Mrs. Harcourt sank down into an arm-chair. Mad. de Rosier stopped

Isabella, who pressed into the closet.

"Don't speak, Isabella--Grace, go into the closet--call Favoretta--hear

me, quietly," said Mad. de Rosier, steadily, for Mrs. Grace was in such

confusion of mind, that she was going to call upon the child, without

waiting to hear what was said to her.--"Hear me," said Mad. de Rosier,

"or _you are_ undone--go into the closet without making any bustle--call

Favoretta, gently; she will not be frightened, when she hears only your

voice."

Grace did as she was ordered, and returned from the closet in a few

instants, with Favoretta. Grace instantly began an exculpatory speech,

but Mrs. Harcourt, though still trembling, had sufficient firmness to

say, "Leave us, Grace, and let me hear the truth from the child."

Grace left the room. Favoretta related exactly what had happened, and

said that when she heard all their voices in the dressing-room, and

when she heard Matilda say there's a noise, she was afraid of being

discovered in the closet, and had crept out through a little door, with

which she was well acquainted, that opened upon the leads.

Mrs. Harcourt now broke forth into indignant exclamations against Grace.

Mad. de Rosier gently pacified her, and hinted that it would be but just

to give her a fair hearing in the morning.

"You are always yourself! always excellent!" cried Mrs. Harcourt;

"you have saved my child--we none of us had any presence of mind, but

yourself."

"Indeed, mamma, I _did_ ring the bell, however," said Isabella.

With much difficulty those who had so much to say, submitted to Mad. de

Rosier's entreaty of "Let us talk of it in the morning." She was afraid

that Favoretta, who was present, would not draw any salutary moral from

what might be said in the first emotions of joy for her safety. Mad. de

Rosier undressed the little girl herself, and took care that she should

not be treated as a heroine just escaped from imminent danger.

The morning came, and Mrs. Grace listened, with anxious ear, for the

first sound of her mistress's bell--but no bell rang; and, when she

heard Mrs. Harcourt walking in her bedchamber, Grace augured ill of her

own fate, and foreboded the decline and fall of her empire.

"If my mistress can get up and dress herself without me, it's all over

with me," said Grace; "but I'll make one trial." Then she knocked with

her most obliging knock at her mistress's door, and presented herself

with a Magdalen face--"Can I do any thing for you, ma'am?"

"Nothing, I thank you, Grace. Send Isabella and Matilda."

Isabella and Matilda came, but Mrs. Harcourt finished dressing herself

in silence, and then said--

"Come with me, my dear girls, to Mad. de Rosier's room. I believe I had

better ask her the question that I was going to ask you. Is she up?"

"Yes, but not dressed," said Matilda; "for we have been reading to her."

"And talking to her," added Isabella; "which, you know, hinders people

very much, mamma, when they are dressing."

At Mad. de Rosier's door they found Herbert, with his slate in his hand,

and his sum ready cast up.

"May I bring this little man in with me?" said Mrs. Harcourt to Mad. de

Rosier--"Herbert, shake hands with me," continued his mother: "I believe

I was a little impatient with you and your Cyrus last night; but you

must not expect that every body should be as good to you as this lady

has been;" leading him up to Mad. de Rosier.

"Set this gentleman's heart at ease, will you?" continued she,

presenting the slate, upon which his sum was written, to Mad. de Rosier.

"He looks the picture, or rather the reality, of honesty and good humour

this morning, I think. I am sure that he has not done any thing that he

is ashamed of."

Little Herbert's countenance glowed with pleasure at receiving such

praise from his mother; but he soon checked his pride, for he discovered

Favoretta, upon whom every eye had turned, as Mrs. Harcourt concluded

her speech.

Favoretta was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, and she turned

her face to the wall when Herbert looked at her; but Herbert saw that

she was in disgrace. "Your sum is quite right, Herbert," said Mad. de

Rosier.

"Herbert, take your slate," said Matilda; and the young gentleman had at

length the politeness to relieve her outstretched arm.

"Send him out of the way," whispered Mrs. Harcourt.

"Go out of the room, Herbert, my dear," said Mad. de Rosier, who never

made use of artifices upon any occasion to get rid of children--"go out

of the room, Herbert, my dear: for we want to talk about something which

we do not wish that you should hear."

Herbert, though he was anxious to know what could be the matter with

Favoretta, instantly withdrew, saying, "Will you call me again when

you've done talking?"

"We can speak French," added Mad. de Rosier, looking at Favoretta,

"since we cannot trust that little girl in a room by herself; we must

speak in a language which she does not understand, when we have any

thing to say that we do not choose she should hear."

"After all this preparation," said Mrs. Harcourt, in French, "my

little mouse will make you laugh; it will not surprise or frighten you,

Matilda, quite so much as the mouse of last night. You must know that I

have been much disturbed by certain noises."

"More noises!" said Matilda, drawing closer, to listen.

"More noises!" said Mrs. Harcourt, laughing; "but the noises which

disturbed my repose were not heard in the dead of the night, just as the

clock struck twelve--the charming hour for being frightened out of one's

wits, Matilda: my noises were heard in broad daylight, about the time

'When lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake.'

Was not there music and dancing here, early yesterday morning, when I

had the headache, Isabella?"

"Yes, mamma," said Isabella: "Herbert's dulcimer-boy was here! We call

him Herbert's dulcimer-boy, because Herbert gave him two buns the other

day;--the boy and his father came from gratitude, to play a tune for

Herbert, and we all ran and asked Mad. de Rosier to let him in."

"We did not know you had the headache, mamma," said Matilda, "till after

they had played several tunes, and we heard Grace saying something to

Herbert about racketing upon the stairs--he only ran up stairs once for

my music-book; and the moment Grace spoke to him, he came to us, and

said that you were not well; then Mad. de Rosier stopped the dulcimer,

and we all left off dancing, and we were very sorry Grace had not told

us sooner that you were ill: at that time it was ten--nearly eleven

o'clock."

"Grace strangely misrepresented all this," said Mrs. Harcourt: "as she

gave her advice so late, I am sorry she gave it at all; she prevented

you and Isabella from the pleasure of going out with Mad. de Rosier."

"We prevented ourselves--Grace did not prevent us, I assure you, mamma,"

said Isabella, eagerly: "we wished to stay at home with you--Herbert and

Favoretta were only going to see the royal tiger."

"Then you did not stay at home by Mad. de Rosier's desire."

"No, indeed, madam," said Mad. de Rosier, who had not appeared in any

haste to justify herself; "your children always show you affection

by their own desire, never by mine: your penetration would certainly

discover the difference between attentions prompted by a governess, and

those which are shown by artless affection."

"My dear madam, say no more," said Mrs. Harcourt, holding out her hand:

"you are a real friend."

Mad. de Rosier now went to call Herbert, but on opening the door, Mrs.

Grace fell forward upon her face into the room; she had been kneeling

with her head close to the key-hole of the door; and, probably, the

sound of her own name, and a few sentences now and then spoken in

English, had so fixed her attention, that she did not prepare in time

for her retreat.

"Get up, Grace, and walk in, if you please," said Mrs. Harcourt, with

much calmness; "we have not the least objection to your hearing our

conversation."

"Indeed, ma'am," said Grace, as soon as she had recovered her feet, "I'm

above listening to any body's conversations, except that when one hears

one's own name, and knows that one has enemies, it is but natural to

listen in one's own defence."

"And is that all you can do, Grace, in your own defence?" said Mrs.

Harcourt.

"It's not all I can _say_, ma'am," replied Grace, pushed to extremities;

and still with a secret hope that her mistress, _upon a pinch, would not

part with a favourite maid_: "I see I'm of no further use in the family,

neither to young or old--and new comers have put me quite out of favour,

and have your ear to themselves--so, if you please, ma'am, I had better

look out for another situation."

"If you please, Grace," said Mrs. Harcourt.

"I will leave the house this instant, if you think proper, ma'am."

"If you think proper, Grace," said her mistress, with immovable

philosophy.

Grace burst into tears: "I never thought it would come to this, Mrs.

Harcourt--_I_, that have lived so long such a favourite!--but I don't

blame you, madam; you have been the best and kindest of mistresses to

me; and, whatever becomes of me, to my dying words, I shall always give

you and the dear young ladies the best of characters."

"The character we may give _you_, Grace, is of rather more consequence."

"Every thing that I say and do," interrupted the sobbing Grace, "is

_vilified_ and misinterpreted by those who wish me ill. I--"

"You have desired to leave me, Grace; and my desire is that you should

leave me," said Mrs. Harcourt, with firmness. "Mad. de Rosier and

I strictly forbade you to interfere with any of the children in our

absence; you have thought proper to disregard these orders; and were you

to stay longer in my house, I perceive that you would teach my children

first to disobey, and afterward to deceive me."

Grace, little prepared for this calm decision, now in a frightened,

humble tone, began to make promises of reformation; but her promises

and apologies were vain; she was compelled to depart, and every body was

glad to have done with her.

Favoretta, young as she was, had already learned from this cunning

waiting-maid habits of deceit which could not be suddenly changed. Mad.

de Rosier attempted her cure, by making her feel, in the first place,

the inconveniences and the disgrace of not being trusted. Favoretta was

ashamed to perceive that she was the only person in the house who

was watched: and she was heartily glad when, by degrees, she had

opportunities allowed her of obtaining a character for truth, and all

the pleasures and all the advantages of confidence.

Things went on much better after the gnome-like influence of Mrs Grace

had ceased; but we must now hasten to introduce our readers to Mrs.

Fanshaw. Mrs. Fanshaw was a card-playing lady, who had been educated

at a time when it was not thought necessary for women to have any

knowledge, or any taste for literature. As she advanced in life, she

continually recurred to the maxims as well as to the fashions of her

youth; and the improvements in modern female education she treated as

dangerous innovations. She had placed her daughter at a boarding-school

in London, the expense of which was its chief recommendation; and she

saw her regularly at the Christmas and Midsummer holidays. At length,

when Miss Fanshaw was about sixteen, her prudent mother began to think

that it was time to take her from school, and to introduce her into

the world. Miss Fanshaw had learned to speak French passably, to read

a _little_ Italian, to draw _a little_, to play tolerably well upon the

piano-forte, and to dance as well as many other young ladies. She had

been sedulously taught a sovereign contempt of whatever was called

_vulgar_ at the school where she was educated; but, as she was

profoundly ignorant of every thing but the routine of that school, she

had no precise idea of propriety; she only knew what was thought vulgar

or genteel at Suxberry House; and the authority of Mrs. Suxberry (for

that was the name of her schoolmistress) she quoted as incontrovertible

upon all occasions. Without reflecting upon what was wrong or right, she

decided with pert vivacity on all subjects; and firmly believed that

no one could know or could learn any thing who had not been educated

precisely as she had been. She considered her mother as an inferior

personage, destitute of genteel accomplishments: her mother considered

her as a model of perfection, that could only have been rendered thus

thoroughly accomplished by _the most expensive masters_--her only fear

was, that her dear Jane should be rather too _learned_.

Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, paid Mrs. Fanshaw a visit, as

soon as they heard that her daughter was come home.

Miss Fanshaw, an erect stiffened figure, made her entrée; and it was

impossible not to perceive that her whole soul was intent upon her

manner of holding her head and placing her elbows, as she came into

the room. Her person had undergone all the ordinary and extraordinary

tortures of back-boards, collars, stocks, dumbbells, &c. She looked at

Isabella and Matilda with some surprise and contempt during the first

ten minutes after her entrance; for they were neither of them seated

in the exact posture which she had been instructed to think the only

position in which a _young lady_ should sit in company. Isabella got

up to look at a drawing; Miss Fanshaw watched every step she took, and

settled it in her own mind that Miss Harcourt did not walk as if she had

ever been at Suxberry House. Matilda endeavoured to engage the figure

that sat beside her in conversation; but the figure had no conversation,

and the utmost that Matilda could obtain was a few monosyllables

pronounced with affected gravity; for at Suxberry House this young

lady had been taught to maintain an invincible silence when produced to

strangers; but she made herself amends for this constraint, the moment

she was with her companions, by a tittering, gossiping species of

communication, which scarcely deserves the name of conversation.

Whilst the silent Miss Fanshaw sat so as to do her dancing-master strict

justice, Mrs. Fanshaw was stating to Mrs. Harcourt the enormous expense

to which she had gone in her daughter's education. Though firm to her

original doctrine, that women had no occasion for learning--in which

word of reproach she included all literature--she nevertheless had been

convinced, by the unanimous voice of fashion, that accomplishments were

_most desirable for young ladies_--desirable, merely because they were

fashionable; she did not, in the least, consider them as sources of

independent occupation.

Isabella was struck with sudden admiration at the sight of a head of

Jupiter which Miss Fanshaw had just finished, and Mrs. Harcourt borrowed

it for her to copy; though Miss Fanshaw was secretly but decidedly of

opinion, that no one who had not learned from the drawing-master at

Suxberry House could copy this head of Jupiter with any chance of

success.

There was a pretty little netting-box upon the table which caught

Matilda's eye, and she asked the silent figure what it was made of.

The silent figure turned its head mechanically, but could give no

information upon the subject. Mrs. Fanshaw, however, said that she

had bought the box at the Repository for ingenious works, and that the

reason she chose it was because Lady N---- had recommended it to her.

"It is some kind of new manufacture, her ladyship tells me, invented by

some poor little boy that she patronizes; her ladyship can tell you more

of the matter, Miss Matilda, than I can," concluded Mrs. Fanshaw; and,

producing her netting, she asked Mrs. Harcourt, "if she had not been

vastly notable to have got forward so fast with her work."

The remainder of the visit was spent in recounting her losses at the

card-table, and in exhortation to Mrs. Harcourt to send Miss Isabella

and Matilda to finish their education at Suxberry House.

Mrs. Harcourt was somewhat alarmed by the idea that her daughters would

not be equal to Miss Fanshaw in accomplishments but, fortunately for

Mad. de Rosier and herself, she was soon induced to change her opinion

by farther opportunities of comparison.

In a few days her visit was returned. Mrs. Harcourt happened to mention

the globe that Isabella was painting: Miss Fanshaw begged to see it, and

she went into Mrs. Harcourt's dressing-room, where it hung. The moment

she found herself with Isabella and Matilda, _out of company_, the

silent figure became talkative. The charm seemed to be broken, or rather

reversed, and she began to chatter with pert incessant rapidity.

"Dear me," said she, casting a scornful glance at Matilda's globe, "this

is vastly pretty, but we've no such thing at Suxberry House. I wonder

Mrs. Harcourt didn't send both of you to Suxberry House--every body

sends their daughters, who can afford it, now, to Suxberry House; but,

to be sure, it's very expensive--we had all silver forks, and every

thing in the highest style, and Mrs. Suxberry keeps a coach. I assure

you she's not at all like a schoolmistress, and she thinks it very rude

and vulgar of any body to call her a schoolmistress. Won't you ask your

mamma to send you, if it's only for the name of it, for one year, to

Suxberry House?"

"No," said Matilda; "we are so happy under the care of Mad. de Rosier."

"Ah, dear me! I forgot--mamma told me _you'd got_ a new French governess

lately--our French teacher, at Suxberry House, was so strict, and so

cross, if one made a mistake in the tenses: it's very well for you your

governess is not cross--does she give you very hard exercises?--let me

look at your exercise book, and I'll tell you whether it's the right

one--I mean _that_ we used to have at Suxberry House."

Miss Fanshaw snatched up a book, in which she saw a paper, which she

took for a French exercise.

"Come, show it me, and I'll correct the faults for you, before your

governess sees it, and she'll be so surprised!"

"Mad. de Rosier has seen it," said Matilda;--but Miss Fanshaw, in

a romping manner, pulled the paper out of her hands. It was the

translation of a part of "Les Conversations d'Emilie," which we formerly

mentioned.

"La!" said Miss Fanshaw, "we had no such book as this at Suxberry

House."

Matilda's translation she was surprised to find correct.

"And do you write themes?" said she--"We always wrote themes once every

week, at Suxberry House, which I used to hate of all things, for I

never could find any thing to say--it made me hate writing, I know;--but

that's all over now; thank goodness, I've done with themes, and French

letters, and exercises, and translations, and all those plaguing things;

and now I've left school for ever, I may do just as I please--that's the

best of going to school; it's over some time or other, and there's an

end of it; but you that have a governess and masters at home, you go

on for ever and ever, and you have no holidays either; and you have no

out-of-school hours; you are kept _hard at it_ from morning till night:

now I should hate that of all things. At Suxberry House, when we had

got our task done, and finished with the writing-master and the

drawing-master, and when we had practised for the music-master, and _all

that_, we might be as idle as we pleased, and do what we liked out of

school-hours--you know that was very pleasant: I assure you, you'd like

being at Suxberry House amazingly."

Isabella and Matilda, to whom it did not appear the most delightful of

all things to be idle, nor the most desirable thing in the world to have

their education finished, and then to lay aside all thoughts of farther

improvement, could not assent to Miss Fanshaw's concluding assertion.

They declared that they did not feel any want of holidays; at which Miss

Fanshaw stared: they said that they had no tasks, and that they liked

to be employed rather better than to be idle; at which Miss Fanshaw

laughed, and sarcastically said, "You need not talk to me as if your

governess were by, for I'm not a tell-tale--I shan't repeat what you

say."

Isabella and Matilda, who had not two methods of talking, looked rather

displeased at this ill-bred speech.

"Nay," said Miss Fanshaw, "I hope you aren't affronted _now_ at what I

said; when we are by ourselves, you know, one says just what comes

into one's head. Whose handsome coach is this, pray, with a coronet?"

continued she, looking out of the window: "I declare it is stopping at

your door; do let us go down. I'm never afraid of going into the room

when there's company, for we were taught to go into a room at Suxberry

House; and Mrs. Suxberry says it's very vulgar to be ashamed, and I

assure you it's all custom. I used to colour, as Miss Matilda does,

every minute; but I got over it before I had been long at Suxberry

House."

Isabella, who had just been reading "A Father's Legacy to his

Daughters," recollected at this instant Dr. Gregory's opinion, "that

when a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm

of beauty." She had not, however, time to _quote_ this in Matilda's

defence; for Miss Fanshaw ran down stairs, and Isabella recollected,

before she overtook her, that it would not be polite to remind her of

her early loss of charms.

Lady N---- was in the coach which had excited Miss Fanshaw's admiration;

and this young lady had a glorious opportunity of showing the graces

that she had been taught at so much expense, for the room was full of

company. Several morning visitors had called upon Mrs. Harcourt, and

they formed a pretty large circle, which Miss Fanshaw viewed upon her

entrance with a sort of studied assurance.

Mrs. Fanshaw watched Lady N----'s eye as her daughter came into

the room; but Lady N---- did not appear to be much struck with the

second-hand graces of Suxberry House; her eye passed over Miss Fanshaw,

in search of something less affected and more interesting.

Miss Fanshaw had now resumed her _company face_ and attitude; she sat

in prudent silence, whilst Lady N---- addressed her conversation

to Isabella and Matilda, whose thoughts did not seem to be totally

engrossed by their own persons.

Dr. X---- had prepared this lady to think favourably of Mad. de Rosier's

pupils, by the account which he had given her of Isabella's remarks upon

Zeluco.

A person of good sense, who has an encouraging countenance, can easily

draw out the abilities of young people, and from their manner of

listening, as well as from their manner of speaking, can soon form a

judgment of their temper and understanding.

Miss Fanshaw, instead of attending with a desire to improve herself from

sensible conversation, sat with a look as absent as that of an unskilful

actress, whilst the other performers are engaged in their parts.

There was a small book-case, in a recess, at the farthest end of the

room, and upon a little table there were some books, which Isabella

and Matilda had been reading with Mad. de Rosier. Mrs. Fanshaw looked

towards the table, with a sarcastic smile, and said--

"You are great readers, young ladies, I see: may we know what are your

studies?"

Miss Fanshaw, to show how well she could walk, crossed the room, and

took up one of the books.

"'Alison upon Taste'--that's a pretty book, I dare say--but la! what's

this, Miss Isabella? 'A Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments'--dear me!

that must be a curious performance--by a smith! a common smith!"

Isabella, good-naturedly, stopped her from farther absurd exclamations

by turning to the title-page of the book and showing her the words

_"Adam Smith."_

"Ah! _A_ stands for _Adam!_ very true--I thought it was _a_ smith," said

Miss Fanshaw.

"Well, my dear," said her mother, who had quickness enough to perceive

that her daughter had made some mistake, by the countenances of the

company, but who had not sufficient erudition to know what the mistake

could be--"well, my dear, and suppose it was _a_ smith, there's nothing

extraordinary in that--nothing extraordinary in a smith's writing a

book nowadays,--why not a common blacksmith, as well as a common

ploughman?--I was asked, I know, not long ago, to subscribe _to_ the

poems of a common ploughman."

"The Ayrshire ploughman?" said Lady N----.

"Yes, they called him so, as I recollect, and I really had a mind to

put my name down, for I think I saw your ladyship's amongst the

subscribers."

"Yes, they are beautiful poems," said Lady N----.

"So I understand--there are some vastly pretty things in his

collection--but one hears of so many good things coming out every day,"

said Mrs. Fanshaw, in a plaintive voice. "In these days, I think, every

body writes--"

"And reads," said Lady N----.

"And reads," said Mrs. Fanshaw. "We have learned ladies now, wherever

one goes, who tell one they never play at cards--I am sure they are very

bad company. Jane," said she, turning to her daughter, "I hope you won't

take it into your head to turn out a reading lady!"

"Oh dear, no!" said Miss Fanshaw: "we had not much time for reading at

Suxberry House, we were so busy with our masters;--we had a charming

English master though, to teach us elocution, because it's so

fashionable now to read loud well. Mrs. Harcourt, _isn't it odd_ to read

English books to a French governess?" continued this young lady, whose

constrained taciturnity now gave way to a strong desire to show herself

off before Lady N----. She had observed that Isabella and Matilda had

been listened to with approbation, and she imagined that, when she

spoke, she should certainly eclipse them. Mrs. Harcourt replied to

her observation, that Mad. de Rosier not only read and spoke English

remarkably well, but that she had also a general knowledge of English

literature.

"Oh! here are some French books," said Miss Fanshaw, taking down one out

of the book-case--"'Journal Étranger'--dear me! are you translating _of_

this, Miss Isabella?"

"No," said Mrs. Harcourt; "Madame de Rosier brought it down stairs

yesterday, to show us an essay of Hume's on the study of history, which

is particularly addressed to women; and Mad. de Rosier says that it is

not to be found in several of the late editions of Hume's Essays--she

thought it singular that it should be preserved in a French

translation."

"There is," said Isabella, "an entertaining account in that essay of

a lady who asked Hume to lend her some novels! He lent her Plutarch's

Lives, which she thought very amusing, till she found out that they

were true. As soon as she came to the names of Caesar and Alexander, she

returned the books."

Mrs. Fanshaw was surprised that Lady N---- begged to look at this essay;

and was much disappointed to observe that the graceful manner in which

Miss Fanshaw presented the book to her ladyship escaped notice.

"Pray, Miss Matilda, is that a drawing?" said Mrs. Fanshaw, in hopes of

leading to a more favourable subject.

"Oh, dear me! do pray favour us with a sight of it!" cried Miss Fanshaw,

and she eagerly unrolled the paper, though Matilda assured her that it

was not a drawing.

It was Hogarth's print of a country dance, which was prefixed to his

"Analysis of Beauty."

"It is the _oddest_ thing!" exclaimed Miss Fanshaw, who thought every

thing _odd_ or _strange_ which she had not seen at Suxberry house.

Without staying to observe the innumerable strokes of humour and of

original genius in the print, she ran on--"La! its hardly worth any

one's while, surely, to draw such a set of vulgar figures--one hates low

humour." Then, in a hurry to show her taste for dress, she observed

that "people, formerly, must have had no taste at all;--one can hardly

believe such things were ever worn."

Mrs. Fanshaw, touched by this reflection upon the taste of former times,

though she seldom presumed to oppose any of her daughter's opinions,

could not here refrain from saying a few words in defence of sacks, long

waists, and whalebone stays, and she pointed to a row of stays in the

margin of one of these prints of Hogarth.

Miss Fanshaw, who did not consider that, with those who have a taste for

propriety in manners, she could not gain any thing by a triumph over her

mother, laughed in a disdainful manner at her mother's "_partiality for

stays_," and _wondered_ how any body could think long waists becoming.

"Surely, any body who knows any thing of drawing, or has any taste

for an antique figure, must acknowledge the present fashion to be most

graceful." She appealed to Isabella and Matilda.

They were so much struck with the impropriety of her manner towards her

mother, that they did not immediately answer; Matilda at length said,

"It is natural to like what we have been early used to;" and, from

unaffected gentleness, eager to prevent Miss Fanshaw from further

exposing her ignorance, she rolled up the print; and Lady N----, smiling

at Mrs. Harcourt, said, "I never saw a print more _gracefully_ rolled up

in my life." Miss Fanshaw immediately rolled up another of the prints,

but no applause ensued.

At the next pause in the conversation, Mrs. Fanshaw and her daughter

took their leave, seemingly dissatisfied with their visit.

Matilda, just after Mrs. Fanshaw left the room, recollected her pretty

netting-box, and asked Lady N---- whether she knew any thing of the

little boy by whom it was made.

Her ladyship gave such an interesting account of him, that Matilda

determined to have her share in relieving his distress.

Matilda's benevolence was formerly rather passive than active; but from

Mad. de Rosier she had learned that sensibility should not be suffered

to evaporate in sighs, or in sentimental speeches. She had also learnt

that economy is necessary to generosity; and she consequently sometimes

denied herself the gratification of her own tastes, that she might be

able to assist those who were in distress.

She had lately seen a beautiful print{3} of the king of France taking

leave of his family; and, as Mad. de Rosier was struck with it, she

wished to have bought it for her; but she now considered that a guinea,

which was the price of the print, might be better bestowed on this poor,

little, ingenious, industrious boy; so she begged her mother to send

to the repository for one of his boxes. The servants were all busy, and

Matilda did not receive her box till the next morning.

{Footnote 3: By Egginton.}

Herbert was reading to Mad. de Rosier when the servant brought the box

into the room. Favoretta got up to look at it, and immediately Herbert's

eye glanced from his book: in spite of all his endeavours to command his

attention, he heard the exclamations of "Beautiful!--How smooth!--like

tortoise-shell!--What can it be made of?"

"My dear Herbert, shut the book," said Mad. de Rosier, "if your head be

in that box. Never read one moment after you have ceased to attend."

"It is my fault," said Matilda; "I will put the box out of the way till

he has finished reading."

When Herbert had recalled his wandering thoughts, and had fixed his mind

upon what he was about, Mad. de Rosier put her hand upon the book--he

started--"Now let us see the _beautiful_ box," said she.

After it had passed through Favoretta and Herbert's impatient hands,

Matilda, who had scarcely looked at it herself, took it to the window,

to give it a sober examination. "It is not made of paper, or pasteboard,

and it is not the colour of tortoise-shell," said Matilda: "I never saw

any thing like it before; I wonder what it can be made of?"

Herbert, at this question, unperceived by Matilda, who was examining the

box very earnestly, seized the lid, which was lying upon the table, and

ran out of the room; he returned in a few minutes, and presented the

lid to Matilda. "I can tell you one thing, Matilda," said he, with an

important face--"it is an animal--an animal substance, I mean."

"Oh, Herbert," cried Matilda, "what have you been doing?--you have

blackened the corner of the box."

"Only the least bit in the world," said Herbert, "to try an experiment.

I only put one corner to the candle that Isabella had lighted to seal

her letter."

"My dear Herbert, how could you burn your sister's box?" expostulated

Madame de Rosier: "I thought you did not love mischief."

"Mischief!--no, indeed; I thought you would be pleased that I remembered

how to distinguish animal from vegetable substances. You know, the day

that my hair was on fire, you told me how to do that; and Matilda wanted

to know what the box was made of; so I tried."

"Well," said Matilda, good-naturedly, "you have not done me much harm."

"But another time," said Mad. de Rosier, "don't burn a box that costs

a guinea to try an experiment; and, above all things, never, upon any

account, take what is not your own."

The corner of the lid that had been held to the candle was a little

warped, so that the lid did not slide into its groove as easily as it

did before. Herbert was disposed to use force upon the occasion; but

Matilda with difficulty rescued her box by an argument which fortunately

reached his understanding in time enough to stop his hand.

"It was the heat of the candle that warped it," said she: "let us dip

it into boiling water, which cannot be made _too_ hot, and that will,

perhaps, bring it back to its shape."

The lid of the box was dipped into boiling-water, and restored to its

shape. Matilda, as she was wiping it dry, observed that some yellow

paint, or varnish, came off, and in one spot, on the inside of the lid,

she discovered something like writing.

"Who will lend me a magnifying glass?"

Favoretta produced hers.

"I have kept it," said she, "a great, _great_ while, ever since we were

at the Rational Toy-shop."

"Mad. de Rosier, do look at this!" exclaimed Matilda--"here are letters

quite plain!--I have found the name, I do believe, of the boy who made

the box!" and she spelled, letter by letter, as she looked through the

magnifying glass, the words Henri-Montmorenci.

Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at her sudden emotion,

put the box and magnifying glass into her hand. Madame de Rosier's hand

trembled so much that she could not fix the glass.

"Je ne vois rien--lisez--vite!--ma chère amie--un mot de plus!" said

she, putting the glass again into Matilda's hand, and leaning over her

shoulder with a look of agonizing expectation.

The word _de_ was all Matilda could make out--Isabella tried--it was in

vain--no other letters were visible.

"_De_ what?--_de_ Rosier!--it must be! my son is alive!" said the

mother.

Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier's son; but when she

reflected for an instant that this might also be the name of some other

person, her transport of joy was checked, and seemed to be converted

into despair.

Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind returned.

She sent directly to the repository--no news of the boy could there

be obtained. Lady N---- was gone, for a few days, to Windsor; so no

intelligence could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out--no carriage

at home--but Mad. de Rosier set out immediately, and walked to

Golden-square, near which place she knew that a number of French

emigrants resided. She stopped first at a bookseller's shop; she

described the person of her son, and inquired if any such person had

been seen in that neighbourhood.

The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his customers, but

struck with Mad. de Rosier's anxiety, and perceiving that she was a

foreigner by her accent, he put down his pen, and begged her to repeat,

once more, the description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he

had seen such a person--but he had not. He, however, with true English

good-nature, told her that she had an excellent chance of finding him

in this part of the town, if he were in London--he was sorry that his

shopman was from home, or he would have sent him with her through the

streets near the square, where he knew the emigrants chiefly lodged;--he

gave her in writing a list of the names of these streets, and stood at

his door to watch and speed her on her way.

She called at the neighbouring shops--she walked down several narrow

streets, inquiring at every house, where she thought that there was any

chance of success, in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to

the door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who was so

bewildered, that she could not, for some time, answer any questions; at

another house the master was out; at another, the master was at dinner.

As it got towards four o'clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult

to obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the tradesmen

were at dinner, and when they came to the door, looked out of humour, at

being interrupted, and disappointed at not meeting with a customer.

She walked on, her mind still indefatigable:--she heard a clock in the

neighbourhood strike five--her strength was not equal to the energy of

her mind--and the repeated answers of, "We know of no such person"--"No

such boy lives here, ma'am," made her at length despair of success.

One street upon her list remained unsearched--it was narrow, dark, and

dirty;--she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily

laden, with a sudden "By your leave, ma'am!" pushed forwards, and she

was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger's shop. The master of

the shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and,

after a look of surprise, said--

"You've lost your way, madam, I presume--be pleased to rest yourself--it

is but a dark place;" and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been

lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue,

to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling

his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on

weighing his iron and whistling.

The woman, as soon as Mad. de Rosier had drunk the water, inquired if

she should send for a coach for her, or could do any thing to serve her.

The extreme good-nature of the tone in which this was spoken seemed to

revive Mad. de Rosier; she told her that she was searching for an only

son, whom she had for nearly two years believed to be dead: she showed

the paper on which his name was written: the woman could not read--her

husband read the name, but he shook his head--"he knew of no lad who

answered to the description."

Whilst they were speaking, a little boy came into the shop with a bit

of small iron wire in his hand, and, twitching the skirt of the

ironmonger's coat to attract his attention, asked if he had any such

wire as that in his shop. When the ironmonger went to get down a roll of

wire, the little boy had a full view of Mad. de Rosier. Though she was

naturally disposed to take notice of children, yet now she was so intent

upon her own thoughts that she did not observe him till he had bowed

several times just opposite to her.

"Are you bowing to me, my good boy?" said she--"you mistake me for

somebody else; I don't know you;" and she looked down again upon the

paper, on which she had written the name of her son.

"But, indeed, ma'am, I know _you_," said the little boy: "aren't you the

lady that was with the good-natured young gentleman, who met me going

out of the pastry-cook's shop, and gave me the two buns?"

Mad. de Rosier now looked in his face; the shop was so dark that she

could not distinguish his features, but she recollected his voice, and

knew him to be the little boy belonging to the dulcimer man.

"Father would have come again to your house," said the boy, who did not

perceive her inattention--"Father would have come to your house again,

to play the tune the young gentleman fancied so much, but our dulcimer

is broken."

"Is it? I am sorry for it," said Mad. de Rosier. "But can you tell me,"

continued she to the ironmonger, "whether any emigrants lodge in the

street to the left of your house?" The master of the shop tried to

recollect: she again repeated the name and description of her son.

"I know a young French lad of that make," said the little dulcimer boy.

"Do you?--Where is he? Where does he lodge?" cried Mad. de Rosier.

"I am not speaking as to his name, for I never heard his name," said the

little boy; "but I'll tell you how I came to know him. One day lately--"

Mad. de Rosier interrupted him with questions concerning the figure,

height, age, eyes, of the French lad.

The little dulcimer boy, by his answers, sometimes made her doubt, and

sometimes made her certain, that he was her son.

"Tell me," said she, "where he lodges; I must see him immediately."

"I am just come from him, and I'm going back to him with the wire; I'll

show the way with pleasure; he is the best-natured lad in the world;

he is mending my dulcimer; he deserves to be a great gentleman, and

I thought he was not what he seemed," continued the little boy, as he

walked on, scarcely able to keep before Mad. de Rosier.

"This way, ma'am--this way--he lives in the corner house, turning into

Golden-square." It was a stationer's.

"I have called at this house already," said Mad. de Rosier; but she

recollected that it was when the family were at dinner, and that a

stupid maid had not understood her questions. She was unable to speak,

through extreme agitation, when she came to the shop: the little

dulcimer boy walked straight forward, and gently drew back the short

curtain that hung before a glass door, opening into a back parlour. Mad.

de Rosier sprang forward to the door, looked through the glass, and was

alarmed to see a young man taller than her son; he was at work; his back

was towards her.

When he heard the noise of some one trying to open the door, he turned

and saw his mother's face! The tools dropped from his hands, and the

dulcimer boy was the only person present who had strength enough to open

the door.

How sudden! how powerful is the effect of joy! The mother, restored to

her son, in a moment felt herself invigorated--and, forgetful of her

fatigue, she felt herself another being. When she was left alone with

her son, she looked round his little workshop with a mixture of pain and

pleasure. She saw one of his unfinished boxes on the window-seat, which

served him for a work-bench; his tools were upon the floor. "These have

been my support," said her son, taking them up: "how much am I obliged

to my dear father for teaching me early how to use them!"

"Your father!" said Mad. de Rosier--"I wish he could have lived to be

rewarded as I am! But tell me your history, from the moment you were

taken from me to prison: it is nearly two years ago,--how did you

escape? how have you supported yourself since? Sit down, and speak

again, that I may be sure that I hear your voice."

"You shall hear my voice, then, my dear mother," said her son, "for at

least half an hour, if that will not tire you. I have a long story to

tell you. In the first place, you know that I was taken to prison; three

months I spent in the Conciergerie, expecting every day to be ordered

out to the guillotine. The gaoler's son, a boy about my own age, who

was sometimes employed to bring me food, seemed to look upon me with

compassion; I had several opportunities of obliging him: his father

often gave him long returns of the names of the prisoners, and various

accounts, to copy into a large book; the young gentleman did not like

this work; he was much fonder of exercising as a soldier with some

boys in the neighbourhood, who were learning the national exercise; he

frequently employed me to copy his lists for him, and this I performed

to his satisfaction: but what completely won his heart was my mending

the lock of his fusil. One evening he came to me in a new uniform, and

in high spirits; he was just made a captain, by the unanimous voice of

his corps; and he talked of _his_ men, and _his_ orders, with prodigious

fluency; he then played _his_ march upon his drum, and insisted upon

teaching it to me; he was much pleased with my performance, and,

suddenly embracing me, he exclaimed, 'I have thought of an excellent

thing for you; stay till I have arranged the plan in my head, and you

shall see if I am not a great general.' The next evening he did not come

to me till it was nearly dusk; he was in his new uniform; but out of a

bag which he brought in his hand, in which he used to carry his father's

papers, he produced his old uniform, rolled up into a surprisingly

small compass. 'I have arranged every thing,' said he; 'put on this

old uniform of mine--we are just of a size--by this light, nobody

will perceive any difference: take my drum and march out of the prison

slowly; beat my march on the drum as you go out; turn to the left, down

to the Place de ----, where I exercise my men. You'll meet with one of

my soldiers there, ready to forward your escape.' I hesitated; for I

feared that I should endanger my young general; but he assured me that

he had taken his precautions so '_admirably_,' that even after my escape

should be discovered, no suspicion would fall upon him. 'But, if you

delay,' cried he, 'we are both of us undone.' I hesitated not a moment

longer, and never did I change my clothes so expeditiously in my life:

I obeyed my little captain exactly, marched out of the prison slowly,

playing deliberately the march which I had been taught; turned to the

left, according to orders, and saw my punctual guide waiting for me on

the Place de ----, just by the broken statue of Henry the Fourth.

"'Follow me, fellow-citizen,' said he, in a low voice; 'we are not all

Robespierres.'"

Most joyfully I followed him. We walked on, in silence, till at length

we came to a narrow street, where the crowd was so great that I thought

we should both of us have been squeezed to death. I saw the guillotine

at a distance, and I felt sick.

"'Come on,' said my guide, who kept fast hold of me; and he turned

sharp into a yard, where I heard the noise of carts, and the voices of

muleteers. 'This man,' said he, leading me up to a muleteer, who seemed

to be just ready to depart, 'is my father; trust yourself to him.'

"I had nobody else to trust myself to. I got into the muleteer's covered

cart; he began a loud song; we proceeded through the square where the

crowd were assembled. The enthusiasm of the moment occupied them so

entirely, that we were fortunately disregarded. We got out of Paris

safely: I will not tire you with all my terrors and escapes. I, at

length, got on board a neutral vessel, and landed at Bristol. Escaped

from prison, and the fear of the guillotine, I thought myself happy; but

my happiness was not very lasting. I began to apprehend that I should be

starved to death; I had not eaten for many hours. I wandered through the

bustling streets of Bristol, where every body I met seemed to be full of

their own business, and brushed by me without seeing me. I was weak, and

I sat down upon a stone by the door of a public-house.

"A woman was twirling a mop at the door. I wiped away the drops with

which I was sprinkled by this operation. I was too weak to be angry;

but a hairdresser, who was passing by, and who had a nicely powdered wig

poised upon his hand, was furiously enraged, because a few drops of the

shower which had sprinkled me reached the wig. He expressed his anger

half in French and half in English; but at last I observed to him in

French, that the wig was still '_bien poudrée_'--this calmed his rage;

and he remarked that I also had been _horribly_ drenched by the shower.

I assured him that this was a trifle in comparison with my other

sufferings.

"He begged to hear my misfortunes, because I spoke French; and as I

followed him to the place where he was going with the wig, I told him

that I had not eaten for many hours; that I was a stranger in Bristol,

and had no means of earning any food. He advised me to go to a tavern,

which he pointed out to me--'The Rummer;'--he told me a circumstance,

which convinced me of the humanity of the master of the house.{4}

{Footnote 4: During Christmas week it is the custom in Bristol to keep a

cheap ordinary in taverns: the master of the Rummer observed a stranger,

meanly dressed, who constantly frequented the public table. It was

suspected that he carried away some of the provision, and a waiter

at length communicated his suspicions to the master of the house.

He watched the stranger, and actually detected him putting a large

mince-pie into his pocket. Instead of publicly exposing him, the

landlord, who judged from the stranger's manner that he was not an

ordinary pilferer, called the man aside as he was going away, and

charged him with the fact, demanding of him what could tempt him to such

meanness. The poor man immediately acknowledged that he had for several

days carried off precisely what he would have eaten himself for his

starving wife, but he had eaten nothing. The humane, considerate

landlord gently reproved him for his conduct, and soon found means to

have him usefully and profitably employed.}

"I resolved to apply to this benevolent man. When I first went into his

kitchen, I saw his cook, a man with a very important face, serving out

a large turtle. Several people were waiting with covered dishes, for

turtle soup and turtle, which had been bespoken in different parts of

the city. The dishes, as fast as they were filled, continually passed by

me, tantalizing me by their savoury odours. I sat down upon a stool near

the fire--I saw food within my reach that honesty forbade me to touch,

though I was starving: how easy is it to the rich to be honest! I was

at this time so weak, that my ideas began to be confused--my head grew

dizzy--I felt the heat of the kitchen fire extremely disagreeable to

me. I do not know what happened afterward; but when I came to myself, I

found that I was leaning against some one who supported me near an open

window: it was the master of the house. I do not know why I was ashamed

to ask him for food; his humanity, however, prevented me. He first

gave me a small basin of broth, and afterwards a little bit of bread,

assuring me, with infinite good nature, that he gave me food in such

small quantities, because he was afraid that it would hurt me to satisfy

my hunger at once--a worthy, humane physician, he said, had told him,

that persons in my situation should be treated in this manner. I thanked

him for his kindness, adding, that I did not mean to encroach upon his

hospitality. He pressed me to stay at his house for some days, but I

could not think of being a burden to him, when I had strength enough to

maintain myself.

"In the window of the little parlour, where I ate my broth, I saw a

novel, which had been left there by the landlord's daughter, and in the

beginning of this book was pasted a direction to the circulating library

in Bristol. I was in hopes that I might earn my bread as a scribe. The

landlord of the Rummer told me that he was acquainted with the master

of the library, and that I might easily procure employment from him on

reasonable terms.

"Mr. S----, for that was the name of the master of the library, received

me with an air of encouraging benevolence, and finding that I could read

and write English tolerably well, he gave me a manuscript to copy, which

he was preparing for the press. I worked hard, and made, as I fancied,

a beautiful copy; but the printers complained of my upright French hand,

which they could not easily decipher:--I began to new-model my writing,

to please the taste of my employers; and as I had sufficient motives to

make me take pains, I at last succeeded. I found it a great advantage

to be able to read and write the English language fluently; and when my

employers perceived my education had not been neglected, and that I

had some knowledge of literature, their confidence in my abilities

increased. I hope you will not think me vain if I add, that I could

perceive my manners were advantageous to me. I was known to be a

gentleman's son; and even those who set but little value upon _manners_

seemed to be influenced by them, without perceiving it. But, without

pronouncing my own eulogium, let me content myself with telling you my

history.

"I used often, in carrying my day's work to the printer's, to pass

through a part of the town of Bristol which has been allotted to poor

emigrants, and there I saw a variety of little ingenious toys, which

were sold at a high price, or at a price which appeared to me to be

high. I began to consider that I might earn money by invention, as well

as by mere manual labour; but before I gave up any part of my time to

my new schemes, I regularly wrote as much each day as was sufficient to

maintain me. Now it was that I felt the advantage of having been taught,

when I was a boy, the use of carpenters' tools, and some degree of

mechanical dexterity. I made several clumsy toys, and I tried various

unsuccessful experiments, but I was not discouraged. One day I heard a

dispute near me about some trinket--a toothpick-case, I believe--which

was thought by the purchaser to be too highly priced; the man who made

it repeatedly said, in recommendation of the toy--'Why, sir, you could

not know it from tortoise-shell.'

"I, at this instant, recollected to have seen, at the Rummer, a great

heap of broken shells, which the cook had thrown aside, as if they were

of no value. Upon inquiry, I found that there was part of the inside

shell which was thought to be useless--it occurred to me that I might

possibly make it useful. The good-natured landlord ordered that all

this part of the shells should be carefully collected and given to me.

I tried to polish it for many hours in vain. I was often tempted to

abandon my project--there was a want of _finish_, as the workmen call

it, in my manufacture, which made me despair of its being saleable. I

will not weary you with a history of all my unsuccessful processes;

it was fortunate for me, my dear mother, that I remembered one of

the principles which you taught me when I was a child, that it is

not _genius_, but perseverance, which brings things to perfection. I

persevered, and though I did not bring my manufacture to _perfection_,

I actually succeeded so far as to make a very neat-looking box out of my

refuse shells. I offered it for sale--it was liked: I made several

more, and they were quickly sold for me, most advantageously, by my

good friend, Mr. S----. He advised me to make them in the shape of

netting-boxes; I did so, and their sale extended rapidly.

"Some benevolent lady, about this time, raised a subscription for me;

but as I had now an easy means of supporting myself, and as I every day

beheld numbers of my countrymen, nearly in the condition in which I was

when I first went to the Rummer, I thought it was not fit to accept of

the charitable assistance, which could be so much better bestowed upon

others. Mr. S---- told me, that the lady who raised the contribution,

so far from being offended, was pleased by my conduct in declining her

bounty, and she undertook to dispose of as many of my netting-boxes as I

could finish. She was one of the patronesses of a repository in London,

which has lately been opened, called the 'Repository for Ingenious

Works.' When she left Bristol, she desired Mr. S---- to send my boxes

thither.

"My little manufacture continued to prosper--by practice I grew more and

more expert, and I had no longer any fears that I should not be able

to maintain myself. It was fortunate for me that I was obliged to be

constantly employed: whenever I was not actually at hard work, whenever

I had leisure for reflection, I was unhappy.

"A friend of Mr. S----, who was going to London, offered to take me with

him--I had some curiosity to see this celebrated metropolis, and I had

hopes of meeting with some of my friends amongst the emigrants in this

city--amongst all the emigrants at Bristol there was not one person with

whom I had been acquainted in France.

"Impelled by these hopes, I quitted Bristol, and arrived a few weeks ago

in London. Mr. S---- gave me a direction to a cabinet-maker in Leicester

Fields, and I was able to pay for a decent lodging, for I was now master

of what appeared to me a large sum of money--seven guineas.

"Some time after I came to town, as I was returning from a visit to an

emigrant, with whom I had become acquainted, I was stopped at the corner

of a street by a crowd of people--_a mob_, as I have been taught to

call it, since I came to England--who had gathered round a blind man, a

little boy, and a virago of a woman, who stood upon the steps before

a print-shop door. The woman accused the boy of being a thief. The boy

protested that he was innocent, and his ingenuous countenance spoke

strongly in his favour. He belonged to the blind man, who, as soon as

he could make himself heard, complained bitterly of the damage which had

been done to his dulcimer. The mob, in their first fury, had broken it.

I was interested for the man but more for the boy. Perhaps, said I to

myself, he has neither father nor mother!

"When the woman, who was standing yet furious at the shop-door, had no

more words for utterance, the little boy was suffered to speak in his

own defence. He said, that, as he was passing by the open window of the

print-shop, he put his hand in to give part of a bun which he was eating

to a little dog, who was sitting on the counter, near the window;

and who looked thin and miserable, as if he was half-starved. 'But,'

continued the little boy, 'when I put the bun to the dog's mouth, he did

not eat it; I gave him a little push to make him mind me, and he fell

out of the window into my hands; and then I found that it was not a

real dog, but only the picture of a dog, painted upon pasteboard. The

mistress of the shop saw the dog in my hand, and snatched it away,

and accused me of being a thief; so then, with the noise she made, the

chairmen, who were near the door, came up, and the mob gathered, and

our dulcimer was broken, and I'm very sorry for it.' The mistress of

the print-shop observed, in a loud and contemptuous tone, 'that all this

must be a lie, for that _such a one as_ he could not have buns to give

away to dogs!'--Here the blind man vindicated his boy, by assuring us

that 'he came honestly by the bun--that two buns had been given to him

about an hour before this time by a young gentleman, who met him as

he was coming out of a pastry-cook's shop.' When the mob heard this

explanation, they were sorry for the mischief they had done to the blind

man's dulcimer; and, after examining it with expressions of sorrow, they

quietly dispersed. I thought that I could perhaps mend the dulcimer, and

I offered my services; they were gladly accepted, and I desired the man

to leave it at the cabinet-maker's, in Leicester Fields, where I

lodged. In the meantime the little boy, whilst I had been examining the

dulcimer, had been wiping the dirt from off the pasteboard dog, which,

during the fray, had fallen into the street--'Is it not like a real

dog?' said the boy, 'Was it not enough to deceive any body?'

"It was, indeed, extremely like a _real_ dog--like my dog, Caesar, whom

I had taken care of from the time I was five years old, and whom I was

obliged to leave at our house in Paris, when I was dragged to prison.

The more I looked at this pasteboard image, the more I was convinced

that the picture must have been drawn from the life. Every streak, every

spot, every shade of its brown coat I remembered. Its extreme thinness

was the only circumstance in which the picture was unlike my Caesar.

I inquired from the scolding woman of the shop how she came by this

picture--'Honestly,' was her laconic answer; but when I asked whether it

were to be sold, and when I paid its price, the lady changed her tone;

no longer considering me as the partisan of the little boy, against whom

she was enraged, but rather looking upon me as a customer, who had paid

too much for her goods, she condescended to inform me that the dog

was painted by one of the _poor_ French emigrants, who lived in her

neighbourhood. She directed me to the house, and I discovered the man to

be my father's old servant Michael. He was overjoyed at the sight of me;

he was infirm, and unequal to any laborious employment; he had supported

himself with great difficulty by painting toys, and various figures of

men, women, and animals, upon pasteboard. He showed me two excellent

figures of French poissardes, and also a good cat, of his doing;--but my

Caesar was the best of his works.

"My lodgings at the cabinet-maker's were too small to accommodate

Michael; and yet I wished to have him with me, for he seemed so infirm

as to want assistance. I consequently left my cabinet-maker, and took

lodgings with this stationer; he and his wife are quiet people, and I

hope poor Michael has been happier since he came to me; he has, however,

been for some days confined to his bed, and I have been so busy, that I

have not been able to stir from home. To-day the poor little boy called

for his dulcimer; I must own that I found it a more difficult job to

mend it than I had expected. I could not match the wire, and I sent the

boy out to an ironmonger's a few hours ago. How little did I expect to

see him return with--my mother!"

We shall not attempt to describe the alternate emotions of joy and

sorrow which quickly succeeded each other in Mad. de Rosier's heart,

while she listened to her son's little history. Impatient to communicate

her happiness to her friends, she took leave hastily of her beloved son,

promising to call for him early the next day. "Settle all your

business to-night," said she, "and I will introduce you to _my_ friends

to-morrow. _My_ friends, I say proudly--for I have made friends since

I came to England; and England, amongst other commodities excellent in

their kind, produces incomparable friends--friends in adversity. _We_

know their value. Adieu: settle all your affairs here expeditiously."

"I have no affairs, no business, my dear mother," interrupted Henry,

"except to mend the dulcimer, as I promised, and that I'll finish

directly. Adieu, till to-morrow morning! What a delightful sound!"

With all the alacrity of benevolence he returned to his work, and his

mother returned to Mrs. Harcourt's. It was nearly eight o'clock before

she arrived at home. Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda, met her with

inquiring eyes.

"She smiles," said Matilda; and Herbert, with a higher jump than he had

ever been known to make before, exclaimed, "She has found her son!--I am

sure of it!--I knew she would find him."

"Let her sit down," said Matilda, in a gentle voice.

Isabella brought her an excellent dish of coffee; and Mrs. Harcourt,

with kind reproaches, asked why she had not brought her son _home_ with

her. She rang the bell with as much vivacity as she spoke, ordered her

coach to be sent instantly to Golden-square, and wrote an order, as she

called it, for his coming _immediately_ to her, quitting all dulcimers

and dulcimer boys, under pain of his mother's displeasure. "Here, Mad.

de Rosier," said she, with peremptory playfulness, "countersign my

order, that I may be sure of my prisoner."

Scarcely were the note and carriage despatched, before Herbert and

Favoretta stationed themselves at the window, that they might be ready

to give the first intelligence. Their notions of time and distance were

not very accurate upon this occasion; for before the carriage had

been out of sight ten minutes, they expected it to return; and they

exclaimed, at the sight of every coach that appeared at the end of the

street, "Here's the carriage!--Here he is!" But the carriages rolled by

continually, and convinced them of their mistakes.

Herbert complained of the dull light of the lamps, though the street was

remarkably well lighted; and he next quarrelled with the glare of the

flambeaux, which footmen brandished behind carriages that were unknown

to him. At length a flambeau appeared with which he did not quarrel.

Herbert, as its light shone upon the footman, looked with an eager eye,

then put his finger upon his own lips, and held his other hand forcibly

before Favoretta's mouth, for now he was certain. The coach stopped

at the door--Mad. de Rosier ran down stairs--Mrs. Harcourt and all

the family followed her--Herbert was at the coach door before Henri de

Rosier could leap out, and he seized his hand with the familiarity of an

old acquaintance.

The sympathy of all her joyful pupils, the animated kindness with which

Mrs. Harcourt received her son, touched Mad. de Rosier with the most

exquisite pleasure. The happiness that we are conscious of having

deserved is doubly grateful to the heart.

Mrs. Harcourt did not confine her attentions within the narrow limits

of politeness--with generous eagerness she exerted herself to show her

gratitude to the excellent governess of her children. She applied to the

gentleman who was at the head of the academy for the education of the

sons of French emigrants, and recommended Henri de Rosier to him in the

strongest terms.

In the meantime Lady N----, who had been warmly interested in Mad. de

Rosier's favour, and more by what she had seen of her pupils, wrote

to her brother, who was at Paris, to request that he would make every

possible inquiry concerning the property of the late Comte de Rosier.

The answer to her letter informed her that Mad. de Rosier's property was

restored to her and to her son by the new government of France.

Mrs. Harcourt, who now foresaw the probability of Mad. de Rosier's

return to France, could not avoid feeling regret at the thoughts of

parting with a friend to whom her whole family was sincerely attached.

The plan of education which had been traced out remained yet unfinished,

and she feared, she said, that Isabella and Matilda might feel the want

of their accomplished preceptress. But these fears were the best omens

for her future success: a sensible mother, in whom the desire to educate

her family has once been excited, and who turns the energy of her

mind to this interesting subject, seizes upon every useful idea, every

practical principle, with avidity, and she may trust securely to her

own persevering cares. Whatever a mother learns for the sake of her

children, she never forgets.

The rapid improvement of Mrs. Harcourt's understanding since she had

applied herself to literature, was her reward, and her excitement to

fresh application. Isabella and Matilda were now of an age to be her

companions, and her taste for domestic life was confirmed every day by

the sweet experience of its pleasures.

"You have taught me your value, and now you are going to leave me," said

she to Mad. de Rosier. "I quarrelled with the Duke de la Rochefoucault

for his asserting, that in the misfortunes of our best friends there is

always something that is not disagreeable to us; but I am afraid I

must stand convicted of selfishness, for in the good fortune of my best

friend there is something that I cannot feel to be perfectly agreeable."

MADEMOISELLE PANACHE.

SECOND PART{1}

{Footnote 1: The first part is in the Parent's Assistant, vol. iv.}

The tendency of any particular mode of education is not always

perceived, before it is too late to change the habits or the character

of the pupil. To superficial observers, children of nearly the same age

often seem much alike in manners and disposition, who, in a few years

afterward, appear in every respect strikingly different. We have given

our readers some idea of the manner in which Mrs. Temple educated her

daughters, and some notion of the mode in which Lady Augusta was managed

by Mlle. Panache; the difference between the characters of Helen and

Lady Augusta, though visible even at the early age of twelve or thirteen

to an intelligent mother, was scarcely noticed by common acquaintance,

who contented themselves with the usual phrases, as equally applicable

to both the young ladies. "Upon my word, Lady Augusta and Miss Helen

Temple are both of them very fine girls, and very highly accomplished,

and vastly well educated, as I understand. I really cannot tell which to

prefer. Lady Augusta, to be sure, is rather the taller of the two, and

her manners are certainly more womanly and fashioned than Miss Helen's;

but then, Miss Helen Temple has something of simplicity about her

that some people think very engaging. For my part, I don't pretend to

judge--girls alter so; there's no telling at twelve years old what they

may turn out at sixteen."

From twelve to sixteen, Lady Augusta continued under the direction of

Mlle. Panache; whilst her mother, content with her daughter's progress

in external accomplishments, paid no attention to the cultivation of her

temper or her understanding. Lady S---- lived much in what is called the

world; was fond of company, and fonder of cards, sentimentally anxious

to be thought a good mother, but indolently willing to leave her

daughter wholly to the care of a French governess, whose character she

had never taken the trouble to investigate. Not that Lady S---- could

be ignorant that, however well qualified to teach the true French

pronunciation, she could not be a perfectly eligible companion for

her daughter as she grew up: her ladyship intended to part with the

governess when Lady Augusta was fifteen; but from day to day, and from

year to year, this was put off: sometimes Lady S---- thought it a pity

to dismiss mademoiselle, because "she was the best creature in the

world;" sometimes she rested content with the idea, that six months more

or less could not signify; till at length _family reasons_ obliged her

to postpone mademoiselle's dismission: part of the money intended for

the payment of the governess's salary had been unfortunately lost by the

mother at the card-table. Lady Augusta consequently continued under the

auspices of Mlle. Panache till her ladyship was eighteen, and till her

education was supposed to be entirely completed.

In the meantime Mlle. Panache endeavoured, by all the vulgar arts of

flattery, to ingratiate herself with her pupil, in hopes that from

a governess she might become a _companion_. The summer months seemed

unusually long to the impatient young lady, whose imagination daily

anticipated the glories of her next winter's campaign. Towards the end

of July, however, a reinforcement of visitors came to her mother's,

and the present began to engage some attention, as well as the future.

Amongst these visitors was Lord George ----, a young nobleman, near

twenty-one, who was heir to a very considerable fortune. We mention

his fortune _first_, because it was his _first_ merit, even in his own

opinion. Cold, silent, selfish, supercilious, and silly, there appeared

nothing in him to engage the affections, or to strike the fancy of a

fair lady; but Lady Augusta's fancy was not fixed upon his lordship's

character or manners, and much that might have disgusted consequently

escaped her observation. Her mother had not considered the matter very

attentively; but she thought that this young nobleman might be no bad

match for her Augusta, and she trusted that her daughter's charms

would make their due impression on his heart. Some weeks passed away in

fashionable negligence of the lady on his part, and alternate pique and

coquetry on hers, whilst, during these operations, her confidante and

governess was too much occupied with her own manoeuvres to attend to

those of her pupil. Lord George had with him upon this visit a Mr.

Dashwood, who was engaged to accompany him upon his travels, and who had

had the honour of being his lordship's tutor. At the name of a _tutor_,

let no one picture to himself a gloomy pedant; or yet a man whose

knowledge, virtue, and benevolence, would command the respect, or win

the affections, of youth. Mr. Dashwood could not be mistaken for a

pedant, unless a coxcomb be a sort of pedant. Dashwood pretended neither

to win affection nor to command respect; but he was, as his pupil

emphatically swore, "the best fellow in the world." Upon this best

fellow in the world, Mlle. Panache fixed her sagacious hopes; she

began to think that it would be infinitely better to be the wife of

the gallant Mr. Dashwood, than the humble companion or the slighted

governess of the capricious Lady Augusta. Having thus far opened the

views and characters of these various personages, we shall now give our

readers an opportunity of judging of them by their words and actions.

"You go with us, my lord, to the archery-meeting this evening?" said

Lady S----, as she rose from breakfast--his lordship gave a negligent

assent.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mlle. Panache, turning eagerly to Dashwood, "have you

seen _de uniforme?--C'est charmant_; and I have no small hand in it."

Dashwood paid the expected compliment to her taste. "Ah! _non_," said

she, "you are too good, too flattering; but you must tell me your

judgment without flattery! _Vous êtes homme de goût_, though an

Englishman--you see I have got no _préjugés_." Dashwood bowed.

"_Allons!_" said she, starting up with vast gaiety: "we have got no time

to lose. I have de _rubans_ to put to de bow; I must go and attend my

Diane."

"Attend her Diane!" repeated Dashwood, the moment the door was shut,

and he was left alone with Lord George. "Attend her Diane! a very

proper attendant." Lord George was wholly indifferent to propriety or

impropriety upon this, as upon all other subjects. "What are we to do

with ourselves, I wonder, this morning!" said he, with his customary

yawn; and he walked towards the window. The labour of finding employment

for his lordship always devolved upon his companion. "I thought, my

lord," said Dashwood, "you talked yesterday of going upon the water; the

river is very smooth, and I hope we shall have a fine day."

"I hope so too; but over the hill yonder it looks confounded black, hey?

Well, at any rate we may go down and make some of them get ready to go

with us. I'll take my black Tom--he's a handy fellow."

"But if you take black Tom," said Dashwood, laughing, "we must not

expect to have the ladies of our party; for you know mademoiselle has an

unconquerable _antipaty_, as she calls it, to a negro."

Lord George declared that, for this very reason, he would order black

Tom down to the water-side, and that he should enjoy her affectation,

or her terror, whichever it was, of all things. "I suppose," said he,

"she'll scream as loud as Lady Augusta screamed at a frog the other

day."

"I'll lay you a wager I spoil your sport, my lord; I'll lay you a

guinea I get mademoiselle into the boat without a single scream," said

Dashwood.

"Done!" said Lord George. "Two to one she screams."

"Done!" said Dashwood; and he hoped that, by proposing this bet, he had

provided his pupil with an object for the whole morning. But Lord George

was not so easily roused immediately after breakfast. "It looks terribly

like rain," said he, going back and forward irresolutely between the

door and the window. "Do you think it will rain, hey?"

"No, no; I'm sure it will not rain."

"I wouldn't lay two to one of that, however: look at this great cloud

that's coming."

"Oh! it will blow over."

"I don't know that," said Lord George, shaking his head with great

solemnity. "Which way is the wind?" opening the window. "Well, I believe

it may hold up, hey?"

"Certainly--I think so."

"Then I'll call black Tom, hey?--though I think one grows tired of going

upon the water," muttered his lordship, as he left the room. "Couldn't

one find something better?"

"Nothing better," thought Dashwood, "but to hang yourself, my lord,

which, I'll be bound, you'll do before you are forty, for want of

something better. But that's not my affair."

"Where's mademoiselle?" cried Lady Augusta, entering hastily, with a bow

and arrow in her hand: "I've lost my quiver: where's mademoiselle?"

"Upon my word I don't know," said Dashwood, assuming an air of interest.

"You don't know, Mr. Dashwood!" said Lady Augusta, sarcastically;

"that's rather extraordinary. I make it a rule, whenever I want

mademoiselle, to ask where you are, and I never found myself

disappointed before."

"I am sorry, madam, you should ever be disappointed," said Dashwood,

laughing. "Is this your ladyship's _own_ taste?" added he, taking the

painted bow out of her hand. "It's uncommonly pretty."

"Pretty or not, Lord George did not think it worth while to look at it

last night. His lordship will go through the world mighty easily, don't

you think so, Mr. Dashwood?" Dashwood attempted an apology for his

pupil, but in such a sort, as if he did not mean it to be accepted,

and then, returning the bow to her ladyship's hand, paused, sighed, and

observed, that, upon the whole, it was happy for his lordship that he

possessed so much nonchalance. "Persons of a different cast," continued

he, "cannot, as your ladyship justly observes, expect to pass through

life so easily." This speech was pronounced in a tone so different from

Dashwood's usual careless gaiety, that Lady Augusta could not help being

struck with it; and by her vanity, it was interpreted precisely as the

gentleman wished. Rank and fortune were her serious objects, but she

had no objection to amusing herself with romance. The idea of seeing the

gay, witty Mr. Dashwood metamorphosed, by the power of her charms, into

a despairing, sighing swain, played upon her imagination, and she heard

his first sigh with a look which plainly showed how well she understood

its meaning.

"Why now, was there ever any thing so provoking!" cried Lord George,

swinging himself into the room.

"What's the matter, my lord?" said Dashwood.

"Why, don't you see, it's raining as hard as it can rain?" replied his

lordship, with the true pathos of a man whose happiness is dependent

upon the weather. His scheme of going upon the water being now

impracticable, he lounged about the room all the rest of the morning,

supporting that miserable kind of existence, which idle gentlemen are

doomed to support, they know not how, upon a rainy day. Neither Lady

Augusta nor her mother, in calculating the advantages and disadvantages

of an alliance with his lordship, ever once considered his habits of

listless idleness as any objection in a companion for life.

After dinner the day cleared up--the ladies were dressed in their

archery uniform--the carriages came to the door, and Lord George was

happy in the prospect of driving his new phaeton. Dashwood handed

the ladies to their coach; for his lordship was too much engaged in

confabulation with his groom, on the merits of his off-leader, to pay

attention to any thing else upon earth.

His phaeton was presently out of sight, for he gloried in driving as

fast as possible; and, to reward his exertions, he had the satisfaction

of hearing two strangers, as he passed them, say--"Ha! upon my word,

those horses go well!" A postilion at a turnpike gate, moreover,

exclaimed to a farmer, who stood with his mouth wide open--"There goes

Lord George! he cuts as fine a figure on the road as e'er a man in

England." Such was the style of praise of which this young nobleman was

silly enough to be vain.

"I've been in these three quarters of an hour!" cried he, exultingly, as

Lady S---- got out of her coach.

"There has been no shooting yet though, I hope?" said Lady Augusta.

"No, no, ma'am," replied Dashwood; "but the ladies are all upon the

green--a crowd of fair competitors; but I'd bet a thousand pounds upon

your ladyship's arrows. Make way there--make way," cried the man of

gallantry, in an imperious tone, to some poor people, who crowded round

the carriage; and talking and laughing loud, he pushed forward, making

as much bustle in seating the ladies as they could have wished. Being

seated, they began to bow and nod to their acquaintance. "There's Mrs.

Temple and her daughters," said Lady S----.

"Where, ma'am?" said Lady Augusta: "I'm sure I did not expect to meet

them here. Where are they?"

"Just opposite to us. Pray, Mr. Dashwood, who is that gentleman in

brown, who is talking to Miss Helen Temple?" "Upon my word I don't know,

madam; he bowed just now to Lord George."

"Did he?" said Lady Augusta. "I wonder who he is!"

Lord George soon satisfied her curiosity, for, coming up to them, he

said negligently, "Dashwood, there's young Mountague yonder."

"Ha! is that young Mountague? Well, is his father dead? What has he done

with that old quiz?"

"Ask him yourself," said Lord George sullenly: "I asked him just now,

and he looked as black as November."

"He was so fond of his father--it is quite a bore," said Dashwood. "I

think he'll be _a quiz_ himself in due time."

"No," said Lord George; "he knows better than that too in some things.

He has a monstrous fine horse with him here; and that's a good pretty

girl that he's going to marry."

"Is he going to be married to Miss Helen Temple?" said Lady S----. "Who

is he, pray? I hope a suitable match."

"That I can't tell, for I don't know what she _has_," replied Lord

George. "But Mountague can afford to do as he pleases--very good

family--fine fortune."

"Yes; old quiz made an excellent nurse to his estate," observed

Dashwood; "he owes him some gratitude for that."

"Is not he very young to settle in the world?" said Lady S----.

"Young--yes--only a year older than I am," said Lord George; "but I knew

he'd never be quiet till he got himself _noosed_."

"I suppose he'll be at the ball to-night," said Lady Augusta, "and then

we shall see something of him, perhaps. It's an age since we've seen

the Miss Temples any where. I wonder whether there's any thing more

than report, my lord, in this conquest of Miss Helen Temple? Had you the

thing from good authority?"

"Authority!" said Lord George; "I don't recollect my authority,

faith!--somebody said so to me, I think. It's nothing to me, at any

rate." Lady Augusta's curiosity, however, was not quite so easily

satisfied as his lordship's; she was resolved to study Mr. Mountague

thoroughly at the ball; and her habitual disposition to coquetry, joined

to a dislike of poor Helen, which originated whilst they were children,

made her form a strong desire to rival Helen in the admiration of this

young gentleman of--"very good family and fine fortune." Her ladyship

was just falling into a reverie upon this subject, when she was summoned

to join the archeresses.

The prize was a silver arrow. The ladies were impatient to begin--the

green was cleared. Some of the spectators took their seats on benches

under the trees, whilst a party of gentlemen stood by, to supply the

ladies with arrows. Three ladies shot, but widely from the mark; a

fourth tried her skill, but no applause ensued; a fifth came forward,

a striking figure, elegantly dressed, who, after a prelude of very

becoming diffidence, drew her bow, and took aim in the most graceful

attitude imaginable.

"Who is that beautiful creature?" exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with

enthusiasm; and as the arrow flew from the bow, he started up, wishing

it success.

"The nearest, by six inches, that has been shot yet," cried Dashwood.

"Here, sir! here!" said he to Mr. Mountague, who went up to examine the

target, "this is Lady Augusta S----'s arrow, within the second circle,

almost put out the bull's eye!" The clamour of applause at length

subsiding, several other arrows were shot, but none came near to Lady

Augusta's, and the prize was unanimously acknowledged to be hers.

The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, and several gentlemen

tried to reach it in vain: Mr. Mountague sprung from the ground with

great activity, brought down the arrow, and presented it, with an air of

gallantry, to the fair victor.

"My dear Helen," said Emma to her sister, in a low voice, "you are not

well."

"I!" replied Helen, turning quickly: "why! can you think me so mean as

to--"

"Hush, hush! you don't consider how loud you are speaking."

"Am I?" said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her tone; "but then, why did

you say I was not well?"

"Because you looked so pale."

"Pale! I'm sure I don't look pale," said Helen--"do I?"

"Not now, indeed," said Emma, smiling.

"Was not it an excellent shot?" said Mr. Mountague, returning to them;

"but you were not near enough to see it; do come and look at it." Mrs.

Temple rose and followed him.--"I can't say," continued he, "that I

particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is a surprising

shot."

"It really is a surprising shot," said Helen, looking at it quite at

ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. Mountague's eyes

were not intent upon the _surprising shot_, but were eagerly turned to

another side of the green, where, illuminated by the rays of the setting

sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver arrow, totally

unconscious, as he imagined, either of her own charms or his

admiration.--"Are you acquainted with Lady Augusta?" said Mr. Mountague.

"Yes," said Mrs. Temple. "Are you?"

"Not yet; but I have met her mother often in town--a silly, card-playing

woman. I hope her daughter is as little like her in her mind as in her

person." Here Mr. Mountague paused, for they had walked up quite close

to the seemingly unconscious beauty.--"Oh, Mrs. Temple!" said she,

starting, and then recovering herself, with an innocent smile--"is it

you? I beg ten thousand pardons," and, offering a hand to Helen and

Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involuntarily drew back her

hand, with as much coldness as she could without being absolutely rude.

It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to begin at ten,

the ladies called for their carriages, that they might drive to their

lodgings, in an adjacent town, to change their dress. In the crowd,

Helen happened to be pretty close behind Lady S----, so close, that she

could not avoid hearing her conversation.

"Dear ma'am!" an elderly lady in black was saying to her, "I can assure

you, your ladyship has been misinformed. I assure you, it is no such

thing. He's a relation of the family--he has paid a long visit in

this country, but then it is a parting visit to his uncle: he sets out

immediately for Italy, I'm told. I assure you, your ladyship has been

misinformed; he and his uncle are often at Mrs. Temple's; but depend

upon it he has no thoughts of Miss Helen."

These words struck Helen to the heart: she walked on, leaning upon her

sister's arm, who fortunately happened to know where she was going. Emma

helped her sister to recollect that it was necessary to get into the

carriage when the step was let down. The carriage presently stopped with

them at the inn, and they were shown to their rooms. Helen sat down, the

moment she got up stairs, without thinking of dressing; and her mother's

hair was half finished, when she turned round and said, "Why, Helen, my

dear! you certainly will not be ready."

"Shan't I, ma'am?" said Helen, starting up. "Is there any occasion that

we should dress any more?"

"Nay, my dear," said Mrs. Temple, laughing, "look in the glass at your

hair; it has been blown all over your face by the wind."

"It is a great deal of useless trouble," said Helen, as she began the

duties of the toilette.

"Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness," said her mother.

"No, indeed, mamma; I'm not lazy. But I really don't think it signifies.

Nobody will take notice how I am dressed, I dare say."

"A sudden fit of humility, then?" said Mrs. Temple, still laughing.

"No, ma'am; but you have often told us how little it signifies. When the

ball is over, every thing about it is forgotten in a few hours."

"Oh, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen?"

"No, indeed, mother," said Helen, sighing; "I'm sure I don't pretend to

any philosophy."

"Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?"

"No, indeed, ma'am!"

"No, indeed, ma'am!" said Mrs. Temple, still rallying her.--Why, Helen,

my dear, you have answered 'No, indeed, ma'am,' to every thing I've said

this half hour."

"No, indeed, mother," said Helen; "but I assure you, ma'am," continued

she, in a hurried manner, "if you would only give me leave to explain--"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Temple, "this is no time for explanations:

make haste and dress yourself, and follow me down to tea." Mr. Mountague

was engaged to drink tea with Mrs. Temple.

How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the mind in the course of

a few minutes!

"I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust," said Helen to herself. "Because

Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, am I vexed? Why should I be displeased

with Mr. Mountague's admiring her? I will appear no more like a fool;

and Heaven forbid I should become envious."

As this last thought took possession of her mind, she finished dressing

herself, and went with Emma down to tea. The well-wrought-up dignity

with which Helen entered the parlour was, however, thrown away upon this

occasion; for opposite to her mother at the tea-table there appeared,

instead of Mr. Mountague, only an empty chair, and an empty teacup

and saucer, with a spoon in it. He was gone to the ball; and when Mrs.

Temple and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the bottom of

the country dance, talking in high spirits to his partner, Lady Augusta,

who, in the course of the evening, cast many looks of triumph upon

Helen. But Helen kept to her resolution of commanding her own mind,

and maintained an easy serenity of manner, which the consciousness of

superior temper never fails to bestow. Towards the end of the night, she

danced one dance with Mr. Mountague, and as he was leading her to her

place, Lady Augusta, and two or three of her companions, came up, all

seemingly stifling a laugh. "What is the matter?" said Helen. "Why, my

dear creature," said Lady Augusta, who still apparently laboured under a

violent inclination to laugh, and whispering to Helen, but so loud that

she could distinctly be overheard--"you must certainly be in love."

"Madam!" said Helen, colouring, and much distressed.

"Yes; you certainly must," pursued Lady Augusta, rudely; for ladies of

quality can be as rude, sometimes ruder, than other people. "Must

not she, Lady Di.," appealing to one of her companions, and laughing

affectedly--"must not she be either in love, or out of her senses? Pray,

Miss Temple, put out your foot." Helen put out her foot.

"Ay, that's the black one--well, the other." Now the other was white.

The ill-bred raillery commenced. Helen, though somewhat abashed, smiled

with great good humour, and walked on towards her seat. "What is the

matter, my dear?" said her mother.

"Nothing, madam," answered Mr. Mountague, "but that Miss Helen Temple's

shoes are odd, and her temper--even." These few words, which might pass

in a ball-room, were accompanied with a look of approbation, which made

her ample amends for the pain she had felt. He then sat down by Mrs.

Temple, and, without immediately adverting to any one, spoke with

indignation of coquetry, and lamented that so many beautiful girls

should be spoiled by affectation.

"If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame?" said Mrs. Temple.

"If young women were not deceived into a belief that affectation

pleases, they would scarcely trouble themselves to practise it so much."

"Deceived!" said Mr. Mountague--"but is any body deceived by a person's

saying, 'I have the honour to be, madam, your obedient, humble servant?'

Besides, as to pleasing--what do we mean? pleasing for a moment, for a

day, or for life?"

"Pleasing for a moment," said Helen, smiling, "is of some consequence;

for, if we take care of the moments, the years will take care of

themselves, you know."

"Pleasing for _one_ moment, though," said Mr. Mountague, "is very

different, as you must perceive, from pleasing _every_ moment."

Here the country dance suddenly stopped, and three or four couple were

thrown into confusion. The gentlemen were stooping down, as if looking

for something on the floor. "Oh, I beg, I insist upon it; you can't

think how much you distress me!" cried a voice which sounded like Lady

Augusta's. Mr. Mountague immediately went to see what was the matter.

"It is only my bracelet," said she, turning to him. "Don't, pray don't

trouble yourself," cried she, as he stooped to assist in collecting

the scattered pearls, which she received with grace in the whitest hand

imaginable. "Nay, now I must insist upon it," said she to Mr. Mountague,

as he stooped again--"you shall not plague yourself any longer." And in

her anxiety to prevent him from plaguing himself any longer, she laid

upon his arm the white hand, which he had an instant before so much

admired. Whether all Mr. Mountague's sober contempt of coquetry was,

at this moment, the prevalent feeling in his mind, we cannot presume to

determine; we must only remark, that the remainder of the evening was

devoted to Lady Augusta; he sat beside her at supper, and paid her

a thousand compliments, which Helen in vain endeavoured to persuade

herself meant nothing more than--"I am, madam, your obedient, humble

servant."

"It is half after two," said Mrs. Temple, when she rose to go.

"Half after two!" said Mr. Mountague, as he handed Mrs. Temple to her

carriage--"bless me! can it be so late?"

All the way home Emma and Mrs. Temple were obliged to support the

conversation; for Helen was so extremely entertained with watching

the clouds passing over the moon, that nothing else could engage her

attention.

The gossiping old lady's information respecting Mr. Mountague was as

accurate as the information of gossips usually is found to be. Mr.

Mountague, notwithstanding her opinion and sagacity, _had thoughts

of Miss Helen Temple_. During some months which he had spent at his

uncle's, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, he had had opportunities of

studying Helen's character and temper, which he found perfectly well

suited to his own; but he had never yet declared his attachment to her.

Things were in this undecided situation, when he saw, and was struck

with the beauty of Lady Augusta ----, at this archery-ball. Lord George

---- introduced him to Lady S----; and, in consequence of a pressing

invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to spend a few days at

S---- Hall.

"So Mr. Mountague is going to spend a week at S---- Hall, I find," said

Mrs. Temple, as she and her daughters were sitting at work the morning

after the archery-ball. To this simple observation of Mrs. Temple a

silence, which seemed as if it never would be broken, ensued.

"Helen, my dear!" said Mrs. Temple, in a soft voice.

"Ma'am!" said Helen, starting.

"You need not start so, my dear; I am not going to say any thing very

tremendous. When you and your sister were children, if you remember, I

often used to tell you that I looked forward, with pleasure, to the time

when I should live with you as friends and equals. That time is come;

and I hope, now that your own reason is sufficiently matured to be the

guide of your conduct, that you do not think I any longer desire you to

be governed by my _will_. Indeed," continued she, "I consider you as my

equals in every respect but in _age_; and I wish to make that inequality

useful to you, by giving you, as far as I can, that advantage, which

only _age_ can give--experience."

"You are very kind, dear mother," said Helen.

"But you must be sensible," said Mrs. Temple, in a graver tone, "that it

will depend upon yourselves, in a great measure, whether I _can_ be so

much your friend as I shall wish."

"Oh, mother," said Helen, "_be_ my friend! I shall never have a better;

and, indeed, I want a friend," added she, the tears starting from her

eyes. "You'll think me very silly, very vain. He never gave me any

reason, I'm sure, to think so; but I did fancy that Mr. Mountague liked

me."

"And," said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter's hand, "without being very

silly or very vain, may not one sometimes be mistaken? Then you thought

you had won Mr. Mountague's heart? But what did you think about your

own? Take care you don't make another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you

thought he never could win yours?"

"I never thought much about that," replied Helen, "till yesterday."

"And to-day," said Mrs. Temple--"what do you think about it to-day?"

"Why," said Helen, "don't you think, mother, that Mr. Mountague has a

great many good qualities?"

"Yes; a great many good qualities, a great many advantages, and, amongst

them, the power of pleasing you."

"He would not think _that_ any advantage," said Helen; "therefore I

should be sorry that he had it."

"And so should I," said Mrs. Temple, "be very sorry that my daughter's

happiness should be out of her own power."

"It is the uncertainty that torments me," resumed Helen, after a pause.

"One moment I fancy that he prefers _me_, the next moment I am certain

he prefers another. Yesterday, when we were coming away from the green,

I heard Mrs. Hargrave say to Lady S---- but why, mother, should I take

up your time with these minute circumstances? I ought not to think any

more about it."

"Ought not!" repeated Mrs. Temple; "my dear, it is a matter of prudence,

rather than duty. By speaking to your mother with so much openness, you

secure her esteem and affection; and, amongst the goods of this life,

you will find the esteem and affection of a mother worth having,"

concluded Mrs. Temple, with a smile; and Helen parted from her mother

with a feeling of gratitude, which may securely be expected from an

ingenuous well-educated daughter, who is treated with similar kindness.

No one was ready for breakfast the morning that Mr. Mountague arrived at

S---- Hall, and he spent an hour alone in the breakfast-room. At length

the silence was interrupted by a shrill female voice, which, as it

approached nearer, he perceived to be the voice of a foreigner half

suffocated with ineffectual desire to make her anger intelligible. He

could only distinguish the words--"I ring, ring, ring, ay, twenty time,

and nobody mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all." With a

violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, and Mlle.

Panache, little expecting to find any body there, entered, volubly

repeating--"Dey let me ring, ring, ring!" Surprised at the sight of a

gentleman, and a young gentleman, she repented having been so loud

in her anger. However, upon the second reconnoitring glance at

Mr. Mountague, she felt much in doubt how to behave towards him.

Mademoiselle boasted often of the well-bred instinct, by which she could

immediately distinguish "_un homme comme il faut_" from any other; yet

sometimes, like Falstaff's, her instinct was fallacious. Recollecting

that Lady S---- had sent for an apothecary, she took it into her head

that Mr. Mountague was this apothecary. "Miladi is not visible yet,

sir," said she; "does she know you are here?"

"I hope not, ma'am; for I should be very sorry she were to be disturbed,

after sitting up so late last night."

"Oh, dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, _pardonnez_, some

excellent white wine whey out of my own head last night, when she got

into her bed. I hope you don't make no objection to white wine whey,

sir?"

"I!--not in the least, ma'am."

"Oh, I'm glad you don't disapprove of what I've done! You attend many

family in dis country, sir?"

"Madam!" said Mr. Mountague, taking an instant's time to consider what

she could mean by _attend_.

"You _visit_ many family in dis country, sir?" persisted mademoiselle.

"Very few, ma'am; I am a stranger in this part of the world, except at

Mrs. Temple's."

"Madame Temple, ah, _oui_! I know her very well; she has two fine

daughters--I mean when dey have seen more of de world. It's a great

pity, too, dey have never had de advantage of a native, to teach de

good pronunciation _de la langue Francaise_. Madame Temple will repent

herself of dat when it is too late, as I tell her always. But, sir, you

have been at her house. I am sorry we did not hear none of de family had

been indisposed."

"They are all now perfectly well, ma'am," replied Mr. Mountague,

"except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight cold last week."

"But she is re-establish by your _advise_, I suppose? and she--did she

recommend you to miladi?"

"No, madam," said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by mademoiselle's

phraseology: "Lord George ---- did me the honour to introduce me to Lady

S----."

"Ah, Milord George! are you a long time acquainted wid milord?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have known Lord George many years."

"Ah, many year!--you be de family physician, _apparemment_?"

"The family physician! Oh no, ma'am!" said Mr. Mountague, smiling.

"Eh!" said mademoiselle, "but dat is being too modest. Many take _de

titre_ of physician, I'll engage, wid less pretensions. And," added she,

looking graciously, "_absolument_, I will not have you call yourself de

family _apothicaire_."

At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family apothecary

by the hand, with an air of familiarity which astounded mademoiselle.

"_Qu'est ce que c'est_?" whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his

lordship: "is not dis his _apothicaire_?" Dashwood, at this question,

burst into a loud laugh. "Mr. Mountague," cried he, "have you been

prescribing for mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary."

Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially where there

was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body superior to him in

abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood's mirth; repeating the

story, as "an excellent thing," to every one, as they came down to

breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom he congratulated, the moment

she entered the room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with

an apothecary. "Here he is!" said he, pointing to Mr. Mountague.

"_Ma chère amie! mon coeur!_ tink of my mistaking your Mr. Mountague for

such a sort of person! If you had only told me, sir, dat you were Miladi

Augusta's partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity of

making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat could not find

it out. _Ma chère amie! Mon coeur!_ Miladi Augusta, will you make my

excuse?"

"_Ma chère amie! mon coeur!_" repeated Mr. Mountague to himself: "is

it possible that this woman can be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?"

What was his surprise, when he discovered that Mlle. Panache had been

her ladyship's governess! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some

moments. "So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French

governess!" said he to himself; "but that is her misfortune, not her

fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might make her what he

pleased." When Mr. Mountague recovered from his reverie, he heard the

company, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk

over the last night's ball. "You did not tire yourself last night with

dancing, my lord," said Dashwood.

"No; I hate dancing," replied Lord George: "I wish the ladies would take

to dancing with one another; I think that would be an excellent scheme."

An aunt of his lordship, who was present, took great offence at this

suggestion of her nephew. She had been used to the deference paid in

former times to the sex; and she said she could not bear to see women

give up their proper places in society. "Really, George," added she,

turning to her nephew, "I wish you would not talk in this manner. The

young men now give themselves the strangest airs. Lady S----, I will

expose him; do you know, last night, he was lolling at his full length

upon a bench in the ball-room, while three young handsome ladies were

standing opposite to him, tired to death."

"They could not be more tired than I was, I am sure, ma'am."

"Why, you had not been dancing, and they had."

"Had they, ma'am? that was not my fault. I did not ask 'em to dance, and

I don't see it was my business to ask 'em to sit down. I did not know

who they were, at any rate," concluded his lordship, sullenly.

"You knew they were women, and as such entitled to your respect."

Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dashwood, and pulled up his

boot.

"Another thing--you were in the house three weeks with Miss Earl last

summer; you met her yesterday evening, and you thought proper not to

take the least notice of her."

"Miss, Earl, ma'am; was she there?"

"Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to her."

"I did not see her, ma'am."

"Mrs. Earl spoke to you."

"I didn't hear her, ma'am."

"I told you of it at the moment."

"I didn't understand you, ma'am."

"Besides, ma'am," interposed Dashwood, "as to Miss Earl, if she meant

that my lord should bow to her, she should have curtsied first to him."

"Curtsied first to him!"

"Yes, that's the rule--that's the thing now. The ladies are always to

speak first."

"I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. Lady Augusta, what say

you to all this?"

"Oh, that it's shocking to be sure!" said Lady Augusta, "if one thinks

of it; so the only way is not to think about it."

"An excellent bon-mot!" exclaimed Dashwood. "It's _thinking_ that spoils

conversation, and every thing else."

"But," added Lady Augusta, who observed that her bon-mot was not so much

admired by all the company as by Dashwood, "I really only mean, that one

must do as other people do."

"_Assurément_," said mademoiselle; "not dat I approve of the want of

gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. But, I tink, Mademoiselle Earl is

as stiff as de poker, and I don't approve of dat, neider--_Je n'aime pas

les prudes, moi_."

"But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of manners?" said the

old lady, gravely.

"_Dignité!_--Oh, I don't say noting against _dignité_, neider; not but

I tink de English reserve is _de trop_. I tink a lady of a certain

rank has always good _principes_ enough, to be sure, and as to the rest

_qu'importe?_--dat's my notions."

Mr. Mountague looked with anxiety at Lady Augusta, to see what she

thought of her governess's notions; but all that he could judge from

her countenance was that she did not think at all. "Well, she has time

enough before her to learn to think," said he to himself. "I am glad

she did not assent to mademoiselle's _notions_, at least. I hope she has

learnt nothing from her but '_the true French pronunciation_.'"

No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George ---- gave his

customary morning yawn, and walked as usual to the window. "Come," said

Dashwood, in his free manner--"come, mademoiselle, you must come down

with us to the water-side, and Lady Augusta, I hope."

"Ay," whispered Lord George to Dashwood, "and let's settle our wager

about mademoiselle and my blackamore--don't think I'll let you off

that."

"Off!--I'm ready to double the bet, my lord," said Dashwood aloud,

and in the same moment turned to mademoiselle with some high-flown

compliment about the beauty of her complexion, and the dangers of going

without a veil on a hot sunny day.

"Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you've persuaded mademoiselle to take the

veil, we'll set out, if you please," said Lady Augusta.

Mr. Mountague, who kept his attention continually upon Lady Augusta,

was delighted to see that she waited for the elderly lady, who, at

breakfast, had said so much in favour of dignity of manners. Mr.

Mountague did not, at this moment, consider that this elderly lady was

Lord George's aunt, and that the attention paid to her by Lady Augusta

might possibly proceed from motives of policy, not from choice. Young

men of open tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived by

coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the meanness of their

artifices. As Mr. Mountague walked down to the river, Lady Augusta

contrived to entertain him so completely, that Helen Temple never once

came into his mind; though he had sense enough to perceive his danger,

he had not sufficient _courage_ to avoid it: it sometimes requires

courage to fly from danger. From this agreeable _tête-à-tête_ he was

roused, however, by the voice of Mlle. Panache, who, in an affected

agony, was struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both her

hands--"No! no!--_Non! non!_ I will not--I will not, I tell you, I will

not."

"Nay, nay," said Dashwood; "but I have sworn to get you into the boat."

"Ah! into de boat _à la bonne heure_; but not wid dat vilain black."

"Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his man; and you'll

acknowledge, my lord, in that case it's a drawn bet," said Dashwood.

"I! not I. I'll acknowledge nothing," replied his lordship; and he swore

his black Tom should not be sent away: "he's a capital boatman, and I

can't do without him."

"Den I won't stir," said mademoiselle, passionately, to Dashwood.

"Then I must carry you, must I?" cried Dashwood, laughing; and

immediately, to Mr. Mountague's amazement, a romping scene ensued

between this tutor and governess, which ended in Dashwood's carrying

mademoiselle in his arms into the boat, amidst the secret derision

of two footmen, and the undisguised laughter of black Tom, who were

spectators of the scene.

Mr. Mountague trembled at the thoughts of receiving a wife from the

hands of a Mlle. Panache; but, turning his eye upon Lady Augusta, he

thought she blushed, and this blush at once saved her, in his opinion,

and increased his indignation against her governess. Mademoiselle being

now alarmed, and provoked by the laughter of the servants, the dry

sarcastic manner of Lord George, the cool air of Mr. Mountague, and the

downcast looks of her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high

angry tone assured him, "that she had never seen nobody have so much

assurance;" and she demanded, furiously--"how he could ever tink to take

such liberties wid her? Only tell me how you could dare to tink of it?"

"I confess I did not _think_ as I ought to have done, mademoiselle,"

replied Dashwood, looking an apology to Lady Augusta, which, however, he

took great care mademoiselle should not observe. "But your bet, my lord,

if you please," added he, attempting to turn it off in a joke: "there

was no scream--my bet's fairly won."

"I assure you, sir, dis won't do: it's no good joke, I promise you.

_Ma chère amie, mon coeur_," cried mademoiselle to Lady

Augusta--"_viens_--come, let us go--Don't touch that," pursued she,

roughly, to black Tom, who was going to draw away the plank that led

to the shore. "I will go home dis minute, and speak to Miladi S----.

_Viens! viens, ma chère amie!_"--and she darted out of the boat, whilst

Dashwood followed, in vain attempting to stop her. She prudently,

however, took the longest way through the park, that she might have a

full opportunity of _listening to reason_, as Dashwood called it; and

before she reached home, she was perfectly convinced of the expediency

of moderate measures. "Let the thing rest where it is," said Dashwood:

"it's a joke, and there's an end of it; but if you take it in earnest,

you know the story might not tell so well, even if you told it, and

there would never be an end of it." All this, followed by a profusion of

compliments, ratified a peace, which the moment he had made, he

laughed at himself for having taken so much trouble to effect; whilst

mademoiselle rested in the blessed persuasion that Dashwood was

desperately in love with her; nay, so little knowledge had she of the

human heart as to believe that the scene which had just passed was a

proof of his passion.

"I wonder where's Miladi Augusta? I thought she was wid me all this

time," said she.

"She's coming; don't you see her at the end of the grove with Mr.

Mountague? We have walked fast,"

"Oh, she can't never walk so fast as me; I tink I am as young as she

is."

Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon the consequences

of the attachment which he saw rising in Mr. Mountague's mind for Lady

Augusta. If a man of sense were to gain an influence over her, Dashwood

feared that all his hopes would be destroyed, and he resolved to use

all his power over mademoiselle to prejudice her, and by her means to

prejudice her pupil against this gentleman. Mademoiselle's having begun

by taking him for an _apothicaire_, was a circumstance much in favour

of Dashwood's views, because she felt herself pledged to justify, or at

least to persist, in her opinion, that he did not look like _un homme

comme il faut_.

In the mean time Mr. Mountague was walking slowly towards them with Lady

Augusta, who found it necessary to walk as slowly as possible, because

of the heat. He had been reflecting very soberly upon her ladyship's

late blush, which, according to his interpretation, said, as plainly as

a blush could say, all that the most refined sense and delicacy could

dictate. Yet such is, upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the

human mind, that he by no means felt _sure_ that the lady had blushed at

all. Her colour was, perhaps, a shade higher than usual; but then it was

hot weather, and she had been walking. The doubt, however, Mr.

Mountague thought proper to suppress; and the reality of the blush,

once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed the foundation

of several ingenious theories of moral sentiment, and some truly logical

deductions. A passionate admirer of grace and beauty, he could not help

wishing that he might find Lady Augusta's temper and understanding equal

to her personal accomplishments. When we are very anxious to discover

perfections in any character, we generally succeed, or fancy that we

succeed. Mr. Mountague quickly discovered many amiable and interesting

qualities in this fair lady, and, though he perceived some defects, he

excused them to himself with the most philosophic ingenuity.

"Affectation," the judicious Locke observes, "has always the laudable

aim of pleasing:" upon this principle Mr. Mountague could not reasonably

think of it with severity. "From the desire of pleasing," argued

he, "proceeds not only all that is amiable, but much of what is most

estimable in the female sex. This desire leads to affectation and

coquetry, to folly and vice, only when it is extended to unworthy

objects. The moment a woman's wish to please becomes discriminative, the

moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd,

she not only ceases to be a coquette, but she exerts herself to excel in

every thing that he approves, and, from her versatility of manners, she

has the happy power of adapting herself to his taste, and of becoming

all that his most sanguine wishes could desire." The proofs of this

discriminative taste, and the first symptoms of this salutary attachment

to a man superior to the vulgar herd, Mr. Mountague thought he discerned

very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he ever forget that she was but

eighteen. "She is so very young," said he to himself, "that it is but

reasonable I should constantly consider what she may become, rather than

what she is." To do him justice, we shall observe, that her ladyship at

this time, with all the address of which so young a lady was capable,

did every thing in her power to confirm Mr. Mountague in his favourable

sentiments of her.

Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he was at length

determined by the generous enthusiasm, amiable simplicity, and candid

good sense which Lady Augusta showed in speaking of a favourite friend

of hers, of whom he could not approve. This friend, Lady Diana, was one

of the rude ladies who had laughed with so much ill-nature at Helen's

white and black shoes at the archery ball. She was a dashing, rich,

extravagant, fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike manners, too

often "touching the brink of all we hate," without exciting any passions

allied to love. Her look was almost an oath--her language was suitable

to her looks--she swore and dressed to the height of the fashion--she

could drive four horses in hand--was a desperate huntress--and so

loud in the praises of her dogs and horses, that she intimidated

even sportsmen and jockeys. She talked so much of her favourite horse

_Spanker_, that she acquired amongst a particular set of gentlemen the

appellation of my Lady Di Spanker. Lady Augusta perceived that the soft

affectations remarkable in her own manners were in agreeable contrast

in the company of this masculine dame; she therefore cultivated her

acquaintance, and Lady S---- could make no objection to a woman who was

well received every where; she was rather flattered to see her daughter

taken notice of by this dashing belle; consequently, Lady Di. Spanker,

for by that name we also shall call her, frequently rode over from

Cheltenham, which was some miles distant from S---- Hall. One morning

she called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon her coming out to try

her favourite horse. All the gentlemen went down immediately to assist

in putting her ladyship on horseback: this was quite unnecessary, for

Lady Diana took that office upon herself. Lady Augusta was all timidity,

and was played off to great advantage by the rough raillery of her

friend. At length she conquered her fears so much as to seat herself

upon the side-saddle; her riding mistress gathered up the reins for

her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands; then armed her with her

whip, exhorting her, "for God's sake, not to be such a coward!" Scarcely

was the word _coward_ pronounced, when Lady Augusta, by some unguarded

motion of her whip, gave offence to her high-mettled steed, which

instantly began to rear: there was no danger, for Mr. Mountague caught

hold of the reins, and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect safety.

"How now, Spanker!" exclaimed Lady Di., in a voice calculated to strike

terror into the nerves of a horse--"how now, Spanker!" and mounting him

with masculine boldness of gesture--"I'll teach you, sir, who's your

mistress," continued she; "I'll make you pay for these tricks!"

Spanker reared again, and Lady Di. gave him what she called "a complete

dressing!" In vain Lady Augusta screamed; in vain the spectators

entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip; she persisted in beating

Spanker till she fairly mastered him. When he was perfectly subdued, she

dismounted with the same carelessness with which she had mounted; and,

giving the horse to her groom, pushed back her hat, and looked round for

applause. Lord George, roused to a degree of admiration, which he had

never before been heard to express for any thing female, swore that,

in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done; and Lady Di.

Spanker received his congratulations with a loud laugh, and a hearty

shake of the hand. "Walk him about, Jack," added she, turning to the

groom, who held her horse; "walk him about, for he's all in a lather;

and when he's cool, bring him up here again. And then, my dear child,"

said she to Lady Augusta, "you shall give him a fair trial."