenance, at first view, gave the idea of hopeless indolence; she
did not learn the French and Italian irregular verbs by rote as
expeditiously as her sister, and her impatient preceptress pronounced,
with an irrevocable nod, that Miss Matilda was _no_ genius. The phrase
was quickly caught by her masters, so that Matilda, undervalued even
by her sister, lost all confidence in herself, and with the hope of
success, lost the wish for exertion. Her attention gradually turned to
dress and personal accomplishments; not that she was vain of her beauty,
but she had more hopes of pleasing by the graces of her person than of
her mind. The timid, anxious blush, which Mad. De Rosier observed to
vary in Matilda's countenance, when she spoke to those for whom she felt
affection, convinced this lady that, if Matilda were _no_ genius, it
must have been the fault of her education. On sensibility, all that is
called genius, perhaps, originally depends: those who are capable of
feeling a strong degree of pain and pleasure may surely be excited
to great and persevering exertion, by calling the proper motives into
action.
Favoretta, the youngest daughter, was about six years old. At this
age, the habits that constitute character are not formed, and it is,
therefore, absurd to speak of the character of a child six years old.
Favoretta had been, from her birth, the plaything of her mother and of
her mother's waiting-maid. She was always produced, when Mrs. Harcourt
had company, to be admired and caressed by the fashionable circle;
her ringlets and her lively nonsense were the never-failing means of
attracting attention from visitors. In the drawing-room, Favoretta,
consequently, was happy, always in high spirits, and the picture of good
humour; but, change the scene, and Favoretta no longer appeared the same
person: when alone, she was idle and spiritless; when with her maid
or with her brother and sisters, pettish and capricious. Her
usual play-fellow was Herbert, but their plays regularly ended in
quarrels--quarrels in which both parties were commonly in the wrong,
though the whole of the blame necessarily fell upon Herbert, for Herbert
was neither caressing nor caressed. Mrs. Grace, the waiting-maid,
pronounced him to be the plague of her life, and prophesied evil of him,
because, as she averred, if she combed his hair a hundred times a day,
it would never be fit to be seen; besides this, she declared "there was
no managing to keep him out of mischief," and he was so "thick-headed
at his book," that Mrs. Grace, on whom the task of teaching him
his alphabet had, during the negligent reign of the late governess,
devolved, affirmed that he never would learn to read like any other
young gentleman. Whether the zeal of Mrs. Grace for his literary
progress were of service to his understanding, may be doubted; there
could be no doubt of its effect upon his temper; a sullen gloom
overspread Herbert's countenance, whenever the shrill call of "Come and
say your task, Master Herbert!" was heard; and the continual use of the
imperative mood--"Let that alone, _do_, Master Herbert!"--"Don't make a
racket, Master Herbert!"--"Do hold your tongue and sit still where I bid
you, Master Herbert!" operated so powerfully upon this young gentleman,
that, at eight years old, he partly fulfilled his tormentor's
prophecies, for he became a little surly rebel, who took pleasure in
doing exactly the contrary to every thing that he was desired to do,
and who took pride in opposing his powers of endurance to the force
of punishment. His situation was scarcely more agreeable in the
drawing-room than in the nursery, for his mother usually announced
him to the company by the appropriate appellation of _Roughhead_; and
Herbert _Roughhead_ being assailed, at his entrance into the room, by
a variety of petty reproaches and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth
appearance, became bashful and awkward, averse from _polite_ society,
and prone to the less fastidious company of servants in the stable and
the kitchen. Mrs. Harcourt absolutely forbade his intercourse with the
postilions, though she did not think it necessary to be so strict in her
injunctions as to the butler and footman; because, argued she, "children
will get to the servants when one's from home, and it is best that they
should be with such of them as one can trust. Now Stephen is quite a
person one can entirely depend upon, and he has been so long in the
family, the children are quite used to him, and safe with him."
How many mothers have a Stephen, on whom they can entirely depend!
Mrs. Harcourt, with politeness, which in this instance supplied the
place of good sense, invested Mad. de Rosier with full powers, as the
preceptress of her children, except as to their religious education; she
stipulated that Catholic tenets should not be instilled into them. To
this Mad. de Rosier replied--"that children usually follow the religion
of their parents, and that proselytes seldom do honour to their
conversion; that were she, on the other hand, to attempt to promote her
pupils' belief in the religion of their country, her utmost powers could
add nothing to the force of public religious instruction, and to the
arguments of those books which are necessarily put into the hands of
every well-educated person."
With these opinions, Mad. de Rosier readily promised to abstain from
all direct or indirect interference in the religious instruction of her
pupils. Mrs. Harcourt then introduced her to them as "a friend, in whom
she had entire confidence, and whom she hoped and believed they would
make it their study to please."
Whilst the ceremonies of the introduction were going on, Herbert kept
himself aloof, and, with his whip suspended over the stick on which he
was riding, eyed Mad. de Rosier with no friendly aspect: however, when
she held out her hand to him, and when he heard the encouraging tone of
her voice, he approached, held his whip fast in his right hand, but very
cordially gave the lady his left to shake.
"Are you to be my governess?" said he: "you won't give me very long
tasks, will you?"
"Favoretta, my dear, what has detained you so long?" cried Mrs.
Harcourt, as the door opened, and as Favoretta, with her hair in nice
order, was ushered into the room by Mrs. Grace. The little girl ran up
to Mad. de Rosier, and, with the most caressing freedom, cried,--
"Will you love me? I have not my red shoes on to-day!"
Whilst Mad. de Rosier assured Favoretta that the want of the red shoes
would not diminish her merit, Matilda whispered to Isabella--"Mourning
is very becoming to her, though she is not fair;" and Isabella, with a
look of absence, replied--"But she speaks English amazingly well for a
French woman."
Mad. de Rosier did speak English remarkably well; she had spent some
years in England, in her early youth, and, perhaps, the effect of her
conversation was heightened by an air of foreign novelty. As she was
not hackneyed in the common language of conversation, her ideas were
expressed in select and accurate terms, so that her thoughts appeared
original, as well as just.
Isabella, who was fond of talents, and yet fonder of novelty, was
charmed, the first evening, with her new friend, more especially as
she perceived that her abilities had not escaped Mad. de Rosier. She
displayed all her little treasures of literature, but was surprised to
observe that, though every shining thing she said was taken notice of,
nothing dazzled the eyes of her judge; gradually her desire to talk
subsided, and she felt some curiosity to hear. She experienced the
new pleasure of conversing with a person whom she perceived to be her
superior in understanding, and whose superiority she could admire,
without any mixture of envy.
"Then," said she, pausing, one day, after having successfully enumerated
the dates of the reigns of all the English kings, "I suppose you have
something in French, like our Gray's Memoria Technica, or else you never
could have such a prodigious quantity of dates in your head. Had you
as much knowledge of chronology and history, when you were of my age,
as--as--"
"As you have?" said Mad. de Rosier: "I do not know whether I had at your
age, but I can assure you that I have not now."
"Nay," replied Isabella, with an incredulous smile, "but you only say
that from modesty."
"From vanity, more likely."
"Vanity! impossible--you don't understand me."
"Pardon me, but you do not understand _me_."
"A person," cried Isabella, "can't, surely, be vain--what we, in
English, call vain--of _not_ remembering any thing."
"Is it, then, impossible that a person should be what you, in English,
call vain, of _not_ remembering what is useless? I dare say you can tell
me the name of that wise man who prayed for the art of forgetting."
"No, indeed, I don't know his name; I never heard of him before: was he
a Grecian, or a Roman, or an Englishman? can't you recollect his name?
what does it begin with?"
"I do not wish either for your sake or my own, to remember the name;
let us content ourselves with the wise man's sense, whether he were a
Grecian, a Roman, or an Englishman: even the first letter of his name
might be left among the useless things--might it not?"
"But," replied Isabella, a little piqued, "I do not know what you call
useless."
"Those of which you can make no use," said Mad. de Rosier, with
simplicity.
"You don't mean, though, all the names, and dates, and kings, and Roman
emperors, and all the remarkable events that I have learned by heart?"
"It is useful, I allow," replied Mad. de Rosier, "to know by heart the
names of the English kings and Roman emperors, and to remember the dates
of their reigns, otherwise we should be obliged, whenever we wanted
them, to search in the books in which they are to be found, and that
wastes time."
"Wastes time--yes; but what's worse," said Isabella, "a person looks so
awkward and foolish in company, who does not know these things--things
that every body knows."
"And that every body is supposed to know," added Mad. de Rosier.
"_That_ never struck me before," said Isabella, ingenuously; "I only
remembered these things to repeat in conversation."
Here Mad. de Rosier, pleased to observe that her pupil had caught an
idea that was new to her, dropped the conversation, and left Isabella
to apply what had passed. Active and ingenious young people should have
much left to their own intelligent exertions, and to their own candour.
Matilda, the second daughter, was at first pleased with Mad. de
Rosier, because she looked well in mourning; and afterwards she became
interested for her, from hearing the history of her misfortunes, of
which Mad. de Rosier, one evening, gave her a simple, pathetic account.
Matilda was particularly touched by the account of the early death of
this lady's beautiful and accomplished daughter; she dwelt upon every
circumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions.
"I think I can form a perfect idea of her now," said Matilda, after
she had inquired concerning the colour of her hair, of her eyes, her
complexion, her height, her voice, her manners, and her dress--"I think
I have a perfect idea of her now!"
"Oh no!" said Mad. de Rosier, with a sigh, "you cannot form a perfect
idea of my Rosalie from any of these things; she was handsome and
graceful; but it was not her person--it was her mind," said the mother,
with a faltering voice: her voice had, till this instant, been steady
and composed.
"I beg your pardon--I will ask you no more questions," said Matilda.
"My love," said Mad. de Rosier, "ask me as many as you please--I like
to think of _her_--I may now speak of her without vanity--her character
would have pleased you."
"I am sure it would," said Matilda: "do you think she would have liked
me or Isabella the best?"
"She would have liked each of you for your different good qualities, I
think: she would not have made her love an object of competition, or
the cause of jealousy between two sisters; she could make herself
sufficiently beloved, without stooping to any such mean arts. She had
two friends who loved her tenderly; they knew that she was perfectly
sincere, and that she would not flatter either of them--you know _that_
is only childish affection which is without esteem. Rosalie was esteemed
_autant qu'aimée_."
"How I should have liked such a friend! but I am afraid she would have
been so much my superior, she would have despised me--Isabella would
have had all her conversation, because she knows so much, and I know
nothing!"
"If you know that you know nothing," said Mad. de Rosier, with an
encouraging smile, "you know as much as the wisest of men. When the
oracle pronounced Socrates to be the wisest of men, he explained it by
observing, 'that he knew himself to be ignorant, whilst other men,' said
he, 'believing that they know every thing, are not likely to improve.'"
"Then you think I am likely to improve?" said Matilda, with a look of
doubtful hope.
"Certainly," said Mad. de Rosier: "if you exert yourself, you may be any
thing you please."
"Not any thing I please, for I should please to be as clever, and as
good, and as amiable, and as estimable, too, as your Rosalie--but that's
impossible. Tell me, however, what she was at my age--and what sort
of things she used to do and say--and what books she read--and how she
employed herself from morning till night."
"That must be for to-morrow," said Mad. de Rosier; "I must now show
Herbert the book of prints that he wanted to see."
It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to look into a book.
Mad. de Rosier had taken him entirely out of the hands of Mrs. Grace,
and finding that his painful associations with the sight of the
syllables in his dog's-eared spelling-book could not immediately be
conquered, she prudently resolved to cultivate his powers of attention
upon other subjects, and not to return to syllabic difficulties, until
the young gentleman should have forgotten his literary misfortunes, and
acquired sufficient energy and patience to ensure success.
"It is of little consequence," said she, "whether the boy read a year
sooner or later; but it is of great consequence that he should love
literature."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Harcourt, to whom this observation was addressed;
"I am sure you will manage all those things properly--I leave him
entirely to you--Grace quite gives him up: if he read by the time we
must think of sending him to school I shall be satisfied--only keep him
out of my way," added she, laughing, "when he is stammering over that
unfortunate spelling-book, for I don't pretend to be gifted with the
patience of Job."
"Have you any objection," said Mad. de Rosier, "to my buying for him
some new toys?"
"None in the world--buy any thing you will--do any thing you please--I
give you carte blanche," said Mrs. Harcourt.
After Mad. de Rosier had been some time at Mrs. Harcourt's, and had
carefully studied the characters, or, more properly speaking, the
habits of all her pupils, she took them with her one morning to a large
toy-shop, or rather warehouse for toys, which had been lately opened,
under the direction of an ingenious gentleman, who had employed proper
workmen to execute rational toys for the rising generation.
When Herbert entered "the rational toy-shop," he looked all around, and,
with an air of disappointment, exclaimed, "Why, I see neither whips
nor horses! nor phaetons, nor coaches!"--"Nor dressed dolls!" said
Favoretta, in a reproachful tone--"nor baby houses!"--"Nor soldiers--nor
a drum!" continued Herbert.--"I am sure I never saw such a toy-shop,"
said Favoretta; "I expected the finest things that ever were seen,
because it was such a new _great_ shop, and here are nothing but
vulgar-looking things--great carts and wheel-barrows, and things fit for
orange-women's daughters, I think."
This sally of wit was not admired as much as it would have been by
Favoretta's flatterers in her mother's drawing-room:--her brother seized
upon the very cart which she had abused, and dragging it about the room,
with noisy joy, declared he had found out that it was better than a
coach and six that would hold nothing; and he was even satisfied without
horses, because he reflected that he could be the best horse himself;
and that wooden horses, after all, cannot gallop, and they never mind
if you whip them ever so much: "you must drag them along all the time,
though you make _believe_," said Herbert, "that they draw the coach of
themselves; if one gives them the least push, they tumble down on their
sides, and one must turn back, for ever and ever, to set them up upon
their wooden legs again. I don't like make-believe horses; I had rather
be both man and horse for myself." Then, whipping himself, he galloped
away, pleased with his centaur character.
When the little boy in Sacontala is offered for a plaything "_a peacock
of earthenware, painted with rich colours_," he answers, "_I shall
like the peacock if it can run and fly--not else_." The Indian drama of
Sacontala was written many centuries ago. Notwithstanding it has so long
been observed, that children dislike useless, motionless playthings,
it is but of late that more rational toys have been devised for their
amusements.
Whilst Herbert's cart rolled on, Favoretta viewed it with scornful eyes;
but at length, cured by the neglect of the spectators of this fit of
disdain, she condescended to be pleased, and spied a few things
worthy of her notice. Bilboquets, battledores, and shuttlecocks, she
acknowledged were no bad things--"And pray," said she, "what are those
pretty little baskets, Mad. de Rosier? And those others, which look as
if they were but just begun? And what are those strings, that look like
mamma's bell cords?--and is that a thing for making laces, such as Grace
laces me with? And what are those cabinets with little drawers for?"
Mad. de Rosier had taken notice of these little cabinets--they were for
young mineralogists; she was also tempted by a botanical apparatus; but
as her pupils were not immediately going into the country, where flowers
could be procured, she was forced to content herself with such things
as could afford them employment in town. The making of baskets, of
bell-ropes, and of cords for window-curtains, were occupations in which,
she thought, they might successfully employ themselves. The materials
for these little manufactures were here ready prepared; and only such
difficulties were left as children love to conquer. The materials for
the baskets, and a little magnifying glass, which Favoretta wished to
have, were just packed up in a basket, which was to serve for a model,
when Herbert's voice was heard at the other end of the shop: he was
exclaiming in an impatient tone, "I must and I will eat them, I say." He
had crept under the counter, and, unperceived by the busy shopman, had
dragged out of a pigeon-hole, near the ground, a parcel, wrapped up in
brown paper: he had seated himself upon the ground, with his back to the
company, and, with patience worthy of a better object, at length untied
the difficult knot, pulled off the string, and opened the parcel. Within
the brown paper there appeared a number of little packets, curiously
folded in paper of a light brown. Herbert opened one of these, and
finding that it contained a number of little round things which looked
like comfits, he raised the paper to his mouth, which opened wide to
receive them. The shopman stopping his arm, assured him that they were
"_not good to eat_;" but Herbert replied in the angry tone, which caught
Mad. de Rosier's ear. "They are the seeds of radishes, my dear," said
she: "if they be sown in the ground, they will become radishes; then
they will be fit to eat, but not till then. Taste them now, and try." He
willingly obeyed; but put the seeds very quickly out of his mouth, when
he found that they were not sweet. He then said "that he wished he
might have them, that he might sow them in the little garden behind his
mother's house, that they might be fit to eat some time or other."
Mad. de Rosier bought the radish-seeds, and ordered a little spade,
a hoe, and a watering-pot, to be sent home for him. Herbert's face
brightened with joy: he was surprised to find that any of his requests
were granted, because Grace had regularly reproved him for being
troublesome whenever he asked for any thing; hence he had learned to
have recourse to force or fraud to obtain his objects. He ventured now
to hold Mad. De Rosier by the gown: "Stay a little longer," said he; "I
want to look at every thing:" his curiosity dilated with his hopes. When
Mad. de Rosier complied with his request to "stay a little longer,"
he had even the politeness to push a stool towards her, saying, "You'd
better sit down; you will be tired of standing, as some people say they
are;--but I'm not one of them. Tell 'em to give me down that wonderful
thing, that I may see what it is, will you?"
The wonderful thing which had caught Herbert's attention was a dry
printing press. Mad. de Rosier was glad to procure this little machine
for Herbert, for she hoped that the new associations of pleasure which
he would form with the types in the little compositor's stick, would
efface the painful remembrance of his early difficulties with the
syllables in the spelling-book. She also purchased a box of models
of common furniture, which were made to take to pieces, and to be put
together again, and on which the names of all the parts were printed.
A number of other useful toys tempted her, but she determined not to be
too profuse: she did not wish to purchase the love of her little
pupils by presents; her object was to provide them with independent
occupations; to create a taste for industry, without the dangerous
excitation of continual variety.
Isabella was delighted with the idea of filling up a small biographical
chart, which resembled Priestley's; she was impatient also to draw the
map of the world upon a small silk balloon, which could be filled with
common air, or folded up flat at pleasure.
Matilda, after much hesitation, said she had decided in her mind, just
as they were going out of the shop. She chose a small loom for weaving
riband and tape, which Isabella admired, because she remembered to have
seen it described in "Townsend's Travels:" but, before the man could put
up the loom for Matilda, she begged to have a little machine for drawing
in perspective, because the person who showed it assured her that it
required _no sort of genius_ to draw perfectly well in perspective with
this instrument.
In their way home, Mad. de Rosier stopped the carriage at a circulating
library. "Are you going to ask for the novel we were talking of
yesterday?" cried Matilda.
"A novel!" said Isabella, contemptuously: "no, I dare say Mad. de Rosier
is not a novel-reader."
"Zeluco, sir, if you please," said Mad. de Rosier. "You see, Isabella,
notwithstanding the danger of forfeiting your good opinion, I have dared
to ask for a novel."
"Well, I always understood, I am sure," replied Isabella, disdainfully,
"that none but trifling, silly people were novel-readers."
"Were readers of trifling, silly novels, perhaps you mean," answered
Mad. de Rosier, with temper; "but I flatter myself you will not find
Zeluco either trifling or silly."
"No, not Zeluco, to be sure," said Isabella, recollecting herself; "for
now I remember Mr. Gibbon, the great historian, mentions Zeluco in one
of his letters; he says it is the best philosophical romance of the age.
I particularly remember _that_, because somebody had been talking of
Zeluco the very day I was reading that letter; and I asked my governess
to get it for me, but she said it was a novel--however, Mr. Gibbon calls
it a philosophical romance."
"The name," said Mad. de Rosier, "will not make such difference to _us_;
but I agree with you in thinking, that as people who cannot judge for
themselves are apt to be misled by names, it would be advantageous to
invent some new name for philosophical novels, that they may no longer
be contraband goods--that they may not be confounded with the trifling,
silly productions, for which you have so just a disdain."
"Now, ma'am, will you ask," cried Herbert, as the carriage stopped at
his mother's door--"will you ask whether the man has brought home my
spade and the watering-pot? I know you don't like that I should go to
the servants for what I want; but I'm in a great hurry for the spade,
because I want to dig the bed for my radishes before night: I've got my
seeds safe in my hand."
Mad. de Rosier, much pleased by this instance of obedience in her
impatient pupil, instantly inquired for what he wanted, to convince him
that it was possible he could have his wishes gratified by a person who
was not an inhabitant of the stable or the kitchen. Isabella might have
registered it in her list of remarkable events, that Herbert, this day,
was not seen with the butler, the footman, or the coachman. Mad. de
Rosier, who was aware of the force of habit, and who thought that no
evil could be greater than that of hazarding the integrity of her little
pupils, did not exact from them any promise of abstaining from the
company of the servants, with whom they had been accustomed to converse;
but she had provided the children with occupations, that they might
not be tempted, by idleness, to seek for improper companions; and, by
interesting herself with unaffected good-nature in their amusements, she
endeavoured to give them a taste for the sympathy of their superiors
in knowledge, instead of a desire for the flattery of inferiors. She
arranged their occupations in such a manner, that, without watching them
every instant, she might know what they were doing, and where they were;
and she showed so much readiness to procure for them any thing that
was reasonable, that they found it the shortest method to address
their petitions to her in the first instance. Children will necessarily
delight in the company of those who make them happy; Mad. de Rosier knew
how to make her pupils contented, by exciting them to employments in
which they felt that they were successful.
"Mamma! mamma! dear mamma!" cried Favoretta, running into the hall, and
stopping Mrs. Harcourt, who was dressed, and going out to dinner, "do
come into the parlour, to look at my basket, my beautiful basket, that I
am making _all_ myself."
"And _do_, mother, or some of ye, come out into the garden, and see the
bed that I've dug, with my own hands, for my radishes--I'm as hot as
fire, I know," said Herbert, pushing his hat back from his forehead.
"Oh! don't come near me with the watering-pot in your hand," said Mrs.
Harcourt, shrinking back, and looking at Herbert's hands, which were not
as white as her own.
"The carriage is but just come to the door, ma'am," said Isabella, who
next appeared in the hall; "I only want you for one instant, to show you
something that is to hang up in your dressing-room, when I have finished
it, mamma; it is really beautiful."
"Well, don't keep me long," said Mrs. Harcourt, "for, indeed, I am too
late already."
"Oh, no! indeed you will not be too late, mamma--only look at my
basket," said Favoretta, gently pulling her mother by the hand into the
parlour.--Isabella pointed to her silk globe, which was suspended in the
window, and, taking up her camel-hair pencil, cried, "Only look, ma'am,
how nicely I have traced the Rhine, the Po, the Elbe, and the Danube;
you see I have not finished Europe; it will be quite another looking
thing, when Asia, Africa, and America are done, and when the colours are
quite dry."
"Now, Isabella, pray let her look at my basket," cried the eager
Favoretta, holding up the scarcely begun basket--"I will do a row, to
show you how it is done;" and the little girl, with busy fingers, began
to weave. The ingenious and delicate appearance of the work, and the
happy countenance of the little workwoman, fixed the mother's pleased
attention, and she, for a moment, forgot that her carriage was waiting.
"The carriage is at the door, ma'am," said the footman.
"I must be gone!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, starting from her reverie. "What
am I doing here? I ought to have been away this half-hour--Matilda!--why
is not she amongst you?"
Matilda, apart from the busy company, was reading with so much
earnestness, that her mother called twice before she looked up.
"How happy you all look," continued Mrs. Harcourt; "and I am going to
one of those terrible _great_ dinners--I shan't eat one morsel; then
cards all night, which I hate as much as you do, Isabella--pity me, Mad.
de Rosier!--Good bye, happy creatures!"--and with some real and some
affected reluctance, Mrs. Harcourt departed.
It is easy to make children happy, for one evening, with new toys and
new employments; but the difficulty is to continue the pleasure of
occupation after it has lost its novelty: the power of habit may
well supply the place of the charm of novelty. Mad. de Rosier exerted
herself, for some weeks, to invent occupations for her pupils, that
she might induce in their minds a love for industry; and when they had
tasted the pleasure, and formed the habit of doing _something_, she now
and then suffered them to experience the misery of having nothing to do.
The state of _ennui_, when contrasted with that of pleasurable mental or
bodily activity, becomes odious and insupportable to children.
Our readers must have remarked that Herbert, when he seized upon the
radish-seeds in the rational toy-shop, had not then learned just notions
of the nature of property. Mad. de Rosier did not, like Mrs. Grace,
repeat ineffectually, fifty times a day--"Master Herbert, don't touch
that!" "Master Herbert, for shame!" "Let that alone, sir!" "Master
Herbert, how dare you, sir!" but she prudently began by putting
forbidden goods entirely out of his reach: thus she, at least, prevented
the necessity for perpetual, irritating prohibitions, and diminished
with the temptation the desire to disobey; she gave him some things
for his _own_ use, and scrupulously refrained from encroaching upon his
property: Isabella and Matilda followed her example, in this respect,
and thus practically explained to Herbert the meaning of the words
_mine_ and _yours_. He was extremely desirous of going with Mad. de
Rosier to different shops, but she coolly answered his entreaties by
observing, "that she could not venture to take him into any one's house,
till she was sure that he would not meddle with what was not his own."
Herbert now felt the inconvenience of his lawless habits: to enjoy the
pleasures, he perceived that it was necessary to submit to the duties
of society; and he began to respect "_the rights of things and
persons_{1}." When his new sense of right and wrong had been
sufficiently exercised at home, Mad. de Rosier ventured to expose him
to more dangerous trials abroad; she took him to a carpenter's workshop,
and though the saw, the hammer, the chisel, the plane, and the vice,
assailed him in various forms of temptation, his powers of forbearance
came off victorious.
{Footnote 1: Blackstone}
"To _bear_ and _forbear_" has been said to be the sum of manly virtue:
the virtue of forbearance in childhood must always be measured by
the pupil's disposition to activity: a vivacious boy must often have
occasion to forbear more, in a quarter of an hour, than a dull, indolent
child in a quarter of a year.
"May I touch this?"--"May I meddle with that?" were questions which our
prudent hero now failed not to ask, before he meddled with the property
of others, and he found his advantage in this mode of proceeding. He
observed that his governess was, in this respect, as scrupulous as she
required that he should be, and he consequently believed in the truth
and _general_ utility of her precepts.
The coachmaker's, the cooper's, the turner's, the cabinet-maker's, even
the black ironmonger's and noisy tinman's shop, afforded entertainment
for many a morning; a trifling gratuity often purchased much
instruction, and Mad. de Rosier always examined the countenance of
the workman before she suffered her little pupils to attack him with
questions. The eager curiosity of children is generally rather agreeable
than tormenting to tradesmen, who are not too busy to be benevolent; and
the care which Herbert took not to be troublesome pleased those to whom
he addressed himself. He was delighted, at the upholsterer's, to observe
that his little models of furniture had taught him how several things
were _put together_, and he soon learned the workmen's names for his
ideas. He readily understood the use of all that he saw, when he went to
a bookbinder's, and to a printing-office, because, in his own printing
and bookbinder's press, he had seen similar contrivances in miniature.
Prints, as well as models, were used to enlarge his ideas of visible
objects. Mad. de Rosier borrowed the Dictionnaire des Arts et des
Métiers, Buffon, and several books, which contained good prints of
animals, machines, and architecture; these provided amusement on rainy
days. At first she found it difficult to fix the attention of the
boisterous Herbert and the capricious Favoretta. Before they had half
examined one print, they wanted to turn over the leaf to see another;
but this desultory, impatient curiosity she endeavoured to cure by
steadily showing only one or two prints for each day's amusement.
Herbert, who could but just spell words of one syllable, could not
read what was written at the bottom of the prints, and he was sometimes
ashamed of applying to Favoretta for assistance;--the names that were
printed upon his little models of furniture he at length learned to
make out. The _press was obliged to stand still_ when Favoretta, or his
friend, Mad. de Rosier, were not at hand, to tell him, letter by letter,
how to spell the words that he wanted to print. He, one evening, went
up to Mad. de Rosier, and, with a resolute face, said, "I must learn to
read."
"If any body will be so good as to teach you, I suppose you mean," said
she, smiling{2}.
{Footnote 2: Vide Rousseau.}
"Will _you_ be so good?" said he: "perhaps you could teach me, though
Grace says 'tis very difficult; I'll do my best."
"Then I'll do _my_ best too," said Mad. de Rosier.
The consequences of these good resolutions were surprising to Mrs.
Grace. Master Herbert was quite changed, she observed; and she wondered
why he would never read when she took so much pains with him for an hour
every day to hear him his task. "Madame de What d'ye call her,"
added Mrs. Grace, "need not boast much of the hand she has had in the
business: for I've been by at odd times, and watched her ways, whilst
I have been dressing Miss Favoretta, and she has been hearing you your
task, Master Herbert."
"She doesn't call it my task--I hate that word."
"Well, I don't know what she calls it; for I don't pretend to be a
French governess, for my part; but I can read English, Master Herbert,
as well as another; and it's strange if I could not teach my mother
tongue better than an emigrant. What I say is, that she never takes
much pains one way or the other; for by the clock in mistress's
dressing-room, I minuted her twice, and she was five minutes at one
time, and not above seven the other. Easy earning money for
governesses, nowadays. No tasks!--no, not she!--Nothing all day long but
play--play--play, laughing and running, and walking, and going to see
all the shops and sights, and going out in the coach to bring home
radishes and tongue-grass, to be sure--and every thing in the house is
to be as she pleases, to be sure. I am sure my mistress is too good
to her, only because she was born a lady, they say. Do, pray, Master
Herbert, stand still, whilst I comb your hair, unless that's against
your new governess's commandments."
"I'll comb my own hair, Grace," said Herbert, manfully. "I don't like
one word you have been saying; though I don't mind any thing you, or any
body else, can say against _my friend_. She is my friend--and she has
taught me to read, I say, without bouncing me about, and shaking me, and
Master Herbert_ing_ me for ever. And what harm did it do the coach to
bring home my radishes? My radishes are come up, and she shall have some
of them. And I like the sights and shops she shows me;--but she does not
like that I should talk to you; therefore, I'll say no more; but good
morning to you, Grace."
Herbert, red with generous passion, rushed out of the room, and Grace,
pale with malicious rage, turned towards the other door that opened
into Mrs. Harcourt's bedchamber, for Mad. de Rosier, at this moment,
appeared.--"I thought I heard a great noise?"--"It was only Master
Herbert, ma'am, that _won't never_ stand still to have his hair
combed--and says he'll comb it for himself--I am sure I wish he would."
Mad. de Rosier saw, by the embarrassed manner and stifled choler of Mrs.
Grace, that the whole truth of the business had not been told, and she
repented her indiscretion in having left Herbert with her even for a
few minutes. She forbore, however, to question Herbert, who maintained
a _dignified_ silence upon the subject; and the same species of
silence would also become the historian upon this occasion, were it not
necessary that the character of an intriguing lady's maid should, for
the sake both of parents and children, be fully delineated.
Mrs. Grace, offended by Mad. de Rosier's success in teaching her former
pupil to read; jealous of this lady's favour with her mistress and
with the young ladies; irritated by the bold defiance of the indignant
champion who had stood forth in his _friend's_ defence, formed a
_secret_ resolution to obtain revenge. This she imparted, the very same
day, to her confidant, Mrs. Rebecca. Mrs. Rebecca was the favourite maid
of Mrs. Fanshaw, an acquaintance of Mrs. Harcourt. Grace invited Mrs.
Rebecca to drink tea with her. As soon as the preliminary ceremonies of
the tea-table had been adjusted, she proceeded to state her grievances.
"In former times, as nobody knows better than you, Mrs. Rebecca, I had
my mistress's ear, and was all in all in the house, with her and the
young ladies, and the old governess; and it was I that was to teach
Master Herbert to read; and Miss Favoretta was almost constantly from
morning to night, except when she was called for by company, with me,
and a sweet little well-dressed creature always, you know, she was."
"A sweet little creature, indeed, ma'am, and I was wondering, before you
spoke, not to see her in your room, as usual, to-night," replied Mrs.
Rebecca.
"Dear Mrs. Rebecca, you need not wonder at that, or any thing else
that's wonderful, in our present government above stairs, I'll assure
you; for we have a new French governess, and new measures. Do you know,
ma'am, the coach is ordered to go about at all hours, whenever she
pleases _for to_ take the young ladies out, and she is quite like my
mistress. But no one can bear two mistresses, you know, Mrs. Rebecca;
wherefore, I'm come to a resolution, in short, that either she or I
shall quit the house, and we shall presently see which of us it must be.
Mrs. Harcourt, at the upshot of all things, must be conscious, at the
bottom of her heart, that, if she is the elegantest dresser about town,
it's not all her own merit."
"Very true indeed, Mrs. Grace," replied her complaisant friend; "and
what sums of money her millinery might cost her, if she had no one
clever at making up things at home! You are blamed by many, let me tell
you, for doing so much as you do. Mrs. Private, the milliner, I know
from the best authority, is not your friend: now, for my part, I
think it is no bad thing to have friends _abroad_, if one comes to any
difficulties at home. Indeed, my dear, your attachment to Mrs. Harcourt
quite blinds you--but, to be sure, you know your own affairs best."
"Why, I am not for changing when I am well," replied Grace: "Mrs.
Harcourt is abroad a great deal, and hers is, all things considered,
a very eligible house. Now, what I build my hopes upon, my dear Mrs.
Rebecca, is this--that ladies, like some people who have been beauties,
and come to _make themselves up_, and wear pearl powder, and false
auburn hair, and twenty things that are not to be advertised, you know,
don't like quarrelling with those that are in the secret--and ladies who
have never made a _rout_ about governesses and _edication_, till lately,
and now, perhaps, only for fashion's sake, would upon a pinch--don't you
think--rather part with a French governess, when there are so many,
than with a favourite maid who knows her ways, _and has_ a good taste in
dress, which so few can boast?"
"Oh, surely! surely!" said Mrs. Rebecca; and having tasted Mrs. Grace's
crême-de-noyau, it was decided that war should be declared against _the
governess_.
Mad. de Rosier, happily unconscious of the machinations of her enemies,
and even unsuspicious of having any, was, during this important
conference, employed in reading Marmontel's Silvain, with Isabella and
Matilda. They were extremely interested in this little play; and Mrs.
Harcourt, who came into the room whilst they were reading, actually
sat down on the sofa beside Isabella, and, putting her arm round her
daughter's waist, said--"Go on, love; let me have a share in some of
your pleasures--lately, whenever I see you, you all look the picture of
happiness--Go on, pray, Mad. de Rosier."
"It was I who was reading, mamma," said Isabella, pointing to the place
over Mad. de Rosier's shoulder--
Une femme douce et sage
A toujours tant d'avantage!
Elle a pour elle en partage
L'agrément, et la raison.'"
"Isabella," said Mrs. Harcourt, from whom a scarcely audible sigh
had escaped--"Isabella really reads French almost as well as she does
English."
"I am improved very much since I have heard Mad. de Rosier read," said
Isabella.
"I don't doubt _that_, in the least; you are, all of you, much improved,
I think, in every thing;--I am sure I feel very much obliged to Mad. de
Rosier."
Matilda looked pleased by this speech of her mother, and affectionately
said, "I am glad, mamma, you like her as well as we do--Oh, I forgot
that Mad, de Rosier was by--but it is not flattery, however."
"You see you have won all their hearts"--_from me_, Mrs. Harcourt was
near saying, but she paused, and, with a faint laugh, added--"yet you
see I am not jealous. Matilda! read those lines that your sister has
just read; I want to hear them again."
Mrs. Harcourt sent for her work, and spent the evening at home. Mad. de
Rosier, without effort or affectation, dissipated the slight feeling of
jealousy which she observed in the mother's mind, and directed towards
her the attention of her children, without disclaiming, however,
the praise that was justly her due. She was aware that she could not
increase her pupils' real affection for their mother, by urging them to
sentimental hypocrisy.
Whether Mrs. Harcourt understood her conduct this evening, she could not
discover--for politeness does not always speak the unqualified language
of the heart--but she trusted to the effect of time, on which persons
of integrity may always securely rely for their reward. Mrs. Harcourt
gradually discovered that, as she became more interested in the
occupations and amusements of her children, they became more and more
grateful for her sympathy; she consequently grew fonder of domestic
life, and of the person who had introduced its pleasures into her
family.
That we may not be accused of attributing any miraculous power to
our French governess, we shall explain the natural means by which she
improved her pupils.
We have already pointed out how she discouraged, in Isabella, the vain
desire to load her memory with historical and chronological facts,
merely for the purpose of ostentation. She gradually excited her to
read books of reasoning, and began with those in which reasoning and
amusement are mixed. She also endeavoured to cultivate her imagination,
by giving her a few well-chosen passages to read, from the best English,
French, and Italian poets. It was an easier task to direct the activity
of Isabella's mind, than to excite Matilda's dormant powers. Mad. de
Rosier patiently waited till she discovered something which seemed to
please Matilda more than usual. The first book that she appeared to like
particularly was, "Les Conversations d'Emilie:" one passage she read
with great delight aloud; and Mad. de Rosier, who perceived by the
manner of reading it that she completely understood the elegance of the
French, begged her to try if she could translate it into English: it was
not more than half a page. Matilda was not terrified at the length of
such an undertaking: she succeeded, and the praises that were bestowed
upon her translation excited in her mind some portion of ambition.
Mad. de Rosier took the greatest care in conversing with Matilda, to
make her feel her own powers: whenever she used good arguments,
they were immediately attended to; and when Matilda perceived that a
prodigious memory was not essential to success, she was inspired with
courage to converse unreservedly.
An accident pointed out to Mad. de Rosier another resource in Matilda's
education. One day Herbert called his sister Matilda to look at an ant,
which was trying to crawl up a stick; he seemed scarcely able to carry
his large white load in his little forceps, and he frequently fell back,
when he had just reached the top of the stick. Mad. de Rosier, who
knew how much of the art of instruction depends upon seizing the proper
moments to introduce new ideas, asked Herbert whether he had ever heard
of the poor snail, who, like this ant, slipped back continually, as he
was endeavouring to climb a wall twenty feet high.
"I never heard of that snail; pray tell me the story," cried Herbert.
"It is not a story--it is a question in arithmetic," replied Mad. de
Rosier. "This snail was to crawl up a wall twenty feet high; he crawled
up five feet every day, and slipped back again four feet every night: in
how many days did he reach the top of the wall?"
"I love questions in arithmetic," exclaimed Matilda, "when they are
not too difficult!" and immediately she whispered to Mad. de Rosier the
answer to this easy question.
Her exclamation was not lost;--Mad. de Rosier determined to cultivate
her talents for arithmetic. Without fatiguing Matilda's attention by
long exercises in the common rules, she gave her questions which obliged
her to _think_, and which excited her to reason and to invent; she
gradually explained to her pupil the relations of numbers, and gave her
rather more clear ideas of the nature and use of the common rules of
arithmetic than she had acquired from her writing-master, who had taught
them only in a technical manner. Matilda's confidence in herself was
thus increased. When she had answered a difficult question, she could
not doubt that she had succeeded; this was not a matter that admitted
of the uncertainty which alarms timid tempers. Mad. de Rosier began
by asking her young arithmetician questions only when they were by
themselves--but by and by she appealed to her before the rest of the
family. Matilda coloured at first, and looked as if she knew nothing of
the business; but a distinct answer was given at last, and Isabella's
opinions of her sister's abilities rose with amazing rapidity, when she
heard that Matilda understood decimal fractions.
"Now, my dear Matilda," said Mad. de Rosier, "since you understand
what even Isabella thinks difficult, you will, I hope, have sufficient
confidence in yourself to attempt things which Isabella does not think
difficult."
Matilda shook her head--"I am not Isabella yet," said she.
"No!" cried Isabella, with generous, sincere warmth; "but you are
much superior to Isabella: I am certain that I could not answer those
difficult questions, though you think me so quick--and, when once
you have learned any thing, you never forget it; the ideas are not
superficial," continued Isabella, turning to Mad. de Rosier; "they have
depth, like the pins in mosaic work."
Mad. de Rosier smiled at this allusion, and, encouraged by her smile,
Isabella's active imagination immediately produced another simile.
"I did not know my sister's abilities till lately--till you drew them
out, Mad. de Rosier, like your drawing upon the screen in sympathetic
inks;--when you first produced it, I looked, and said there was nothing;
and when I looked again, after you had held it to the fire for a few
moments, beautiful colours and figures appeared."
Mad. de Rosier, without using any artifice, succeeded in making Isabella
and Matilda friends, instead of rivals, by placing them, as much as
possible, in situations in which they could mutually sympathize, and by
discouraging all painful competition.
With Herbert and Favoretta she pursued a similar plan. She scarcely ever
left them alone together, that she might not run the hazard of their
quarrelling in her absence. At this age children have not sufficient
command of their tempers--they do not understand the nature of society
and of justice: the less they are left together, when they are of
unequal strength, and _when they have not any employments in which they
are mutually interested_, the better. Favoretta and Herbert's petty, but
loud and violent disputes, had nearly ceased since these precautions had
been regularly attended to. As they had a great deal of amusement in
the few hours which they spent together, they grew fond of each other's
company: when Herbert was out in his little garden, he was impatient for
the time when Favoretta was to come to visit his works; and
Favoretta had equal pleasure in exhibiting to her brother her various
manufactures.
Mad. de Rosier used to hear them read in Mrs. Barbauld's excellent
little books, and in "Evenings at Home;" she generally told them some
interesting story when they had finished reading, and they regularly
seated themselves, side by side, on the carpet, opposite to her.
One day Herbert established himself in what he called his "_happy
corner_," Favoretta placed herself close beside him, and Mad. de Rosier
read to them that part of Sandford and Merton in which Squire Chace is
represented beating Harry Sandford unmercifully because he refused to
tell which way the hare was gone. Mad. de Rosier observed that this
story made a great impression upon Herbert, and she thought it a good
opportunity, whilst his mind was warm, to point out the difference
between resolution and obstinacy. Herbert had been formerly disposed to
obstinacy; but this defect in his temper never broke out towards Mad. de
Rosier, because she carefully avoided urging him to do those things to
which she knew him to be adverse; and she frequently desired him to do
what she knew would be agreeable to him: she thought it best to suffer
him gradually to forget his former bad habits and false associations,
before she made any trial of his obedience; then she endeavoured to give
him new habits, by placing him in new situations. She now resolved to
address herself to his understanding, which she perceived had opened to
reason.
He exclaimed with admiration, upon hearing the account of Harry
Sandford's fortitude, "That's right!--that's right!--I am glad Harry
did not tell that cruel Squire Chace which way the hare was gone. I like
Harry for bearing to be beaten, _rather than speak a word when he did
not choose it_. I love Harry, don't you?" said he, appealing to Mad. de
Rosier.
"Yes, I like him very much," said Mad. de Rosier: "but not for the
reason that you have just given."
"No!" said Herbert, starting up: "why, ma'am, don't you like Harry for
saving the poor hare? don't you admire him for bearing all the hard
blows, and for saying, when the man asked him afterward why he didn't
tell which way the hare was gone, 'Because I don't choose to betray the
unfortunate?'"
"Oh! don't you love him for that?" said Favoretta, rising from her seat;
"I think Herbert himself would have given just such an answer, only
not in such good words. I wonder, Mad. de Rosier, you don't like that
answer!"
"I have never said that I did not like that answer," said Mad. de
Rosier, as soon as she was permitted to speak.
"Then you _do_ like it? then you do like Harry?" exclaimed Herbert and
Favoretta, both at once.
"Yes, I like that answer, Herbert; I like your friend Harry for saying
that he did not choose to betray the unfortunate. You did not do _him_
justice or yourself, when you said just now that you liked Harry because
he bore to be beaten rather than speak a word when he did not _choose
it_."
Herbert looked puzzled.
"I mean," continued Mad. de Rosier, "that, before I can determine
whether I like and admire any body for persisting in doing or in not
doing any thing, I must hear their reasons for their resolution. 'I
don't choose it,' is no reason; I must hear their reasons for choosing
or not choosing it before I can judge."
"And I have told you the reason Harry gave for not choosing to speak
when he was asked, and you said it was a good one; and you like him for
his courage, don't you?" said Herbert.
"Yes," said Mad. de Rosier; "those who are resolute, when they have good
reasons for their resolution, I admire; those who persist merely because
_they choose it_, and who cannot, or will not, tell why they choose it,
I despise."
"Oh, so do I!" said Favoretta: "you know, brother, whenever you say you
don't choose it, I am always angry, and ask you why."
"And if you were not _always_ angry," said Mad. de Rosier, "perhaps
_sometimes_ your brother would tell you why."
"Yes, that I should," said Herbert; "I always have a good reason to give
Favoretta, though I don't always choose to give it."
"Then," said Mad. de Rosier, "you cannot always expect your sister to
admire the justice of your decisions."
"No," replied Herbert; "but when I don't give her a reason, 'tis
generally because it is not worth while. There can be no great wisdom,
you know, in resolutions about trifles: such as, whether she should be
my horse or I her horse, or whether I should water my radishes before
breakfast or after."
"Certainly, you are right: there can be no great wisdom in resolutions
about such trifles, therefore wise people never are obstinate about
trifles."
"Do you know," cried Herbert, after a pause, "they used, before you
came, to say that I was obstinate; but with you I have never been so,
because you know how to manage me; you manage me a great deal more
_cunningly_ than Grace used to do."
"I would not manage you more _cunningly_ than Grace used to do, if I
could," replied Mad. de Rosier; "for then I should manage you worse than
she did. It is no pleasure to me to govern you; I had much rather that
you should use your reason to govern yourself."
Herbert pulled down his waistcoat, and, drawing up his head, looked with
conscious dignity at Favoretta.
"You know," continued Mad. de Rosier, "that there are two ways of
governing people--by reason and by force. Those who have no reason, or
who do not use it, must be governed by force."
"I am not one of those," said Herbert; "for I hate force."
"But you must also love reason," said Mad. de Rosier, "if you would not
be _one of those_."
"Well, so I do, when I hear it from _you_," replied Herbert, bluntly;
"for you give me reasons that I can understand, when you ask me to do or
not to do any thing: I wish people would always do so."
"But, Herbert," said Mad. de Rosier, "you must sometimes be contented to
do as you are desired, even when I do not think it proper to give you my
reasons;--you will, hereafter, find that I have good ones."
"I have found that already in a great many things," said Herbert;
"especially about the caterpillar."
"What about the caterpillar?" said Favoretta.
"Don't you remember," said Herbert, "the day that I was going to tread
upon what I thought was a little bit of black stick, and _she_ desired
me not to do it, and I did not, and afterwards I found out that it was
a caterpillar;--ever since that day I have been more ready, you know,"
continued he, turning to Mad. de Rosier, "to believe that you might be
in the right, and to do as you bid me--you don't think me obstinate, do
you?"
"No," said Mad. de Rosier.
"No! no!--do you hear that, Favoretta?" cried Herbert joyfully: "Grace
used to say I was as obstinate as a mule, and she used to call me an
ass, too: but even poor asses are not obstinate when they are well
treated. Where is the ass, in the Cabinet of Quadrupeds, Favoretta,
which we were looking at the other day? Oh, let me read the account to
you, Mad. de Rosier. It is towards the middle of the book, Favoretta;
let me look, I can find it in a minute. It is not long--may I read it to
you?"
Mad. de Rosier consented, and Herbert read as follows:--"Much has been
said of the stupid and stubborn disposition of the ass, but we are
greatly inclined to suspect that the aspersion is ill-founded: whatever
bad qualities of this kind he may sometimes possess, they do not appear
to be the consequences of any natural defect in his constitution or
temper, but arise from the manner used in training him, and the bad
treatment he receives. We are the rather led to this assertion, from
having lately seen one which experiences a very different kind of
treatment from his master than is the fate of the generality of asses.
The humane owner of this individual is an old man, whose employment is
the selling of vegetables, which he conveys from door to door on
the back of his ass. He is constantly baiting the poor creature with
handfuls of hay, pieces of bread, or greens, which he procures in his
progress. It is with pleasure we relate, for we have often curiously
observed the old man's demeanour towards his ass, that he seldom carries
any instrument of incitement with him, nor did we ever see him lift his
hand to drive it on.
"Upon our observing to him that he seemed to be very kind to his ass,
and inquiring whether he were apt to be stubborn, how long he had had
him, &c., he replied, 'Ah, master, it is no use to be cruel, and as for
stubbornness, I cannot complain, for he is ready to do any thing, and
will go any where; I bred him myself, and have had him these two years:
he is sometimes skittish and playful, and once ran away from me: you
will hardly believe it, but there were more than fifty people after him
to stop him, and they were not able to effect it, yet he turned back of
himself, and never stopped till he run his head kindly into my breast.'
"The countenance of this individual is open, lively, and cheerful;
his pace nimble and regular; and the only inducement used to make him
increase his speed is that of calling him by name, which he readily
obeys."
"I am not an ass," said Herbert, laughing, as he finished this sentence,
"but I think Mad. de Rosier is very like the good old man, and I always
obey whenever she speaks to me. By the by," continued Herbert, who now
seemed eager to recollect something by which he could show his readiness
to obey--"by the by, Grace told me that my mother desired I should go to
her, and have my hair combed every day; now I don't like it, but I will
do it, because mamma desires it, and I will go this instant; will
you come and see how still I can stand? I will show you that I am not
obstinate."
Mad. de Rosier followed the little hero, to witness his triumph _over
himself_. Grace happened to be with her mistress who was dressing.
"Mamma, I am come to do as you bid me," cried Herbert, walking stoutly
into the room: "Grace, here's the comb;" and he turned to her the
tangled locks at the back of his head. She pulled unmercifully, but he
stood without moving a muscle of his countenance.
Mrs. Harcourt, who saw in her looking-glass what was passing, turned
round, and said, "Gently, gently, Grace; indeed, Grace, you do pull that
poor boy's hair as if you thought that his head had no feeling; I am
sure, if you were to pull my hair in that manner, I could not bear it so
well."
"Your hair!--Oh, dear ma'am, that's quite another thing--but Master
Herbert's is always in such a tangle, there's no such thing as managing
it." Again Mrs. Grace gave a desperate pull: Herbert bore it, looked up
at Mad. de Rosier, and said, "Now, that was resolution, not obstinacy,
you know."
"Here is your little obedient and patient boy," said Mad. de Rosier,
leading Herbert to his mother, "who deserves to be rewarded with a kiss
from you."
"That he shall have," said Mrs. Harcourt; "but why does Grace pull your
hair so hard? and are not you almost able to comb your own hair?"
"Able! that I am. Oh, mother, I wish I might do it for myself."
"And has Mad. de Rosier any objection to it?" said Mrs. Harcourt.
"None in the least," said Mad. de Rosier; "on the contrary, I wish that
he should do every thing that he can do for himself; but he told me that
it was your desire that he should apply to Mrs. Grace, and I was pleased
to see his ready obedience to your wishes: you may be very certain that,
even in the slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, it
is _our_ wish, as much as it is our duty, to do exactly as you desire."
"My dear madame," said Mrs. Harcourt, laying her hand upon Mad. de
Rosier's, with an expression of real kindness, mixed with her habitual
politeness, "I am sensible of your goodness, but you know that in the
slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, I leave every
thing implicitly to your better judgment: as to this business between
Herbert and Grace, I don't understand it."
"Mother--" said Herbert.
"Madam," said Grace, pushing forward, but not very well knowing what
she intended to say, "if you recollect, you desired me to comb Master
Herbert's hair, ma'am, and I told Master Herbert so, ma'am, that's all."
"I do not recollect any thing about it, indeed, Grace."
"Oh dear, ma'am! don't you recollect the last day there was company, and
Master Herbert came to the top of the stairs, and you was looking at
the _organ's_ lamp, I said, 'Dear! Master Herbert's hair's as rough as
a porcupine's;' and you said directly, ma'am, if you recollect, 'I wish
you would make that boy's hair fit to be seen;' those _was_ your very
words, ma'am, and I thought you meant always, ma'am."
"You mistook me, Grace," said Mrs. Harcourt, smiling at her maid's eager
volubility: "in future, you understand, that Herbert is to be entire
master of his own hair."
"Thank you, mother," said Herbert.
"Nay, my dear Herbert, thank Mad. de Rosier: I only speak in her name.
You understand, _I am sure_, Grace, now," said Mrs. Harcourt, calling
to her maid, who seemed to be in haste to quit the room--"you, I hope,
understand, Grace, that Mad. de Rosier and I are always of one mind
about the children; therefore you need never be puzzled by contradictory
orders--hers are to be obeyed."
Mrs. Harcourt was so much pleased when she looked at Herbert, as she
concluded this sentence, to see an expression of great affection and
gratitude, that she stooped instantly to kiss him.
"Another kiss! two kisses to-day from my mother, and one of her own
accord!" exclaimed Herbert joyfully, running out of the room to tell the
news to Favoretta.
"That boy has a heart," said Mrs. Harcourt, with some emotion; "you have
found it out for me, Mad. de Rosier, and I thank you."
Mad. de Rosier seized the propitious moment to present a card of
invitation, which Herbert, with much labour, had printed with his little
printing-press.
"What have we here?" said Mrs. Harcourt, and she read aloud--
'Mr. Herbert Harcourt's love to his dear mother, and, if she be not
engaged this evening, he should be exceedingly glad of her company, to
meet Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, and Mad. de Rosier, who have promised
to sup with him upon his own radishes to-night. They are all very
impatient for _your_ answer.'"
"My answer they shall have in an instant," said Mrs. Harcourt:--"why,
Mad. de Rosier, this is the boy who could neither read nor spell six
months ago. Will you be my messenger?" added she, putting a card into
Mad. de Rosier's hand, which she had written with rapidity:--
"Mrs. Harcourt's love to her dear little Herbert; if she had a hundred
other invitations, she would accept of his."
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Grace, when she found the feathers, which she had
placed with so much skill in her mistress's hair, lying upon the table
half an hour afterward--"why, I thought my mistress was going out!"
Grace's surprise deprived her even of the power of exclamation, when she
learned that her mistress stayed at home to sup with Master Herbert upon
radishes. At night she listened with malignant curiosity, as she sat
at work in her mistress's dressing-room, to the frequent bursts of
laughter, and to the happy little voices of the festive company who were
at supper in an adjoining apartment.
"This will never do!" thought Grace; but presently the laughter ceased,
and listening attentively, she heard the voice of one of _the young
ladies_ reading. "Oh ho!" thought Grace, "if it comes to reading, Master
Herbert will soon be asleep."--But though it had _come to reading_,
Herbert was, at this instant, broad awake.
At supper, when the radishes were distributed, Favoretta was very
impatient to taste them; the first which she tasted was _hot_, she said,
and she did not quite like it.
"_Hot_!" cried Herbert, who criticized her language, in return for
her criticism upon his radishes, "I don't think you can call a radish
_hot_--it is cold, I think: I know what is meant by tasting sweet, or
sour, or bitter."
"Well," interrupted Favoretta, "what is the name for the taste of this
radish which bites my tongue?"
"_Pungent_," said Isabella, and she eagerly produced a quotation in
support of her epithet--
"'And _pungent_ radish biting infant's tongue.'"
"I know for once," said Matilda, smiling, "where you met with that line,
I believe: is it not in Shenstone's Schoolmistress, in the description
of the old woman's neat little garden?"
"Oh! I should like to hear about that old woman's neat little garden,"
cried Herbert.
"And so should I," said Mrs. Harcourt and Mad. de Rosier. Isabella
quickly produced the book after supper, and read the poem.
Herbert and Favoretta liked the old woman and her garden, and they were
much interested for the little boy, who was whipped for having been
gazing at the pictures on the horn-book, instead of learning his lesson;
but, to Isabella's great mortification, they did not understand above
half of what she read--the old English expressions puzzled them.
"You would not be surprised at this, my dear Isabella," said Mad. de
Rosier, "if you had made as many experiments upon children as I have. It
is quite a new language to them; and what you have just been reading is
scarcely intelligible to me, though you compliment me so much upon my
knowledge of the English language." Mad. de Rosier took the book,
and pointed to several words which she had not understood--such as
"eftsoons," "_Dan_ Phoebus," and "_ne_ and _y_," which had made many
lines incomprehensible.
Herbert, when he heard Mad. de Rosier confess her ignorance, began to
take courage, and came forward with his confessions.
"_Gingerbread y rare_," he thought, was some particular kind of
gingerbread; and "_Apples with cabbage net y covered o'er_" presented no
delightful image to his mind, because, as he said, he did not know what
the word _netycovered_ could mean.
These mistakes occasioned some laughter; but as Herbert perceived that
he was no longer thought stupid, he took all the laughter with good
humour, and he determined to follow, in future, Mad. de Rosier's
example, in pointing out the words which were puzzling.
Grace was astonished, at the conclusion of the evening, to find Master
Herbert in such high spirits. The next day she heard sounds of woe,
sounds agreeable to her wishes--Favoretta crying upon the stairs. It had
been a rainy morning: Favoretta and Herbert had been disappointed in
not being able to walk out; and after having been amused the preceding
evening, they were less disposed to bear disappointment, and less
inclined to employ themselves than usual. Favoretta had finished her
little basket, and her mother had promised that it should appear at the
dessert; but it wanted some hours of dinner-time; and between the
making and the performance of a promise, how long the time appears to an
impatient child! how many events happen which may change the mind of the
promiser!
Mad. de Rosier had lent Favoretta and Herbert, for their amusement,
the first number of "The Cabinet of Quadrupeds," in which there are
beautiful prints; but, unfortunately, some dispute arose between
the children. Favoretta thought her brother looked too long at the
hunchbacked camel; he accused her of turning over leaves before she had
half seen the prints; but she listened not to his just reproaches, for
she had caught a glimpse of the royal tiger springing upon Mr. Munro,
and she could no longer restrain her impatience. Each party began
to pull at the book; and the camel and the royal tiger were both in
imminent danger of being torn in pieces, when Mad. de Rosier interfered,
parted the combatants, and sent them into separate rooms, as it was her
custom to do, whenever they could not agree together.
Grace, the moment she heard Favoretta crying, went up to the room where
she was, and made her tiptoe approaches, addressing Favoretta in a
tone of compassion, which, to a child's unpractised ear, might appear,
perhaps, the natural voice of sympathy. The sobbing child hid her face
in Grace's lap; and when she had told her complaint against Mad. de
Rosier, Grace comforted her for the loss of the royal tiger by the
present of a queen-cake. Grace did not dare to stay long in the room,
lest Mad. de Rosier should detect her; she therefore left the little
girl, with a strict charge "not to say a word of the queen-cake to her
governess."
Favoretta kept the queen-cake, that she might divide it with Herbert;
for she now recollected that she had been most to blame in the dispute
about the prints. Herbert absolutely refused, however, to have any share
of the cake, and he strongly urged his sister to return it to Grace.
Herbert had, _formerly_, to use his own expression, been accused of
being fond of eating, and so, perhaps, he was; but since he had acquired
other pleasures, those of affection and employment, his love of eating
had diminished so much, that he had eaten only one of his own radishes,
because he felt more pleasure in distributing the rest to his mother and
sisters.
It was with some difficulty that he prevailed upon Favoretta to restore
the queen-cake: the arguments that he used we shall not detail, but he
concluded with promising, that, if Favoretta would return the cake, he
would ask Mad. de Rosier, the next time they passed by the pastrycook's
shop, to give them some queen-cakes--"and I dare say she will give us
some, for she is much more _really_ good-natured than Grace."
Favoretta, with this hope of a future queen-cake, in addition to all
her brother's arguments, at last determined to return Grace's
present--"Herbert says I had better give it you back again," said she,
"because Mad. de Rosier does not know it."
Grace was somewhat surprised by the effect of Herbert's oratory, and
she saw that she must change her ground. The next day, when the children
were walking with Mad. de Rosier by a pastrycook's shop, Herbert, with
an honest countenance, asked Mad. de Rosier to give Favoretta and him a
queen-cake. She complied, for she was glad to find that he always asked
frankly for what he wanted; and yet that he bore refusals with good
humour.
Just as Herbert was going to eat his queen-cake, he heard the sound of
music in the street; he went to the door, and saw a poor man who was
playing on the dulcimer--a little boy was with him, who looked extremely
thin and hungry--he asked Herbert for some halfpence.
"I have no money of my own," said Herbert, "but I can give you this,
which is my own."
Mad. de Rosier held his hand back, which he had just stretched out to
offer his queen-cake; she advised him to exchange it for something
more substantial; she told him that he might have two buns for one
queen-cake. He immediately changed it for two buns, and gave them to
the little boy, who thanked him heartily. The man who was playing on the
dulcimer asked where Herbert lived, and promised to stop at his door to
play a tune for him, which he seemed to like particularly.
Convinced by the affair of the queen-cake that Herbert's influence was
a matter of some consequence in the family, Mrs. Grace began to repent
that she had made him her enemy, and she resolved, upon the first
convenient occasion, to make him overtures of peace--overtures which,
she had no doubt, would be readily accepted.
One morning she heard him sighing and groaning, as she thought, over
some difficult sum, which Mad. de Rosier had set for him; he cast up one
row aloud several times, but could not bring the total twice to the same
thing. When he took his sum to Mad. de Rosier, who was dressing, he
was kept waiting a few minutes at the door, because Favoretta was not
dressed. The young gentleman became a little impatient, and when he
gained admittance his sum was wrong.
"Then I cannot make it right," said Herbert, passionately.
"Try," said Mad. de Rosier; "go into that closet by yourself, and try
once more, and perhaps you will find that you _can_ make it right."
Herbert knelt down in the closet, though rather unwillingly, to this
provoking sum.
"Master Herbert, my dear," said Mrs. Grace, following him, "will you be
so good as to go for Miss Favoretta's scissors, if you please, which she
lent you yesterday?--she wants 'em, my dear."
Herbert, surprised by the unusually good-natured tone of this request,
ran for the scissors, and at his return, found that his difficult sum
had been cast up in his absence; the total was written at the bottom
of it, and he read these words, which he knew to be Mrs. Grace's
writing--"Rub out my _figurs_, and write them in your own." Herbert
immediately rubbed out Mrs. Grace's figures with indignation, and
determined to do the sum for himself. He carried it to Mad. de
Rosier--it was wrong: Grace stared, and when she saw Herbert patiently
stand beside Mad. de Rosier and repeat his efforts, she gave up all idea
of obtaining any influence over him.
"Mad. de Rosier," said she to herself, "has bewitched 'em all; I think
it's odd one can't find out her art!"
Mrs. Grace seemed to think that she could catch the knack of educating
children, as she had surreptitiously learnt, from a fashionable
hairdresser, the art of dressing hair. Ever since Mrs. Harcourt had
spoken in such a decided manner respecting Mad. de Rosier, her maid had
artfully maintained the greatest appearance of respect for that lady, in
her mistress's presence, and had even been scrupulous, to a troublesome
extreme, in obeying _the governess's orders_; and by a studied show of
attachment to Mrs. Harcourt, and much alacrity at her toilette, she had,
as she flattered herself, secured a fresh portion of favour.
One morning Mrs. Harcourt found, when she awoke, that she had a
headache, and a slight feverish complaint. She had caught cold the night
before in coming out of a warm assembly-room. Mrs. Grace affected to
be much alarmed at her mistress's indisposition, and urged her to send
immediately for Dr. X----. To this Mrs. Harcourt half consented, and a
messenger was sent for him. In the meantime Mrs. Harcourt, who had been
used to be much attended to in her slight indispositions, expressed some
surprise that Mad. de Rosier, or some of her children, when they heard
that she was ill, had not come to see her.
"Where is Isabella? where is Matilda? or Favoretta? what is become of
them all? do they know I am ill, Grace?"
"Oh dear! yes, ma'am; but they're all gone out in the coach, with Mad.
de Rosier."
"All?" said Mrs. Harcourt.
"All, I believe, ma'am," said Grace; "though, indeed, I can't pretend to
be sure, since I make it my business not to scrutinize, and to know as
little as possible of what's going on in the house, lest I should seem
to be too particular."
"Did Mad. de Rosier leave any message for me before she went out?"
"Not with me, ma'am."
Here the prevaricating waiting-maid told barely the truth in words: Mad.
de Rosier had left a message with the footman in Grace's hearing.
"I hope, ma'am," continued Grace, "you weren't disturbed with the noise
in the house early this morning?"
"What noise?--I heard no noise," said Mrs. Harcourt.
"No noise! dear ma'am, I'm as glad as can possibly be of that, at any
rate; but to be sure there was a great racket. I was really afraid,
ma'am, it would do no good to your poor head."
"What was the matter?" said Mrs. Harcourt, drawing back the curtain.
"Oh! nothing, ma'am, that need alarm you--only music and dancing."
"Music and dancing so early in the morning!--Do, Grace, say all you have
to say at once, for you keep me in suspense, which, I am sure, is not
good for my head."
"La, ma'am, I was so afraid it would make you angry, ma'am--that was
what made me so backward in mentioning it; but, to be sure, Mad. de
Rosier, and the young ladies, and Master Herbert, I suppose, thought you
couldn't hear, because it was in the back parlour, ma'am."
"Hear what? what was in the back parlour?"
"Only a dulcimer man, ma'am, playing for the young ladies."
"Did you tell them I was ill, Grace?"
It was the second time Mrs. Harcourt had asked this question. Grace was
gratified by this symptom.
"Indeed, ma'am," she replied, "I did make bold to tell Master Herbert,
that I was afraid you would hear him jumping and making such an uproar
up and down the stairs; but to be sure, I did not say a word to the
young ladies--as Mad. de Rosier was by, I thought she knew best."
A gentle knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Grace's charitable
animadversions.
"Bless me, if it isn't the young ladies! I'm sure I thought they were
gone out in the coach."
As Isabella and Matilda came up to the side of their mother's bed, she
said, in a languid voice--
"I hope, Matilda, my dear, you did not stay at home on my account--Is
Isabella there? What book has she in her hand?"
"Zeluco, mamma--I thought, perhaps, you would like to hear some more of
it--you liked what I read to you the other day."
"But you forget that I have a terrible headache--Pray don't let me
detain either of you, if you have any thing to do for Mad. de Rosier."
"Nothing in the world, mamma," said Matilda; "she is gone to take
Herbert and Favoretta to Exeter Change."
No farther explanation could take place, for, at this instant,
Mrs. Grace introduced Dr. X----. Now Dr. X---- was not one of those
complaisant physicians who flatter ladies that they are very ill when
they have any desire to excite tender alarm.
After satisfying himself that his patient was not quite so ill as Mrs.
Grace had affected to believe, Dr. X---- insensibly led from medical
inquiries to general conversation: he had much playful wit and knowledge
of the human heart, mixed with a variety of information, so that he
could with happy facility amuse and interest nervous patients, who were
beyond the power of the solemn apothecary.
The doctor drew the young ladies into conversation by rallying Isabella
upon her simplicity in reading a novel openly in her mother's presence;
he observed that she did not follow the example of the famous Serena, in
"The Triumphs of Temper." "Zeluco!" he exclaimed, in an ironical tone
of disdain: "why not the charming 'Sorrows of Werter,' or some of our
fashionable hobgoblin romances?"
Isabella undertook the defence of her book with much enthusiasm--and
either her cause, or her defence, was so much to Dr. X.----'s taste,
that he gradually gave up his feigned attack.
After the argument was over, and every body, not excepting Mrs.
Harcourt, who had almost forgotten her headache, was pleased with the
vanquished doctor, he drew from his pocket-book three or four small
cards; they were tickets of admittance to Lady N----'s French reading
parties.
Lady N---- was an elderly lady, whose rank made literature fashionable
amongst many, who aspired to the honour of being noticed by her. She was
esteemed such an excellent judge of manners, abilities, and character,
that her approbation was anxiously courted, more especially by mothers
who were just introducing their daughters into the world. She was
fond of encouraging youthful merit; but she was nice, some thought
fastidious, in the choice of her young acquaintance.
Mrs. Harcourt had been very desirous that Isabella and Matilda should
be early distinguished by a person, whose approving voice was of so much
consequence in fashionable as well as in literary society; and she was
highly flattered by Dr. X----'s prophecy, that Isabella would be a great
favourite of this "nice judging" lady--"Provided," added he, turning to
Isabella, "you have the prudence not to be always, as you have been this
morning, victorious in argument."
"I think," said Mrs. Harcourt--after the doctor had taken his leave--"I
think I am much better--ring for Grace, and I will get up."
"Mamma," said Matilda, "if you will give me leave, I will give my ticket
for the reading party to Mad. de Rosier, because, I am sure, it is an
entertainment she will like particularly--and, you know, she confines
herself so much with us--"
"I do not wish her to confine herself _so_ much, my dear, I am
sure," said Mrs. Harcourt, coldly, for, at this instant, Grace's
representations of the morning's music and dancing, and some remains of
her former jealousy of Mad. de Rosier's influence over her children's
affections, operated upon her mind. Pride prevented her from explaining
herself further to Isabella or Matilda--and though they saw that she was
displeased, they had no idea of the reason. As she was dressing, Mrs.
Harcourt conversed with them about the books they were reading. Matilda
was reading Hogarth's Analysis of Beauty; and she gave a distinct
account of his theory.
Mrs. Harcourt, when she perceived her daughter's rapid improvement, felt
a mixture of joy and sorrow.
"My dears," said she, "you will all of you be much superior to your
mother--but girls were educated, in my days, quite in a different style
from what they are now."
"Ah! there were no Mad. de Rosiers then," said Matilda, innocently.
"What sort of a woman was your mother, mamma?" said Isabella, "my
grandmother, mamma?"
"She--she was a very good woman."
"Was she sensible?" said Isabella.
"Matilda, my dear," said Mrs. Harcourt, "I wish you would see if Mad.
de Rosier has returned--I should be very glad to speak with her, for one
moment, if she be not engaged."
Under the veil of politeness, Mrs. Harcourt concealed her real feelings,
and declaring to Mad. de Rosier that she did not feel in spirits, or
sufficiently well, to go out that evening, she requested that Mad. de
Rosier would go, in her stead, to a dinner, where she knew her company
would be particularly acceptable.--"You will trust me, will you, with
your pupils for one evening?" added Mrs. Harcourt.
The tone and manner in which she pronounced these words revealed the
real state of her mind to Mad. de Rosier, who immediately complied with
her wishes.
Conscious of this lady's quick penetration, Mrs. Harcourt was abashed
by this ready compliance, and she blamed herself for feelings which she
could not suppress.
"I am sorry that you were not at home this morning," she continued, in a
hurried manner--"you would have been delighted with Dr. X----; he is one
of the most entertaining men I am acquainted with--and you would have
been vastly proud of your pupil there," pointing to Isabella; "I assure
you, she pleased me extremely."
In the evening, after Mad. de Rosier's departure, Mrs. Harcourt was not
quite so happy as she had expected. They who have only seen children
in picturesque situations, are not aware how much the duration of this
domestic happiness depends upon those who have the care of them. People
who, with the greatest abilities and the most anxious affection, are
unexperienced in education, should not be surprised or mortified if
their first attempts be not attended with success. Mrs. Harcourt thought
that she was doing what was very useful in hearing Herbert read; he
read with tolerable fluency, but he stopped at the end of almost every
sentence to weigh the exact sense of the words. In this habit he had
been indulged, or rather encouraged, by his preceptress; but his simple
questions, and his desire to have every word precisely explained, were
far from amusing to one who was little accustomed to the difficulties
and misapprehensions of a young reader.
Herbert was reading a passage, which Mad. de Rosier had marked for him,
in Xenophon's Cyropaedia. With her explanations, it might have been
intelligible to him. Herbert read the account of Cyrus's judgment upon
the two boys, who had quarrelled about their great and little coats,
much to his mother's satisfaction, because he had understood every word
of it, except the word _constituted_.
"_Constituted judge_--what does that mean, mamma?"
"Made a judge, my dear: go on."
"I saw a judge once, mamma, in a great wig--had Cyrus a wig, when he was
con--const!--made a judge?"
Isabella and Mrs. Harcourt laughed at this question; and they
endeavoured to explain the difference between a Persian and an English
judge.
Herbert with some difficulty separated the ideas, which he had so firmly
associated, of a judge and a great wig; and when he had, or thought
he had, an abstract notion of a judge, he obeyed his mother's repeated
injunctions of "Go on--go on." He went on, after observing that what
came next was not marked by Mad. de Rosier for him to read.
Cyrus's mother says to him: _"Child, the same things are not accounted
just with your grandfather here, and yonder in Persia."_ At this
sentence Herbert made a dead stop; and, after pondering for some time,
said, "I don't understand what Cyrus's mother meant--what does she mean
by _accounted just_?--_Accounted_, Matilda, I thought meant only about
casting up sums?"
"It has another meaning, my dear," Matilda mildly began.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, spare me!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt; "do not
let me hear all the meanings of all the words in the English language.
Herbert may look for the words that he does not understand, in the
dictionary, when he has done reading. Go on, now, pray; for," added she,
looking at her watch, "you have been half an hour reading half a page:
this would tire the patience of Job."
Herbert, perceiving that his mother was displeased, began in the same
instant to be frightened; he hurried on as fast as he could, without
understanding one word more of what he was reading; his precipitation
was worse than his slowness: he stumbled over the words, missed
syllables, missed lines, made the most incomprehensible nonsense of the
whole; till, at length, Mrs. Harcourt shut the book in despair, and soon
afterward despatched Herbert, who was also in despair, to bed. At this
catastrophe, Favoretta looked very grave, and a general gloom seemed to
overspread the company.
Mrs. Harcourt was mortified at the silence that prevailed, and made
several ineffectual attempts to revive the freedom and gaiety of
conversation:--"Ah!" said she to herself, "I knew it would be so;--they
cannot be happy without Mad. de Rosier."
Isabella had taken up a book. "Cannot you read for our entertainment,
Isabella, my dear, as well as for your own?" said her mother: "I assure
you, I am as much interested always in what you read to me, as Mad. de
Rosier herself can be."
"I was just looking, mamma, for some lines, that we read the other day,
which Mad. de Rosier said she was sure you would like. Can you find
them, Matilda? You know Mad. de Rosier said that mamma would like them,
because she has been at the opera."
"I have been at a great many operas," said Mrs. Harcourt, dryly; "but I
like other things as well as operas--and I cannot precisely guess what
you mean by _the_ opera--has it no name?"
"Medea and Jason, ma'am."
"The _ballet_ of Medea and Jason. It's a very fine thing, certainly; but
one has seen it so often. Read on, my dear."
Isabella then read a passage, which, notwithstanding Mrs. Harcourt's
inclination to be displeased, captivated her ear, and seized her
imagination.
"Slow out of earth, before the festive crowds,
On wheels of fire, amid a night of clouds,
Drawn by fierce fiends, arose a magic car,
Received the queen, and, hov'ring, flamed in air.
As with raised hands the suppliant traitors kneel,
And fear the vengeance they deserved to feel;
"Thrice, with parch'd lips, her guiltless babes she press'd,
And thrice she clasp'd them to her tortured breast.
Awhile with white uplifted eyes she stood,
Then plunged her trembling poniards in their blood.
Go, kiss your sire! go, share the bridal mirth!
She cried, and hurl'd their quiv'ring limbs on earth.
Rebellowing thunders rock the marble tow'rs,
And red-tongucd lightnings shoot their arrowy show'rs:
Earth yawns!--the crashing ruin sinks!--o'er all
Death with black hands extends his mighty pall."
"They are admirable lines, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt.
"I knew, mamma, you would like them," said Isabella; "and I'm sure I
wish I had seen the ballet too."
"You were never at an opera," said Mrs. Harcourt, after Isabella had
finished reading; "should you, either of you, or both, like to go with
me to-night to the opera?"
"To-night, ma'am!" cried Isabella, in a voice of joy.
"To-night, mamma!" cried Matilda, timidly; "but you were not well this
morning."
"But I am very well, now, my love; at least quite well enough to go
out with you--let me give you some pleasure. Ring for Grace, my dear
Matilda," added Mrs. Harcourt, looking at her watch, "and do not let us
be sentimental, for we have not a moment to lose--we must prevail upon
Grace to be as quick as lightning in her operations."
Grace was well disposed to be quick--she was delighted with what she
called _the change of measures_;--she repeated continually, in the midst
of their hurried toilette--
"Well, I am so glad, young ladies, you're going out with your _mamma_,
at last--I never saw my mistress look so well as she does to-night."
Triumphant, and feeling herself to be a person of consequence, Grace was
indefatigably busy, and Mrs. Harcourt thought that her talkative zeal
was the overflowing of an honest heart.
After Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, were gone to the opera,
Favoretta, who had been sent to bed by her mother, because she was in
the way when they were dressing, called to Grace to beg that she would
close the shutters in her room, for the moon shone upon her bed, and she
could not go to sleep.
"I wish mamma would have let me sit up a little longer," said Favoretta,
"for I am not at all sleepy."
"You always go to bed a great deal earlier, you know, miss," said Grace,
"when your governess is at home; I would let you get up, and come down
to tea with me, for I'm just going to take my late dish of tea, to rest
myself, only I dare not let you, because--"
"Because what?"
"Because, miss, you remember how you served me about the queen-cake."
"But I do not want you to give me any queen-cake; I only want to get up
for a little while," said Favoretta.
"Then get up," said Grace: "but don't make a noise, to waken Master
Herbert."
"Do you think," said Favoretta, "that Herbert would think it wrong?"
"Indeed, I don't think at all about what he thinks," said Mrs. Grace,
tossing back her head, as she adjusted her dress at the glass; "and, if
you think so much about it, you'd better lie down again."
"Oh! I can't lie down again," said Favoretta; "I have got my shoes
on--stay for me, Grace--I'm just ready."
Grace, who was pleased with an opportunity of indulging this little
girl, and who flattered herself that she should regain her former
power over Favoretta's undistinguishing affections, waited for her
most willingly. Grace drank her _late_ dish of tea in her mistress's
dressing-room, and did every thing in her power to humour "her sweet
Favoretta."
Mrs. Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw's maid, was summoned; she lived in the next
street. She was quite overjoyed, she said, at entering the room, to see
Miss Favoretta--it was an age since she had a sight or a glimpse of her.
We pass over the edifying conversation of those two ladies--Miss
Favoretta was kept awake, and in such high spirits by flattery, that she
did not perceive how late it was--she begged to stay up a little longer,
and a little longer.
Mrs. Rebecca joined in these entreaties, and Mrs. Grace could not refuse
them; especially as she knew that the coach would not go for Mad. de
Rosier till after her mistress's return from the opera.
The coachman had made this arrangement for his own convenience, and had
placed it entirely to the account of his horses.
Mrs. Grace depended, rather imprudently, upon the coachman's
arrangement; for Mad. de Rosier, finding that the coach did not call for
her at the hour she had appointed, sent for a chair, and returned home,
whilst Grace, Mrs. Rebecca, and Favoretta, were yet in Mrs. Harcourt's
dressing-room.
Favoretta was making a great noise, so that they did not hear the knock
at the door.
One of the housemaids apprised Mrs. Grace of Mad. de Rosier's arrival.
"She's getting out of her chair, Mrs. Grace, in the hall."
Grace started up, put Favoretta into a little closet, and charged her
not to make the least noise _for her life_.--Then, with a candle in her
hand, and a treacherous smile upon her countenance, she sallied forth
to the head of the stairs, to light Mad. de Rosier.--"Dear ma'am! my
mistress will be _so_ sorry the coach didn't go for you in time;--she
found herself better after you went--and the two young ladies are gone
with her to the opera."
"And where are Herbert and Favoretta?"
"In bed, ma'am, and asleep, hours ago.--Shall I light you, ma'am, this
way, to your room?"
"No," said Mad. de Rosier; "I have a letter to write: and I'll wait in
Mrs. Harcourt's dressing-room till she comes home."
"Very well, ma'am. Mrs. Rebecca, it's only Mad. de Rosier.--Mad. de
Rosier, it's only Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw's maid, ma'am, who's here very
often when my mistress is at home, and just stepped out to look at the
young ladies' drawings, which my mistress gave me leave to show her the
first time she drank tea with me, ma'am."
Mad. de Rosier, who thought all this did not concern her in the least,
listened to it with cold indifference, and sat down to write her letter.
Grace fidgeted about the room, as long as she could find any pretence
for moving any thing into or out of its place; and, at length, in no
small degree of anxiety for the prisoner she had left in the closet,
quitted the dressing-room.
As Mad. de Rosier was writing, she once or twice thought that she heard
some noise in the closet; she listened, but all was silent; and she
continued to write, till Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda, came
home.
Isabella was in high spirits, and began to talk, with considerable
volubility, to Mad. de Rosier about the opera.
Mrs. Harcourt was full of apologies about the coach; and Matilda rather
anxious to discover what it was that had made a change in her mother's
manner towards Mad. de Rosier.
Grace, glad to see that they were all intent upon their own affairs,
lighted their candles expeditiously, and stood waiting, in hopes that
they would immediately leave the room, and that she should be able to
release her prisoner.
Favoretta usually slept in a little closet within Mrs. Grace's room, so
that she foresaw no difficulty in getting her to bed.
"I heard!--did not _you_ hear a noise, Isabella?" said Matilda.
"A noise!--No; where?" said Isabella, and went on talking alternately
to her mother and Mad. de Rosier, whom she held fast, though they seemed
somewhat inclined to retire to rest.
"Indeed," said Matilda, "I did hear a noise in that closet."
"Oh dear, Miss Matilda," cried Grace, getting between Matilda and the
closet, "it's nothing in life but a mouse."
"A mouse, where?" said Mrs. Harcourt.
"Nowhere, ma'am," said Grace; "only Miss Matilda was hearing noises, and
I said they must be mice."
"There, mamma! there! that was not a mouse, surely!" said Matilda. "It
was a noise louder, certainly, than any mouse could make."
"Grace is frightened," said Isabella, laughing.
Grace, indeed, looked pale and terribly frightened.
Mad. de Rosier took a candle, and walked directly to the closet.
"Ring for the men," said Mrs. Harcourt.
Matilda held back Mad. de Rosier; and Isabella, whose head was now just
recovered from the opera, rang the bell with considerable energy.
"Dear Miss Isabella, don't ring so;--dear ma'am, don't be frightened,
and I'll tell you the whole truth, ma'am," said Grace to her mistress;
"it's nothing in the world to frighten any body--it's only Miss
Favoretta, ma'am."
"Favoretta!" exclaimed every body at once, except Mad. de Rosier, who
instantly opened the closet door, but no Favoretta appeared.
"Favoretta is not here," said Mad. de Rosier.
"Then I'm undone!" exclaimed Grace; "she must have got out upon the
leads." The leads were, at this place, narrow, and very dangerous.
"Don't scream, or the child is lost," said Mad. de Rosier.