Volume 1 — THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS (continued 2)

“You were never at an opera,” said Mrs. Harcourt, after Isabella had finished reading; “should you, either of you, or both, like to go with me to-night to the opera?”

“To-night, ma’am!” cried Isabella, in a voice of joy.

“To-night, mamma!” cried Matilda, timidly; “but you were not well this morning.”

“But I am very well, now, my love; at least quite well enough to go out with you—let me give you some pleasure. Ring for Grace, my dear Matilda,” added Mrs. Harcourt, looking at her watch, “and do not let us be sentimental, for we have not a moment to lose—we must prevail upon Grace to be as quick as lightning in her operations.”

Grace was well disposed to be quick—she was delighted with what she called the change of measures;—she repeated continually, in the midst of their hurried toilette—

“Well, I am so glad, young ladies, you’re going out with your mamma, at last—I never saw my mistress look so well as she does to-night.”

Triumphant, and feeling herself to be a person of consequence, Grace was indefatigably busy, and Mrs. Harcourt thought that her talkative zeal was the overflowing of an honest heart.

After Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, were gone to the opera, Favoretta, who had been sent to bed by her mother, because she was in the way when they were dressing, called to Grace to beg that she would close the shutters in her room, for the moon shone upon her bed, and she could not go to sleep.

“I wish mamma would have let me sit up a little longer,” said Favoretta, “for I am not at all sleepy.”

“You always go to bed a great deal earlier, you know, miss,” said Grace, “when your governess is at home; I would let you get up, and come down to tea with me, for I’m just going to take my late dish of tea, to rest myself, only I dare not let you, because—”

“Because what?”

“Because, miss, you remember how you served me about the queen-cake.”

“But I do not want you to give me any queen-cake; I only want to get up for a little while,” said Favoretta.

“Then get up,” said Grace: “but don’t make a noise, to waken Master Herbert.”

“Do you think,” said Favoretta, “that Herbert would think it wrong?”

“Indeed, I don’t think at all about what he thinks,” said Mrs. Grace, tossing back her head, as she adjusted her dress at the glass; “and, if you think so much about it, you’d better lie down again.”

“Oh! I can’t lie down again,” said Favoretta; “I have got my shoes on—stay for me, Grace—I’m just ready.”

Grace, who was pleased with an opportunity of indulging this little girl, and who flattered herself that she should regain her former power over Favoretta’s undistinguishing affections, waited for her most willingly. Grace drank her late dish of tea in her mistress’s dressing-room, and did every thing in her power to humour “her sweet Favoretta.”

Mrs. Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw’s maid, was summoned; she lived in the next street. She was quite overjoyed, she said, at entering the room, to see Miss Favoretta—it was an age since she had a sight or a glimpse of her.

We pass over the edifying conversation of those two ladies—Miss Favoretta was kept awake, and in such high spirits by flattery, that she did not perceive how late it was—she begged to stay up a little longer, and a little longer.

Mrs. Rebecca joined in these entreaties, and Mrs. Grace could not refuse them; especially as she knew that the coach would not go for Mad. de Rosier till after her mistress’s return from the opera.

The coachman had made this arrangement for his own convenience, and had placed it entirely to the account of his horses.

Mrs. Grace depended, rather imprudently, upon the coachman’s arrangement; for Mad. de Rosier, finding that the coach did not call for her at the hour she had appointed, sent for a chair, and returned home, whilst Grace, Mrs. Rebecca, and Favoretta, were yet in Mrs. Harcourt’s dressing-room.

Favoretta was making a great noise, so that they did not hear the knock at the door.

One of the housemaids apprised Mrs. Grace of Mad. de Rosier’s arrival. “She’s getting out of her chair, Mrs. Grace, in the hall.”

Grace started up, put Favoretta into a little closet, and charged her not to make the least noise for her life.—Then, with a candle in her hand, and a treacherous smile upon her countenance, she sallied forth to the head of the stairs, to light Mad. de Rosier.—“Dear ma’am! my mistress will be so sorry the coach didn’t go for you in time;—she found herself better after you went—and the two young ladies are gone with her to the opera.”

“And where are Herbert and Favoretta?”

“In bed, ma’am, and asleep, hours ago.—Shall I light you, ma’am, this way, to your room?”

“No,” said Mad. de Rosier; “I have a letter to write: and I’ll wait in Mrs. Harcourt’s dressing-room till she comes home.”

“Very well, ma’am. Mrs. Rebecca, it’s only Mad. de Rosier.—Mad. de Rosier, it’s only Rebecca, Mrs. Fanshaw’s maid, ma’am, who’s here very often when my mistress is at home, and just stepped out to look at the young ladies’ drawings, which my mistress gave me leave to show her the first time she drank tea with me, ma’am.”

Mad. de Rosier, who thought all this did not concern her in the least, listened to it with cold indifference, and sat down to write her letter.

Grace fidgeted about the room, as long as she could find any pretence for moving any thing into or out of its place; and, at length, in no small degree of anxiety for the prisoner she had left in the closet, quitted the dressing-room.

As Mad. de Rosier was writing, she once or twice thought that she heard some noise in the closet; she listened, but all was silent; and she continued to write, till Mrs. Harcourt, Isabella, and Matilda, came home.

Isabella was in high spirits, and began to talk, with considerable volubility, to Mad. de Rosier about the opera.

Mrs. Harcourt was full of apologies about the coach; and Matilda rather anxious to discover what it was that had made a change in her mother’s manner towards Mad. de Rosier.

Grace, glad to see that they were all intent upon their own affairs, lighted their candles expeditiously, and stood waiting, in hopes that they would immediately leave the room, and that she should be able to release her prisoner.

Favoretta usually slept in a little closet within Mrs. Grace’s room, so that she foresaw no difficulty in getting her to bed.

“I heard!—did not you hear a noise, Isabella?” said Matilda.

“A noise!—No; where?” said Isabella, and went on talking alternately to her mother and Mad. de Rosier, whom she held fast, though they seemed somewhat inclined to retire to rest.

“Indeed,” said Matilda, “I did hear a noise in that closet.”

“Oh dear, Miss Matilda,” cried Grace, getting between Matilda and the closet, “it’s nothing in life but a mouse.”

“A mouse, where?” said Mrs. Harcourt.

“Nowhere, ma’am,” said Grace; “only Miss Matilda was hearing noises, and I said they must be mice.”

“There, mamma! there! that was not a mouse, surely!” said Matilda. “It was a noise louder, certainly, than any mouse could make.”

“Grace is frightened,” said Isabella, laughing.

Grace, indeed, looked pale and terribly frightened.

Mad. de Rosier took a candle, and walked directly to the closet.

“Ring for the men,” said Mrs. Harcourt.

Matilda held back Mad. de Rosier; and Isabella, whose head was now just recovered from the opera, rang the bell with considerable energy.

“Dear Miss Isabella, don’t ring so;—dear ma’am, don’t be frightened, and I’ll tell you the whole truth, ma’am,” said Grace to her mistress; “it’s nothing in the world to frighten any body—it’s only Miss Favoretta, ma’am.”

“Favoretta!” exclaimed every body at once, except Mad. de Rosier, who instantly opened the closet door, but no Favoretta appeared.

“Favoretta is not here,” said Mad. de Rosier.

“Then I’m undone!” exclaimed Grace; “she must have got out upon the leads.” The leads were, at this place, narrow, and very dangerous.

“Don’t scream, or the child is lost,” said Mad. de Rosier.

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

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.”