Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robespierre, was Mad. de Rosier, a lady of good family, excellent understanding, and most amiable character. Her husband, and her only son, a promising young man of about fourteen, were dragged to the horrid prison of the Conciergerie, and their names, soon afterward, appeared in the list of those who fell a sacrifice to the tyrant’s cruelty. By the assistance of a faithful domestic, Mad. de Rosier, who was destined to be the next victim, escaped from France, and took refuge in England—England!—that generous country, which, in favour of the unfortunate, forgets her national prejudices, and to whom, in their utmost need, even her “natural enemies” fly for protection. English travellers have sometimes been accused of forgetting the civilities which they receive in foreign countries; but their conduct towards the French emigrants has sufficiently demonstrated the injustice of this reproach.
Mad. de Rosier had reason to be pleased by the delicacy of several families of distinction in London, who offered her their services under the name of gratitude; but she was incapable of encroaching upon the kindness of her friends. Misfortune had not extinguished the energy of her mind, and she still possessed the power of maintaining herself honourably by her own exertions. Her character and her abilities being well known, she easily procured recommendations as a preceptress. Many ladies anxiously desired to engage such a governess for their children, but Mrs. Harcourt had the good fortune to obtain the preference.
Mrs. Harcourt was a widow, who had been a very fine woman, and continued to be a very fine lady; she had good abilities, but, as she lived in a constant round of dissipation, she had not time to cultivate her understanding, or to attend to the education of her family; and she had satisfied her conscience by procuring for her daughters a fashionable governess and expensive masters. The governess whose place Mad. de Rosier was now to supply, had quitted her pupils, to go abroad with a lady of quality, and Mrs. Harcourt knew enough of the world to bear her loss without emotion;—she, however, stayed at home one whole evening, to receive Mad. de Rosier, and to introduce her to her pupils. Mrs. Harcourt had three daughters and a son—Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, and Herbert. Isabella was about fourteen; her countenance was intelligent, but rather too expressive of confidence in her own capacity, for she had, from her infancy, been taught to believe that she was a genius. Her memory had been too much cultivated; she had learned languages with facility, and had been taught to set a very high value upon her knowledge of history and chronology. Her temper had been hurt by flattery, yet she was capable of feeling all the generous passions.
Matilda was a year younger than Isabella; she was handsome, but her countenance, at first view, gave the idea of hopeless indolence; she did not learn the French and Italian irregular verbs by rote as expeditiously as her sister, and her impatient preceptress pronounced, with an irrevocable nod, that Miss Matilda was no genius. The phrase was quickly caught by her masters, so that Matilda, undervalued even by her sister, lost all confidence in herself, and with the hope of success, lost the wish for exertion. Her attention gradually turned to dress and personal accomplishments; not that she was vain of her beauty, but she had more hopes of pleasing by the graces of her person than of her mind. The timid, anxious blush, which Mad. De Rosier observed to vary in Matilda’s countenance, when she spoke to those for whom she felt affection, convinced this lady that, if Matilda were no genius, it must have been the fault of her education. On sensibility, all that is called genius, perhaps, originally depends: those who are capable of feeling a strong degree of pain and pleasure may surely be excited to great and persevering exertion, by calling the proper motives into action.
Favoretta, the youngest daughter, was about six years old. At this age, the habits that constitute character are not formed, and it is, therefore, absurd to speak of the character of a child six years old. Favoretta had been, from her birth, the plaything of her mother and of her mother’s waiting-maid. She was always produced, when Mrs. Harcourt had company, to be admired and caressed by the fashionable circle; her ringlets and her lively nonsense were the never-failing means of attracting attention from visitors. In the drawing-room, Favoretta, consequently, was happy, always in high spirits, and the picture of good humour; but, change the scene, and Favoretta no longer appeared the same person: when alone, she was idle and spiritless; when with her maid or with her brother and sisters, pettish and capricious. Her usual play-fellow was Herbert, but their plays regularly ended in quarrels—quarrels in which both parties were commonly in the wrong, though the whole of the blame necessarily fell upon Herbert, for Herbert was neither caressing nor caressed. Mrs. Grace, the waiting-maid, pronounced him to be the plague of her life, and prophesied evil of him, because, as she averred, if she combed his hair a hundred times a day, it would never be fit to be seen; besides this, she declared “there was no managing to keep him out of mischief,” and he was so “thick-headed at his book,” that Mrs. Grace, on whom the task of teaching him his alphabet had, during the negligent reign of the late governess, devolved, affirmed that he never would learn to read like any other young gentleman. Whether the zeal of Mrs. Grace for his literary progress were of service to his understanding, may be doubted; there could be no doubt of its effect upon his temper; a sullen gloom overspread Herbert’s countenance, whenever the shrill call of “Come and say your task, Master Herbert!” was heard; and the continual use of the imperative mood—“Let that alone, do, Master Herbert!”—“Don’t make a racket, Master Herbert!”—“Do hold your tongue and sit still where I bid you, Master Herbert!” operated so powerfully upon this young gentleman, that, at eight years old, he partly fulfilled his tormentor’s prophecies, for he became a little surly rebel, who took pleasure in doing exactly the contrary to every thing that he was desired to do, and who took pride in opposing his powers of endurance to the force of punishment. His situation was scarcely more agreeable in the drawing-room than in the nursery, for his mother usually announced him to the company by the appropriate appellation of Roughhead; and Herbert Roughhead being assailed, at his entrance into the room, by a variety of petty reproaches and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth appearance, became bashful and awkward, averse from polite society, and prone to the less fastidious company of servants in the stable and the kitchen. Mrs. Harcourt absolutely forbade his intercourse with the postilions, though she did not think it necessary to be so strict in her injunctions as to the butler and footman; because, argued she, “children will get to the servants when one’s from home, and it is best that they should be with such of them as one can trust. Now Stephen is quite a person one can entirely depend upon, and he has been so long in the family, the children are quite used to him, and safe with him.”
How many mothers have a Stephen, on whom they can entirely depend!
Mrs. Harcourt, with politeness, which in this instance supplied the place of good sense, invested Mad. de Rosier with full powers, as the preceptress of her children, except as to their religious education; she stipulated that Catholic tenets should not be instilled into them. To this Mad. de Rosier replied—“that children usually follow the religion of their parents, and that proselytes seldom do honour to their conversion; that were she, on the other hand, to attempt to promote her pupils’ belief in the religion of their country, her utmost powers could add nothing to the force of public religious instruction, and to the arguments of those books which are necessarily put into the hands of every well-educated person.”
With these opinions, Mad. de Rosier readily promised to abstain from all direct or indirect interference in the religious instruction of her pupils. Mrs. Harcourt then introduced her to them as “a friend, in whom she had entire confidence, and whom she hoped and believed they would make it their study to please.”
Whilst the ceremonies of the introduction were going on, Herbert kept himself aloof, and, with his whip suspended over the stick on which he was riding, eyed Mad. de Rosier with no friendly aspect: however, when she held out her hand to him, and when he heard the encouraging tone of her voice, he approached, held his whip fast in his right hand, but very cordially gave the lady his left to shake.
“Are you to be my governess?” said he: “you won’t give me very long tasks, will you?”
“Favoretta, my dear, what has detained you so long?” cried Mrs. Harcourt, as the door opened, and as Favoretta, with her hair in nice order, was ushered into the room by Mrs. Grace. The little girl ran up to Mad. de Rosier, and, with the most caressing freedom, cried,—
“Will you love me? I have not my red shoes on to-day!”
Whilst Mad. de Rosier assured Favoretta that the want of the red shoes would not diminish her merit, Matilda whispered to Isabella—“Mourning is very becoming to her, though she is not fair;” and Isabella, with a look of absence, replied—“But she speaks English amazingly well for a French woman.”
Mad. de Rosier did speak English remarkably well; she had spent some years in England, in her early youth, and, perhaps, the effect of her conversation was heightened by an air of foreign novelty. As she was not hackneyed in the common language of conversation, her ideas were expressed in select and accurate terms, so that her thoughts appeared original, as well as just.
Isabella, who was fond of talents, and yet fonder of novelty, was charmed, the first evening, with her new friend, more especially as she perceived that her abilities had not escaped Mad. de Rosier. She displayed all her little treasures of literature, but was surprised to observe that, though every shining thing she said was taken notice of, nothing dazzled the eyes of her judge; gradually her desire to talk subsided, and she felt some curiosity to hear. She experienced the new pleasure of conversing with a person whom she perceived to be her superior in understanding, and whose superiority she could admire, without any mixture of envy.
“Then,” said she, pausing, one day, after having successfully enumerated the dates of the reigns of all the English kings, “I suppose you have something in French, like our Gray’s Memoria Technica, or else you never could have such a prodigious quantity of dates in your head. Had you as much knowledge of chronology and history, when you were of my age, as—as—”
“As you have?” said Mad. de Rosier: “I do not know whether I had at your age, but I can assure you that I have not now.”
“Nay,” replied Isabella, with an incredulous smile, “but you only say that from modesty.”
“From vanity, more likely.”
“Vanity! impossible—you don’t understand me.”
“Pardon me, but you do not understand me.”
“A person,” cried Isabella, “can’t, surely, be vain—what we, in English, call vain—of not remembering any thing.”
“Is it, then, impossible that a person should be what you, in English, call vain, of not remembering what is useless? I dare say you can tell me the name of that wise man who prayed for the art of forgetting.”
“No, indeed, I don’t know his name; I never heard of him before: was he a Grecian, or a Roman, or an Englishman? can’t you recollect his name? what does it begin with?”
“I do not wish either for your sake or my own, to remember the name; let us content ourselves with the wise man’s sense, whether he were a Grecian, a Roman, or an Englishman: even the first letter of his name might be left among the useless things—might it not?”
“But,” replied Isabella, a little piqued, “I do not know what you call useless.”
“Those of which you can make no use,” said Mad. de Rosier, with simplicity.
“You don’t mean, though, all the names, and dates, and kings, and Roman emperors, and all the remarkable events that I have learned by heart?”
“It is useful, I allow,” replied Mad. de Rosier, “to know by heart the names of the English kings and Roman emperors, and to remember the dates of their reigns, otherwise we should be obliged, whenever we wanted them, to search in the books in which they are to be found, and that wastes time.”
“Wastes time—yes; but what’s worse,” said Isabella, “a person looks so awkward and foolish in company, who does not know these things—things that every body knows.”
“And that every body is supposed to know,” added Mad. de Rosier.
“That never struck me before,” said Isabella, ingenuously; “I only remembered these things to repeat in conversation.”
Here Mad. de Rosier, pleased to observe that her pupil had caught an idea that was new to her, dropped the conversation, and left Isabella to apply what had passed. Active and ingenious young people should have much left to their own intelligent exertions, and to their own candour.
Matilda, the second daughter, was at first pleased with Mad. de Rosier, because she looked well in mourning; and afterwards she became interested for her, from hearing the history of her misfortunes, of which Mad. de Rosier, one evening, gave her a simple, pathetic account. Matilda was particularly touched by the account of the early death of this lady’s beautiful and accomplished daughter; she dwelt upon every circumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions.
“I think I can form a perfect idea of her now,” said Matilda, after she had inquired concerning the colour of her hair, of her eyes, her complexion, her height, her voice, her manners, and her dress—“I think I have a perfect idea of her now!”
“Oh no!” said Mad. de Rosier, with a sigh, “you cannot form a perfect idea of my Rosalie from any of these things; she was handsome and graceful; but it was not her person—it was her mind,” said the mother, with a faltering voice: her voice had, till this instant, been steady and composed.
“I beg your pardon—I will ask you no more questions,” said Matilda.
“My love,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ask me as many as you please—I like to think of her—I may now speak of her without vanity—her character would have pleased you.”
“I am sure it would,” said Matilda: “do you think she would have liked me or Isabella the best?”
“She would have liked each of you for your different good qualities, I think: she would not have made her love an object of competition, or the cause of jealousy between two sisters; she could make herself sufficiently beloved, without stooping to any such mean arts. She had two friends who loved her tenderly; they knew that she was perfectly sincere, and that she would not flatter either of them—you know that is only childish affection which is without esteem. Rosalie was esteemed autant qu’aimée.”
“How I should have liked such a friend! but I am afraid she would have been so much my superior, she would have despised me—Isabella would have had all her conversation, because she knows so much, and I know nothing!”
“If you know that you know nothing,” said Mad. de Rosier, with an encouraging smile, “you know as much as the wisest of men. When the oracle pronounced Socrates to be the wisest of men, he explained it by observing, ‘that he knew himself to be ignorant, whilst other men,’ said he, ‘believing that they know every thing, are not likely to improve.’”
“Then you think I am likely to improve?” said Matilda, with a look of doubtful hope.
“Certainly,” said Mad. de Rosier: “if you exert yourself, you may be any thing you please.”
“Not any thing I please, for I should please to be as clever, and as good, and as amiable, and as estimable, too, as your Rosalie—but that’s impossible. Tell me, however, what she was at my age—and what sort of things she used to do and say—and what books she read—and how she employed herself from morning till night.”
“That must be for to-morrow,” said Mad. de Rosier; “I must now show Herbert the book of prints that he wanted to see.”
It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to look into a book. Mad. de Rosier had taken him entirely out of the hands of Mrs. Grace, and finding that his painful associations with the sight of the syllables in his dog’s-eared spelling-book could not immediately be conquered, she prudently resolved to cultivate his powers of attention upon other subjects, and not to return to syllabic difficulties, until the young gentleman should have forgotten his literary misfortunes, and acquired sufficient energy and patience to ensure success.
“It is of little consequence,” said she, “whether the boy read a year sooner or later; but it is of great consequence that he should love literature.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Harcourt, to whom this observation was addressed; “I am sure you will manage all those things properly—I leave him entirely to you—Grace quite gives him up: if he read by the time we must think of sending him to school I shall be satisfied—only keep him out of my way,” added she, laughing, “when he is stammering over that unfortunate spelling-book, for I don’t pretend to be gifted with the patience of Job.”
“Have you any objection,” said Mad. de Rosier, “to my buying for him some new toys?”
“None in the world—buy any thing you will—do any thing you please—I give you carte blanche,” said Mrs. Harcourt.
After Mad. de Rosier had been some time at Mrs. Harcourt’s, and had carefully studied the characters, or, more properly speaking, the habits of all her pupils, she took them with her one morning to a large toy-shop, or rather warehouse for toys, which had been lately opened, under the direction of an ingenious gentleman, who had employed proper workmen to execute rational toys for the rising generation.
When Herbert entered “the rational toy-shop,” he looked all around, and, with an air of disappointment, exclaimed, “Why, I see neither whips nor horses! nor phaetons, nor coaches!”—“Nor dressed dolls!” said Favoretta, in a reproachful tone—“nor baby houses!”—“Nor soldiers—nor a drum!” continued Herbert.—“I am sure I never saw such a toy-shop,” said Favoretta; “I expected the finest things that ever were seen, because it was such a new great shop, and here are nothing but vulgar-looking things—great carts and wheel-barrows, and things fit for orange-women’s daughters, I think.”
This sally of wit was not admired as much as it would have been by Favoretta’s flatterers in her mother’s drawing-room:—her brother seized upon the very cart which she had abused, and dragging it about the room, with noisy joy, declared he had found out that it was better than a coach and six that would hold nothing; and he was even satisfied without horses, because he reflected that he could be the best horse himself; and that wooden horses, after all, cannot gallop, and they never mind if you whip them ever so much: “you must drag them along all the time, though you make believe,” said Herbert, “that they draw the coach of themselves; if one gives them the least push, they tumble down on their sides, and one must turn back, for ever and ever, to set them up upon their wooden legs again. I don’t like make-believe horses; I had rather be both man and horse for myself.” Then, whipping himself, he galloped away, pleased with his centaur character.
When the little boy in Sacontala is offered for a plaything “a peacock of earthenware, painted with rich colours,” he answers, “I shall like the peacock if it can run and fly—not else.” The Indian drama of Sacontala was written many centuries ago. Notwithstanding it has so long been observed, that children dislike useless, motionless playthings, it is but of late that more rational toys have been devised for their amusements.
Whilst Herbert’s cart rolled on, Favoretta viewed it with scornful eyes; but at length, cured by the neglect of the spectators of this fit of disdain, she condescended to be pleased, and spied a few things worthy of her notice. Bilboquets, battledores, and shuttlecocks, she acknowledged were no bad things—“And pray,” said she, “what are those pretty little baskets, Mad. de Rosier? And those others, which look as if they were but just begun? And what are those strings, that look like mamma’s bell cords?—and is that a thing for making laces, such as Grace laces me with? And what are those cabinets with little drawers for?”
Mad. de Rosier had taken notice of these little cabinets—they were for young mineralogists; she was also tempted by a botanical apparatus; but as her pupils were not immediately going into the country, where flowers could be procured, she was forced to content herself with such things as could afford them employment in town. The making of baskets, of bell-ropes, and of cords for window-curtains, were occupations in which, she thought, they might successfully employ themselves. The materials for these little manufactures were here ready prepared; and only such difficulties were left as children love to conquer. The materials for the baskets, and a little magnifying glass, which Favoretta wished to have, were just packed up in a basket, which was to serve for a model, when Herbert’s voice was heard at the other end of the shop: he was exclaiming in an impatient tone, “I must and I will eat them, I say.” He had crept under the counter, and, unperceived by the busy shopman, had dragged out of a pigeon-hole, near the ground, a parcel, wrapped up in brown paper: he had seated himself upon the ground, with his back to the company, and, with patience worthy of a better object, at length untied the difficult knot, pulled off the string, and opened the parcel. Within the brown paper there appeared a number of little packets, curiously folded in paper of a light brown. Herbert opened one of these, and finding that it contained a number of little round things which looked like comfits, he raised the paper to his mouth, which opened wide to receive them. The shopman stopping his arm, assured him that they were “not good to eat;” but Herbert replied in the angry tone, which caught Mad. de Rosier’s ear. “They are the seeds of radishes, my dear,” said she: “if they be sown in the ground, they will become radishes; then they will be fit to eat, but not till then. Taste them now, and try.” He willingly obeyed; but put the seeds very quickly out of his mouth, when he found that they were not sweet. He then said “that he wished he might have them, that he might sow them in the little garden behind his mother’s house, that they might be fit to eat some time or other.”
Mad. de Rosier bought the radish-seeds, and ordered a little spade, a hoe, and a watering-pot, to be sent home for him. Herbert’s face brightened with joy: he was surprised to find that any of his requests were granted, because Grace had regularly reproved him for being troublesome whenever he asked for any thing; hence he had learned to have recourse to force or fraud to obtain his objects. He ventured now to hold Mad. De Rosier by the gown: “Stay a little longer,” said he; “I want to look at every thing:” his curiosity dilated with his hopes. When Mad. de Rosier complied with his request to “stay a little longer,” he had even the politeness to push a stool towards her, saying, “You’d better sit down; you will be tired of standing, as some people say they are;—but I’m not one of them. Tell ‘em to give me down that wonderful thing, that I may see what it is, will you?”
The wonderful thing which had caught Herbert’s attention was a dry printing press. Mad. de Rosier was glad to procure this little machine for Herbert, for she hoped that the new associations of pleasure which he would form with the types in the little compositor’s stick, would efface the painful remembrance of his early difficulties with the syllables in the spelling-book. She also purchased a box of models of common furniture, which were made to take to pieces, and to be put together again, and on which the names of all the parts were printed. A number of other useful toys tempted her, but she determined not to be too profuse: she did not wish to purchase the love of her little pupils by presents; her object was to provide them with independent occupations; to create a taste for industry, without the dangerous excitation of continual variety.
Isabella was delighted with the idea of filling up a small biographical chart, which resembled Priestley’s; she was impatient also to draw the map of the world upon a small silk balloon, which could be filled with common air, or folded up flat at pleasure.
Matilda, after much hesitation, said she had decided in her mind, just as they were going out of the shop. She chose a small loom for weaving riband and tape, which Isabella admired, because she remembered to have seen it described in “Townsend’s Travels:” but, before the man could put up the loom for Matilda, she begged to have a little machine for drawing in perspective, because the person who showed it assured her that it required no sort of genius to draw perfectly well in perspective with this instrument.
In their way home, Mad. de Rosier stopped the carriage at a circulating library. “Are you going to ask for the novel we were talking of yesterday?” cried Matilda.
“A novel!” said Isabella, contemptuously: “no, I dare say Mad. de Rosier is not a novel-reader.”
“Zeluco, sir, if you please,” said Mad. de Rosier. “You see, Isabella, notwithstanding the danger of forfeiting your good opinion, I have dared to ask for a novel.”
“Well, I always understood, I am sure,” replied Isabella, disdainfully, “that none but trifling, silly people were novel-readers.”
“Were readers of trifling, silly novels, perhaps you mean,” answered Mad. de Rosier, with temper; “but I flatter myself you will not find Zeluco either trifling or silly.”
“No, not Zeluco, to be sure,” said Isabella, recollecting herself; “for now I remember Mr. Gibbon, the great historian, mentions Zeluco in one of his letters; he says it is the best philosophical romance of the age. I particularly remember that, because somebody had been talking of Zeluco the very day I was reading that letter; and I asked my governess to get it for me, but she said it was a novel—however, Mr. Gibbon calls it a philosophical romance.”
“The name,” said Mad. de Rosier, “will not make such difference to us; but I agree with you in thinking, that as people who cannot judge for themselves are apt to be misled by names, it would be advantageous to invent some new name for philosophical novels, that they may no longer be contraband goods—that they may not be confounded with the trifling, silly productions, for which you have so just a disdain.”
“Now, ma’am, will you ask,” cried Herbert, as the carriage stopped at his mother’s door—“will you ask whether the man has brought home my spade and the watering-pot? I know you don’t like that I should go to the servants for what I want; but I’m in a great hurry for the spade, because I want to dig the bed for my radishes before night: I’ve got my seeds safe in my hand.”
Mad. de Rosier, much pleased by this instance of obedience in her impatient pupil, instantly inquired for what he wanted, to convince him that it was possible he could have his wishes gratified by a person who was not an inhabitant of the stable or the kitchen. Isabella might have registered it in her list of remarkable events, that Herbert, this day, was not seen with the butler, the footman, or the coachman. Mad. de Rosier, who was aware of the force of habit, and who thought that no evil could be greater than that of hazarding the integrity of her little pupils, did not exact from them any promise of abstaining from the company of the servants, with whom they had been accustomed to converse; but she had provided the children with occupations, that they might not be tempted, by idleness, to seek for improper companions; and, by interesting herself with unaffected good-nature in their amusements, she endeavoured to give them a taste for the sympathy of their superiors in knowledge, instead of a desire for the flattery of inferiors. She arranged their occupations in such a manner, that, without watching them every instant, she might know what they were doing, and where they were; and she showed so much readiness to procure for them any thing that was reasonable, that they found it the shortest method to address their petitions to her in the first instance. Children will necessarily delight in the company of those who make them happy; Mad. de Rosier knew how to make her pupils contented, by exciting them to employments in which they felt that they were successful.
“Mamma! mamma! dear mamma!” cried Favoretta, running into the hall, and stopping Mrs. Harcourt, who was dressed, and going out to dinner, “do come into the parlour, to look at my basket, my beautiful basket, that I am making all myself.”
“And do, mother, or some of ye, come out into the garden, and see the bed that I’ve dug, with my own hands, for my radishes—I’m as hot as fire, I know,” said Herbert, pushing his hat back from his forehead.
“Oh! don’t come near me with the watering-pot in your hand,” said Mrs. Harcourt, shrinking back, and looking at Herbert’s hands, which were not as white as her own.
“The carriage is but just come to the door, ma’am,” said Isabella, who next appeared in the hall; “I only want you for one instant, to show you something that is to hang up in your dressing-room, when I have finished it, mamma; it is really beautiful.”
“Well, don’t keep me long,” said Mrs. Harcourt, “for, indeed, I am too late already.”
“Oh, no! indeed you will not be too late, mamma—only look at my basket,” said Favoretta, gently pulling her mother by the hand into the parlour.—Isabella pointed to her silk globe, which was suspended in the window, and, taking up her camel-hair pencil, cried, “Only look, ma’am, how nicely I have traced the Rhine, the Po, the Elbe, and the Danube; you see I have not finished Europe; it will be quite another looking thing, when Asia, Africa, and America are done, and when the colours are quite dry.”
“Now, Isabella, pray let her look at my basket,” cried the eager Favoretta, holding up the scarcely begun basket—“I will do a row, to show you how it is done;” and the little girl, with busy fingers, began to weave. The ingenious and delicate appearance of the work, and the happy countenance of the little workwoman, fixed the mother’s pleased attention, and she, for a moment, forgot that her carriage was waiting.
“The carriage is at the door, ma’am,” said the footman.
“I must be gone!” cried Mrs. Harcourt, starting from her reverie. “What am I doing here? I ought to have been away this half-hour—Matilda!—why is not she amongst you?”
Matilda, apart from the busy company, was reading with so much earnestness, that her mother called twice before she looked up.
“How happy you all look,” continued Mrs. Harcourt; “and I am going to one of those terrible great dinners—I shan’t eat one morsel; then cards all night, which I hate as much as you do, Isabella—pity me, Mad. de Rosier!—Good bye, happy creatures!”—and with some real and some affected reluctance, Mrs. Harcourt departed.
It is easy to make children happy, for one evening, with new toys and new employments; but the difficulty is to continue the pleasure of occupation after it has lost its novelty: the power of habit may well supply the place of the charm of novelty. Mad. de Rosier exerted herself, for some weeks, to invent occupations for her pupils, that she might induce in their minds a love for industry; and when they had tasted the pleasure, and formed the habit of doing something, she now and then suffered them to experience the misery of having nothing to do. The state of ennui, when contrasted with that of pleasurable mental or bodily activity, becomes odious and insupportable to children.
Our readers must have remarked that Herbert, when he seized upon the radish-seeds in the rational toy-shop, had not then learned just notions of the nature of property. Mad. de Rosier did not, like Mrs. Grace, repeat ineffectually, fifty times a day—“Master Herbert, don’t touch that!” “Master Herbert, for shame!” “Let that alone, sir!” “Master Herbert, how dare you, sir!” but she prudently began by putting forbidden goods entirely out of his reach: thus she, at least, prevented the necessity for perpetual, irritating prohibitions, and diminished with the temptation the desire to disobey; she gave him some things for his own use, and scrupulously refrained from encroaching upon his property: Isabella and Matilda followed her example, in this respect, and thus practically explained to Herbert the meaning of the words mine and yours. He was extremely desirous of going with Mad. de Rosier to different shops, but she coolly answered his entreaties by observing, “that she could not venture to take him into any one’s house, till she was sure that he would not meddle with what was not his own.” Herbert now felt the inconvenience of his lawless habits: to enjoy the pleasures, he perceived that it was necessary to submit to the duties of society; and he began to respect “the rights of things and persons{1}.” When his new sense of right and wrong had been sufficiently exercised at home, Mad. de Rosier ventured to expose him to more dangerous trials abroad; she took him to a carpenter’s workshop, and though the saw, the hammer, the chisel, the plane, and the vice, assailed him in various forms of temptation, his powers of forbearance came off victorious.
{Footnote 1: Blackstone}
“To bear and forbear” has been said to be the sum of manly virtue: the virtue of forbearance in childhood must always be measured by the pupil’s disposition to activity: a vivacious boy must often have occasion to forbear more, in a quarter of an hour, than a dull, indolent child in a quarter of a year.
“May I touch this?”—“May I meddle with that?” were questions which our prudent hero now failed not to ask, before he meddled with the property of others, and he found his advantage in this mode of proceeding. He observed that his governess was, in this respect, as scrupulous as she required that he should be, and he consequently believed in the truth and general utility of her precepts.
The coachmaker’s, the cooper’s, the turner’s, the cabinet-maker’s, even the black ironmonger’s and noisy tinman’s shop, afforded entertainment for many a morning; a trifling gratuity often purchased much instruction, and Mad. de Rosier always examined the countenance of the workman before she suffered her little pupils to attack him with questions. The eager curiosity of children is generally rather agreeable than tormenting to tradesmen, who are not too busy to be benevolent; and the care which Herbert took not to be troublesome pleased those to whom he addressed himself. He was delighted, at the upholsterer’s, to observe that his little models of furniture had taught him how several things were put together, and he soon learned the workmen’s names for his ideas. He readily understood the use of all that he saw, when he went to a bookbinder’s, and to a printing-office, because, in his own printing and bookbinder’s press, he had seen similar contrivances in miniature.
Prints, as well as models, were used to enlarge his ideas of visible objects. Mad. de Rosier borrowed the Dictionnaire des Arts et des Métiers, Buffon, and several books, which contained good prints of animals, machines, and architecture; these provided amusement on rainy days. At first she found it difficult to fix the attention of the boisterous Herbert and the capricious Favoretta. Before they had half examined one print, they wanted to turn over the leaf to see another; but this desultory, impatient curiosity she endeavoured to cure by steadily showing only one or two prints for each day’s amusement. Herbert, who could but just spell words of one syllable, could not read what was written at the bottom of the prints, and he was sometimes ashamed of applying to Favoretta for assistance;—the names that were printed upon his little models of furniture he at length learned to make out. The press was obliged to stand still when Favoretta, or his friend, Mad. de Rosier, were not at hand, to tell him, letter by letter, how to spell the words that he wanted to print. He, one evening, went up to Mad. de Rosier, and, with a resolute face, said, “I must learn to read.”
“If any body will be so good as to teach you, I suppose you mean,” said she, smiling{2}.
{Footnote 2: Vide Rousseau.}
“Will you be so good?” said he: “perhaps you could teach me, though Grace says ‘tis very difficult; I’ll do my best.”
“Then I’ll do my best too,” said Mad. de Rosier.
The consequences of these good resolutions were surprising to Mrs. Grace. Master Herbert was quite changed, she observed; and she wondered why he would never read when she took so much pains with him for an hour every day to hear him his task. “Madame de What d’ye call her,” added Mrs. Grace, “need not boast much of the hand she has had in the business: for I’ve been by at odd times, and watched her ways, whilst I have been dressing Miss Favoretta, and she has been hearing you your task, Master Herbert.”
“She doesn’t call it my task—I hate that word.”
“Well, I don’t know what she calls it; for I don’t pretend to be a French governess, for my part; but I can read English, Master Herbert, as well as another; and it’s strange if I could not teach my mother tongue better than an emigrant. What I say is, that she never takes much pains one way or the other; for by the clock in mistress’s dressing-room, I minuted her twice, and she was five minutes at one time, and not above seven the other. Easy earning money for governesses, nowadays. No tasks!—no, not she!—Nothing all day long but play—play—play, laughing and running, and walking, and going to see all the shops and sights, and going out in the coach to bring home radishes and tongue-grass, to be sure—and every thing in the house is to be as she pleases, to be sure. I am sure my mistress is too good to her, only because she was born a lady, they say. Do, pray, Master Herbert, stand still, whilst I comb your hair, unless that’s against your new governess’s commandments.”
“I’ll comb my own hair, Grace,” said Herbert, manfully. “I don’t like one word you have been saying; though I don’t mind any thing you, or any body else, can say against my friend. She is my friend—and she has taught me to read, I say, without bouncing me about, and shaking me, and Master Herberting me for ever. And what harm did it do the coach to bring home my radishes? My radishes are come up, and she shall have some of them. And I like the sights and shops she shows me;—but she does not like that I should talk to you; therefore, I’ll say no more; but good morning to you, Grace.”
Herbert, red with generous passion, rushed out of the room, and Grace, pale with malicious rage, turned towards the other door that opened into Mrs. Harcourt’s bedchamber, for Mad. de Rosier, at this moment, appeared.—“I thought I heard a great noise?”—“It was only Master Herbert, ma’am, that won’t never stand still to have his hair combed—and says he’ll comb it for himself—I am sure I wish he would.”
Mad. de Rosier saw, by the embarrassed manner and stifled choler of Mrs. Grace, that the whole truth of the business had not been told, and she repented her indiscretion in having left Herbert with her even for a few minutes. She forbore, however, to question Herbert, who maintained a dignified silence upon the subject; and the same species of silence would also become the historian upon this occasion, were it not necessary that the character of an intriguing lady’s maid should, for the sake both of parents and children, be fully delineated.
Mrs. Grace, offended by Mad. de Rosier’s success in teaching her former pupil to read; jealous of this lady’s favour with her mistress and with the young ladies; irritated by the bold defiance of the indignant champion who had stood forth in his friend’s defence, formed a secret resolution to obtain revenge. This she imparted, the very same day, to her confidant, Mrs. Rebecca. Mrs. Rebecca was the favourite maid of Mrs. Fanshaw, an acquaintance of Mrs. Harcourt. Grace invited Mrs. Rebecca to drink tea with her. As soon as the preliminary ceremonies of the tea-table had been adjusted, she proceeded to state her grievances.
“In former times, as nobody knows better than you, Mrs. Rebecca, I had my mistress’s ear, and was all in all in the house, with her and the young ladies, and the old governess; and it was I that was to teach Master Herbert to read; and Miss Favoretta was almost constantly from morning to night, except when she was called for by company, with me, and a sweet little well-dressed creature always, you know, she was.”
“A sweet little creature, indeed, ma’am, and I was wondering, before you spoke, not to see her in your room, as usual, to-night,” replied Mrs. Rebecca.
“Dear Mrs. Rebecca, you need not wonder at that, or any thing else that’s wonderful, in our present government above stairs, I’ll assure you; for we have a new French governess, and new measures. Do you know, ma’am, the coach is ordered to go about at all hours, whenever she pleases for to take the young ladies out, and she is quite like my mistress. But no one can bear two mistresses, you know, Mrs. Rebecca; wherefore, I’m come to a resolution, in short, that either she or I shall quit the house, and we shall presently see which of us it must be. Mrs. Harcourt, at the upshot of all things, must be conscious, at the bottom of her heart, that, if she is the elegantest dresser about town, it’s not all her own merit.”
“Very true indeed, Mrs. Grace,” replied her complaisant friend; “and what sums of money her millinery might cost her, if she had no one clever at making up things at home! You are blamed by many, let me tell you, for doing so much as you do. Mrs. Private, the milliner, I know from the best authority, is not your friend: now, for my part, I think it is no bad thing to have friends abroad, if one comes to any difficulties at home. Indeed, my dear, your attachment to Mrs. Harcourt quite blinds you—but, to be sure, you know your own affairs best.”
“Why, I am not for changing when I am well,” replied Grace: “Mrs. Harcourt is abroad a great deal, and hers is, all things considered, a very eligible house. Now, what I build my hopes upon, my dear Mrs. Rebecca, is this—that ladies, like some people who have been beauties, and come to make themselves up, and wear pearl powder, and false auburn hair, and twenty things that are not to be advertised, you know, don’t like quarrelling with those that are in the secret—and ladies who have never made a rout about governesses and edication, till lately, and now, perhaps, only for fashion’s sake, would upon a pinch—don’t you think—rather part with a French governess, when there are so many, than with a favourite maid who knows her ways, and has a good taste in dress, which so few can boast?”
“Oh, surely! surely!” said Mrs. Rebecca; and having tasted Mrs. Grace’s crême-de-noyau, it was decided that war should be declared against the governess.
Mad. de Rosier, happily unconscious of the machinations of her enemies, and even unsuspicious of having any, was, during this important conference, employed in reading Marmontel’s Silvain, with Isabella and Matilda. They were extremely interested in this little play; and Mrs. Harcourt, who came into the room whilst they were reading, actually sat down on the sofa beside Isabella, and, putting her arm round her daughter’s waist, said—“Go on, love; let me have a share in some of your pleasures—lately, whenever I see you, you all look the picture of happiness—Go on, pray, Mad. de Rosier.”
“It was I who was reading, mamma,” said Isabella, pointing to the place over Mad. de Rosier’s shoulder—
Une femme douce et sage
A toujours tant d’avantage!
Elle a pour elle en partage
L’agrément, et la raison.’”
“Isabella,” said Mrs. Harcourt, from whom a scarcely audible sigh had escaped—“Isabella really reads French almost as well as she does English.”
“I am improved very much since I have heard Mad. de Rosier read,” said Isabella.
“I don’t doubt that, in the least; you are, all of you, much improved, I think, in every thing;—I am sure I feel very much obliged to Mad. de Rosier.”
Matilda looked pleased by this speech of her mother, and affectionately said, “I am glad, mamma, you like her as well as we do—Oh, I forgot that Mad, de Rosier was by—but it is not flattery, however.”
“You see you have won all their hearts”—from me, Mrs. Harcourt was near saying, but she paused, and, with a faint laugh, added—“yet you see I am not jealous. Matilda! read those lines that your sister has just read; I want to hear them again.”
Mrs. Harcourt sent for her work, and spent the evening at home. Mad. de Rosier, without effort or affectation, dissipated the slight feeling of jealousy which she observed in the mother’s mind, and directed towards her the attention of her children, without disclaiming, however, the praise that was justly her due. She was aware that she could not increase her pupils’ real affection for their mother, by urging them to sentimental hypocrisy.
Whether Mrs. Harcourt understood her conduct this evening, she could not discover—for politeness does not always speak the unqualified language of the heart—but she trusted to the effect of time, on which persons of integrity may always securely rely for their reward. Mrs. Harcourt gradually discovered that, as she became more interested in the occupations and amusements of her children, they became more and more grateful for her sympathy; she consequently grew fonder of domestic life, and of the person who had introduced its pleasures into her family.
That we may not be accused of attributing any miraculous power to our French governess, we shall explain the natural means by which she improved her pupils.
We have already pointed out how she discouraged, in Isabella, the vain desire to load her memory with historical and chronological facts, merely for the purpose of ostentation. She gradually excited her to read books of reasoning, and began with those in which reasoning and amusement are mixed. She also endeavoured to cultivate her imagination, by giving her a few well-chosen passages to read, from the best English, French, and Italian poets. It was an easier task to direct the activity of Isabella’s mind, than to excite Matilda’s dormant powers. Mad. de Rosier patiently waited till she discovered something which seemed to please Matilda more than usual. The first book that she appeared to like particularly was, “Les Conversations d’Emilie:” one passage she read with great delight aloud; and Mad. de Rosier, who perceived by the manner of reading it that she completely understood the elegance of the French, begged her to try if she could translate it into English: it was not more than half a page. Matilda was not terrified at the length of such an undertaking: she succeeded, and the praises that were bestowed upon her translation excited in her mind some portion of ambition.
Mad. de Rosier took the greatest care in conversing with Matilda, to make her feel her own powers: whenever she used good arguments, they were immediately attended to; and when Matilda perceived that a prodigious memory was not essential to success, she was inspired with courage to converse unreservedly.
An accident pointed out to Mad. de Rosier another resource in Matilda’s education. One day Herbert called his sister Matilda to look at an ant, which was trying to crawl up a stick; he seemed scarcely able to carry his large white load in his little forceps, and he frequently fell back, when he had just reached the top of the stick. Mad. de Rosier, who knew how much of the art of instruction depends upon seizing the proper moments to introduce new ideas, asked Herbert whether he had ever heard of the poor snail, who, like this ant, slipped back continually, as he was endeavouring to climb a wall twenty feet high.
“I never heard of that snail; pray tell me the story,” cried Herbert.
“It is not a story—it is a question in arithmetic,” replied Mad. de Rosier. “This snail was to crawl up a wall twenty feet high; he crawled up five feet every day, and slipped back again four feet every night: in how many days did he reach the top of the wall?”
“I love questions in arithmetic,” exclaimed Matilda, “when they are not too difficult!” and immediately she whispered to Mad. de Rosier the answer to this easy question.
Her exclamation was not lost;—Mad. de Rosier determined to cultivate her talents for arithmetic. Without fatiguing Matilda’s attention by long exercises in the common rules, she gave her questions which obliged her to think, and which excited her to reason and to invent; she gradually explained to her pupil the relations of numbers, and gave her rather more clear ideas of the nature and use of the common rules of arithmetic than she had acquired from her writing-master, who had taught them only in a technical manner. Matilda’s confidence in herself was thus increased. When she had answered a difficult question, she could not doubt that she had succeeded; this was not a matter that admitted of the uncertainty which alarms timid tempers. Mad. de Rosier began by asking her young arithmetician questions only when they were by themselves—but by and by she appealed to her before the rest of the family. Matilda coloured at first, and looked as if she knew nothing of the business; but a distinct answer was given at last, and Isabella’s opinions of her sister’s abilities rose with amazing rapidity, when she heard that Matilda understood decimal fractions.
“Now, my dear Matilda,” said Mad. de Rosier, “since you understand what even Isabella thinks difficult, you will, I hope, have sufficient confidence in yourself to attempt things which Isabella does not think difficult.”
Matilda shook her head—“I am not Isabella yet,” said she.
“No!” cried Isabella, with generous, sincere warmth; “but you are much superior to Isabella: I am certain that I could not answer those difficult questions, though you think me so quick—and, when once you have learned any thing, you never forget it; the ideas are not superficial,” continued Isabella, turning to Mad. de Rosier; “they have depth, like the pins in mosaic work.”
Mad. de Rosier smiled at this allusion, and, encouraged by her smile, Isabella’s active imagination immediately produced another simile.
“I did not know my sister’s abilities till lately—till you drew them out, Mad. de Rosier, like your drawing upon the screen in sympathetic inks;—when you first produced it, I looked, and said there was nothing; and when I looked again, after you had held it to the fire for a few moments, beautiful colours and figures appeared.”
Mad. de Rosier, without using any artifice, succeeded in making Isabella and Matilda friends, instead of rivals, by placing them, as much as possible, in situations in which they could mutually sympathize, and by discouraging all painful competition.
With Herbert and Favoretta she pursued a similar plan. She scarcely ever left them alone together, that she might not run the hazard of their quarrelling in her absence. At this age children have not sufficient command of their tempers—they do not understand the nature of society and of justice: the less they are left together, when they are of unequal strength, and when they have not any employments in which they are mutually interested, the better. Favoretta and Herbert’s petty, but loud and violent disputes, had nearly ceased since these precautions had been regularly attended to. As they had a great deal of amusement in the few hours which they spent together, they grew fond of each other’s company: when Herbert was out in his little garden, he was impatient for the time when Favoretta was to come to visit his works; and Favoretta had equal pleasure in exhibiting to her brother her various manufactures.
Mad. de Rosier used to hear them read in Mrs. Barbauld’s excellent little books, and in “Evenings at Home;” she generally told them some interesting story when they had finished reading, and they regularly seated themselves, side by side, on the carpet, opposite to her.
One day Herbert established himself in what he called his “happy corner,” Favoretta placed herself close beside him, and Mad. de Rosier read to them that part of Sandford and Merton in which Squire Chace is represented beating Harry Sandford unmercifully because he refused to tell which way the hare was gone. Mad. de Rosier observed that this story made a great impression upon Herbert, and she thought it a good opportunity, whilst his mind was warm, to point out the difference between resolution and obstinacy. Herbert had been formerly disposed to obstinacy; but this defect in his temper never broke out towards Mad. de Rosier, because she carefully avoided urging him to do those things to which she knew him to be adverse; and she frequently desired him to do what she knew would be agreeable to him: she thought it best to suffer him gradually to forget his former bad habits and false associations, before she made any trial of his obedience; then she endeavoured to give him new habits, by placing him in new situations. She now resolved to address herself to his understanding, which she perceived had opened to reason.
He exclaimed with admiration, upon hearing the account of Harry Sandford’s fortitude, “That’s right!—that’s right!—I am glad Harry did not tell that cruel Squire Chace which way the hare was gone. I like Harry for bearing to be beaten, rather than speak a word when he did not choose it. I love Harry, don’t you?” said he, appealing to Mad. de Rosier.
“Yes, I like him very much,” said Mad. de Rosier: “but not for the reason that you have just given.”
“No!” said Herbert, starting up: “why, ma’am, don’t you like Harry for saving the poor hare? don’t you admire him for bearing all the hard blows, and for saying, when the man asked him afterward why he didn’t tell which way the hare was gone, ‘Because I don’t choose to betray the unfortunate?’”
“Oh! don’t you love him for that?” said Favoretta, rising from her seat; “I think Herbert himself would have given just such an answer, only not in such good words. I wonder, Mad. de Rosier, you don’t like that answer!”
“I have never said that I did not like that answer,” said Mad. de Rosier, as soon as she was permitted to speak.
“Then you do like it? then you do like Harry?” exclaimed Herbert and Favoretta, both at once.
“Yes, I like that answer, Herbert; I like your friend Harry for saying that he did not choose to betray the unfortunate. You did not do him justice or yourself, when you said just now that you liked Harry because he bore to be beaten rather than speak a word when he did not choose it.”
Herbert looked puzzled.
“I mean,” continued Mad. de Rosier, “that, before I can determine whether I like and admire any body for persisting in doing or in not doing any thing, I must hear their reasons for their resolution. ‘I don’t choose it,’ is no reason; I must hear their reasons for choosing or not choosing it before I can judge.”
“And I have told you the reason Harry gave for not choosing to speak when he was asked, and you said it was a good one; and you like him for his courage, don’t you?” said Herbert.
“Yes,” said Mad. de Rosier; “those who are resolute, when they have good reasons for their resolution, I admire; those who persist merely because they choose it, and who cannot, or will not, tell why they choose it, I despise.”
“Oh, so do I!” said Favoretta: “you know, brother, whenever you say you don’t choose it, I am always angry, and ask you why.”
“And if you were not always angry,” said Mad. de Rosier, “perhaps sometimes your brother would tell you why.”
“Yes, that I should,” said Herbert; “I always have a good reason to give Favoretta, though I don’t always choose to give it.”
“Then,” said Mad. de Rosier, “you cannot always expect your sister to admire the justice of your decisions.”
“No,” replied Herbert; “but when I don’t give her a reason, ‘tis generally because it is not worth while. There can be no great wisdom, you know, in resolutions about trifles: such as, whether she should be my horse or I her horse, or whether I should water my radishes before breakfast or after.”
“Certainly, you are right: there can be no great wisdom in resolutions about such trifles, therefore wise people never are obstinate about trifles.”
“Do you know,” cried Herbert, after a pause, “they used, before you came, to say that I was obstinate; but with you I have never been so, because you know how to manage me; you manage me a great deal more cunningly than Grace used to do.”
“I would not manage you more cunningly than Grace used to do, if I could,” replied Mad. de Rosier; “for then I should manage you worse than she did. It is no pleasure to me to govern you; I had much rather that you should use your reason to govern yourself.”
Herbert pulled down his waistcoat, and, drawing up his head, looked with conscious dignity at Favoretta.
“You know,” continued Mad. de Rosier, “that there are two ways of governing people—by reason and by force. Those who have no reason, or who do not use it, must be governed by force.”
“I am not one of those,” said Herbert; “for I hate force.”
“But you must also love reason,” said Mad. de Rosier, “if you would not be one of those.”
“Well, so I do, when I hear it from you,” replied Herbert, bluntly; “for you give me reasons that I can understand, when you ask me to do or not to do any thing: I wish people would always do so.”
“But, Herbert,” said Mad. de Rosier, “you must sometimes be contented to do as you are desired, even when I do not think it proper to give you my reasons;—you will, hereafter, find that I have good ones.”
“I have found that already in a great many things,” said Herbert; “especially about the caterpillar.”
“What about the caterpillar?” said Favoretta.
“Don’t you remember,” said Herbert, “the day that I was going to tread upon what I thought was a little bit of black stick, and she desired me not to do it, and I did not, and afterwards I found out that it was a caterpillar;—ever since that day I have been more ready, you know,” continued he, turning to Mad. de Rosier, “to believe that you might be in the right, and to do as you bid me—you don’t think me obstinate, do you?”
“No,” said Mad. de Rosier.
“No! no!—do you hear that, Favoretta?” cried Herbert joyfully: “Grace used to say I was as obstinate as a mule, and she used to call me an ass, too: but even poor asses are not obstinate when they are well treated. Where is the ass, in the Cabinet of Quadrupeds, Favoretta, which we were looking at the other day? Oh, let me read the account to you, Mad. de Rosier. It is towards the middle of the book, Favoretta; let me look, I can find it in a minute. It is not long—may I read it to you?”
Mad. de Rosier consented, and Herbert read as follows:—“Much has been said of the stupid and stubborn disposition of the ass, but we are greatly inclined to suspect that the aspersion is ill-founded: whatever bad qualities of this kind he may sometimes possess, they do not appear to be the consequences of any natural defect in his constitution or temper, but arise from the manner used in training him, and the bad treatment he receives. We are the rather led to this assertion, from having lately seen one which experiences a very different kind of treatment from his master than is the fate of the generality of asses. The humane owner of this individual is an old man, whose employment is the selling of vegetables, which he conveys from door to door on the back of his ass. He is constantly baiting the poor creature with handfuls of hay, pieces of bread, or greens, which he procures in his progress. It is with pleasure we relate, for we have often curiously observed the old man’s demeanour towards his ass, that he seldom carries any instrument of incitement with him, nor did we ever see him lift his hand to drive it on.
“Upon our observing to him that he seemed to be very kind to his ass, and inquiring whether he were apt to be stubborn, how long he had had him, &c., he replied, ‘Ah, master, it is no use to be cruel, and as for stubbornness, I cannot complain, for he is ready to do any thing, and will go any where; I bred him myself, and have had him these two years: he is sometimes skittish and playful, and once ran away from me: you will hardly believe it, but there were more than fifty people after him to stop him, and they were not able to effect it, yet he turned back of himself, and never stopped till he run his head kindly into my breast.’
“The countenance of this individual is open, lively, and cheerful; his pace nimble and regular; and the only inducement used to make him increase his speed is that of calling him by name, which he readily obeys.”
“I am not an ass,” said Herbert, laughing, as he finished this sentence, “but I think Mad. de Rosier is very like the good old man, and I always obey whenever she speaks to me. By the by,” continued Herbert, who now seemed eager to recollect something by which he could show his readiness to obey—“by the by, Grace told me that my mother desired I should go to her, and have my hair combed every day; now I don’t like it, but I will do it, because mamma desires it, and I will go this instant; will you come and see how still I can stand? I will show you that I am not obstinate.”
Mad. de Rosier followed the little hero, to witness his triumph over himself. Grace happened to be with her mistress who was dressing.
“Mamma, I am come to do as you bid me,” cried Herbert, walking stoutly into the room: “Grace, here’s the comb;” and he turned to her the tangled locks at the back of his head. She pulled unmercifully, but he stood without moving a muscle of his countenance.
Mrs. Harcourt, who saw in her looking-glass what was passing, turned round, and said, “Gently, gently, Grace; indeed, Grace, you do pull that poor boy’s hair as if you thought that his head had no feeling; I am sure, if you were to pull my hair in that manner, I could not bear it so well.”
“Your hair!—Oh, dear ma’am, that’s quite another thing—but Master Herbert’s is always in such a tangle, there’s no such thing as managing it.” Again Mrs. Grace gave a desperate pull: Herbert bore it, looked up at Mad. de Rosier, and said, “Now, that was resolution, not obstinacy, you know.”
“Here is your little obedient and patient boy,” said Mad. de Rosier, leading Herbert to his mother, “who deserves to be rewarded with a kiss from you.”
“That he shall have,” said Mrs. Harcourt; “but why does Grace pull your hair so hard? and are not you almost able to comb your own hair?”
“Able! that I am. Oh, mother, I wish I might do it for myself.”
“And has Mad. de Rosier any objection to it?” said Mrs. Harcourt.
“None in the least,” said Mad. de Rosier; “on the contrary, I wish that he should do every thing that he can do for himself; but he told me that it was your desire that he should apply to Mrs. Grace, and I was pleased to see his ready obedience to your wishes: you may be very certain that, even in the slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, it is our wish, as much as it is our duty, to do exactly as you desire.”
“My dear madame,” said Mrs. Harcourt, laying her hand upon Mad. de Rosier’s, with an expression of real kindness, mixed with her habitual politeness, “I am sensible of your goodness, but you know that in the slightest trifles, as well as in matters of consequence, I leave every thing implicitly to your better judgment: as to this business between Herbert and Grace, I don’t understand it.”
“Mother—” said Herbert.
“Madam,” said Grace, pushing forward, but not very well knowing what she intended to say, “if you recollect, you desired me to comb Master Herbert’s hair, ma’am, and I told Master Herbert so, ma’am, that’s all.”
“I do not recollect any thing about it, indeed, Grace.”
“Oh dear, ma’am! don’t you recollect the last day there was company, and Master Herbert came to the top of the stairs, and you was looking at the organ’s lamp, I said, ‘Dear! Master Herbert’s hair’s as rough as a porcupine’s;’ and you said directly, ma’am, if you recollect, ‘I wish you would make that boy’s hair fit to be seen;’ those was your very words, ma’am, and I thought you meant always, ma’am.”