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M ORAL TALES 
 
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 Immclry-. -weepiae mterly, Tier cfiildren stood ro-ond. 
 
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 LO^BOH^s; SIMPKIH"^ MAPvSHAILL & C? . 
 
 ©THIEI^ PMOPMIETOMS. 
 
MORAL TALES 
 
 MARIA EDGEWORTH. 
 
 7 ^ 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASa 
 
 LONDON; 
 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. ; WHITTAKER AND CO. ; H. WASHBOURNE 
 SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. ; H. G. BOHN ; ORR AND CO. ; HOULSTON AND 
 STONEMAN ; ROUTLEDGE AND CO. ; GRANT AND GRIFFITH ; 
 
 J. CORNISH ; AND TEGG AND CO. 
 
 1853 
 
pR 
 , m 6 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GILBERT AND RIVTNGTON, PRINTERS, 
 ST. John’s square. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 « 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Johnson, that merely to invent 
 a story is no small effort of the human understanding. How 
 much more difficult is it to construct stories suited to the early 
 years of youth, and, at the same time, conformable to the com- 
 plicate relations of modern society — fictions, that shall display 
 examples of virtue, without initiating the young reader into the 
 ways of vice — narratives, written in a style level to his capacity, 
 without tedious detail, or vulgar idiom ! The author, sensible 
 of these difficulties, solicits indulgence for such errors as have 
 escaped her vigilance. 
 
 In a former work the author has endeavoured to add some- 
 thing to the increasing stock of innocent amusement and early 
 instruction, which the laudable exertions of some excellent 
 modern writers provide for the rising generation ; and, in the 
 present, an attempt is made to provide for young people, of a 
 more advanced age, a few Tales, that shall neither dissipate the 
 attention, nor inflame the imagination. 
 
 In a work upon education, which the public has been pleased 
 A 2 
 
IV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 to notice, we have endeavoured to show that, under proper 
 management, amusement and instruction may accompany each 
 other through many paths of literature ; whilst, at the same 
 time, we have disclaimed and reprehended all attempts to teach 
 in play. Steady, un tired attention is what alone produces 
 excellence. Sir Isaac Newton, with as much truth as modesty, 
 attributed to this faculty those discoveries in science, which 
 brought the heavens within the grasp of man, and weighed the 
 earth in a balance. To inure the mind to athletic vigour is one 
 of the chief objects of good education; and we have found, a^ 
 far as our limited experience has extended, that short and active 
 exertions, interspersed with frequent agreeable relaxation, form 
 the mind to strength and endurance, better than long-continued 
 feeble study. 
 
 Hippocrates, in describing tbe robust temperament, tells us 
 that the athletes prepare themselves for the gymnadum by strong 
 exertion, which they continued till they felt fatigue ; they then 
 reposed till they felt returning strength and aptitude for labour : 
 and thus, by alternate exercise and indulgence, their limbs 
 acquire the firmest tone of health and vigour. We have found, 
 that those who have tasted with the keenest relish the beauties 
 of Berquin, Day, or Barbauld, pursue a demonstration of Euclid, 
 or a logical deduction, with as much eagerness, and with more 
 rational curiosity, than is usually shown by students who are 
 nourished with the hardest fare, and chained to unceasing 
 labour. 
 
 “ Forester” is the picture of an eccentric character — a yoimg 
 manjvvho scorns the common forms and dependencies of civilized 
 society ; and who, full of visionary schemes of benevolence and 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 happiness, might, by improper management, or unlucky circum- 
 stances, have become a fanatic and a criminal. 
 
 The scene of “The Knapsack” is laid in Sweden, to produce 
 variety ; and to show that the rich and poor, the young and old, 
 in all countries, are mutually serviceable to each other ; and to 
 portray some of those virtues which are peculiarly amiable in 
 the character of a soldier. 
 
 “Angelina” is a female Forester. The nonsense of senti- 
 mentality is here aimed at with the shafts of ridicule, instead ol 
 being combated by serious argument. With the romantic eccen- 
 tricities of Angelina are contrasted faults of a more common 
 and despicable sort. Miss Burrage is the picture of a young 
 lady who meanly flatters persons of rank ; and who, after she 
 has smuggled herself into good company, is ashamed to ac- 
 knowledge her former friends, to whom she was bound by the 
 strongest ties of gratitude. 
 
 “Mademoiselle Panache” is a sketch of the necessary conse- 
 quences of imprudently trusting the happiness of a daughter to 
 the care of those who can teach nothing but accomplishments. 
 
 “The Prussian Vase” is a lesson against imprudence, and on 
 exercise of judgment, and an eulogium upon our inestimable 
 trial by jury. This tale is designed principally for young gen- 
 tlemen who are intended for the bar. 
 
 “ The Good Governess” is a lesson to teach the art of giving 
 lessons. 
 
 In “The Good Aunt,” the advantages which a judicious 
 early education confers upon those who are intended for public 
 seminaries are pointed out. It is a common error to suppose 
 that, let a boy be what he may, when sent to Eton, Westminster, 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Harrow, or any great school, he will he moulded into proper 
 form by the fortuitous pressure of numbers ; that emulation will 
 necessarily excite, example lead, and opposition polish him. 
 But these are vain hopes : the solid advantages which may be 
 attained in these large nurseries of youth must be, in a great 
 measure, secured by previous domestic instruction. 
 
 These Tales have been written to illustrate the opinions deli- 
 vered in “ Practical Education.” As their truth has appeared 
 to me to be confirmed by increasing experience, I sat down 
 with pleasure to write this preface for my daughter. It is 
 hoped that the following stories will afford agreeable relaxation 
 from severer studies, and that they will be thought — what they 
 profess to he — Moral Tales. 
 
 R. L. EDGEWOR'? E 
 
 [Published in 1801.] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FORESTER 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE 
 THE GOOD AUNT .... 
 ANGELINA; OR, L’AMIE INCONNUE 
 THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE . 
 
 PAG^ 
 
 C3d 
 
 , 283 
 , 361 
 
 THE KNAPSACK 
 
 411 
 
FORESTER 
 
 Forester was the son of an English gentleman, who had paid 
 some attention to his education, hut who had some singularities 
 of opinion, which probably influenced him in his conduct toward 
 his children. 
 
 Young Forester was frank, brave, and generous, but he had 
 been taught to dislike politeness so much, that the common 
 forms of society appeared to him either odious or ridiculous ; ,his 
 sincerity was seldom restrained by any attention to the feelings 
 of others. His love of independence was carried to such an 
 extreme, that he was inclined to prefer the life of Robinson 
 Crusoe in his desert island, to that of any individual in cultivated 
 society. His attention had been early fixed upon the follies and 
 vices of the higher classes of people ; and his contempt for selfish 
 indolence was so strongly associated with the name of gentle- 
 man, that he was disposed to choose his friends and companions 
 from amongst his inferiors : the inequality between the rich and 
 the poor shocked him ; his temper was enthusiastic as well as 
 benevolent ; and he ardently wished to be a man, and to be at 
 liberty to act for himself, that he might reform society, or at 
 least his own neighbourhood. When he was about nineteen 
 years old, his father died, and young Forester was sent to Edin- 
 burgh, to Dr. Campbell, the gentleman whom his father had 
 appointed his guardian. In the choice of his mode of travelling 
 his disposition appeared. The stage-coach and a carrier set out 
 nearly at the same time from Penrith. Forester, proud of bring- 
 ing his principles immediately into action, put himself under the 
 protection of the carrier, and congratulated himself upon his 
 freedom from prejudice. He arrived at Edinburgh in all the 
 
2 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 glory of independence, and he desired the carrier to set him 
 down at Dr. Campbell’s door. 
 
 The doctor is not at home,” said the footman, who opened 
 the door. 
 
 He is at home,” exclaimed Forester with indignation; I 
 see him at the window.” 
 
 My master is just going to dinner, and can’t see any body 
 now,” said the footman ; “ but if you will call again at six o’clock, 
 maybe he may see you, my good lad.” 
 
 “ My name is Forester — let me in,” said Forester, pushing 
 forwards. 
 
 Forester! — Mr. Forester!” said the footman; ‘‘ the young 
 gentleman that was expected in the coach to-day?” 
 
 Without deigning to give the footman any explanation. Fo- 
 rester took his own portmanteau from the carrier ; and Dr. 
 Campbell came down-stairs just when the footman was officiously 
 struggling with the young gentleman for his burden. Dr. Camp- 
 bell received his pupil very kindly ; but Forester would not he 
 prevailed upon to rub his shoes sufficiently upon the mat at the 
 bottom of the stairs, or to change his disordered dress before he 
 made his appearance in the drawing-room. He entered with 
 dirty shoes, a threadbare coat, and hair that looked as if it never 
 had been combed; and he was much surprised by the effect 
 which his singular appearance produced upon the risible muscles 
 of some of the company. 
 
 ‘‘ I have done nothing to he ashamed of,” said he to himself; 
 but, notwithstanding all his efforts to be and to appear at ease, 
 he was constrained and abashed. A young laird, Mr. Archibald 
 Mackenzie, seemed to enjoy his confusion with malignant, half- 
 suppressed merriment, in which Dr. Campbell’s son was too 
 good-natured, and too well-bred, to participate. Henry Camp- 
 bell was three or four years older than Forester, and though he 
 looked like a gentleman. Forester could not help being pleased 
 with the manner in which he drew him into conversation. The 
 secret magic of politeness relieved him insensibly from the tor- 
 ment of false shame. 
 
 It is a pity this lad was bred up a gentleman,” said Forester 
 to himself, for he seems to have some sense and goodness.” 
 
FORESTER. 
 
 3 
 
 Dinner was announced, and Forester was provoked at being 
 interrupted in an argument concerning carts and coaches, which 
 he had begun with Henry Campbell. Not that Forester was 
 averse to eating, for he was at this instant ravenously hungry : 
 but eating in company he always found equally repugnant to his 
 habits and his principles. A table covered with a clean table- 
 cloth ; dishes in nice order ; plates, knives, and forks, laid at 
 regular distances, appeared to our young Diogenes absurd super- 
 fluities, and he was ready to exclaim, ‘‘ How many things I do 
 not want!” Sitting down to dinner, eating, drinking, and be- 
 having like other people, appeared to him difficult and disagree- 
 able ceremonies. He did not perceive that custom had rendered 
 all these things perfectly easy to every one else in company ; 
 and as soon as he had devoured his food his own way, he mo- 
 ralized in silence upon the good sense of Sancho Panza, who 
 preferred eating an egg behind the door to feasting in public ; 
 and he recollected his favourite traveller Le Vaillant’s^ enthu- 
 siastic account of his charming Hottentot dinners, and of the 
 disgust that he afterwards felt, on the comparison of European 
 etiquette and African simplicity, 
 
 “ Thank God, the ceremony of dinner is over,” said Forester 
 to Henry Campbell, as soon as they rose from table. 
 
 All these things, which seemed mere matter of course in 
 society, appeared to Forester strange ceremonies. In the even- 
 ing there were cards for those who liked cards, and there was 
 conversation for those who liked conversation. Forester liked 
 neither ; he preferred playing with a cat ; and he sat all night 
 apart from the company in a corner of a sofa. He took it for 
 granted that the conversation could not be worth his attention, 
 because he heard Lady Catherine Mackenzie’s voice amongst 
 others; he had conceived a dislike, or rather a contempt for 
 this lady, because she showed much of the pride of birth and 
 rank in her manners. Henry Campbell did not think it neces- 
 sary to punish himself for her ladyship’s faults, by withdrawing 
 from entertaining conversation ; he knew that his father had the 
 art of managing the frivolous subjects started in general com- 
 pany, so as to make them lead to amusement and instruction ; 
 
 * Le Vaillant’s Travels in Africa, vol. i. p. 114. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 and this Forester would probably have discovered this evening, 
 bad be not followed bis own thoughts, instead of listening to 
 the observations of others. Lady Catherine, it is true, began 
 with a silly history of her hereditary antipathy for pickled 
 cucumbers ; and she was rather tiresome in tracing the genea- 
 logy of this antipathy through several generations of her an- 
 cestry ; but Dr. Campbell said ‘‘ that he had heard, from an 
 ingenious gentleman of her ladyship’s family, that her ladyship’s 
 grandfather, and several of his friends, nearly lost their lives by 
 pickled cucumbers;” and thence the doctor took occasion to 
 relate several curious circumstances concerning the effects of 
 different poisons. 
 
 Dr. Campbell, who plainly saw both the defects and the ex- 
 cellent qualities of his young ward, hoped that, by playful raillery 
 and by well-timed reasoning, he might mix a sufficient portion of 
 good sense with Forester’s enthusiasm, might induce him gra- 
 dually to sympathize in the pleasures of cultivated society, and 
 might convince him that virtue is not confined to any particular 
 class of men ; that education, in the enlarged sense of the word, 
 creates the difference between individuals more than riches or 
 poverty. He foresaw that Forester would form a friendship 
 with his son, and that this attachment would cure him of his pre- 
 judices Q,gdi\n%i gentlemen, and would prevent him from indulging 
 his taste for vulgar company. Henry Campbell had more useful 
 energy, though less apparent enthusiasm, than his new com- 
 panion : he was always employed ; he was really independent, 
 because he had learned how to support himself either by the 
 labours of his head or of his hands ; but his independence did 
 not render him unsociable ; he was always ready to sympathize 
 with the pleasures of his friends, and therefore he was beloved : 
 following his father’s example, he did all the good in his power 
 to those who were in distress ; but he did not imagine that he 
 could reform every abuse in society, or that he could instantly 
 new-model the universe. Forester became, in a few days, fond 
 of conversing, or rather of holding long arguments, with Henry ; 
 but his dislike to the young laird, Archibald Mackenzie, hourly 
 increased. Archibald and his mother. Lady Catherine Mac- 
 kenzie, were relations to Mrs. Campbell, and they were now 
 
THE SKELETON. 
 
 O 
 
 upon a visit at her house. Lady Catherine, a shrewd woman, 
 fond of precedence, and fully sensible of the importance that 
 wealth can bestow, had sedulously inculcated into the mind of 
 her son all the maxims of worldly wisdom which she had col- 
 lected in her intercourse with society ; she had inspired him 
 with family pride, but at the same time had taught him to pay 
 obsequious court to his superiors in rank or fortune : the art of 
 rising in the world, she knew, did not entirely depend upon 
 virtue or ability; she was consequently more solicitous about 
 her son’s manners than his morals, and was more anxious that 
 he should form high connexions, than that he should apply to 
 the severe studies of a profession. Archibald was nearly what 
 might be expected from his education, alternately supple to his 
 superiors, and insolent to his inferiors : to insinuate himself into 
 the favour of young men of rank and fortune, he affected to 
 admire extravagance ; but his secret maxims of parsimony 
 operated even in the midst of dissipation. Meanness and pride 
 usually go together. It is not to be supposed that young 
 Forester had such quick penetration, that he could discover the 
 whole of the artful Archibald’s character in the course of a few 
 days’ acquaintance ; but he disliked him for good reasons, be- 
 cause he was a laird, because he had laughed at his first entree, 
 and because he was learning to dance. 
 
 THE SKELETON. 
 
 About a week after our hero’s arrival at Dr. Campbell’s, the 
 doctor was exhibiting some chemical experiments, with which 
 Henry hoped that his young friend would be entertained ; but 
 Forester had scarcely been five minutes in the laboratory, before 
 Mackenzie, who was lounging about the room, sneeringly took 
 notice of a large hole in his shoe. It is easily mended,” said 
 the independent youth ; and he immediately left the laboratory, 
 and went to a cobbler’s, who lived in a narrow lane, at the back 
 of Dr. Campbell’s house. Forester had, from his bed-chamber 
 window, seen this cobbler at work early every morning ; he 
 admired his industry, and longed to be acquainted with him. 
 The good-humoured familiarity of Forester’s manner pleased 
 
G 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 the cobbler, who was likewise diverted by the eagerness of the 
 young gentleman to mend bis own shoe. After spending some 
 hours at the cobbler’s stall, the shoe was actually mended, and 
 Forester thought that bis morning’s work was worthy of admi- 
 ration. In a court (or, as such places are called in Edinburgh, 
 a close) near the cobbler’s, be saw some boys playing at ball : he 
 joined them; and, whilst they were playing, a dancing-master 
 with bis hair powdered, and who seemed afraid of spattering his 
 clean stockings, passed through the court, and interrupted the 
 ball players for a few seconds. The boys, as soon as the man 
 was out of hearing, declared that he passed through their court 
 regularly twice a day, and that he always kicked their marbles 
 out of the ring. Without staying to weigh this evidence scru- 
 pulously, Forester received it with avidity, and believed all that 
 had been asserted was true, because the accused was a dancing- 
 master : from his education he had conceived an antipathy to 
 dancing-masters, especially to such as wore silk stockings, and 
 had their heads well powdered. Easily fired at the idea of any 
 injustice, and eager to redress the grievances of the poor, Forester 
 immediately concerted with these boys a scheme to deliver them 
 from what he called the insolence of the dancing-master, and 
 promised that he would compel him to go round by another 
 street. 
 
 In his zeal for the liberty of ' his new companions, our hero 
 did not consider that he was infringing upon the liberties of a 
 man who had never done him any injury, and over whom he 
 had no right to exercise any control. 
 
 Upon his return to Dr. Campbell’s, Forester heard the sound 
 of a violin ; and he found that his enemy, M. Pasgrave, the 
 dancing-master, was attending Archibald Mackenzie : he learnt, 
 that he was engaged to give another lesson the next evening ; 
 and the plans of the confederates in the ball-alley were arranged 
 accordingly. In Dr. Campbell’s room Forester remembered to 
 have seen a skeleton in a glass case ; he seized upon it, carried 
 it down to his companions, and placed it in a niche in the 
 wall, on the landing-place of a flight of stone stairs down which 
 the dancing-master was obliged to go. A butcher’s son (one of 
 
THE ALARM. 
 
 7 
 
 Forester’s new companions) he instructed to stand at a certain 
 hour behind the skeleton, with two rushlights, which he was to 
 hold up to the eye-holes in the skull. 
 
 The dancing-master’s steps were heard approaching at the 
 expected hour; and the boys stood in ambush to enjoy the 
 diversion of the sight. It was a dark night ; the fiery eyes of 
 the skeleton glared suddenly upon the dancing-master, who 
 was so terrified at the spectacle, and in such haste to escape, 
 that his foot slipped, and he fell down the stone steps : his 
 ankle was sprained by the fall, and he was brought to Dr. 
 Campbell’s. Forester was shocked at this tragical end of his 
 intended comedy. The poor man was laid upon a bed, and he 
 writhed with pain. Forester, with vehement expressions of 
 concern, explained to Dr. Campbell the cause of this accident, 
 and he was much touched by the dancing-master’s good nature, 
 who, between every twinge of pain, assured him that he should 
 soon be well, and endeavoured to avert Dr. Campbell’s dis- 
 pleasure. Forester sat beside the bed, reproaching himself 
 bitterly ; and he was yet more sensible of his folly, when he 
 heard, that the hoys, whose part he had hastily taken, had 
 frequently amused themselves with playing mischievous tricks 
 upon this inoffensive man, who declared, that he had never 
 purposely kicked their marbles out of the ring, but had always 
 implored them to make way for him with all the civility in his 
 power. 
 
 Forester resolved, that before he ever again attempted to do 
 justice, he would, at least, hear both sides of the question. 
 
 THE ALARM. 
 
 Forester would willingly have sat up all night with M. 
 Pasgrave, to foment his ankle from time to time, and, if possi- 
 ble, to assuage the pain : but the man would not suffer him to 
 sit up, and about twelve o’clock he retired to rest. He had 
 scarcely fallen asleep, when his door opened, and Archibald 
 Mackenzie roused him, by demanding, in a peremptory tone, 
 how he could sleep when the whole family were frightened out 
 of their wits by his pranks ? 
 
8 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Is the dancing-master worse? What’s the matter?” ex- 
 claimed Forester in great terror. 
 
 Archibald replied, that he was not talking or thinking about 
 the dancing-master, and desired Forester to make haste and dress 
 himself, and that he would then soon hear what was the matter. 
 
 Forester dressed himself as fast as he could, and followed 
 Archibald through a long passage, which led to a back stair- 
 case. Do you hear the noise?” said Archibald. 
 
 ‘‘Not I,” said Forester. 
 
 “ Well, you’ll hear it plain enough presently,” said Archibald: 
 “follow me down-stairs.” 
 
 He followed, and was surprised, when he got into the hall, 
 to find all the family assembled. Lady Catherine had been 
 awakened by a noise, which she at first imagined to be the 
 screaming of an infant. Her bedchamber was on the ground 
 floor, and adjoining to Dr. Campbell’s laboratory, from which 
 the noise seemed to proceed. She awakened her son Archibald 
 and Mrs. Campbell ; and, when she recovered her senses a 
 little, she listened to Dr. Campbell, who assured her, that what 
 her ladyship thought was the screaming of an infant was the 
 noise of a cat : the screams of this cat were terrible ; and,' when 
 the light approached the door of the laboratory, the animal flew 
 at the door with so much fury, that nobody could venture to 
 open it. Every body looked at Forester, as if they suspected 
 that he had confined the cat, or that he was in some way or 
 other the cause of the disturbance. The cat, which, from his 
 having constantly fed and played with it, had grown extremely 
 fond of him, used to follow him often from room to room ; and 
 he now recollected, that it followed him the preceding evening 
 into the laboratory, when he went to replace the skeleton. He 
 had not observed whether it came out of the room again, nor 
 could he now conceive the cause of its yelling in this horrible 
 manner. The animal seemed to be mad with pain. Dr. Camp- 
 bell asked his son whether all the presses were locked. Henry 
 said he was sure they were all locked. It was his business to 
 lock them every evening; and he was so exact, that nobody 
 doubted his accuracy. 
 
THE ALARM. 
 
 9 
 
 Archibald Mackenzie, who all this time knew, or at least 
 suspected the truth, held himself in cunning silence. The pre- 
 ceding evening he, for want of something to do, had strolled 
 into the laboratory, and, with the pure curiosity of idleness, 
 peeped into the presses, and took the stoppers out of several of 
 the bottles. Dr. Campbell happened to come in, and carelessly 
 asked him if he had been looking in the presses ; to which 
 question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive for telling 
 a falsehood, immediately replied in the negative. As the doctor 
 turned his head, Archibald put aside a bottle, which he had 
 just before taken out of the press ; and, fea-ring that the noise 
 jf replacing the glass stopper would betray him, he slipped it 
 into his waistcoat pocket. How much useless cunning! All 
 this transaction was now fully present to Archibald’s memory : 
 and he was well convinced that Henry had not seen the bottle 
 when he afterwards went to lock the presses ; that the cat had 
 thrown it down ; and that this was the cause of all the yelling 
 that disturbed the house. Archibald, however, kept his lips 
 fast closed ; he had told one falsehood ; he dreaded to have it 
 discovered ; and he hoped the blame of the whole affair would 
 rest upon Forester. At length the animal flew with diminished 
 fury at the door ; its screams became feebler and feebler, till, at 
 last, they totally ceased. There was silence : Dr. Campbell 
 opened the door : the cat was seen stretched upon the ground, 
 apparently lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor 
 animal, he saw a twitching motion in one of its hind legs ; Dr. 
 Campbell said, that it was the convulsion of death. Forester 
 was just going to lift up his cat, when his friend Henry stopped 
 his hand, telling him, that he would burn himself, if he touched 
 it. The hair and flesh of the cat on one side were burnt away, 
 quite to the bone. Henry pointed to the broken bottle, which, 
 he said, had contained vitriolic acid. 
 
 Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the bottle of 
 vitriolic acid had been taken out of its place. Suspicion na- 
 turally fell upon Forester, who, by his own account, was the 
 last person in the room before the presses had been locked for 
 the night. Forester, in warm terms, asserted, that he knew 
 nothing of the matter. Dr. Campbell coolly observed, that 
 
10 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Forester ought not to be surprised at being suspected upon this 
 occasion ; because every body had the greatest reason to suspect 
 the person, whom they bad detected in one practical joke, of 
 planning another. 
 
 ‘‘Joke!” said Forester, looking down upon his lifeless fa- 
 vourite ; “ do you think me capable of such cruelty ? Do you 
 doubt my truth?” exclaimed Forester, haughtily. “You are 
 unjust. Turn me out of your house this instant. I do not de- 
 sire your protection, if I have forfeited your esteem.” 
 
 “Go to bed for to-night in my house,” said Dr. Campbell ; 
 “moderate your enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has 
 passed.” 
 
 Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a 
 benevolent smile, as he looked after him, “ He wants nothing 
 but a little common sense. Henry, you must give him a little 
 of yours.” 
 
 In the morning. Forester first went to inquire how the danc- 
 ing-master had slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. 
 Campbell’s door. 
 
 “ My father is not awake,” said Henry ; but Forester marched 
 directly up to the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain 
 with no gentle hand, cried, with a loud voice, “ Dr. Campbell, 
 I am come to beg your pardon. I was angry when I said you 
 were unjust.” 
 
 “ And I was asleep when you begged my pardon,” said Dr. 
 Campbell, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 “ The dancing-master’s ancle is a great deal better ; and I 
 have buried the poor cat,” pursued Forester : “ and I hope now, 
 doctor, you’ll at least tell me, that you do not really suspect me 
 of any hand in her death.” 
 
 “Pray let me go to sleep,” said Dr. Campbell, “and time 
 your explanations a little better.” 
 
 THE GERANIUM. 
 
 The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain ; 
 and Forester spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin 
 for him, as his had been broken in his fall ; his watch had 
 likewise been broken against the stone steps. Though Forester 
 
THE GERANIUM. 
 
 11 
 
 looked upon a watcli as a useless bauble, yet he determined 
 to get this mended ; and his friend Henry went with him for 
 this purpose to a watchmaker’s. 
 
 Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with 
 the watchmaker upon the internal state of the bruised watch, 
 Archibald Mackenzie, who followed them for a lounge^ was 
 looking over some new watches, and ardently wished for the 
 finest that he saw. As he was playing with this fine watch, the 
 watchmaker begged that he would take care not to break it. 
 
 Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak 
 to a tradesman y replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was 
 able to pay for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, ‘‘ he had 
 no doubt of that, but that the watch was not his property ; it 
 was Sir Philip Gosling’s, who would call for it, he expected, in 
 a quarter of an hour.” 
 
 At the name of Sir Philip Gosling, Archibald quickly changed 
 his tone : he had a great ambition to be of Sir Philip’s acquaint- 
 ance, for Sir Philip was a young man who was to have a large 
 fortune when he should come of age, and who, in the mean- 
 time, spent as much of it as possible, with great spirit and little 
 judgment. He had been sent to Edinburgh for his education ; 
 and he spent his time in training horses, laying bets, , parading 
 in the public walks, and ridiculing, or, in his own phrase, 
 quizzing every sensible young man, who applied to literature or 
 science. Sir Philip, whenever he frequented any of the pro- 
 fessor’s classes, took care to make it evident to every body 
 present, that he did not come there to learn, and that he looked 
 down with contempt upon all who were obliged to study ; he 
 was the first always to make any disturbance in the classes, or, 
 in his elegant language, to make a row. 
 
 This was the youth of whose acquaintance Archibald Mac- 
 kenzie was ambitious. He stayed in the shop, in hopes that 
 Sir Philip would arrive : he was not disappointed ; Sir Philip 
 came, and, with address which lady Catherine would perhaps 
 have admired, Archibald entered into conversation with the 
 young haronet, if conversation that might be called, which con- 
 sisted of a species of fashionable dialect, devoid of sense, and 
 destitute of any pretence to wit. To Forester this dialect was 
 
12 
 
 FOllESTEK. 
 
 absolutely unintelligible : after he had listened to it with sober 
 contempt for a few minutes, he pulled Henry away, saying, 
 “Come, don’t let us waste our time here; let us go to the 
 brewery that you promised to show me.” 
 
 Henry did not immediately yield to the rough pull of his 
 indignant friend, for at this instant the door of a little back 
 parlour behind the watchmaker’s shop opened slowly, and a girl 
 of about seven years old appeared, carrying, with difficulty, a 
 flower-pot, in which there was a fine large geranium in full 
 flower. Henry, who saw that the child was scarcely able to 
 carry it, took it out of her hands, and asked her, “ Where she 
 would like to have it put?” 
 
 “Here, for to-day!” said the little girl, sorrowfully; “but 
 to-morrow it goes away for ever.” 
 
 The little girl was sorry to part with this geranium, because 
 “she had watched it all the winter,” and said, “that she was 
 very fond of it; but that she was willing to part with it, though 
 it was just come into flower, because the apothecary had told 
 her, that it was the cause of her grandmother’s having been 
 taken ill. Her grandmother lodged,” she said, “inMa^ little 
 room, and the room was very close, and she was taken ill in the 
 night — so ill, that she could hardly speak or stir ; andVhen the 
 apothecary came, he said,” continued the little girl, “it was no 
 wonder any body was ill, who slept in such a little close room, 
 with such a great geranium in it, to poison the air. So my 
 geranium must go !” concluded she with a sigh : “but, as it is 
 for grandmother, I shall never think of it again.” 
 
 Henry Campbell and Forester were both struck with the 
 modest simplicity of this child’s countenance and manner, and 
 they were pleased with the unaffected generosity with which she 
 gave up her favourite geranium. 
 
 Forester noted this down in his mind as a fresh instance in 
 favour of his exclusive good opinion of the poor. This little girl 
 looked poor, though she was decently dressed ; she was so 
 thin, that her little cheek-bones could plainly be seen ; her face 
 had not the round, rosy beauty of cheerful health : she was pale 
 and sallow, and she looked in patient misery. Moved with 
 compassion, Forester regretted that he had no money to give 
 
THE GERANIUM. 
 
 13 
 
 where it might have been so well bestowed. He was always 
 extravagant in his generosity ; he would often give five guineas 
 where five shillings would have been enough, and by these 
 means he reduced himself to the necessity sometimes of refusing 
 assistance to deserving objects. On his journey from his father’s 
 house to Edinburgh, he lavished, in undistinguishing charity, a 
 considerable sum of money ; and all that he had remaining of 
 this money he spent in purchasing the new violin for M. Pas- 
 grave. Dr. Campbell absolutely refused to advance his ward 
 any money till his next quarterly allowance should become due. 
 Henry, who always perceived quickly what passed in the minds 
 of others, guessed at Forester’s thoughts by his countenance, 
 and forebore to produce his own money, though he had it just 
 ready in his hand : he knew that he could call again at the 
 watchmaker’s, and give what he pleased, without ostentation. 
 
 Upon questioning the little girl further, concerning her grand- 
 mother’s illness, Henry discovered, that the old woman had sat 
 up late at night knitting, and that, feeling herself extremely 
 cold, she got a pan of charcoal into her room ; that, soon after- 
 wards, she felt uncommonly drowsy ; and when her little grand 
 daughter spoke to her, and asked her why she did not come to 
 bed, she made no answer : a few minutes after this, she dropped 
 from her chair. The child was extremely frightened, and though 
 she felt it very difficult to rouse herself, she said, she got up as 
 fast as she could, opened the door, and called to the watch- 
 maker’s wife, who luckily had been at work late, and was now 
 raking the kitchen fire. With her assistance the old woman 
 was brought into the air, and presently returned to her senses : 
 the pan of charcoal had been taken away before the apothecary 
 came in the morning ; as he was in a great hurry when he 
 called, he made but few inquiries, and consequently condemned 
 the geranium without sufficient evidence. As he left the house, 
 he carelessly said, “ My wife would like that geranium, I think.” 
 And the poor old woman, who had but a very small fee to 
 offer, was eager to give any thing that seemed to please the 
 doctor. 
 
 Forester, when he heard this story, hurst into a contemptuous 
 exclamation against the meanness of this and of all other apothe- 
 
14 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 caries. Henry informed the little girl, that the charcoal had 
 been the cause of her grandmother’s illness, and advised them 
 never, upon any account, to keep a pan of charcoal again in 
 her bedchamber; he told her, that many people had been 
 killed by this practice. Then,” cried the little girl, joyfully, 
 
 if it was the charcoal, and not the geranium, that made grand- 
 mother ill, I may keep my beautiful geranium and she ran 
 immediately to gather some of the flowers, which she offered to 
 Henry and to Forester. Forester, who was still absorbed in the 
 contemplation of the apothecary’s meanness, took the flowers, 
 without perceiving that he took them, and pulled them to pieces 
 as he went on thinking. Flenry, when the little girl held the 
 geraniums up to him, observed, that the back of her hand was 
 bruised and black ; he asked her how she had hurt herself, and 
 she replied innocently, ‘‘that she had not hurt herself y but 
 that her schoolmistress was a very strict woman.” Forester, 
 roused from his reverie, desired to hear what the little girl 
 meant by a strict woman, and she explained herself more fully : 
 she said, that, as a favour, her grandmother had obtained leave 
 from some great lady to send her to a charity school : that she 
 went there every day to learn to read and work, but that the 
 mistress of the charity school used her scholars very severely, 
 and often kept them for hours, after they had done their own 
 tasks, to spin for her ; and that she beat them if they did not 
 spin as much as she expected. The little . girl’s grandmother 
 then said, that she knew all this, but that she did not dare to 
 complain, because the schoolmistress was under the patronage 
 of some of “ the grandest ladies in Edinburgh,” and that, as 
 she could not affbrd to pay for her little lass’s schooling, 
 she was forced to have her taught as well as she could for 
 nothing. 
 
 Forester, fired with indignation at this history of injustice, 
 resolved, at all events, to stand forth immediately in the child’s 
 defence ; but, without staying to consider how the wrong could 
 be redressed, he thought only of the quickest, or, as he said, the 
 most manly means of doing the business : he declared, that if 
 the little girl w^ould show him the way to the school, he would 
 go that instant and speak to the woman in the midst of all her 
 
THE GERANIUM. 
 
 15 
 
 scholars. Henry in vain represented that this would not be a 
 prudent mode of proceeding. 
 
 Forester disdained prudence, and, trusting securely to the 
 power of his own eloquence, he set out with the child, who 
 seemed rather afraid to come to open war with her tyrant. 
 Henry was obliged to return home to his father, who had usually 
 business for him to do about this time. The little girl had stayed 
 at home on account of her grandmother’s illness, but all the 
 other scholars were hard at work, spinning in a close room, 
 when Forester arrived. 
 
 He marched directly into the schoolroom. The wheels 
 stopped at once on his appearance, and the schoolmistress, a 
 raw-boned, intrepid-looking woman eyed him with amazement : 
 he broke silence in the following words : — 
 
 “ Vile woman, your injustice is come to light ! How can 
 you dare to tyrannize over these poor children ? Is it because 
 they are poor ? Take my advice, children, resist this tyrant, put 
 by your wheels, and spin for her no more.” 
 
 The children did not move, and the schoolmistress poured out 
 a torrent of abuse in broad Scotch, which, to the English ear of 
 Forester, was unintelligible. At length she made him compre- 
 hend her principal questions — Who he was? and by whose 
 authority he interfered between her and her scholars ? ‘‘ By 
 
 nobody’s authority,” was Forester’s answer ; “ I want no authority 
 to speak in the cause of injured innocence.” No sooner had the 
 woman heard these words, than she called to her husband, who 
 was writing in an adjoining room : without further ceremony, 
 they both seized upon our hero, and turned him out of the 
 house. 
 
 The woman revenged herself without mercy upon the little 
 girl whom Forester had attempted to defend, and dismissed her, 
 with advice never more to complain of being obliged to spin for 
 her mistress. 
 
 Mortified by the ill success of his enterprise. Forester returned 
 home, attributing the failure of his eloquence chiefly to his 
 ignorance of the Scotch dialect. 
 
16 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 THE CANARY BIRD. 
 
 At his return, Forester heard, that all Dr. Camphell’s family 
 were going that evening to visit a gentleman who had an ex- 
 cellent cabinet of minerals. He had some desire to see the 
 fossils ; hut when he came to the gentleman’s house, he soon 
 found himself disturbed at the praises bestowed by some ladies 
 in company upon a little canary bird, which belonged to the 
 mistress of the house. He began to kick his feet together, to 
 hang first one arm and then the other over the back of his 
 chair, with the obvious expression of impatience and contempt 
 in his countenance. Henry Campbell, in the meantime, said, 
 without any embarrassment, just what he thought about the 
 bird. Archibald Mackenzie, with artificial admiration, said a 
 vast deal more than he thought, in hopes of effectually recom- 
 mending himself'to the lady of the house. The lady told him 
 the history of three birds, which had successively inhabited the 
 cage before the present occupier. “ They all died,” continued 
 she, “ in a most extraordinary manner, one after another, in a 
 short space of time, in convulsions.” 
 
 “ Don’t listen,” whispered Forester, pulling Henry away from 
 the crowd who surrounded the bird-cage ; how can you listen, 
 like that polite hypocrite, to this foolish woman’s history of her 
 extraordinary favourites ? Come down-stairs with me, I want to 
 tell you my adventure with the schoolmistress ; we can take a 
 turn in the hall, and come back before the cabinet of minerals is 
 opened, and before these women have finished the ceremony of 
 tea. Come.” 
 
 “ I’ll come presently,” said Henry ; ‘‘ I really want to hear 
 this.” 
 
 Henry Campbell was not listening to the history of the lady’s 
 favourite birds like a polite hypocrite, but like a good-natured 
 sensible person ; the circumstances recalled to his memory the con- 
 versation that we formerly mentioned, which began about pickled 
 cucumbers, and ended with Dr. Campbell’s giving an account 
 of the effects of some poisons. In consequence of this conver- 
 sation, Henry’s attention had been turned to the subject, and 
 
THE CANARY BIRD. 
 
 17 
 
 he had read several essays, which had informed him of many 
 curious facts. He recollected, in particular, to have met with 
 the account 2 of a bird that had been poisoned, and whose case 
 bore a strong resemblance to the present. He begged leave to 
 examine the cage, in order to discover whether there were any 
 lead -about it, with which the birds could have poisoned them- 
 selves. No lead was to be found : he next examined whether 
 there were any white or green paint about it; he inquired 
 whence the water came which the birds had drunk ; and he 
 examined the trough which held their seeds. The lady, whilst 
 he was pursuing these inquiries, said she was sure that the birds 
 could not have died either for want of air or exercise, for that 
 she often left the cage open on purpose, that they might fly 
 about the room. Henry immediately looked round the room, 
 and at length he observed in an inkstand, which stood upon a 
 writing table, a number of wafers, which were many of them 
 chipped round the edges ; upon sweeping out the bird-cage, he 
 found a few very small bits of wafer mixed with the seeds and 
 dust ; he was now persuaded that the birds had eaten the wafers, 
 and that they had been poisoned by the red lead which they 
 contained ; he was confirmed in this opinion, by being told, that 
 the wafers had lately been missed very frequently, and it had 
 been imagined that they had been used by the servants. Henry 
 begged the lady would try an experiment, which might probably 
 save the life of her new favourite ; the lady, though she had 
 never before tried an experiment, was easily prevailed upon. 
 She promised Henry that she would lock up the wafers ; and he 
 prophesied that her bird would not, like his predecessors, come to 
 an untimely end. Archibald Mackenzie was vexed to observe, that 
 knowledge had in this instance succeeded better, even with a lady, 
 than flattery. As for Forester, he would certainly have admired 
 his friend Henry’s ingenuity, if he had been attending to what 
 had passed ; but he had taken a book, and had seated himself in 
 an arm-chair, which had been placed on purpose for an old gen- 
 tleman in company, and was deep in the history of a man who 
 had been cast away, some hundred years ago, upon a desert 
 island. 
 
 2 Falconer, on the Poison of Lead and Copper. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 He condescended, however, to put down his hook when the 
 fossils were produced : and, as if he had just awakened from a 
 dream, rubbed his eyes, stretched himself, and joined the rest 
 of the company. The malicious Archibald, who observed that 
 Forester had seated himself, through absence of mind, in a place 
 which prevented some of the ladies from seeing the fossils, 
 instantly made a parade of his own politeness, to contrast him- 
 self advantageously with the rude negligence of his companion ; 
 but Archibald’s politeness was always particularly directed to 
 the persons in company whom he thought of the most import- 
 ance. ‘‘You can’t see there,” said Forester, suddenly rousing 
 himself, and observing that Dr. Campbell’s daughter, Miss Flora 
 Campbell, was standing behind him ; “ had you not better sit 
 down in this chair? I don’t want it, because I can see over your 
 head; sit down.” Archibald smiled at Forester’s simplicity, in 
 paying his awkward compliment to the young lady, who had, 
 according to his mode of estimating, the least pretensions to 
 notice of any one present. Flora Campbell was neither rich nor 
 beautiful, but she had a happy mixture in her manners of Scot- 
 tish sprightliness and English reserve. She had an eager desire 
 to improve herself, whilst a nice sense of propriety taught her 
 never to intrude upon general notice, or to recede from conver- 
 sation with airs of counterfeit humility. Forester admired her 
 abilities, because he imagined that he was the only person who 
 had ever discovered them ; as to her manners, he never observed 
 these, but even whilst he ridiculed politeness he was anxious to 
 find out what she thought polite. After he had told her all that 
 he knew concerning the fossils, as they were produced from the 
 cabinet — and he was far from ignorant — he at length perceived 
 that she knew full as much of natural history as he did, and he 
 was surprised that a young lady should know so much, and 
 should not be conceited. Flora, however, soon sunk many 
 degrees in his opinion ; for, after the cabinet of mineralogy was 
 shut, some of the company talked of a ball, which was to be 
 given in a few days, and Flora, with innocent gaiety, said to 
 Forester, “ Have you learnt to dance a Scotch reel since you 
 came to Scotland?” “7.^” cried Forester with contempt; “do 
 you think it the height of human perfection to dance a Scotch 
 
THE KEY. 
 
 )9 
 
 reel ? — then that fine young laird, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie, 
 will suit you much better than I shall.” 
 
 And Forester returned to his arm-chair and his desert island. 
 
 THE KEY. 
 
 It was unfortunate that Forester retired from company in such 
 abrupt displeasure at Flora Campbell’s question, for had he 
 borne the idea of a Scotch reel more like a philosopher, he w'ould 
 have heard of something interesting relative to the intended 
 hall, if any thing relative to a ball could he interesting to him. 
 It was a charity-hall, for the benefit of the mistress of the very 
 charity-scbooH to which the little girl with the bruised hand 
 belonged. ‘‘ Do you know,” said Henry to Forester, when they 
 returned home, ‘‘ that I have great hopes we shall be able to 
 get justice done to the poor children ? I hope the tyrannical 
 schoolmistress may yet be punished. The lady, with whom we 
 drank tea yesterday is one of the patronesses of the charity- 
 school.” 
 
 ‘‘ Lady patronesses !” cried Forester; “ we need not expect 
 justice from a lady patroness, depend upon it, especially at a 
 ball ; her head will be full of feathers, or some such things. I 
 prophesy you will not succeed better than I have.” 
 
 The desponding prophecies of Forester did not deter Henry 
 from pursuing a scheme which he had formed. The lady, who 
 was the mistress of the canary bird, came in a few days to visit 
 his mother, and she told him that his experiment had succeeded, 
 that she had regularly locked up the wafers, and that her 
 favourite bird was in perfect health. ‘‘ And what fee, doctor,” 
 said she, smiling, “ shall I give you for saving his life?” 
 
 “ I will tell you in a few minutes,” replied Henry; and in a 
 few minutes the little girl and her geranium were sent for, and 
 appeared. Henry told the lady all the circumstances of her 
 story with so much feeling, and at the same time with so much 
 propriety, that she became interested in the cause : she declared 
 that she would do every thing in her power to prevail upon the 
 
 3 There is no charity-school of this description in Edinburgh ; this can- 
 not, therefore, be mistaken for private satire. 
 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 other ladies to examine into the conduct of the schoolmistress, 
 and to have her dismissed immediately, if it should appear that 
 she had behaved improperly. 
 
 Forester, who was present at this declaration, was much 
 astonished, that a lady, whom he had seen caressing a canary- 
 bird, could speak with so much decision and good sense. 
 Henry obtained his fee : he asked and received permission to 
 place the geranium in the middle of the supper-table at the 
 hall ; and he begged that the lady would take an opportunity, 
 at supper, to mention the circumstances which he had related 
 to her ; but this she declined, and politely said, that she was 
 sure Henry would tell the story much better than she could. 
 
 Come out and walk with me,” said Forester to Henry, as 
 soon as the lady was gone. Henry frequently left his occu- 
 pations with great good-nature, to accompany our hero in his 
 rambles, and he usually follow’ed the subjects of conversation 
 which Forester started. He saw, by the gravity of his counte- 
 nance, that he had something of importance revolving in his 
 mind. After he had proceeded in silence for some time along 
 the walk, under the high rock called Arthur’s Seat, he suddenly 
 stopped, and, turning to Henry, exclaimed, ‘‘ I esteem you ; do 
 not make me despise you !” 
 
 I hope I never shall,” said Henry, a little surprised by his 
 friend’s manner ; “ what is the matter?” 
 
 Leave balls, and lady patronesses, and petty artifices, and 
 supple address, to such people as Archibald Mackenzie,” pur- 
 sued Forester, with enthusiasm : 
 
 “ Who noble ends by noble means pursues ” 
 
 “ Will scorn canary birds, and cohhle shoes^' 
 
 replied Henry, laughing ; “ I see no meanness in my conduct : 
 I do not know what it is you disapprove.” 
 
 ‘‘ I do not approve,” said Forester, “ of your having recourse 
 to mean address to obtain justice.” 
 
 Henry requested to know what his severe friend meant by 
 address ; but this was not easily explained. Forester, in his 
 definition of mean address, included all that attention to the feel- 
 ings of others, all those honest arts of pleasing, which make 
 
THE KEY. 
 
 21 
 
 society agreeable. Henry endeavoured to convince him, that it 
 was possible for a person to wish to please, nay, even to succeed 
 in that wish, without being insincere. Their argument and their 
 walk continued, till Henry, who, though very active, was not 
 quite so robust as his friend, was completely tired, especially as 
 he perceived that Forester’s opinions remained unshaken. 
 
 How effeminate you gentlemen are ! ” cried Forester : see 
 
 what it is to be brought up in the lap of luxury. Why, I am 
 not at all tired ; I could walk a dozen miles further, without 
 being in the least fatigued ! ” 
 
 Henry thought it a very good thing to be able to walk a num- 
 ber of miles without being fatigued, but he did not consider it 
 as the highest perfection of human nature. In his friend’s pre- 
 sent mood, nothing less could content him, and Forester went 
 on to demonstrate to the weary Henry, that all fortitude, all 
 courage, and all the manly virtues, were inseparably connected 
 with pedestrian indefatigability, Henry, with good-natured pre- 
 sence of mind, which perhaps his friend would have called mean 
 address, diverted our hero’s rising indignation by proposing that 
 they should both go and look at the large brewery which was 
 in their way home, and with which Forester would, he thought, 
 be entertained. 
 
 The brewery fortunately turned the course of Forester’s 
 thoughts, and, instead of quarrelling with his friend for being 
 tired, he condescended to postpone all further debate. Forester 
 had, from his childhood, a habit of twirling a key, whenever he 
 was thinking intently : the key had been produced, and had 
 been twirling upon its accustomed thumb during the argument 
 upon address ; and it was still in Forester’s hand when they 
 went into the brewery. As he looked and listened, the key was 
 essential to his power of attending ; at length, as he stopped to 
 view a large brewing vat, the key unluckily slipped from his 
 thumb, and fell to the bottom of the vat : it was so deep, that 
 the tinkling sound of the key, as it touched the bottom, was 
 scarcely heard. A young man who belonged to the brewery 
 immediately descended by a ladder into the vat, to get the key, 
 but scarcely had he reached the bottom, when he fell down 
 senseless. Henry Campbell was speaking to one of the clerks 
 
22 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 of the brewery when this accident happened : a man came 
 running to them with the news, “ The vat has not been cleaned ; 
 it’s full of bad air.” ‘‘ Draw him up, let down a hook and 
 cords for him instantly, or he’s a dead man,” cried Henry, and 
 he instantly ran to the place. What was his terror, when he 
 beheld Forester descending the ladder ! Fie called to him to 
 stop ; he assured him that the man could be saved without his 
 hazarding his life : but Forester persisted ; he had one end of a 
 cord in his hand, which he said he could fasten in an instant 
 round the man’s body. There was a skylight nearly over the 
 vat, so that the light fell directly upon the bottom. 
 
 Henry saw his friend reach the last step of the ladder. As 
 Forester stooped to put the rope round the shoulders of the 
 man, who lay insensible at the bottom of the vat, a sudden air 
 of idiocy came over his animated countenance ; his limbs seemed 
 no longer to obey his will ; his arms dropped, and he fell insen- 
 sible. 
 
 The spectators, who were looking down from above, were so 
 much terrified, that they could not decide to do any thing ; 
 some cried, ‘‘ It’s all over with him ! Why would he go 
 down?” Others ran to procure a hook — others called to him to 
 take up the rope again, if he possibly could : but Forester could 
 not hear or understand them. Henry Campbell was the only 
 person who, in this scene of danger and confusion, had sufficient 
 presence of mind to be of service. 
 
 Near the large vat, into which Forester had descended, there 
 was a cistern of cold water. Henry seized a bucket, which was 
 floating in the cistern, filled it with water, and emptied the 
 water into the vat, dashing it against the sides, to disperse the 
 water, and to displace the mephitic air'*. He called to the 
 people, who surrounded him, for assistance ; the water expelled 
 the air ; and, when it was safe to descend, Henry instantly went 
 down the ladder himself, and fastened the cord round Forester, 
 who was quite helpless. 
 
 Draw him up ! ” said Henry. They drew him up. Henry 
 fastened another cord round the body of the other man, who lay 
 
 4 Carbonic acid gas. 
 
THE FLOWER-POT. 
 
 23 
 
 at the bottom of the vessel, and he was taken up in the same 
 manner. Forester soon returned to his senses, when he was 
 carried into the air ; it was with more difficulty that the other 
 man, whose animation had been longer suspended, was re- 
 covered ; at length, however, by proper application, his lungs 
 played freely, he stretched himself, looked round upon the 
 people who were about him with an air of astonishment, and 
 was some time before he could recollect what had happened to 
 him. Forester, as soon as he had recovered the use of his un- 
 derstanding, was in extreme anxiety to know whether the poor 
 man, who went down for his key, had been saved. His gra- 
 titude to Henry, when he heard all that had passed, was ex- 
 pressed in the most enthusiastic manner. 
 
 “ I acted like a madman, and you like a man of sense,” said 
 Forester. ‘‘You always know how to do good : I do mischief, 
 whenever I attempt to do good. But now, don’t expect, Henry, 
 that I should give up any of my opinions to you, because you 
 have saved my life. I shall always argue with you just as I did 
 before. Remember, I despise address, I don’t yield a single 
 point to you. Gratitude shall never make me a sycophant.” 
 
 THE FLOWER-POT. 
 
 Eager to prove that he was not a sycophant. Forester, when 
 he returned home with his friend Henry, took every possible 
 occasion to contradict him, with even more than his customary 
 rigidity ; nay, he went further still, to vindicate his sincerity. 
 
 Flora Campbell had never entirely recovered our hero’s 
 esteem, since she had unwittingly expressed her love for Scotch 
 reels; but she was happily unconscious of the crime she had 
 committed, and was wholly intent upon pleasing her father and 
 mother, her brother Henry, and herself. She had a constant 
 flow of good spirits, and the charming domestic talent of making 
 every trifle a source of amusement to herself and others : she 
 was sprightly, without being frivolous ; and the uniform sweet- 
 ness of her temper showed, that she was not in the least in want 
 of flattery, or dissipation, to support her gaiety. But Forester, 
 as the friend of her brother, thought it incumbent upon him to 
 
21 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 discover faults in her which no one else could discover, and to 
 assist in her education, though she was only one year younger 
 than himself. She had amused herself, the morning that Forester 
 and her brother were at the brewery, with painting a paste- 
 board covering for the flower-pot which held the poor little girl’s 
 geranium. Flora had heard from her brother of his intention 
 to place it in the middle of the supper-table, at the ball ; and 
 she flattered herself, that he would like to see it ornamented by 
 her hands at his return. She produced it after dinner. Henry 
 thanked her, and her father and mother were pleased to see her 
 eagerness to oblige her brother. The cynical Forester alone 
 refused his sympathy. He looked at the flower-pot with marked 
 disdain. Archibald, who delighted to contrast himself with the 
 unpolished Forester, and who remarked that Flora and her 
 brother were both somewhat surprised at his unsociable silence, 
 slily said, “ There’s something in this flower-pot Miss Campbell, 
 which does not suit Mr. Forester’s correct taste ; I wish he 
 would allow us to profit by his criticisms.” 
 
 Forester vouchsafed not a reply. 
 
 ‘‘Don’t you like it. Forester?” said Henry. 
 
 “No, he does not like it,” said Flora, smiling; “don’t force 
 him to say that he does.” 
 
 “Force me to say I like what I don’t like !” repeated Fores- 
 ter ; “ no, I defy any body to do that.” 
 
 “But why,” said Dr. Campbell, laughing, “why such a waste 
 of energy and magnanimity about a trifle ? If you were upon 
 your trial for life or death, Mr. Forester, you could not look more 
 resolutely guarded — more as if you had ‘ worked up each cor- 
 poral agent’ to the terrible feat !” 
 
 “Sir,” said Forester, who bore the laugh that was raised 
 against him with the air of a martyr, “ I can bear even your 
 ridicule in the cause of truth.” The laugh continued at the 
 solemnity with which he pronounced these words. “ I think,” 
 pursued Forester, “ that those who do not respect truth in trifles, 
 will never respect it in matters of consequence.” 
 
 Archibald Mackenzie laughed more loudly, and with affecta- 
 tion, at this speech : Henry and Dr. Campbell’s laughter in- 
 stantly ceased. 
 
THE FLOWER-POT. 
 
 25 
 
 Do not mistake us,” said Dr. Campbell ; we did not laugh 
 at your principles, we only laughed at your manner.” 
 
 ‘‘ And are not principles of rather more consequence than 
 manners?” 
 
 ‘‘Of infinitely more consequence,” said Dr. Campbell: “but 
 why, to excellent principles, may we not add agreeable man- 
 ners ? Why should not truth be amiable, as well as respect- 
 able? You, who have such enlarged views for the good of the 
 whole human race, are, I make no doubt, desirous that your 
 fellow-creatures should love truth, as well as you love it your- 
 self.” 
 
 “Certainly, I wish they did,” said Forester. 
 
 “ And have your observations upon the feelings of others, and 
 upon your own, led you to conclude, that we are most apt to 
 like those things which always give us pain ? And do you, 
 upon this principle, wish to make truth as painful as possible, in 
 order to increase our love for it?” 
 
 “ I don’t wish to make truth painful,” said Forester ; “but, at 
 the same time, it is not my fault if people can’t bear pain. I 
 think people who can’t bear pain, both of body and mind, can- 
 not be good for any thing; for, in the first place, they will 
 always,” said Forester, glancing his eye at Flora and her 
 flower-pot, — “ they will always prefer flattery to truth, as all 
 weak people do.” 
 
 At this sarcastic reflection, which seemed to be aimed at the 
 sex. Lady Catherine, Mrs. Campbell, and all the ladies pre- 
 sent, except Flora, began to speak at once in their own vindi- 
 cation. 
 
 As soon as there was any prospect of peace. Dr. Campbell re- 
 sumed his argument in the calmest voice imaginable. 
 
 “But, Mr. Forester, without troubling ourselves for the pre- 
 sent with the affairs of the ladies, or of weak people, may I ask 
 what degree of unnecessary pain you think it the duty of a 
 strong person, a moral Samson, to bear?” 
 
 “ Unnecessary pain ! I do not think it is any body’s duty to 
 bear unnecessary pain.” 
 
 “ Nor to make others bear it?” 
 
 “ Nor to make others bear it.” 
 
26 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Then we need argue no further. I congratulate you, Mr. 
 Forester, upon your becoming so soon a proselyte to politeness.” 
 
 ‘‘To politeness!” said Forester, starting back. 
 
 “ Yes, my good sir ; real politeness only teaches us to save 
 others from unnecessary pain ; and this you have just allowed to 
 be your wish. — And now for the grand affair of Flora’s flower- 
 pot. You are not bound by politeness to tell any falsehoods; 
 weak as she is, and a woman, I hope she can bear to hear the 
 painful truth upon such an important occasion.” 
 
 “Why,” said Forester, who at last suffered his features to 
 relax into a smile, “the truth then is, that I don’t know 
 whether the flower-pot be pretty or ugly, but I was determined 
 not to say it was pretty.” 
 
 “ But why,” said Henry, “ did you look so heroically severe 
 about the matter?” 
 
 “The reason I looked grave,” said Forester, “was, because 
 I was afraid your sister Flora would be spoiled by all the foolish 
 compliments that were paid to her and her flower-pot.” 
 
 “ You are very considerate ; and Flora, I am sure, is much 
 obliged to you,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling, “for being so clear- 
 sighted to the dangers of female vanity. You would not then, 
 with a safe conscience, trust the completion of her education to 
 her mother, or to myself?” 
 
 “I am sure, sir,” said Forester, who now, for the first time, 
 seemed sensible that he had not spoken with perfect propriety, 
 “ I would not interfere impertinently for the world. You are 
 the best judges ; only I thought parents were apt to be partial. 
 Henry has saved my life, and I am interested for every thing 
 that belongs to him. So I hope, if I said any thing rude, you 
 will attribute it to a good motive. I wish the flower-pot had 
 never made its appearance, for it has made me appear very 
 impertinent.” 
 
 Flora laughed with so much good humour at this odd method 
 of expressing his contrition, that even Forester acknowledged 
 the influence of engaging manners and sweetness of temper. 
 He lifted up the flower-pot, so as completely to screen his face, 
 and, whilst he appeared to be examining it, he said, in a low 
 voice, to Henry, “ She is above the foibles of her sex.” 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 27 
 
 Oh, Mr. Forester, take care !” cried Flora. 
 
 ‘‘ Of what?” said Forester, starting. 
 
 “ It is too late now,” said Flora. 
 
 And it was too late. Forester, in his awkward manner of 
 lifting the flower-pot and its painted case, had put his thumbs 
 into the mould, with which the flower-pot had been newly filled. 
 It was quite soft and wet. Flora, when she called to him, saw 
 the two black thumbs just ready to stamp themselves upon her 
 work, and her warning only accelerated its fate ; for, the instant 
 she spoke, the thumbs closed upon the painted covering, and 
 Forester was the last to perceive the mischief that he had 
 done. 
 
 There was no possibility of effacing the stains, nor was there 
 time to repair the damage, for the ball was to commence in a 
 few hours, and Flora was obliged to send her disfigured work, 
 without having had the satisfaction of hearing the ejaculation 
 which Forester pronounced in her praise behind the flower-pot. 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 Henry seized the moment when Forester was softened by the 
 mixed effect of Dr. Campbell’s raillery and Flora’s good humour, 
 to persuade him, that it would be perfectly consistent with 
 sound philosophy to dress himself for a ball, nay, even to dance 
 a country-dance. The word reel^ to which Forester had taken 
 a dislike, Henry prudently forbore to mention ; and Flora, ob- 
 serving, and artfully imitating her brother’s prudence, substi- 
 tuted the word hays instead of reels in her conversation. When 
 all the party were ready to go to the ball, and the carriages at 
 the door. Forester was in Dr. Campbell’s study, reading the 
 natural history of the elephant. 
 
 “ Come,” said Henry, who had been searching for him all 
 over the house, “ we are waiting for you; I’m glad to see you 
 dressed — come!” 
 
 ‘‘ I wish you would leave me behind,” said Forester, who 
 seemed to have relapsed into his former unsociable humour, 
 from having been left half an hour in his beloved solitude ; nor 
 would Henry probably have prevailed, if he had not pointed to 
 
28 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 the print of the elephant®. ‘‘That mighty animal, you see, is 
 so docile, that he lets himself be guided by a young boy,” said 
 Henry ; “ and so must you.” 
 
 As he spoke he pulled Forester gently, who thought he could 
 not show less docility than his favourite animal. When they 
 entered the ball-room, Archibald Mackenzie asked Flora to 
 dance, whilst Forester was considering where he should put his 
 hat. “ Are you going to dance without me ? I thought I had 
 asked you to dance with me. I intended it all the time we were 
 coming in the coach.” 
 
 Flora thanked him for his kind intentions ; whilst Archibald, 
 with a look of triumph, hurried his partner away, and the dance 
 began. Forester saw this transaction in the most serious lights 
 and it afforded him subject for meditation till at least half a 
 dozen country-dances had been finished. In vain the Berwick 
 Jockey, the Highland Laddie, and the Flowers of Edinburgh, 
 were played; “ they suited not the gloomy habit” of his soul. 
 He fixed himself behind a pillar, proof against music, mirth, 
 and sympathy : he looked upon the dancers with a cynical eye. 
 At length he found an amusement that gratified his present 
 splenetic humour ; he applied both his hands to his ears, effec- 
 tually to stop out the sound of the music, that he might enjoy 
 the ridiculous spectacle of a number of people capering about, 
 without any apparent motive. Forester’s attitude caught the 
 attention of some of the company ; indeed, it was strikingly 
 awkward. His elbows stuck out from his ears, and his head 
 was sunk beneath his shoulders. Archibald Mackenzie was 
 delighted beyond measure at his figure, and pointed him out 
 to his acquaintance with all possible expedition. The laugh and 
 the whisper circulated with rapidity. Henry, who was dancing, 
 did not perceive what was going on till his partner said to him, 
 “ Pray, who is that strange mortal?” 
 
 “My friend,” cried Henry: “will you excuse me for one 
 instant?” And he ran up to Forester, and roused him from 
 his singular attitude. “ He is,” continued Henry, as he returned 
 to his partner, “ an excellent young man, and he has superior 
 abilities; we must not quarrel with him for trifles.” 
 
 5 Cabinet of Quadrupeds. 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 29 
 
 With what different eyes different people behold the same 
 objects ! Whilst Forester had been stopping his ears, Dr. 
 Campbell, who had more of the nature of the laughing than of 
 the weeping philosopher, had found much benevolent pleasure 
 in contemplating the festive scene. Not that any folly or ridi- 
 cule escaped his keen penetration ; but he saw every thing with 
 an indulgent eye, and, if he laughed, laughed in such a man- 
 ner, that even those who were the objects of his pleasantry 
 could scarcely have forborne to sympathize in his mirth. Folly, 
 he thought, could be as effectually corrected by the tickling of 
 a feather, as by the lash of the satirist. When Lady Margaret 
 McGregor, and Lady Mary Macintosh, for instance, had almost 
 forced their unhappy partners into a quarrel to support their 
 respective claims to precedency, Dr. Campbell, who was ap- 
 pealed to as the relation of both the furious fair ones, decided 
 the difference expeditiously, and much to the amusement of the 
 company, by observing, that, as the pretensions of each of the 
 ladies were incontrovertible, and precisely balanced, there was 
 but one possible method of adjusting their precedency — by their 
 age. He was convinced, he said, that the youngest lady would 
 with pleasure yield precedency to the elder. The contest was 
 now, which should stand the lowest, instead of which should 
 stand the highest, in the dance : and when the proofs of seniority 
 could not be settled, the fair ones drew lots for their places, and 
 submitted that to chance which could not be determined by pru- 
 dence. 
 
 Forester stood beside Dr. Campbell whilst all this passed, and 
 wasted a considerable portion of virtuous indignation upon the 
 occasion. ‘‘And look at that absurd creature!” exclaimed 
 Forester, pointing out to Dr. Campbell a girl who was footing 
 and pounding for fame at a prodigious rate. Dr. Campbell 
 turned from the pounding lady to observe his own daughter 
 Flora, and a smile of delight came over his countenance : for 
 parents are apt to be partial — especially those who have such 
 daughters as Flora. Her light figure and graceful agility at- 
 tracted the attention even of many impartial spectators ; but 
 she was not intent upon admiration : she seemed to be dancing 
 in the gaiety of her heart ; and that was a species of gaiety in 
 
30 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 which every one sympathized, because it was natural, and of 
 which every one approved, because it was innocent. There 
 was a certain delicacy mixed with her sportive humour, which 
 seemed to govern, without restraining, the tide of her spirits. 
 Her father’s eye was following her as she danced to a lively 
 Scotch tune, when Forester pulled Dr. Campbell’s cane, on 
 which he was leaning, and exclaimed, ‘‘Doctor, I’ve just 
 thought of an excellent plan for a tragedy !” 
 
 “A tragedy !” repeated Dr. Campbell, with unfeigned sur- 
 prise ; “ are you sure you don’t mean a comedy?” 
 
 Forester persisted that he meant a tragedy, and was proceed- 
 ing to open the plot. “Don’t force me to your tragedy now,” 
 said Dr. Campbell, “ or it will infallibly be condemned. I can- 
 not say that I have my buskin on ! and I advise you to take 
 yours off. Look, is that the tragic muse?” 
 
 Forester was astonished to find, that so great a man as Dr. 
 Campbell had so little the power of abstraction ; and he retired 
 to muse upon the opening of his tragedy in a recess under the 
 music gallery. But here he was not suffered long to remain 
 undisturbed ; for, near this spot. Sir Philip Gosling presently 
 stationed himself ; Archibald Mackenzie, who left off dancing 
 as soon as Sir Philip entered the room, came to the half-in- 
 toxicated baronet ; and they, with some other young men, 
 worthy of their acquaintance, began so loud a contest concern- 
 ing the number of bottles of claret which a man might, could, 
 or should drink at a sitting, that even Forester’s powers of ab- 
 straction failed, and his tragic muse took her flight. 
 
 “Supper! Supper! thank God!” exclaimed Sir Philip, as 
 supper was now announced. “ I’d never set my foot in a ball- 
 room,” added he, with several suitable oaths, “if it were not for 
 the supper.” 
 
 “Is that a rational being?” cried Forester to Dr. Campbell, 
 after Sir Philip had passed them. 
 
 “Speak a little lower,” said Dr. Campbell, “or he will in- 
 fallibly prove his title to rationality by shooting you, or by 
 making you shoot him, through the head.” 
 
 “But, sir,” said Forester, holding Dr. Campbell fast, whilst 
 all the rest of the company were going down to supper, “ how 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 31 
 
 can you bear such a number of foolish, disagreeable people with 
 patience?” 
 
 “ What would you have me do ?” said Dr. Campbell. Would 
 you have me get up and preach in the middle of a ball-room ? 
 Is it not as well, since we are here, to amuse ourselves with 
 whatever can aftbrd us any amusement, and to keep in good 
 humour with all the world, especially with ourselves ? — and had 
 we not better follow the crowd to supper?” 
 
 Forester went down-stairs ; but, as he crossed an antecham- 
 ber, which led to the supper-room, he exclaimed, If I were a 
 legislator, I would prohibit balls.” 
 
 “ And if you were a legislator,” said Dr. Campbell, pointing 
 to a tea-tkettle, which was on the fire in the antechamber, and 
 from the spout of which a grey cloud of vapour issued — ‘‘ if you 
 were a legislator, would not you have stoppers wedged tight into 
 the spouts of all tea-kettles in your dominions?” 
 
 ‘‘No, sir,” said Forester ; “ they would burst.” 
 
 “ And do you think that folly would not burst, and do more 
 mischief than a tea-kettle in the explosion, if you confined it so 
 tight?” 
 
 Forester would willingly have stayed in the antechamber, to 
 begin a critical dissection of this allusion ; but Dr. Campbell 
 carried him forwards into the supper-room. Flora had kept a 
 seat for her father ; and Henry met them at the door. 
 
 “ I was just coming to see for you, sir,” said he to his father. 
 “Flora began to think you were lost.” 
 
 “No,” said Dr. Campbell, “ I was only detained by a would- 
 be Cato, who wanted me to quarrel with the whole world, in- 
 stead of eating my supper. What would you advise me to eat, 
 Flora?” said he, seating himself beside her. 
 
 “Some of this trifle, papa;” and as she lightly removed the 
 flowers with which it was ornamented, her father said, “Yes, 
 give me some trifle. Flora. Some characters are like that trifle 
 — flowers and light froth at the top, and solid, good sweetmeat, 
 beneath.” 
 
 Forester immediately stretched out his plate for some trifle. 
 “But I don’t see any use in the flowers, sir,” said he. 
 
 “Nor any beauty,” said Dr. Campbell. 
 
32 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Forester picked the troublesome flowers out of his trifle, and 
 ate a quantity of it sufficient for a Stoic. Towards the end of 
 the supper, he took some notice of Henry, who had made several 
 ineffectual efforts to amuse him by such slight strokes of wit as 
 seemed to suit the time and place. Time and place were never 
 taken into Forester’s consideration : he was secretly displeased 
 with his friend Henry for having danced all the evening instead 
 of sitting still ; and he looked at Henry’s partner with a scrutin- 
 izing eye. “ So,” said he, at last, “ I observe I have not been 
 thought worthy of your conversation to-night : this is what 
 gentlemen^ polite gentlemen, who dance reels, call friendship !” 
 
 ‘‘ IfT had thought that you would have taken it ill I should 
 dance reels,” said Henry, laughing, “ I would have made the 
 sacrifice of a reel at the altar of friendship ; but we don’t 
 come to a ball to make sacrifices to friendship, but to divert 
 ourselves.” 
 
 If we can,” said Forester, sarcastically: here he was pre- 
 vented from reproaching his friend any longer, for a party of 
 gentlemen began to sing catches, at the desire of the rest of the 
 company. 
 
 Forester was now intent upon criticising the nonsensical words 
 that were sung ; and he was composing an essay upon the power 
 of the ancient bards, and the effect of national music, when 
 Flora’s voice interrupted him: “Brother,” said she, “I have 
 won my wager.” The wager was, that Forester would not 
 during supper observe the geranium that was placed in the 
 middle of the table. 
 
 As soon as the company were satisfied, both with their supper 
 and their songs, Henry, whose mind was always present, seized 
 the moment when there was silence to turn the attention of the 
 company towards the object upon which his own thoughts were 
 intent. The lady-patroness, the mistress of the canary-bird, 
 had performed her promise : she had spoken to several of her 
 acquaintance concerning the tyrannical schoolmistress ; and 
 now, fixing the attention of the company upon the geranium, 
 she appealed to Henry Campbell, and begged him to explain 
 its history. A number of eager eyes turned upon him instantly; 
 and Forester felt, that if he had been called upon in such a 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 33 
 
 manner he could not have uttered a syllable. He now felt the 
 great advantage of being able to speak, without hesitation or 
 embarrassment, before numbers. When Henry related the 
 poor little girl’s story, his language and manner were so un- 
 affected and agreeable, that he interested every one who heard 
 him in his cause. A subscription was immediately raised; 
 every body was eager to contribute something to the child, who 
 had been so ready, for her old grandmother’s sake, to part with 
 her favoXirite geranium. The lady who superintended the charity- 
 school agreed to breakfast the next morning at Dr. Campbell’s, 
 and to go from his house to the school precisely at the hour 
 when the schoolmistress usually set her unfortunate scholars to 
 their extra task of spinning. 
 
 Forester was astonished at all this ; he did not consider that 
 negligence and inhumanity are widely different. The lady- 
 patronesses had, perhaps, been rather negligent in contenting 
 themselves with seeing the charity-children show well in pro- 
 cession to Church, and they had not sufficiently inquired into 
 the conduct of the schoolmistress; but, as soon as the facts were 
 properly stated, the ladies were eager to exert themselves, and 
 candidly acknowledged that they had been to blame in trusting 
 so much to the reports of the superficial visitors, who had always 
 declared that the school was going on perfectly well. 
 
 ‘‘More people who are in the wrong,” said Dr. Campbell to 
 Forester, “ would be corrected, if some people who are in the 
 right had a little candour and patience joined to their other 
 virtues.” 
 
 As the company rose from the supper-table, several young 
 ladies gathered round the geranium to admire Flora’s pretty 
 flower-pot. The black stains, however, struck every eye. 
 Forester was standing by rather embarrassed. Flora, with her 
 usual good-nature, refrained from all explanation, though the 
 exclamations of “How was that done?” — “Who could have 
 done that?” were frequently repeated. 
 
 “It was an accident,” said Flora; and, to change the conver- 
 sation, she praised the beauty of the geranium ; she gathered 
 one of the fragrant leaves, but, as she was going to put it 
 amongst the flowers in her bosom, she observed she had dropped 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 her moss-rose. It was a rarity at this time of year : it was 
 a rose which Henry Campbell had raised in a conservatory of 
 his own construction. 
 
 Oh, my brother’s beautiful rose !” exclaimed Flora. 
 
 Forester, who had been much pleased by her good-nature 
 about the stains on the flower-pot, now, contrary to his habits, 
 sympathized with her concern for the loss of her brother’s moss- 
 rose. He even exerted himself so far as to search under the 
 benches and under the supper-table. He was fortunate enough 
 to find it ; and eager to restore the prize, he with more than his 
 usual gallantry, but not with less than his customary awkward- 
 ness, crept from under the table, and, stretching half his body 
 over a bench, pushed his arm between two young ladies into the 
 midst of the group which surrounded Flora. As his arm ex- 
 tended his wrist appeared, and at the sight of that wrist all the 
 young ladies shrank back, with unequivocal tokens of disgust. 
 They whispered — they tittered ; and many expressive looks were 
 lost upon our hero, who still resolutely held out the hand upon 
 which every eye was fixed. Here’s your rose ! Is not this 
 the rose ?” said he, still advancing the dreaded hand to Flora, 
 whose hesitation and blushes surprised him. Mackenzie burst 
 into a loud laugh ; and in a whisper, which all the ladies could 
 hear, told Forester, that Miss Campbell was afraid to take the 
 rose out of his hands, lest she should catch from him what he 
 had caught from the carter who had brought him to Edinburgh, 
 or from some of his companions at the cobbler’s.” 
 
 Forester flung the rose he knew not where, sprung over the 
 bench, rushed between Flora and another lady, made tov/ards 
 the door in a straight line, pushing every thing before him, till 
 a passage was made for him by the astonished crowd, who stood 
 out of his way as if he had been a mad dog. 
 
 ‘‘Forester!” cried Flenry and Dr. Campbell, who were 
 standing upon the steps before the door, speaking about the 
 carriages, “ what’s the matter? where are you going? The 
 carriage is coming to the door.” 
 
 “ I had rather walk — don’t speak to me,” said Forester; 
 “ I’ve been insulted: I am in a passion, but I can command 
 myself. I did not knock him down. Pray let me pass 1” 
 
THE BALL. 
 
 .35 
 
 Our hero broke from Dr. Campbell and Henry with the 
 strength of an enraged animal from his keepers ; and he must 
 have found his way home by instinct, for he ran on without 
 
 considering how he went. He snatched the light from the ser- 
 
 vant who opened the door at Dr. Campbell’s — hurried to his 
 own apartment — locked, double-locked, and bolted the door — 
 flung himself into a chair, and, taking breath, exclaimed, “Thank 
 God! I’ve done no mischief. Thank God ! I didn’t knock him 
 down. Thank God ! he is out of my sight, and I am cool now 
 — quite cool : let me recollect it all.” 
 
 Upon the coolest recollection, Forester could not reconcile 
 his pride to his present circumstances. “ Archibald spoke the 
 truth — why am I angry? why I angry, I mean!” He 
 
 reasoned much with himself upon the nature of true and false 
 
 shame : he represented to himself that the disorder which dis- 
 figured his hands was thought shameful only because it was 
 vulgar ; that what was vulgar was not therefore immoral ; that 
 the young tittering ladies who shrunk hack from him were not 
 supreme judges of right and wrong ; that he ought to despise 
 their opinions, and he despised them with all his might for two 
 or three hours, as he walked up and down his room with un- 
 remitting energy. At length our peripatetic philosopher threw 
 himself upon his bed, determined that his repose should not be 
 disturbed by such trifles : he had by this time worked himself 
 up to such a pitch of magnanimity, that he thought he could 
 with composure meet the disapproving eyes of millions of his 
 fellow-creatures ; but he was alone when he formed this erro- 
 neous estimate of the strength of the human mind. Wearied 
 with passion and reason, he fell asleep, dreamed that he was 
 continually presenting flowers, which nobody would accept; 
 awakened at the imaginary repetition of Archibald’s laugh, com- 
 posed himself again to sleep, and dreamed that he was in a glover’s 
 shop, trying on gloves, and that, amongst a hundred pair which 
 he pulled on, he could not find one that would fit him. Just as 
 he tore the last pair in his hurry, he awakened, shook off his 
 foolish dream, saw the sun rising between two chimneys many 
 feet below his windows, recollected that in a short time he 
 should be summoned to breakfast, that all the lady-patronesses 
 
 D 2 
 
.‘36 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 were to be at this breakfast, that he could not breakfast in 
 gloves, that Archibald would perhaps again laugh, and Flora 
 perhaps again shrink back. He reproached himself for his 
 weakness in foreseeing and dreading this scene : his aversion to 
 lady-patronesses and to balls was never at a more formidable 
 height; he sighed for liberty and independence, which he per- 
 suaded himself were not to be had in his present situation. In 
 one of his long walks he remembered to have seen, at some 
 miles’ distance from the town of Edinburgh, a gardener and his 
 hoy, who were singing at their work. These men appeared to 
 Forester to be yet happier than the cobbler, who fonnerly was 
 the object of his admiration; and he was persuaded that he 
 should be much happier at the gardener’s cottage than he could 
 ever he at Dr. Campbell’s house. 
 
 ‘‘ I am not fit,” said he to himself, “ to live amongst idle gen- 
 tlemen and ladies ; I should be happy if I were a useful member 
 of society ; a gardener is a useful member of society, and I will 
 be a gardener, and live with gardeners.” 
 
 Forester threw off the clothes which he had worn the preced- 
 ing night at the fatal ball, dressed himself in his old coat, tied 
 up a small bundle of linen, and took the road to the gardener’s. 
 
 BREAKFAST. 
 
 When Henry found that Forester was not in his room in the 
 morning, he concluded that he had rambled out towards Salis- 
 bury Craigs, whither he talked the preceding day of going to 
 botanize. 
 
 ‘‘ I am surprised,” said Dr. Campbell, that the young gen- 
 tleman is out so early, for I have a notion that he has not had 
 much sleep since we parted, unless he walks in his sleep, for 
 he has been walking over my poor head half the night.” 
 
 Breakfast went on — no Forester appeared. Lady Catherine 
 began to fear that he had broken his neck upon Salisbury 
 Craigs, and related all the falls she had ever had, or had ever 
 been near having, in carriages, on horseback, or otherwise. 
 She then entered into the geography of Salisbury Craigs, and 
 began to dispute upon the probability of his having fallen to the 
 east or to the west. 
 
BREAKFAST. 
 
 37 
 
 “ My dear Lady Catherine,” said Dr. Campbell, we are not 
 sure that he has been upon Salisbury Craigs ; whether he has 
 fallen to the east or to the west, we cannot, therefore , conve- 
 niently settle.” 
 
 But Lady Catherine, whose prudential imagination travelled 
 fast, went on to inquire of Dr. Campbell, to whom the great 
 Forester estate would go in case of any accident having hap- 
 pened or happening to the young gentleman before he should 
 come of age. 
 
 Dr. Campbell was preparing to give her ladyship satisfaction 
 upon this point, when a servant put a letter into his hands. 
 Henry looked in great anxiety. Dr. Campbell glanced his eye 
 over the letter, put it into his pocket, and desired the servant 
 to show the person who brought the letter into his study. 
 
 It’s only a little boy,” said Archibald ; ‘‘ I saw him as I 
 passed through the hall.” 
 
 “ Cannot a little hoy go into my study ?” said Dr. Campbell, 
 coolly. 
 
 Archibald’s curiosity was strongly excited, and he slipped out 
 of the room a few minutes afterward, resolved to speak to the 
 hoy, and to discover the purpose of his embassy. But Dr. 
 Campbell was behind him before he was aware of his approach, 
 and just as Archibald began to cross-examine the hoy in these 
 words, So you came from a young man who is about my 
 size?” Dr. Campbell put both his hands upon his shoulders, 
 saying, He came from a young man who does not in the least 
 resemble you, believe me, Mr. Archibald Mackenzie.” 
 
 Archibald started, turned round, and was so abashed by the 
 civilly contemptuous look with which Dr. Campbell pronounced 
 these words, that he retired from the study without even at- 
 tempting any of his usual equivocating apologies for his intru- 
 sion. Dr. Campbell now read Forester’s letter. It was as 
 follows : — 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “ Though I have quitted your house thus abruptly, I am not 
 insensible of your kindness. For the step I have taken, I can 
 offer no apology merely to my guardian ; but you have treated 
 
3S 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 me, Dr. Campbell, as your friend, and I shall lay my whole soul 
 open to you. 
 
 “ Notwithstanding your kindness, — notwithstanding the friend- 
 ship of your son Henry, whose excellent qualities I know how 
 to value, — I most ingenuously own to you that I have been far 
 from happy in your house. I feel that 1 cannot he at ease in 
 the vortex of dissipation; and the more I see of the higher 
 ranks of society, the more I regret that I was horn a gentleman. 
 Neither my birth nor my fortune shall, however, restrain me 
 from pursuing that line of life which, 1 am persuaded, leads to 
 virtue and tranquillity. Let those who have no virtuous indig- 
 nation obey the voice of fashion, and at her commands let her 
 slaves eat the bread of idleness till it palls upon the sense ! I 
 reproach myself with having yielded, as I have done of late, my 
 opinions to the persuasions of friendship ; my mind has become 
 enervated, and I must fly from the fatal contagion. Thank 
 Heaven, I have yet the power to fly : I have yet sufficient force 
 to break my chains. I am not yet reduced to the mental dege- 
 neracy of the base monarch, who hugged his fetters because they 
 were of gold. 
 
 I am conscious of powers that fit me for something better 
 than to waste my existence in a ball-room ; and I will not sacri- 
 fice my liberty to the absurd ceremonies of daily dissipation. I, 
 that have been the laughing-stock of the mean and frivolous, 
 have yet sufficient manly pride, imextinguished in my breast, to 
 assert my claim to your esteem : to assert, that I never have 
 committed, or shall designedly commit, any action unworthy of 
 the friend of your son. 
 
 I do not write to Henry, lest 1 should any way involve him 
 in my misfortunes : he is formed to shine in the polite world, 
 and his connexion with me might tarnish the lustre of his cha- 
 racter in the eyes of the ‘ nice-judging fair.' I hope, however, 
 that he will not utterly discard me from his heart, though I 
 cannot dance a reel. I beg that he will break open the lock of 
 the trunk that is in my room, and take out of it my Goldsmith's 
 Animated Nature, which he seemed to like. 
 
 “ In my table-drawer there are my Martyn’s Letters on 
 Botany, in which you vfill find a number of plants that I have 
 
BREAKFAST. 
 
 39 
 
 dried for Flora — Mks Flora Campbell, I should say. After 
 what passed last night, I can scarcely hope they will be accepted. 
 I would rather have them burned than refused ; therefore please 
 to burn them, and say nothing more upon the subject. Dear sir, 
 do not judge harshly of me ; I have bad a severe conflict with 
 myself before I could resolve to leave you. But I would rather 
 that you should judge of me with severity than that you should 
 , extend to me the same species of indulgence with which you last 
 night viewed the half-intoxicated baronet. 
 
 ‘‘ I can bear any thing but contempt. 
 
 ‘‘ Yours, &c, 
 
 “ P.S. I trust that you will not question the bearer ; he knows 
 where I am ; I therefore put you on your guard. I mean to 
 earn my own bread as a gardener ; I have always preferred the 
 agricultural to the commercial system.” 
 
 To this letter, in which the mixture of sense and extravagance 
 did not much surprise Dr. Campbell, he returned the following 
 answer : — 
 
 My dear cobbler, gardener, orator, or by whatever other 
 name you choose to be addressed, I am too old to be surprised 
 at any thing, otherwise I might have been rather surprised at 
 some things in your eloquent letter. You tell me that you have 
 the power to fly, and that you do not hug your chains, though 
 they are of gold ! Are you an alderman, or Daedalus ? or are 
 these only figures of speech? You inform me, that you cannot 
 live in the vortex of dissipation, or eat the bread of idleness, and 
 that you are determined to be a gardener. These things seem 
 to have no necessary connexion with each other. Why you 
 should reproach yourself so bitterly for having spent one even- 
 ing of your life in a ball-room, which I suppose is what you 
 allude to when you speak of a vortex of dissipation, I am at a 
 loss to discover. And why you cannot, with so much honest 
 pride yet unextinguished in your breast, find any occupation 
 more worthy of your talents, and as useful to society, as that of 
 a gardener, I own, puzzles me a little. Consider these things 
 
40 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 coolly ; return to dinner, and we will compare at our leisure the 
 advantages of the mercantile and the agricultural system. I 
 forbear to question your messenger, as you desire ; and I shall 
 not show your letter to Henry till after we have dined. I hope 
 by that time you will insist upon my burning it ; which, at your 
 request, I shall do with pleasure, although it contains several 
 good sentences. As I am not yet sure you have departed thu 
 life^ I shall not enter upon my office of executor; I shall 
 not break open the lock of your trunk (of which I hope you 
 will some time, when your mind is less exalted, find the key), 
 nor shall I stir in the difficult case of Flora’s legacy. When 
 next you write your will, let me, for the sake of your 
 executor, advise you to be more precise in your directions ; 
 for what can be done if you order him to give and burn the 
 same thing in the same sentence ? As you have, amongst your 
 other misfortunes, the misfortune to be born heir to five or 
 six thousand a year, you should learn a little how to manage 
 your own affairs, lest you should, amongst your poor or rich 
 companions, meet with some who are not quite so honest as 
 yourself. 
 
 ‘‘ If, instead of returning to dine with us, you should persist 
 in your gardening scheme, I shall have less esteem for your 
 good sense, but I shall forbear to reproach you. I shall leave 
 you to learn by your own experience, if it be not in my power 
 to give you the advantages of mine gratis. But, at the same 
 time, I shall discover where you are, and shall inform myself 
 exactly of all your proceedings. This, as your guardian, is my 
 duty. I should further warn you, that I shall not, whilst you 
 choose to live in a rank below your own, supply you with your 
 customary yearly allowance. Two hundred guineas a year 
 would be an extravagant allowance in your present circum- 
 stances. I do not mention money with any idea of influencing 
 your generous mind by mercenary motives ; but it is necessary 
 that you should not deceive yourself by inadequate experiments : 
 you cannot be rich and poor at the same time. I gave you the 
 day before yesterday five ten-pound notes for your last quarterly 
 allowance ; I suppose you have taken these with you, therefore 
 you cannot be in any immediate distress for money, I am 
 
BREAKFAST. 
 
 41 
 
 sorry, I own, that you are so well provided, because a man who 
 has fifty guineas in his pocket-book cannot distinctly feel what 
 it is to be compelled to earn his own bread. 
 
 “ Do not, my dear ward, think me harsh ; my friendship for 
 you gives me courage to inflict present pain, with a view to 
 your future advantage. You must not expect to see any thing 
 of your friend Henry until you return to us. I shall, as his 
 father and your guardian, request that he will trust implicitly to 
 my prudence upon this occasion ; that he will make no inquiries 
 concerning you ; and that he will abstain from all connexion 
 with you whilst you absent yourself from your friends. You 
 cannot live amongst the vulgar (by the vulgar I mean the ill- 
 educated, the ignorant, those who have neither noble sentiments 
 nor agreeable manners), and at the same time enjoy the plea- 
 sures of cultivated society. I shall wait, not without anxiety, 
 till your choice be decided. 
 
 “ Believe me to he 
 Your sincere friend and guardian, 
 
 ‘‘ H. Campbell.” 
 
 As soon as Dr. Campbell had despatched this letter, he re- 
 turned to the company. The ladies, after breakfast, proceeded to 
 the charity-school ; but Henry was so anxious to learn what was 
 become of his friend Forester, that he could scarcely enjoy the 
 effects of his own benevolent exertions. It was with difficulty, such 
 as he had never before experienced, that Dr. Campbell obtained 
 from him the promise to suspend all intercourse with Forester. 
 Henry’s first impulse, when he read the letter, which his father 
 now found it prudent to show him, was to search for his friend 
 instantly. “ I am sure,” said he, “I shall be able to find him 
 out; and if I can but see him, and speak to him, I know I 
 could prevail upon him to return to us.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Dr. Campbell, perhaps you might persuade 
 him to return; hut that is not the object: unless his under- 
 standing he convinced, what should we gain ?” 
 
 ‘•Ht should be convinced. I could convince him,” cried 
 Henry. 
 
42 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 “ I have, my dear son,” said Dr. Campbell, smiling, “ the 
 highest opinion of your logic and eloquence ; but are your 
 reasoning powers stronger to-day than they were yesterday ? 
 Have you any new arguments to produce ? I thought you had 
 exhausted your whole store without effect.” 
 
 Henry paused. 
 
 Believe me,” continued his father, lowering his voice, “ I 
 am not insensible to your friend’s good, and, I will say, grea^ 
 qualities ; I do not leave him to suffer evils, without feeling as 
 much perhaps as you can do ; but I am convinced, that the 
 solidity of his character, and the happiness of his whole life, 
 will depend upon the impression that is now made upon his 
 mind by realities. He will see society as it is. He has abilities 
 and generosity of mind which will make him a first-rate cha- 
 racter, if his friends do not spoil him out of false kindness.” 
 
 Henry, at these words, held out his hand to his father, and 
 gave him the promise which he desired. 
 
 “ But,” added he, “ I still have hopes from your letter — I 
 should not he surprised to see Forester at dinner to-day.” 
 
 I should,” said Dr. Campbell. 
 
 Dr. Campbell, alas ! was right. Henry looked eagerly 
 towards the door every time it opened, when they were at 
 dinner: but he was continually disappointed. Flora, whose 
 gaiety usually enlivened the evenings, and agreeably relieved 
 her father and brother after their morning studies, was now 
 silent. 
 
 Whilst Lady Catherine’s volubility overpowered even the 
 philosophy of Dr. Campbell, she wondered — she never ceased 
 wondering — that Mr. Forester did not appear, and that the 
 doctor and Mrs. Campbell, and Henry and Flora, were not 
 more alarmed. She proposed sending twenty different messen- 
 gers after him. She was now convinced, that he had not fallen 
 from Salisbury Craigs, because Dr. Campbell assured her lady- 
 ship, that he had a letter from him in his pocket, and that he 
 was safe ; but she thought that there was imminent danger of 
 his enlisting in a frolic, or, perhaps, marrying some cobbler’s 
 daughter in a pet. She turned to Archibald Mackenzie, and 
 
THE GARDENER. 
 
 43 
 
 exclaimed, ‘‘ He was at a cobbler’s ; it could not be merely to 
 mend his shoes. What sort of a lassy is the cobbler’s daughter ? 
 or has the cobbler a daughter?” 
 
 She is hump-backed, luckily,” said Dr. Campbell, coolly. 
 
 That does not signify,” said Lady Catherine; ‘‘ I’m con- 
 vinced she is at the bottom of the whole mystery ; for I 
 once heard Mr. Forester say — and I’m sure you must recollect 
 it. Flora, my dear, for he looked at you at the time — I once 
 heard him say, that personal beauty was no merit, and that 
 ugly people ought to be liked — or some such thing — out of 
 humanity. Now, out of humanity, with his odd notions, it’s ten 
 to one. Dr. Campbell, he marries this cobbler’s hump-backed 
 daughter. I’m sure, if I were his guardian, I could not rest an 
 instant with such a thought in my head.” 
 
 ‘‘Nor I,” said Dr. Campbell, quietly; and in spite of her 
 ladyship’s astonishment, remonstrances, and conjectures, he 
 maintained his resolute composure. 
 
 THE GARDENER. 
 
 The gardener who had struck Forester’s fancy, was a square, 
 thick, obstinate-eyed, hard-working, ignorant, elderly man, 
 whose soul was intent upon his petty daily gains, and whose 
 honesty was of that “ coarse-spun, vulgar sort®,” which alone 
 can be expected from men of uncultivated minds. Mr. M‘Evoy, 
 for that was the gardener’s name, was both good-natured and 
 selfish ; his views and ideas all centered in his own family ; and 
 his affection was accumulated and reserved for two individuals, 
 his son and his daughter. The son was not so industrious as 
 the father ; he was ambitious of seeing something of the world, 
 and he consorted with all the young ’prentices in Edinburgh, 
 who would condescend to forget that he was a country boy, and 
 to remember that he expected, when his father should die, /o 
 de rich. Mr. M‘Evoy’s daughter was an ugly, cross-looking girl, 
 who spent all the money that she could either earn or save 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld’s Essay on the Inconsistency of Human Expectations. 
 
44 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 upon ribands and fine gowns, with which she fancied she could 
 supply all the defects of her person. 
 
 This powerful motive for her economy operated incessantly 
 upon her mind, and she squeezed all that could possibly be 
 squeezed for her private use from the frugal household. The 
 boy, whose place Forester thought himself so fortunate to 
 supply, had left the gardener, because he could not bear to 
 work and be scolded without eating or drinking. 
 
 The gardener willingly complied with our hero’s first request; 
 he gave him a spade, and he set him to work. Forester dug 
 with all the energy of an enthusiast, and dined like a philoso- 
 pher upon long kail : but long kail did not charm him so much 
 the second day as it had done the first ; and the third day it 
 was yet less to his taste ; besides, he began to notice the differ- 
 ence between oaten and wheaten bread. He, however, recol- 
 lected that Cyrus lived, when he was a lad, upon water-cresses 
 — the black broth of the Spartans he likewise remembered, and 
 he would not complain. He thought, that he should soon 
 accustom himself to his scanty, homely fare. A number of the 
 disagreeable circumstances of poverty he had not estimated 
 when he entered upon his new way of life ; and though at Dr. 
 Campbell’s table he had often said to himself, “ I could do very 
 well without all these things,” yet, till he had actually tried the 
 experiment, he had not c/eflrr ideas upon the subject. He missed 
 a number of little pleasures and conveniences, which he had 
 scarcely noticed, whilst they had every day presented them- 
 selves as matters of course. The occupation of digging was 
 laborious, but it afforded no exercise to his mind, and he felt 
 most severely the want of Henry’s agreeable conversation ; he 
 had no one to whom he could now talk of the water-cresses of 
 Cyrus, or the black broth of the Spartans ; he had no one with 
 whom he could dispute concerning the Stoic or the Epicurean 
 doctrines, the mercantile or the agricultural system. Many 
 objections to the agricultural system, which had escaped him, 
 occurred now to his mind ; and his compassion for the worms, 
 whom he was obliged to cut in pieces continually with his spade, 
 acted every hour more forcibly upon his benevolent heart. He 
 once attempted to explain his feelings for the worms to the 
 
THE GARDENER. 
 
 45 
 
 gardener, who stared at him with all the insolence of ignorance, 
 and bade him mind his work, with a tone of authority which ill 
 suited Forester’s feelings and love of independence. 
 
 “ Is ignorance thus to oommand knowledge ? Is reason thus 
 to be silenced by boorish stupidity?” said Forester to himself, 
 as he recollected the patience and candour with which Dr. 
 Campbell and Henry used to converse with him. He began to 
 think, that in cultivated society he had enjoyed more liberty of 
 mind, more freedom of opinion, than he could taste in the 
 company of an illiterate gardener. The gardener’s son, though 
 his name was Colin, had no Arcadian simplicity, nothing which 
 could please the classic taste of Forester, or which could recal 
 to his mind the Eclogues of Virgil, or the golden age ; the 
 Gentle Shepherd, or the Ayrshire Ploughman. Colin’s favourite 
 holiday’s diversion was playing at goff; this game, which is 
 played v/ith a bat loaded with lead, and with a ball, which is 
 harder than a cricket-ball, requires much strength and dexterity 
 Forester used, sometimes, to accompany the gardener’s son to 
 the Links where numbers of people, of different descriptions 
 are frequently seen practising this diversion. Our hero was’ 
 ambitious of excelling at the game of goff ; and, as he was not 
 particularly adroit, he exposed himself, in his first attempts, to 
 the derision of the spectators, and he likewise received several 
 severe blows. Colin laughed at him without mercy ; and 
 Forester could not help comparing the rude expressions of his 
 new companion’s untutored vanity with the unassuming man- 
 ners and unaffected modesty of Henry Campbell. Forester soon 
 took an aversion to the game of goff, and recollected Scotch 
 reels with less contempt. 
 
 One evening, after having finished his task of digging (for 
 digging was now become a task), he was going to take a walk to 
 Duddingstone lake, when Colin, who was at the same instant 
 setting out for the Links, roughly insisted upon Forester’s 
 accompanying him. Our hero, who was never much disposed 
 to yield to the taste of others, positively refused the gar- 
 dener’s son, with some imprudent expressions of contempt. 
 
 7 A lea or common near Edinburgh. 
 
4G 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 From this moment Colin became his enemy, and, by a thousand 
 malicious devices, contrived to show his vulgar hatred. 
 
 Forester now, to his great surprise, discovered that hatred 
 could exist in a cottage. Female vanity, he likewise presently 
 perceived, was not confined to the precincts of a ball-room ; he 
 found that Miss M‘Evoy spent every leisure moment in the 
 contemplation of her own coarse image in a fractured looking- 
 glass. He once ventured to express his dislike of a many- 
 coloured plaid in which Miss M‘Evoy had arrayed herself for a 
 dance ; and the fury of her looks, and the loud-toned vulgarity 
 of her conceit, were strongly contrasted with the recollection of 
 Flora Campbell’s gentle manners and sweetness of temper. 
 The painted flower-pot was present to his imagination, and he 
 turned from the lady who stood before him with an air of dis- 
 gust, which he had neither the wish nor the power to conceal. 
 The consequences of offending this high-spirited damsel our hero 
 had not sufficiently considered : the brother and sister, who 
 seldom agreed in any thing else, now agreed, though from 
 different motives, in an eager desire to torment Forester. When- 
 ever he entered the cottage, either to rest himself, or to par- 
 take of those savoury messes, which the neat-handed Phillis 
 dresses,” he was received with sullen silence, or with taunt- 
 ing reproach. The old gardener, stupid as he was. Forester 
 thought an agreeable companion, compared with his insolent 
 son and his vixen daughter. The happiest hours of the day, 
 to our hero, were those which he spent at his work; his 
 affections, repressed and disappointed, became a source of misery 
 to him. 
 
 Is there nothing in this world to which I can attach my- y 
 self?” said Forester, as he one day leaned upon his spade in a 
 melancholy mood. ‘‘ Must I spend my life in the midst of 
 absurd altercations? Is it for this that I have a heart and an 
 understanding? No one here comprehends one word I say — I 
 am an object of contempt and hatred, whilst my soul is formed 
 for the most benevolent feelings, and capable of the most ex- 
 tensive views. And of what service am I to my fellow-crea- 
 tures ? Even this stupid gardener, even a common labourer, is 
 as useful to society as I am. Compared with Flenry Campbell, 
 
THE GARDENER. 
 
 47 
 
 what am I ? Oh, Henry ! — Flora ! — could you see me at this 
 instant, you would pity me.” 
 
 But the fear of being an object of pity wakened Forester’s 
 pride ; and though he felt that he was unhappy, he could not 
 bear to acknowledge that he had mistaken the road to happi- 
 ness. His imaginary picture of rural felicity was not, to be 
 sure, realized ; but he resolved to bear his disappointment with 
 fortitude, to fidfil his engagements with his master, the gardener, 
 and then to seek some other more eligible situation. In the 
 meantime, his benevolence tried to expand itself upon the only 
 individual in this family who treated him tolerably well : he 
 grew fond of the old gardener, because there was nothing else 
 near him to which he could attach himself, not even a dog or a 
 cat. The old man, whose temper was not quite so enthusiastical 
 as Forester’s, looked upon him as an industrious simple young 
 man, above the usual class of servants, and rather wished to 
 keep him in his service, because he gave him less than the 
 current wages. Forester, after his late reflections upon digging, 
 began to think, that, by applying his understanding to the 
 business of gardening, he might perhaps make some discoveries, 
 which should excite his master’s everlasting gratitude, and 
 immortalize his own name. He pledged a shirt and a pair of stock- 
 ings at a poor bookseller’s stall, for some volumes upon garden- 
 ing; and these, in spite of the ridicule of Colin and Miss 
 M^Evoy, he studied usually at his meals. He at length met 
 with an account of some experiments upon fruit-trees, which he 
 thought would infallibly make the gardener’s fortune. 
 
 ‘‘ Did you not tell me,” said Forester to the gardener, 
 
 that cherries were sometimes sold very high in Edinburgh?” 
 Five a penny,” said the gardener; and he wished, from the 
 bottom of his heart, that he had a thousand cherry-trees, but he 
 possessed only one. 
 
 He was considerably alarmed, when Forester proposed to him, 
 as the certain means of making his fortune, to strip the bark off 
 this cherry-tree, assuring him, that a similar experiment had 
 been tried and had succeeded ; that his cherry-tree w'ould bear 
 twice as many cherries, if he would only strip the bark from it. 
 
48 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Let me try one branch for an experiment — I will try one 
 branch ! ” 
 
 But the gardener peremptorily forbade all experiments, and, 
 shutting Forester’s book, bade him leave such nonsense, and 
 mind his business. 
 
 Provoked by this instance of tyrannical ignorance. Forester 
 forgot his character of a servant hoy^ and at length called his 
 master an obstinate fool. 
 
 No sooner were these w'ords uttered, than the gardener 
 emptied the remains of his watering-pot coolly in Forester’s 
 face, and, first paying him his wages, dismissed him from his 
 service. 
 
 Miss M^Evoy, who was at work, seated at the door, made 
 room most joyfully for Forester to pass, and observed, that she 
 had long since prophesied he would not do for them. 
 
 Forester was now convinced, that it was impossible to reform 
 a positive old gardener, to make him try new experiments upon 
 cherry-trees, or to interest him for the progress of science. He 
 deplored the perversity of human nature, and he began, when 
 he reflected upon the characters of Miss M‘Evoy and her 
 brother, to believe, that they were beings distinct from the rest 
 of their species ; he was, at all events, glad to have parted with 
 such odious companions. On his road to Edinburgh he had 
 time for various reflections. 
 
 Thirty shillings, then, with hard bodily labour, I have 
 earned for one month’s service ! ” said Forester to himself. 
 “ Well, I will keep to my resolution. I will live upon the 
 money I earn, and upon that alone ; I will not have recourse to 
 my bank notes till the last extremity.” He took out his pocket- 
 book, however, and looked at them, to see that they were safe. 
 ‘‘ How wretched,” thought he, must be that being, who is 
 obliged to purchase, in his utmost need, the assistance of his 
 fellow-creatures with such vile trash as this ! I have been un- 
 fortunate in my first experiment ; but all men are not like this 
 selfish gardener and his brutal son, incapable of disinterested 
 friendship.” 
 
 Here Forester was interrupted in his meditations by a young 
 
THE GARDENER. 
 
 49 
 
 man, who accosted him with — Sir, if I don’t mistake, I believe 
 I have a key of yours.” 
 
 Forester looked up at the young man’s face, and recollected 
 him to be the person who had nearly lost his life in descending 
 for his key into the brewing-vat. 
 
 ‘‘I knew you again, sir,” continued the brewer’s clerk, “by 
 your twirling those scissors upon your fing.er, just as you were 
 doing that day at the brewery.” 
 
 Forester was not conscious, till this moment, that he had a 
 pair of scissors in his hand : whilst the gardener was paying him 
 his wages, to relieve his mauvaise honte, our hero took up Miss 
 M^Evoy’s scissors, which lay upon the table, and twirled them 
 upon his fingers, as he used to do with a key. He was rather 
 ashamed to perceive, that he had not yet cured himself of such 
 a silly habit. “ I thought the lesson I got at the brewery,” said 
 he, would have cured me for ever of this foolish trick ; but 
 the diminutive chains of habit % as somebody says, are scarcely 
 ever heavy enough to be felt, till they are too strong to be 
 broken.” 
 
 said the astonished clerk. 
 
 Oh, I beg your pardon,” said our hero, who now perceived 
 by his countenance that his observation on the peculiar nature 
 of the chains of habit was utterly unintelligible to him ; pray, 
 sir, can you tell me what o’clock it is?” 
 
 Half after four — I am — sir,” said the clerk, producing his 
 watch, with the air of a man who thought a watch a matter of 
 some importance. ‘‘ Hum ! He can’t be a gentleman ; he has 
 no watch!” argued he with himself; and he looked at Forester’s 
 rough apparel with astonishment. Forester had turned back, 
 that he might return Miss M‘Evoy her scissors. The brewer’s 
 clerk was going in the same direction to collect some money foi 
 his master. As they walked on, the young man talked to our 
 hero with good-nature, but with a species of familiarity, which 
 was strikingly different from the respectful manner in which he 
 formerly addressed Forester, when he had seen him in a better 
 coat, and in the company of a young gentleman. 
 
 8 Dr. Johnson’s Vision of Theodore. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 “ You have left Dr. Campbell’s, then ?” said he, looking with 
 curiosity. Forester replied, that he had left Dr. Campbell’s, 
 because he preferred earning his own bread to living an idle life 
 among gentlemen and ladies. 
 
 The clerk, at this speech, looked earnestly in Forester’s face, 
 and began to suspect that he was deranged in his mind. 
 
 As the gravity of our hero’s looks, and the sobriety of his de- 
 meanour, did not give any strong indications of insanity, the 
 clerk, after a few minutes’ consideration, inclined to believe, 
 that Forester concealed the truth from him ; that probably he 
 was some dependant of Dr. Campbell’s family ; that he had dis- 
 pleased his friends, and had been discarded in disgrace. He 
 was confirmed in these suppositions by Forester’s telling him, 
 that he had just left the service of a gardener ; that he did not 
 know where to find a lodging for the night ; and that he was in 
 want of some employment, by which he might support himself 
 independently. 
 
 The clerk, who remembered with gratitude the intrepidity 
 with which Forester had hazarded his life to save him the morn- 
 ing that he was at the brewery, and who had also some com- 
 passion for a young gentleman reduced to poverty, told him that 
 if he could write a good hand, knew any thing of accounts, and 
 could get a character for punctuality (meaning to include honesty 
 in this word) from any creditable people, he did not doubt that 
 his master, who had large concerns, might find employment for 
 him as an under-clerk. Forester’s pride was not agreeably 
 soothed by the manner of this proposal, but he was glad to hear 
 of a situation, to use the clerk’s genteel expression ; and he more- 
 over thought, that he should now have an opportunity of com- 
 paring the commercial and agricultural systems. 
 
 The clerk hinted, that he supposed Forester would choose to 
 “make himself smart,” before he called to offer himself at the 
 brewery, and advised him to call about six, as by that time in 
 the evening his master was generally at leisure. 
 
 A dinner at a public-house (for our hero did not know where 
 else to dine), and the further expense of a new pair of shoes, 
 and some other articles of dress, almost exhausted his month’s 
 wages : he was very unwilling to make any of these purchases. 
 
THE BET. 
 
 51 
 
 but the clerk assured him, that they were indispensable ; and, 
 indeed, at last, his appearance was scarcely upon a par with 
 that of his friendly adviser. 
 
 THE BET. 
 
 Before we follow Forester to the brewery, we must request the 
 attention of our readers to the history of a bet of Mr. Archibald 
 Mackenzie’s. 
 
 We have already noticed the rise and progress of this young 
 gentleman’s acquaintance with Sir Philip Gosling. Archi- 
 bald, 
 
 “ Whose ev’ry frolic had some end in view, 
 
 Ne’er played the fool, but played the rascal too 9,” 
 
 cultivated assiduously the friendship of this weak, dissipated, 
 vain young baronet, in hopes that he might, in process of time, 
 make some advantage of his folly. Sir Philip had an unfor- 
 tunately high opinion of his own judgment ; an opinion which 
 he sometimes found it difficult to inculcate upon the minds of 
 others, till he hit upon the compendious method of laying high 
 wagers in support of all his assertions. Few people chose to 
 venture a hundred guineas upon the turn of a straw. Sir 
 Philip, in all such contests, came off victorious ; and he plumed 
 himself much upon the success of his purse. Archibald affected 
 the greatest deference for Sir Philip’s judgment; and, as he 
 observed that the baronet piqued himself upon his skill as a 
 jockey, he flattered him indefatigably upon this subject. He 
 accompanied Sir Philip continually in his long visits to the 
 livery-stables ; and he made himself familiarly acquainted with 
 the keeper of the livery-stables, and even with the hostlers. So 
 low can interested pride descend ! All this pains Archibald 
 took, and more, for a very small object. He had set his fancy 
 upon Sawney, one of his friend’s horses ; and he had no doubt, 
 but that he should either induce Sir Philip to make him a pre- 
 sent of this horse, or that he should jockey him out of it, by 
 some well-timed bet. 
 
 ® Anonymous. 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 In counting upon the baronet’s generosity, Archibald was mis- 
 taken. Sir Philip had that species of good-nature which can 
 lend, but not that which can give. He offered to lend the horse 
 to Archibald most willingly ; but the idea of giving it was far 
 distant from his imagination. Archibald, who at length de- 
 spaired of his friend’s generosity, had recourse to his other 
 scheme of the wager. After having judiciously lost a few 
 guineas to Sir Philip in wagers, to confirm him in his extra- 
 vagant opinion of his own judgment, Archibald, one evening, 
 when the fumes of wine and vanity, operating together, had 
 somewhat exalted the man of judgment’s imagination, urged 
 him, by artful, hesitating contradiction, to assert the most in- 
 credible things of one of his horses, to whom he had given the 
 name of Favourite. Archibald knew, from the best authority — 
 from the master of the livery-stables, who was an experienced 
 jockey — that Favourite was by no means a match for Sawney; 
 he therefore waited quietly till Sir Philip Gosling laid a very 
 considerable wager upon the head of his “Favourite.” Archi- 
 bald immediately declared, he could not, in conscience — that 
 he could not, for the honour of Scotland, give up his friend 
 Sawney. 
 
 “Sawney!” cried Sir Philip; “I’ll bet fifty guineas, that 
 Favourite beats him hollow at a walk, trot, or gallop, whichever 
 you please.” 
 
 Archibald artfully affected to be startled at this defiance, and, 
 seemingly desirous to draw back, pleaded his inability to measure 
 purses with such a rich man as Sir Philip. 
 
 “Nay, my boy,” replied Sir Philip, “that excuse sha’n’t 
 stand you in stead. You have a pretty little pony there, that 
 Lady Catherine has just given you; if you won’t lay me fifty 
 guineas, will you risk your pony against my judgment?” 
 
 Archibald had now brought his friend exactly to the point at 
 which he had been long aiming. Sir Philip staked his hand- 
 some horse Sawney against Archibald’s sorry pony, upon this 
 wager, that Favourite should, at the first trials, beat Sawney at 
 a walk, a trot, and a gallop. 
 
 Warmed with wine, ajid confident in his own judgment, the 
 weak baronet insisted upon having the bet immediately decided. 
 
THE BET. 
 
 53 
 
 The gentlemen ordered out their horses, and the wager was to 
 he determined upon the sands of Leith. 
 
 Sir Philip Gosling, to his utter astonishment, found himself 
 for once mistaken in his judgment. The treacherous Archibald 
 coolly suffered him to exhale his passion in unavailing oaths, 
 and at length rejoiced to hear him consoling himself with the 
 boast, that this was the first wager upon horse-flesh that he 
 had ever lost in his life. The master of the livery-stables stared 
 with well-affected incredulity, when Sir Philip, upon his return 
 from the sands of Leith, informed him, that Favourite had been 
 beat hollow by Sawney ; and Archibald, by his additional testi- 
 mony, could scarcely convince him of the fact, till he put two 
 guineas into his hand, when he recommended his new horse 
 Sawney to his particular care. Sir Philip, who was not gifted 
 with quick observation, did not take notice of this last convinc- 
 ing argument. Whilst this passed, he was talking eagerly to 
 the hostler, who confirmed him in his opinion, which he still 
 repeated as loud as ever, ‘‘ that Favourite ought to have won.” 
 This point Archibald prudently avoided to contest ; and he thus 
 succeeded in duping and flattering his friend at once. 
 
 ‘‘Sawney for ever!” cried Archibald, as soon as Sir Philip 
 had left the stables. “ Sawney for ever!” repeated the hostler, 
 and reminded Mackenzie, that he had promised him half a 
 guinea. Archibald had no money in his pocket; hut he assured 
 the hostler, that he would remember him the next day. The 
 next day, however, Archibald, who was expert in parsimonious 
 expedients, considered that he had better delay giving the 
 hostler his half-guinea, till it had been earned by his care of 
 Sawney. 
 
 It is the usual error of cunning people to take it for granted, 
 that others are fools. This hostler happened to be a match for our 
 young laird in cunning, and, as soon as he perceived that it 
 was Archibald’s intention to cheat him of the interest of his 
 half-guinea, he determined to revenge himself in his care of 
 Sawney. We shall hereafter see the success of his devices. 
 
54 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE. 
 
 Scarcely had Archibald Mackenzie been two days in posses- 
 sion of the long-wished-for object of his mean soul, when he 
 became dissatisfied with his own saddle and bridle, which cer- 
 tainly did not, as Sir Philip obseiwed, suit his new horse. The 
 struggles in Archibald’s mind, betwixt his taste for expense and 
 his habits of saving, were often rather painful to him. He had 
 received from Lady Catherine a ten-guinea note, when he first 
 came to Dr. Campbell’s ; and he had withstood many tempta- 
 tions to change it. One morning (the day that he had accom- 
 panied Henry and Forester to the watchmaker’s) he was so 
 strongly charmed by the sight of a watch-chain and seals, that 
 he actually look his bank-note out of his scrutoire at his return 
 home, put it into his pocket, when he dressed for dinner, and 
 resolved to call that evening at the watchmaker’s to indulge his 
 fancy, by purchasing the watch-chain, and to gratify his family 
 pride, by getting his coat of arms splendidly engraven upon the 
 seal. He called at the Avatchmaker’s, in company with Sir 
 Philip Gosling, but he could not agree with him respecting the 
 price of the chain and seals ; and Archibald consoled himself 
 with the reflection, that his bank-note would still remain. He 
 held the note in his hand, whilst he higgled about the price of 
 the watch-chain. 
 
 Oh, d — n the expense !” cried Sir Philip. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, I mind ten guineas as little as any man,” said Archibald, 
 thrusting the bank-note, in imitation of the baronet, with affected 
 carelessness, into his waistcoat-pocket. He was engaged that 
 night to go to the play with Sir Philip, and he was much hurried 
 in dressing. His servant observed that his waistcoat was stained, 
 and looked out another for him. 
 
 Now this man sometimes took the liberty of wearing his 
 master’s clothes ; and, when Archibald went to the play, the 
 servant dressed himself in the stained waistcoat, to appear at a 
 ball, which was given that night in the neighbourhood, by some 
 ‘‘gentleman’s gentleman.” The waistcoat was rather too tight 
 for the servant : he tore it, and instead of sending it to the 
 
THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE. 
 
 55 
 
 washerwoman’s, to have the stain washed out, as his master had 
 desired, he was now obliged to send it to the tailor’s to have it 
 mended. 
 
 Archibald’s sudden wish for a new saddle and bridle for 
 Sawney could not be gratified without changing the bank-note ; 
 and, forgetting that he had left it in the pocket of his waistcoat 
 the night that he went to the play, he searched for it in the scru- 
 toire, in which he was accustomed to keep his treasures. He was 
 greatly disturbed, when the note was not to be found in the 
 scrutoire ; he searched over and over again ; not a pigeon-hole, 
 not a drawer, remained to be examined. He tried to recollect 
 when he had last seen it, and at length remembered, that he 
 put it into his waistcoat-pocket, when he went to the watch- 
 maker’s ; that he had taken it out to look at, whilst he was in 
 the shop ; but whether he had brought it home safely or not he 
 could not precisely ascertain. His doubts upon this subject, 
 however, he cautiously concealed, resolved, if possible, to make 
 somebody or other answerable for his loss. He summoned his 
 servant, told him that he had left a ten-guinea bank-note in his 
 waistcoat-pocket the night that he went to the play, and that, 
 as the waistcoat was given into his charge, he must be answer- 
 able for the note. The servant boldly protested, that he neither 
 could nor would be at the loss of a note which he had never 
 seen. 
 
 Archibald now softened his tone ; for he saw, that he had no 
 chance of bullying the servant. “ I desired you to send it to 
 the washerwoman’s,” said he. 
 
 ‘‘And so I did, sir,” said the man. 
 
 This was true, but not the whole truth. He had previously 
 sent the waistcoat to the tailor’s to have the rent repaired, which 
 it received the night he wore it at the ball. These circumstances 
 the servant thought proper to suppress ; and he was very ready 
 to agree with his master in accusing the poor washerwoman of 
 having stolen the note. The washerwoman was extremely in- 
 dustrious, and perfectly honest ; she had a large family, that 
 depended upon her labour, and upon her character, for support. 
 She was astonished and shocked at the charge that was brought 
 against her, and declared, that if she were able, she would 
 
56 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 rather pay the whole money at once, than suffer any suspicion 
 to go abroad against her. Archibald rejoiced to find her in this 
 disposition ; and he assured her, that the only method to avoid 
 disgrace, a lawsuit, and ruin, was instantly to pay, or to promise 
 to pay, the money. It was out of her power to pay it ; and she 
 would not promise what she knew she could not perform. 
 
 Archibald redoubled his threats ; the servant stood by his 
 master. The poor woman burst into tears ; but she steadily 
 declared that she was innocent ; and no promise could be ex- 
 torted from her, even in the midst of her terror. Though she 
 had horrible, perhaps not absolutely visionary, ideas of the 
 dangers of a lawsuit, yet she had some confidence in the cer- 
 tainty that justice was on her side. Archibald said, that she 
 might about justice as much as she pleased, but that she 
 must prepare to submit to law. The woman trembled at the 
 sound of these words ; but, though ignorant, she was no fool, 
 and she had a friend in Dr. Campbell’s family, to whom she re- 
 solved to apply in her distress. Henry Campbell had visited her 
 little boy when he was ill, and had made him some small pre- 
 sent ; and, though she did not mean to encroach upon Henry’s 
 good-nature, she thought, that he had so much learnings that he 
 certainly could, without its costing her any thing, put her in 
 the right way to avoid the law, with which she had been 
 threatened by Archibald Mackenzie and his servant. 
 
 Henry heard the story with indignation, such as Forester 
 would have felt in similar circumstances; but prudence tem- 
 pered his enthusiastic feelings ; and prudence renders us able 
 to assist others, whilst enthusiasm frequently defeats its own 
 purposes, and injures those whom it wildly attempts to serve. 
 Henry, knowing the character of Archibald, governed himself 
 accordingly; he made no appeal to his feelings; for he saw 
 that the person must be deficient in humanity, who could have 
 threatened a defenceless woman with such severity ; he did not 
 speak of justice to the tyrannical laird, but spoke of law. He 
 told Archibald, that being thoroughly convinced of the woman’s 
 innocence, he had drawn up a statement of her case, which she, 
 in compliance with his advice, was ready to lay before an ad- 
 vocate, naming the first counsel in Edinburgh. 
 
THE SADDLE AND BRIDLE. 
 
 57 
 
 The young laird repeated, with a mixture of apprehension 
 and suspicion, ‘‘ Drawn up a case ! No ; you can’t know how 
 to draw up cases ; you are not a lawyer — you only say this to 
 bully me.” 
 
 Henry replied, that he was no lawyer; that he could, not- 
 withstanding, state plain facts in such a manner, he hoped, as 
 to make a case intelligible to any sensible lawyer ; that he meant 
 to show what he had written to his father. 
 
 “You’ll show it to me, first, won’t you?” said Archibald, 
 who wished to gain time for consideration. 
 
 Henry put the paper, which he had drawn up, into his hands, 
 and waited with a determined countenance beside him, whilst he 
 perused the case. Archibald saw that Henry had abilities and 
 steadiness to go through with the business ; the facts were so 
 plainly and forcibly stated, that his hopes even from law began 
 to falter. He therefore talked about humanity — said, he pitied 
 the poor woman ; could not bear to think of distressing her ; 
 but that, at the same time, he had urgent occasion for money ; 
 that, if he could even recover five guineas of it, it would be 
 something. He added, that he had debts, which he could not, 
 in honour, delay to discharge. 
 
 Now Henry had five guineas, which he had reserved for the 
 purchase of some additions to his cabinet of mineralogy, and he 
 offered to lend this money to Archibald, to pay the debts that he 
 could not, in honour^ delay to discharge, upon express condition, 
 that he should say nothing more to the poor woman concerning 
 the bank-note. 
 
 To this condition Archibald most willingly acceded ; and as 
 Henry, with generous alacrity, counted the five guineas into his 
 hand, this mean, incorrigible being said to himself, “ What fools 
 these bookish young men are, after all ! Though he can draw 
 up cases so finely, I’ve taken him in at last ; and I wish it were 
 ten guineas instead of five !” 
 
 Fatigued with the recital of the various petty artifices of this 
 avaricious and dissipated young laird, we shall now relieve our- 
 selves, by turning from the history of meanness to that of 
 enthusiasm. The faults of Forester we hope and wish to see 
 
58 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 corrected ; but who can be interested for the selfish Archibald 
 Mackenzie ? 
 
 FORESTER, A CLERK. 
 
 We left Forester when he was just going to offer himself as 
 clerk to a brewer. The brewer was a prudent man ; and he 
 sent one of his porters with a letter to Dr. Campbell, to inform 
 him that a young lad, whom he had formerly seen in company 
 with Mr. Henry Campbell, and who, he understood, was the 
 doctor’s ward, had applied to him, and that he should be very 
 happy to take him into his service, if his friends approved of it, 
 and could properly recommend him. In consequence of Dr. 
 Campbell’s answer to the brewer’s letter. Forester, who knew 
 nothing of the application to his friends, obtained the vacant 
 clerkship. He did not, however, long continue in his new 
 situation. At first he felt happy, when he found himself relieved 
 from the vulgar petulance of Miss M‘Evoy and her brother 
 Colin : in comparison with their rude ill-humours, the clerks 
 who were his companions appeared patterns of civility. By 
 hard experience. Forester was taught to know, that obliging 
 manners in our companions add something to the happiness of 
 our lives. ‘‘ My mind to me a kingdom is,” was once his com- 
 mon answer to all that his friend Henry could urge in favour of 
 the pleasures of society ; but he began now to suspect, that 
 separated from social intercourse, his mind, however enlarged, 
 would afford him but a dreary kingdom. 
 
 He flattered himself, that he could make a friend of the clerk 
 who had found his key : this young man’s name was Richard- 
 son ; he was good-natured, but ignorant ; and neither his educa- 
 tion nor his abilities distinguished him from any other clerk in 
 similar circumstances. Forester invited him to walk to Arthur’s 
 Seat, after the monotonous business of the day was over, but the 
 clerk preferred walking on holidays in Prince ’s-street ; and, 
 after several ineffectual attempts to engage him in moral and 
 metaphysical arguments, our hero discovered the depth of his 
 companion’s ignorance with astonishment. Once, when he 
 
A CLERK. 
 
 59 
 
 found that two of the clerks, to whom he had been talking of 
 Cicero and Pliny, did not know any thing of these celebrated 
 personages, he said, with a sigh, 
 
 “ But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll: 
 
 Chill penury repressed their noble r age, 
 
 And froze the genial current of their soul.” 
 
 The word ‘penury^ in this stanza, the clerks at least under- 
 stood, and it excited their noble rage they hinted, that it ill 
 became a person, who did not dress nearly as well as themselves, 
 to give himself such airs, and to taunt his betters with poverty ; 
 they said that they supposed, because he was an Englishman, 
 as they perceived by his accent, he thought he might insult 
 Scotchmen as he pleased. It was vain for him to attempt any 
 explanation ; their pride and their prejudices combined against 
 him : and, though their dislike to him was not so outrageous as 
 that of the gardener, gentle Colin, yet it was quite sufficient to 
 make him uneasy in his situation. Richardson v/as as steady 
 as could reasonably be expected ; but he showed so little desire 
 to have the ample page ^ rich with the spoils of timef unrolled to 
 
 him, that he excited our young scholar’s contempt. No friend- 
 ships can be more unequal than those between ignorance and 
 knowledge. We pass over the journal of our hero’s hours, 
 which were spent in casting up and verifying accounts ; this 
 occupation, at length he decided, must be extremely injurious 
 to the human understanding : ‘‘ All the higher faculties of my 
 soul,” said he to himself, “ are absolutely useless at this work, 
 and I am reduced to a mere machine.” But there were many 
 other circumstances in the mercantile system^ which Forester had 
 not foreseen, and which shocked him extremely. The con- 
 tinual attention to petty gain, the little artifices which a trades- 
 man thinks himself justifiable in practising upon his customers, 
 could not be endured by his ingenuous mind. One morning the 
 brewery was in an uncommon bustle ; the clerks were all in 
 motion. Richardson told Forester that they expected a visit 
 in a few hours from the gauger and the supervisor, and that 
 they were preparing for their reception. When the nature of 
 
60 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 these preparations was explained to Forester; when he was 
 made to understand that the business and duty of a brewer’s 
 clerk was to assist his master in evading certain clauses in cer- 
 tain acts of parliament ; when he found, that to trick a gauger 
 was thought an excellent joke, he stood in silent moral astonish- 
 ment. He knew about as much of the revenue laws as the 
 clerks did of Cicero and Pliny ; hut his sturdy principles of 
 integrity could not bend to any of the arguments, founded on 
 expediency, which were brought by his companions in their 
 own and their master’s justification. He declared that he must 
 speak to his master upon the subject immediately. His master 
 was as busy as he could possibly be ; and, when Forester in- 
 sisted upon seeing him, he desired that he would speak as 
 quickly as he could, for that he expected the supervisor every 
 instant. Our hero declared, that he could not, consistently 
 with his principles, assist in evading the laws of his country. 
 The brewer stared, and then laughed ; assured him that he had 
 as great a respect for the laws as other people ; that he did 
 nothing but what every person in his situation was obliged to 
 do in their own defence. Forester resolutely persisted in his 
 determination against all clandestine practices. The brewer 
 cut the matter short, by saying, he had not time to argue ; but 
 that he did not choose to keep a clerk who was not in his in- 
 terests ; that he supposed the next thing would be, to betray 
 him to his supervisor. 
 
 “ I am no traitor!” exclaimed Forester; “ I will not stay 
 another instant with a master who suspects me.” 
 
 The brewer suffered him to depart without reluctance ; hut 
 what exasperated Forester the most was the composure of his 
 friend Richardson during this scene, who did not even offer to 
 shake hands with him, when he saw him going out of the 
 house : for Richardson had a good place, and did not choose to 
 quarrel with his master, for a person whom he now verily be- 
 lieved to be, as he had originally suspected, insane. 
 
 ‘‘This is the world! — this is friendship!” said Forester to 
 himself. 
 
 His generous and enthusiastic imagination supplied him with 
 eloquent invectives against human nature, even while he ar- 
 
A CLERK. 
 
 61 
 
 dently desired to serve his fellow-creatures. He wandered 
 through the streets of Edinburgh, indulging himself alternately 
 in misanthropic reflections and benevolent projects. One in- 
 stant, he resolved to study the laws, that he might reform the 
 revenue laws ; the next moment, he recollected his own passion 
 for a desert island, and he regretted that he could not be ship- 
 wrecked in Edinburgh. 
 
 The sound of a squeaking fiddle roused Forester from his 
 reverie ; he looked up, and saw a thin, pale man fiddling to a 
 set of dancing dogs, that he was exhibiting upon the flags, for 
 the amusement of a crowd of men, women, and children. It 
 was a deplorable spectacle ; the dogs appeared so wretched, in 
 the midst of the merriment of the spectators, that Forester’s 
 compassion was moved, and he exclaimed — 
 
 “ Enough, enough ! — They are quite tired ; here are some 
 halfpence !” 
 
 The showman took the halfpence ; but several fresh spec- 
 tators were yet to see the sight; and though the exhausted 
 animals were but little inclined to perform their antic feats, 
 their master twitched the rope, that was fastened round their 
 necks, so violently, that they were compelled to renew their 
 melancholy dance. 
 
 Forester darted forward, stopped the fiddler’s hand, and 
 began an expostulation, not one word of which was understood 
 by the person to whom it was addressed. A stout lad, who was 
 very impatient at this interruption of his diversion, began 
 to abuse Forester, and presently from words he proceeded to 
 blows. 
 
 Forester, though a better orator, was by no means so able a 
 boxer as his opponent. The battle was obstinately fought on 
 both sides; but, at length, our young Quixote received what 
 has no name in heroic language, but in the vulgar tongue is 
 called a black eye ; and, covered with blood and bruises, he was 
 carried by some humane passenger into a neighbouring house. 
 It was a printer and bookseller’s shop. The bookseller treated 
 him with humanity ; and, after advising him not to be so hastily 
 engaged to be the champion of dancing dogs, inquired who he 
 
62 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 was, and whether he had any friends in Edinburgh, to whom he 
 could send. 
 
 This printer, from having been accustomed to converse with 
 a variety of people, was a good judge of the language of gentle- 
 men ; and, though there was nothing else in Forester’s manners 
 which could have betrayed him, he spoke in such good language, 
 that the bookseller was certain that he had received a liberal 
 education. 
 
 Our hero declined telling his history ; but the printer was so 
 well pleased with his conversation, that he readily agreed to 
 give him employment ; and, as soon as he recovered from his 
 bruises. Forester was eager to learn the art of printing. 
 
 ‘‘ The art of printing,” said he, ‘‘ has emancipated mankind, 
 and printers ought to be considered as the most respectable 
 benefactors of the human race.” 
 
 Always warm in his admiration of every new phantom that 
 struck his imagination, he was now persuaded that printers’ 
 devils were angels, and that he should be supremely blessed in 
 a printer’s office. 
 
 What employment so noble !” said he, as he first took the 
 composing-stick in his hand ; “ what employment so noble, as 
 that of disseminating knowledge over the universe ! ” 
 
 FORESTER, A PRINTER. 
 
 It was some time before our hero acquired dexterity in his 
 new trade : his companions formed, with amazing celerity, 
 whole sentences, while he was searching for letters, which per- 
 petually dropped from his awkward hands : but he was ashamed 
 of his former versatility, and he resolved to be steady to his 
 present way of life. His situation, at this printer’s, was far 
 better suited to him than that which he had quitted, with so 
 much disgust, at the brewer’s. He rose early, and, by great 
 industry, overcame all the difficulties which at first so much 
 alarmed him. He soon became the most useful journeyman in 
 the office. His diligence and good behaviour recommended 
 him to his master’s employers. Whenever any work was 
 
A PRINTER. 
 
 63 
 
 brought, Forester was sent for. This occasioned him to he 
 much in the shop, where he heard the conversation of many 
 ingenious men who frequented it ; and he spent his evenings in 
 reading. His understanding had been of late uncultivated ; but 
 the fresh seeds that were now profusely scattered upon the 
 vigorous soil took root, and flourished. 
 
 Forester was just at that time of life when opinions are valued 
 for being new : he heard varieties of the most contradictory 
 assertions in morals, in science, in politics. It is a great advan- 
 tage to a young man to hear opposite arguments, to hear all 
 that can be said upon every subject. 
 
 Forester no longer obstinately adhered to the set of notions 
 which he had acquired from his education ; he heard many, 
 whom he could not think his inferiors in abilities, debating 
 questions which he formerly imagined scarcely admitted of 
 philosophic doubt. His mind became more humble ; but his 
 confidence in his own powers, after having compared himself 
 with numbers, if less arrogant, was more secure and rational : 
 he no longer considered a man as a fool the moment he diflfered 
 with him in opinion ; but he was still a little inclined to esti- 
 mate the abilities of authors by the party to which they be- 
 longed. This failing was increased, rather than diminished, by 
 the company which he now kept. 
 
 Amongst the young students who frequented Mr. ’s, the 
 
 bookseller, was Mr. Thomas , who, from his habit of blurt- 
 
 ing out strange opinions in conversation, acquired the name of 
 Tom Random. His head was confused between politics and 
 poetry ; his arguments were paradoxical, his diction florid, and 
 his gesture something between the spouting action of a player, 
 and the threatening action of a pugilist. 
 
 Forester was caught by the oratory of this genius from the 
 first day he heard him speak. 
 
 Tom Random asserted, that this great globe, and all that it 
 inhabits,” must inevitably be doomed to destruction, unless cer- 
 tain ideas of his own, in the government of the world, were im- 
 mediately adopted by universal acclamation. 
 
 It was not approbation, it was not esteem, which Forester felt 
 for his new friend it was for the first week blind, enthusiastic 
 
64 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 admiration — every tiling that he had seen or heard before ap- 
 peared to him trite and obsolete ; every person who spoke tem- 
 perate common sense he heard with indifference or contempt ; 
 and all who were not zealots in literature, or in politics, he 
 considered as persons whose understandings were so narrow, or 
 whose hearts were so depraved, as to render them ‘‘ unfit to 
 hear themselves convinced.” 
 
 Those who read and converse have a double chance of cor- 
 recting their errors. 
 
 Forester most fortunately, about this time, happened to meet 
 with a hook which in some degree counteracted the inflam- 
 matory effects of Random’s conversation, and which had a happy 
 tendency to sober his enthusiasm, without lessening his pro- 
 pensity to useful exertions : this book was the Life of Dr. 
 Franklin. 
 
 The idea that this great man began by being a printer in- 
 terested our hero in his history ; and whilst he followed him, 
 step by step, through his instructive narrative. Forester sympa- 
 thized in his feelings, and observed how necessary the smaller 
 virtues of order, economy, industry, and patience were to Frank- 
 lin’s great character and splendid success. He began to hope 
 that it would be possible to do good to his fellow-creatures, 
 without overturning all existing institutions. 
 
 About this time another fortunate coincidence happened in 
 Forester’s education. One evening his friend, Tom Ran- 
 dom, who was printing a pamphlet, came, with a party of 
 
 his companions, into Mr. , the bookseller’s shop, enraged 
 
 at the decision of a prize in a literary society to which they 
 belonged. 
 
 All the young partisans who surrounded Mr. Random loudly 
 declared that he had been treated with the most flagrant injus- 
 tice ; and the author himself was too angry to affect any modesty 
 upon the occasion. 
 
 ‘‘ Would you believe it?” said he to Forester — ‘‘my essay 
 has not been thought worthy of the prize ! The medal has 
 been given to the most wretched, tame, commonplace perform- 
 ance you ever saw. Every thing in this world is done by cor- 
 ruption, by party, by secret influence ! ” 
 
A PRINTER. 
 
 65 
 
 At every pause the irritated author wiped his forehead, and 
 Forester sympathized in his feelings. 
 
 In the midst of the author’s exclamations, a messenger came 
 with the manuscript of the prize essay, and with the orders of 
 the society to have a certain number of copies printed off with 
 all possible expedition. 
 
 Random snatched up the manuscript, and, with all the fury 
 of criticism, began to read aloud some of the passages which he 
 disliked. 
 
 Though it was marred in the reading. Forester could not 
 agree with his angry friend in condemning the performance. It 
 appeared to him excellent writing and excellent sense. 
 
 ‘‘ Print it — print it then, as fast as you can — that is your 
 business — that’s what you are paid for. Every one for him- 
 self,” cried Random, insolently throwing the manuscript at 
 Forester; and, as he flung out of the shop with his companions, 
 he added, with a contemptuous laugh, ‘‘ A printer’s devil setting 
 up for a critic ! He may be a capital judge of pica and bre- 
 vier, perhaps — ^but let not the compositor go beyond his stick.” 
 Is this the man,” said Forester, “ whom I have heard so 
 eloquent in the praise of candour and liberality ? Is this the 
 man who talks of universal toleration and freedom of opinion, 
 and who yet cannot hear that any one should differ from him 
 in criticising a sentence? Is this the man who would have 
 equality amongst all his fellow-creatures, and who calls a com- 
 positor a printer’s devil ? Is this the man who cants about the 
 pre-eminence of mind and the perfections of intellect^ and yet now 
 takes advantage of his rank, of his supporters, of the cry of his 
 partisans, to bear down the voice of reason ? — ‘ Let not the com- 
 positor go beyond his composing-stick ! ’ — And why not ? why 
 should not he be a judge of writing?” At this reflection. 
 Forester eagerly took up the manuscript, which had been flung 
 at his feet. All his indignant feelings instantly changed into 
 delightful exultation — he saw the hand — he read the name of 
 Henry Campbell. The title of the manuscript was, “ An Essay 
 on the best Method of reforming Abuses ^ This was the subject 
 proposed by the society ; and Henry had written upon the 
 question with so much moderation, and yet with such unequi- 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 vocal decision had shown himself the friend of rational liberty, 
 that all the members of the society who were not borne away 
 by their prejudices were unanimous in their preference of this 
 performance. 
 
 Random’s declamation only inflamed the minds of his own 
 partisans. Good judges of writing exclaimed, as they read it. 
 
 This is all very fine ; but what would this man be at ? His 
 violence hurts the cause he wishes to support,” 
 
 Forester read Henry Campbell’s essay with all the avidity of 
 friendship ; he read it again and again — his generous soul was 
 incapable of envy ; and whilst he admired, he was convinced by 
 the force of reason. 
 
 His master desired that he would set about the essay early in 
 the morning ; but his eagerness for his friend Henry’s fame 
 was such, that he sat up above half the night hard at work at 
 it. He was indefatigable the next day at the business ; and as 
 all hands were employed on the essay, it was finished that 
 evening. 
 
 Forester rubhed his hands with delight, when he had set the 
 name of Henry Campbell in the title-page — but an instant after- 
 wards he sighed bitterly. 
 
 I am only a printer,” said he to himself. These just 
 arguments, these noble ideas, will instruct and charm hundreds 
 of my fellow-creatures : no one will ever ask, ‘ Who set the 
 types?’ ” 
 
 His reflections weve interrupted by the entrance of Tom Ran- 
 dom and two of his partisans : he was extremely displeased to 
 find that the printers had not been going on with his pamphlet ; 
 his personal disappointments seemed to increase the acrimony 
 of his zeal for the public good : he declaimed upon politics — 
 upon the necessity for the immediate publication of his senti- 
 ments, for the salvation of the state. His action was suited to 
 his words : violent and blind to consequences, with one sudden 
 kick, designed to express his contempt for the opposite party, 
 this political Alnaschar unfortunately overturned the form 
 which contained the types for the newspaper of the next day, 
 which was just going to the press — a newspaper in which he had 
 written splendid paragraphs. 
 
A PRINTER. 
 
 67 
 
 Forester, happily for his philosophy, recollected the account 
 which Franklin, in his history of his own life, gives of the 
 patience with which he once bore a similar accident. The 
 printers, with secret imprecations against oratory, or at least 
 against those orators who think that action is every thing, set to 
 work again to repair the mischief. 
 
 Forester, much fatigued, at length congratulated himself upon 
 having finished his hard day’s work, when a man from the shop 
 came to inquire whether three hundred cards, which had been 
 ordered the week before to he printed off, were finished. The 
 man to whom the order was given had forgotten it, and he was 
 going home : he decidedly answered, “ No ; the cards can’t be 
 done till to-morrow : we have left work for this night, thank 
 God.” 
 
 “ The gentleman says he must have them,” expostulated the 
 messenger. 
 
 He mt/st not, he cannot have them. I would not print a 
 card for his majesty at this time of night,” replied the sullen 
 workman, throwing his hat upon his head, in token of de- 
 parture. 
 
 “ What are these cards?” said Forester. 
 
 ‘‘ Only a dancing-master’s cards for his hall,” said the printer’s 
 journeyman. I’ll not work beyond my time for any dancing- 
 master that wears a head.” 
 
 The messenger then said, that he was desired to ask for the 
 manuscript card. 
 
 This card was hunted for all over the room; and, at last. 
 Forester found it under a heap of refuse papers : his eye was 
 caught with the name of his old friend, Monsieur Pasgrave, the 
 dancing-master, whom he had formerly frightened by the skeleton 
 with the fiery eyes. 
 
 ‘‘ I will print the cards for him myself; I am not at all 
 tired,” cried Forester, who was determined to make some little 
 amends for the injury which he had formerly done to the poor 
 dancing-master. He resolved to print the cards for nothing, 
 and he stayed up very late to finish them. His companions all 
 left him, for they were in a great hurry to see, what in Edin- 
 burgh is a rare sight, the town illuminated. 
 
 F 2 
 
GS 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 These illuminations were upon account of some great naval 
 victory. 
 
 Forester, steady to Monsieur Pasgrave’s cards, did what no 
 other workman would have done ; he finished for him, on this 
 night of public joy, his three hundred cards. Every now and 
 then, as he was quietly at work, he heard the loud huzzas in the 
 street : his waning candle sunk in the socket, as he had just 
 packed up his work. 
 
 By the direction at the bottom of the cards, he learned where 
 M. Pasgrave lodged, and, as he was going out to look at the 
 illuminations, he resolved to leave them himself at the dancing- 
 master’s house. 
 
 THE ILLUMINATIONS. 
 
 The illuminations were really beautiful. He went up to the 
 Castle, whence he saw a great part of the Old Town, and all 
 Prince ’s-street, lighted up in the most splendid manner. He 
 crossed the Earth-mound into Prince ’s-street. Walking down 
 Prince’s-street, he saw a crowd of people gathered before the 
 large illuminated window of a confectioner’s shop. As he ap- 
 proached nearer, he distinctly heard the voice of Tom Random, 
 who was haranguing the moh. The device and motto which 
 the confectioner displayed in his window displeased this gentle- 
 man, who, beside his public-spirited abhorrence of all men of a 
 party opposite to his own, had likewise private cause of dislike 
 to this confectioner, who had refused him his daughter in 
 marriage. 
 
 It was part of Random’s new system of political justice to re- 
 venge his own quarrels. 
 
 The mob, who are continually, without knowing it, made the 
 instruments of private malice, when they think they are acting 
 in a public cause, readily joined in Tom Random’s cry of 
 “ Down with the motto ! Down with the motto ! ” 
 
 Forester, who, by his lesson from the dancing dogs, had 
 learned a little prudence, and who had just printed Henry 
 Campbell’s Essay on the best Means of reforming Abuses, did 
 not mix with the rabble, but joined in the entreaties of some 
 
THE ILLUMINATIONS. 
 
 69 
 
 peaceable passengers, who prayed that the poor man’s windows 
 might be spared. The windows were, notwithstanding, demo- 
 lished with a terrible crash, and the crowd, then alarmed at the 
 mischief they had done, began to disperse. The constables, 
 who had been sent for, appeared. Tom Random was taken 
 into custody. Forester was pursuing his way to the dancing- 
 master’s, when one of the officers of justice exclaimed, ‘‘ Stop ! 
 — stop him ! — ^he’s one of ’em : he’s a great friend of Mr. Ran- 
 dom : I’ve seen him often parading arm in arm in High-street 
 with him.” 
 
 This, alas! was too true: the constables seized Forester, and 
 put him, with Tom Random, and the ringleader of the riot, into 
 a place of confinement for the night. 
 
 Poor Forester, who was punished for the faults of his former 
 friend and present enemy, had, during this long night, leisure 
 for much wholesome reflection upon the danger of forming im- 
 prudent intimacies. He resolved never to walk again in High- 
 street arm in arm with such a man as Tom Random. 
 
 The constables were rather hasty in the conclusion they drew 
 from this pr.esumptive evidence. 
 
 Our hero, who felt the disgrace of his situation, was not a 
 little astonished at Tom Random’s consoling himself with drink- 
 ing instead of philosophy. The sight of this enthusiast, when 
 he had completely intoxicated himself, was a disgusting but 
 useful spectacle to our indignant hero. Forester was shocked 
 at the union of gross vice and rigid pretensions to virtue : he 
 could scarcely believe that the reeling, stammering idiot whom 
 he now beheld was the same being from whose lips he had 
 heard declamations upon the omnipotence of intellect — from whose 
 pen he had seen projects for the government of empires. 
 
 The dancing-master, who, in the midst of the illuminations, 
 had regretted that his cards could not be printed, went early in 
 the morning to inquire about them at the printer’s. 
 
 The printer had learnt that one of his boys was taken up 
 amongst the rioters : he was sorry to find that Forester had 
 gotten himself into such a scrape : but he was a very cautious 
 snug man, and he did not choose to interfere : he left him 
 quietly to be dealt with according to law. 
 
70 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 The dancing-master, however, was interested in finding him 
 out, because he was informed that Forester had sat up almost 
 all night to print his cards, and that he had them now in his 
 pocket. 
 
 M. Pasgrave at length gained admittance to him in his con- 
 finement : the officers of justice were taking him and Random 
 
 before Mr. W , a magistrate, with whom informations had 
 
 been lodged by the confectioner, who had suffered in his 
 windows. 
 
 Pasgrave, when he beheld Forester, was surprised to such a 
 degree, that he could scarcely finish his bow, or express his 
 astonishment, either in French or English. Eh, monsieur ! 
 mon Dieu ! bon Dieu ! I beg ten million pardons — I am come 
 to search for a printer who has my cards in his pocket.” 
 
 ‘‘Here are your cards,” said Forester: “let me speak a few 
 words to you.” He took M. Pasgrave aside. “ I perceive,” 
 said he, “ that you have discovered who I am. Though in the 
 service of a printer, I have still as much the feelings and prin- 
 ciples of a gentleman as I had when you saw me in Dr. Camp- 
 bell’s house. I have particular reasons for being anxious to 
 remain undiscovered by Dr. Campbell, or any of his family : 
 you may depend upon it that my reasons are not dishonourable. 
 I request that you will not, upon any account, betray me to that 
 family. I am going before a magistrate, and am accused of 
 being concerned in a riot, which I did every thing in my power 
 to prevent.” 
 
 “Ah! monsieur,” interrupted the dancing-master, “but you 
 see de grand inconvenience of concealing your rank and name. 
 You, who are comme il faut, are confounded with the mob : 
 
 permit me at least to follow’ you to Mr. W , the magistrate : 
 
 I have de honneur to teach les demoiselles his daughters to 
 dance ; dey are to be at my ball — dey take one half dozen 
 tickets. I must call dere wid my cards ; and I shall, if you will 
 give me leave, accompany you now, and mention dat I know 
 you to be un homme comme il faut, above being guilty of an 
 unbecoming action. I flatter myself I have some interest wid de 
 ladies of de family, and dat dey will do me de favour to speak 
 to monsieur leur cher pere sur votre compte.” 
 
THE ILLUMINATIONS. 
 
 71 
 
 Forester thanked the good-natured dancing-master, hut he 
 proudly said, that he should trust to his own innocence for his 
 defence. 
 
 M. Pasgrave, who had seen something more of the world than 
 our hero, and who was interested for him, because he had once 
 made him a present of an excellent violin, and because he had 
 sat up half the night to print the ball cards, resolved not to 
 leave him entirely to his innocence for a defence : he followed 
 
 Forester to Mr. W ’s. The magistrate was a slow, pompous 
 
 man, by no means a good physiognomist, much less a good 
 judge of character. He was proud of his authority, and glad to 
 display the small portion of legal knowledge which he possessed. 
 As soon as he was informed that some young men were brought 
 before him, who had been engaged the preceding night in a 
 riotj he put on all his magisterial terrors, and assured the con- 
 fectioner, who had a private audience of him, that he should 
 have justice, and that the person or persons concerned in 
 breaking his window or windows should he punished with the 
 utmost severity that the law would allow. Contrary to the 
 humane spirit of the British law, which supposes every man to 
 he innocent till it is proved that he is guilty, this harsh magis- 
 trate presumed that every man who was brought before him was 
 guilty till he was proved to be innocent. Forester’s appearance 
 was not in his favour : he had been up all night ; his hair was 
 dishevelled ; his linen was neither fine nor white ; his shoes were 
 thick-soled and dirty ; his coat was that in which he had been 
 at work at the printer’s the preceding day ; it w^as in several 
 places daubed with printers’ ink ; and his unwashed hands be- 
 spoke his trade. Of all these circumstances the slow circumspect 
 eye of the magistrate took cognizance one by one. Forester 
 observed the effect which this survey produced upon his judge ; 
 and he felt that appearances were against him', and that appear- 
 ances are sometimes of consequence. After having estimated 
 his poverty by these external symptoms, the magistrate looked, 
 for the first time, in his face, and pronounced that he had one 
 of the worst countenances he ever beheld. This judgment once 
 pronounced, he proceeded to justify, by wresting to the pri- 
 soner’s disadvantage every circumstance that appeared. Fo- 
 
72 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Tester’s having been frequently seen in Tom Random’s company 
 was certainly against him : the confectioner perpetually repeated 
 that they were constant companions ; that they were intimate 
 friends ; that they were continually walking together every 
 Sunday ; and that they often had come arm in arai into his 
 shop, talking politics; that he believed Forester to he of the 
 same way of thinking with Mr. Random ; and that he saw him 
 close behind him, at the moment the stones were thrown that 
 broke the windows. It appeared that Mr. Random was at that 
 time active in encouraging the mob. To oppose the angry con- 
 fectioner’s conjectural evidence, the lad who threw the stone, 
 and who was now produced, declared that Forester held back 
 his arm, and said, My good lad, don’t break this man’s win- 
 dows : go home quietly ; here’s a shilling for you.” The person 
 who gave this honest testimony, in whom there was a strange 
 mixture of the love of mischief and the spirit of generosity, was 
 the very lad who fought with Forester, and beat him, about the 
 dancing dogs. He whispered to Forester, ‘‘ Do you remember 
 me? I hope you don’t hear malice.” The magistrate, who 
 heard this whisper, immediately construed it to the prisoner’s 
 disadvantage. Then, sir,” said he, addressing himself to our 
 hero, this gentleman, I understand, claims acquaintance with 
 you ; his acquaintance really does you honour, and speaks 
 strongly in favour of your character. If I mistake not, this is 
 the lad whom I sent to the Tolbooth, some little time ago, for a 
 misdemeanour ; and he is not, I apprehend, a stranger to the 
 stocks.” 
 
 Forester commanded his temper as well as he was able, and 
 observed, that whatever might be the character of the young 
 man who had spoken in his favour, his evidence would, perhaps, 
 be thought to deserve some credit, when the circumstances of 
 his acquaintance with the witness were known. He then re- 
 lated the adventure of the dancing dogs, and remarked, that the 
 testimony of an enemy came with double force in his favour. 
 The language and manner in which Forester spoke surprised all 
 who were present ; hut the history of the dancing dogs appeared 
 so ludicrous and so improbable, that the magistrate decidedly 
 pronounced it to be ‘‘a fabrication, a story invented to conceal 
 
THE ILLUMINATIONS. 
 
 73 
 
 the palpable collusion of the witnesses.” Yet, though he one 
 moment declared that he did not believe the story, he the next 
 inferred from it, that Forester was disposed to riot and sedition, 
 since he was ready to fight with a vagabond in the streets for 
 the sake of a parcel of dancing dogs. 
 
 M. Pasgrave, in the meantime, had, with great good-nature, 
 been representing Forester in the best light he possibly could to 
 the young ladies, the magistrate’s daughters. One of them sent 
 to beg to speak to their father. M. Pasgrave judiciously dwelt 
 upon his assurances of Forester’s being a gentleman : he told 
 
 Mr. W that he had met him in one of the best families in 
 
 Edinburgh ; that he knew he had some private reasons for con- 
 cealing that he was a gentleman : “ perhaps the young gentle- 
 man was reduced to temporary distress,” he said; but whatever 
 might be these reasons, M. Pasgrave vouched for his having 
 very respectable friends and connexions. The magistrate wished 
 to know the family in which M. Pasgrave had met Forester; but 
 he was, according to his promise, impenetrable on this subject 
 His representations had, however, the desired effect upon Mr. 
 
 W : when he returned to the examination of our hero, his 
 
 opinion of his countenance somewhat varied ; he despatched his 
 other business ; bailed Tom Random on high sureties ; and, 
 when Forester was the only person that remained, he turned to 
 him with great solemnity ; bade him sit down ; informed him 
 that he knew him to be a gentleman ; that he was greatly con- 
 cerned that a person like him, who had respectable friends and 
 connexions, should involve himself in such a disagreeable affair ; 
 that it was a matter of grief and surprise to him, to see a young 
 gentleman in such apparel ; that he earnestly recommended to 
 him to accommodate matters with his friends ; and, above all 
 things, to avoid the company of seditious persons. Much good 
 advice, but in a dictatorial tone, and in cold, pompous language, 
 he bestowed upon the prisoner, and at length dismissed him. 
 
 How different,” said Forester to himself, “ is this man’s method 
 of giving advice from Dr. Campbell’s !” 
 
 This lesson strongly impressed, however, upon our hero’s 
 mind the belief, that external appearance, dress, manners, and 
 the company we keep, are the usual circumstances by which the 
 
74 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 world judge of character and conduct. When he was dismissed 
 
 from Mr. W ’s august presence, the first thing he did was 
 
 to inquire for Pasgrave : he was giving the magistrate’s daugh- 
 ters a lesson, and could not be interrupted; hut Forester left a 
 note for him, requesting to see him at ten o’clock the next day, 
 
 at Mr. , the bookseller’s. New mortifications awaited our 
 
 hero : on his return to his master’s, he was very coldly re- 
 ceived ; Mr. let him know, in unqualified terms, that he 
 
 did not like to employ any one in his work who got into quarrels 
 at night in the public streets. Forester’s former favour with his 
 master, his industry and talents, were not considered without 
 envy by the rest of the journeymen printers ; and they took 
 advantage of his absence to misrepresent him to the bookseller : 
 however, when Forester came to relate his own story, his master 
 was convinced that he was not to blame ; that he had worked 
 extremely hard the preceding day ; and that, far from having 
 been concerned in a riot, he had done every thing in his power 
 to prevent mischief. He desired to see the essay, which was 
 printed with so much expedition : it was in the hands of the 
 corrector of the press. The sheets were sent for, and the book- 
 seller was in admiration at the extraordinary correctness with 
 which it was printed ; the corrector of the press scarcely had 
 occasion to alter a word, a letter, or a stop. There was a quo- 
 tation in the manuscript from Juvenal. Henry Campbell had, 
 by mistake, omitted to name the satire and line, and the author 
 from which it was taken, though he had left a blank in which 
 they were to be inserted. The corrector of the press, though a 
 literary gentleman, was at a stand. Forester immediately knew 
 where to look for the passage in the original author : he found 
 it, and inserted the book and line in their proper place. His 
 master did not suffer this to pass unobserved ; he hinted to him, 
 that it was a pity a young man of his abilities and knowledge 
 should waste his time in the mere technical drudgery of printing. 
 “I should be glad now,” continued the bookseller, ‘‘to employ 
 you as a corrector of the press, and to advance you, according 
 to your merits, in the world; glancing his eye at Forester’s 
 dress, “ you must give me leave to say, that some attention to 
 outward appearance is necessary in our business. Gentlemen 
 
A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS. 
 
 75 
 
 call here, as you well know, continually, and I like to have the 
 people about me make a creditable appearance. You have 
 earned money since you have been with me — surely you can 
 afford yourself a decent suit of clothes and a cleaner shirt. I 
 beg your pardon for speaking so freely ; but I really have a re- 
 gard for you, and wish to see you get forward in life.” 
 
 FORESTER, A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Forester had not, since he left Dr. Campbell’s, been often 
 spoken to in a tone of friendship. The bookseller’s well-meant 
 frank remonstrance made its just impression ; and he resolved 
 to make the necessary additions to his wardrobe ; nay, he even 
 went to a hair-dresser, to have his hair cut and brought into 
 decent order. His companions, the printers, had not been 
 sparing in their remarks upon the meanness of his former ap- 
 parel, and Forester pleased himself with anticipating the respect 
 they would feel for him, when he should appear in better clothes. 
 ‘‘ Can such trifles,” said he to himself, make such a change in 
 the opinion of my fellow-creatures ? And why should I fight 
 with the world for trifles ? My real merit is neither increased 
 nor diminished by the dress I may happen to wear ; but I see, 
 that unless I waste all my life in combating the prejudices of 
 superficial observers, I should avoid all those peculiarities in 
 my external appearance which prevent whatever good qualities 
 I have from obtaining their just respect.” He was surprised at 
 the blindness of his companions, who could not discover his 
 merit through the roughness of his manners and the disadvan- 
 tages of his dress ; but he determined to shine out upon them 
 in the superior dress and character of a corrector of the press. 
 He went to a tailor’s, and bespoke a suit of clothes. He bought 
 new linen ; and our readers will perhaps hear with surprise, that 
 he actually began to consider very seriously whether he should 
 not take a few lessons in dancing. He had learned to dance 
 formerly, and was not naturally either inactive or awkward : 
 but his contempt for the art prevented him, for some years, from 
 practising it ; and he had nearly forgotten his wonted agility. 
 Henry Campbell once, when Forester was declaiming against 
 
76 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 dancing, told him, that if he had learned to dance, and excelled 
 in the art, his contempt for the trifling accomplishment would 
 have more effect upon the minds of others, because it could not 
 he mistaken for envy. This remark made a deep impression 
 upon our hero, especially as he observed that his friend Henry 
 was not in the least vain of his personal graces, and had culti- 
 vated his understanding, though he could dance a Scotch reel. 
 Scotch reels were associated in Forester’s imagination with Flora 
 Campbell; and in balancing the arguments for and against 
 learning to dance, the recollection of Archibald Mackenzie’s 
 triumphant look, when he led her away as his partner at the 
 famous ball, had more influence perhaps upon Forester’s mind 
 than his pride and philosophy apprehended. He began to have 
 some confused design of returning, at some distant period, to 
 his friends ; and he had hopes that he should appear in a more 
 amiable light to Flora, after he had perfected himself in an ac- 
 complishment which he fancied she admired prodigiously. His 
 esteem for that lady was rather diminished by this belief ; but 
 still a sufficient quantity remained to excite in him a strong 
 ambition to please. The agony he felt the night he left the 
 hall-room was such, that he could not even now recollect the 
 circumstances without confusion and anguish of mind. His hands 
 were now such as could appear without gloves ; and he resolved 
 to commence the education of his feet. 
 
 M. Pasgrave called upon him, in consequence of the message 
 which he left at the magistrate’s : his original design in sending 
 for the dancing-master was to offer him some acknowledgment 
 for his obliging conduct. ‘‘ M. Pasgrave,” said he, ‘‘you have 
 behaved towards me like a man of honour ; you have kept my 
 secret ; I am convinced that you will continue to keep it in- 
 violate.” As he spoke, he produced a ten-guinea bank-note, 
 for at length he had prevailed upon himself to have recourse to 
 his pocket-book, which, till this day, had remained unopened. 
 Pasgrave stared at the sight of the note, and withdrew his hand 
 at first, when it was offered ; but he yielded at length, when 
 Forester assured him that he was not in any distress, and that 
 he could perfectly well afford to indulge his feelings of grati- 
 tude. “Nay,” continued Forester, who, if he had not always 
 
A CORRECTOR OF THE PRESS. 
 
 77 
 
 practised the maxims of politeness, notwithstanding possessed 
 that generosity of mind and good sense on which real politeness 
 must depend — “ you shall not be under any obligation to me, 
 M. Pasgrave : I am just going to ask a favour from you. You 
 must teach me to dance.” “ Wid de utmost pleasure,” ex- 
 claimed the delighted dancing-master ; and the hours of his 
 attendance were soon settled. Whatever Forester attempted, 
 he pursued with energy. M. Pasgrave, after giving him a few 
 lessons, prophesied that he would do him infinite credit ; and 
 Forester felt a secret pride in the idea that he should sur- 
 prise his friends, some time or other, with his new accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 He continued in the bookseller’s service, correcting the press 
 for him, much to his satisfaction ; and the change in his personal 
 appearance pleased his master, as it showed attention to his 
 advice. Our hero, from time to time, exercised his talents in 
 writing ; and, as he inserted his compositions under a fictitious 
 signature, in his master’s newspaper, he had an opportunity of 
 hearing the most unprejudiced opinions of a variety of critics, 
 who often came to read the papers at their house. He stated, 
 in short essays, some of those arguments concerning the ad- 
 vantages and disadvantages of politeness, luxury, the love of 
 society, misanthropy, &c., which had formerly passed between 
 him and Henry Campbell ; and he listened to the remarks that 
 were made upon each side of the question. How it happened, 
 we know not ; but after he had taken lessons for about six 
 weeks from M. Pasgrave, he became extremely solicitous to have 
 a solution of all his Stoical doubts, and to furnish himself with 
 the best possible arguments in favour of civilized society. He 
 could not bear the idea that he yielded his opinions to any 
 thing less than strict demonstration : he drew up a list of queries, 
 which concluded with the following question : — “ What should 
 he the distinguishing characteristics of the higher classes of 
 people in society?” This query was answered in one of the 
 
 public papers, a few days after it appeared in Mr. ’s paper, 
 
 and the answer was signed H. C.y a Friend to Society, Even 
 without these initials. Forester would easily have discovered it 
 to be Henry CanipbeU’s writing ; and several strokes seemed to 
 
78 
 
 FORESTER, 
 
 be SO particularly addressed to him, that he could not avoid 
 thinking Henry had discovered the querist. The impression 
 which arguments make upon the mind varies with time and 
 change of situation. Those arguments in favour of subordina- 
 tion in society, in favour of agreeable manners, and attention to 
 the feelings of others in the small as well as in the great con- 
 cerns of life, which our hero had heard with indifference from 
 Dr. Campbell and Henry in conversation, struck him, when he 
 saw them in a printed essay, with all the force of conviction ; 
 and he wondered how it had happened that he never before per- 
 ceived them to be conclusive. 
 
 He put the newspaper, which contained this essay, in his 
 pocket ; and, after he had finished his day’s work, and had taken 
 his evening lesson from M. Pasgrave, he went out with an in- 
 tention of going to a favourite spot upon Arthur’s Seat, to read 
 the essay again at his leisure. 
 
 But he was stopped at the turn from the North Bridge, into 
 High-street, by a scavenger’s cart. The scavenger, with his 
 broom which had just swept the High-street, was clearing away 
 a heap of mud. Two gentlemen on horseback, who were riding 
 like postilions, came up during this operation — Sir Philip Gos- 
 ling and Archibald Mackenzie. Forester had his back towards 
 them, and he never looked round, because he was too intent 
 upon his own thoughts. Archibald was mounted upon Sawney, 
 the horse which he had so fairly won from his friend Sir Philip. 
 The half-guinea which had been promised to the hostler had not 
 yet been paid ; and the hostler, determined to revenge himself 
 upon Archibald, invented an ingenious method of gratifying his 
 resentment. He taught Sawney to rear and plunge whenever 
 his legs were touched by the broom with which the stables were 
 swept. When Sawney was perfectly well trained to this trick, 
 the cunning hostler communicated his design, and related his 
 cause of complaint against Archibald, to a scavenger, who was 
 well known at the livery stables. The scavenger entered into 
 his friend the hostler’s feeling, and promised to use his broom 
 in his cause, whenever a convenient and public opportunity 
 should offer. The hour of retribution was now arrived : the 
 scavenger saw his young gentleman in full glory, mounted upon 
 
A CORRECTOR OF THE TRESS. 
 
 79 
 
 Sawney ; he kept his eye upon him, whilst, in company with 
 the baronet, he came over the North Bridge : there was a stop, 
 from the meeting of carts and carriages. The instant Archibald 
 came within reach of the broom, the scavenger slightly touched 
 Sawney’s legs ; Sawney plunged and reared, and reared and 
 plunged. The scavenger stood grinning at the sight. Forester 
 attempted to seize the horse’s bridle ; but Sawney, who seemed 
 determined upon the point, succeeded. When Forester snatched 
 at his bridle, he reared, then plunged ; and Archibald Mackenzie 
 was fairly lodged in the scavenger’s cart. Whilst the well- 
 dressed laird floundered in the mud. Forester gave the horse to 
 the servant, who had now ridden up ; and, satisfied that Mac- 
 kenzie had received no material injury, inquired no further. 
 He turned to assist a poor washerwoman, who was lifting a large 
 basket of clean linen into her house, to get it out of the way of 
 the cart. As soon as he had helped her to lift the basket into 
 her passage, he was retiring, when he heard a voice at the back- 
 door, which was at the other end of the passage. It was the 
 voice of a child ; and he listened, for he thought he had heard 
 it before. ‘‘The door is locked,” said the washerwoman. “I 
 know who it is that is knocking ; it is only a little girl who is 
 coming for a cap which I have there in the basket.” The door 
 was unlocked, and Forester saw the little girl to whom the fine 
 geranium belonged. VV'hat a number of ideas she recalled to 
 his mind ! She looked at him, and hesitated, courtesied, then 
 turned away, as if she was afraid she was mistaken, and asked 
 the washerwoman if she had plaited her grandmother’s cap. The 
 woman searched in her basket, and produced the cap nicely 
 plaited. The little girl, in the meantime, considered Forester 
 with anxious attention. “I believe,” said she, timidly, “you 
 are, or you are very like, the gentleman who was so good as 
 
 to ” “ Yes,” interrupted Forester, “ I know what you mean. 
 
 I am the man who went with you to try to obtain justice from 
 your tyrannical schoolmistress: I did not do you any good. 
 
 Have you seen — ^have you heard any thing of ?” Such a 
 
 variety of recollections pressed upon Forester’s heart, that he 
 could not pronounce the name of Henry Campbell; and he 
 changed his question. “Is your old grandmother recovered?” 
 
80 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 “ She is quite well, thank you, sir ; and she is grown young again, 
 since you saw her : perhaps you don’t know how good Mr. 
 Henry and the young lady have been to us. We don’t live 
 now in that little, close, dark room at the watchmaker’s. We 
 are as happy, sir, as the day is long.” “But what of Henry? 
 
 what of ?” “ Oh, sir ! but if you are not very busy, or in 
 
 a great hurry — it is but a little way off — if you could come and 
 look at our new house — I don’t mean our house, for it is not 
 ours ; but we take care of it, and we have two little rooms to 
 ourselves ; and Mr. Henry and Miss Flora very often come to 
 see us. I wish you could come to see how nice our rooms are ! 
 The house is not far off, only at the back of the Meadows.” 
 “ Go, show me the way — I’ll follow you,” said Forester, after 
 he had satisfied himself that there was no danger of his meeting 
 any of Dr. Campbell’s family. 
 
 THE MEADOWS. 
 
 Our hero accompanied the little girl with eager, benevolent 
 curiosity. “ There,” said she, when they came to the Meadows, 
 “ do you see that white house, with the paling before it?” 
 “ But that cannot be your house !” “ No, no, sir: Dr. Camp- 
 bell and several gentlemen have the large room, and they come 
 there twice a-week to teach something to a great many children. 
 Grandmother can explain all that better to you, sir, than I can ; 
 but all I know is, that it is our business to keep the room aired 
 and swept, and to take care of the glass things which you’ll 
 see ; and you shall see how clean it is : it was I swept it this 
 morning.” 
 
 They had now reached the gate which was in the paling 
 before the house. The old woman came to the door, clean, 
 neat, and cheerful; she recollected to have seen Forester in 
 company with Henry Campbell at the watchmaker’s ; and this 
 was suflftcient to make him a welcome guest. “ God bless the 
 family, and all that belongs to them, for ever and ever!” said 
 the woman. “ This way, sir.” “ Oh, don’t look into our little 
 rooms yet : look at the great room first, if you please, sir,” said 
 the child. 
 
THE MEADOWS. 
 
 81 
 
 There was a large table in the middle of this long room, and 
 several glass retorts, and other chemical vessels, were ranged 
 upon shelves ; wooden benches were placed on each side of the 
 table. The grandmother, to whom the little girl had referred 
 for a clear explanation, could not, however, tell Forester very 
 exactly the use of the retorts ; but she informed him that many 
 of the manufacturers in Edinburgh sent their sons hither twice 
 a-week ; and Dr. Campbell, and Mr. Henry Campbell, and 
 some other gentlemen, came by turns to instruct them. Forester 
 recollected now that he once heard Henry talking to his father 
 about a scheme for teaching the children of the manufacturers 
 of Edinburgh some knowledge of chemistry, such as they might 
 afterwards apply advantageously to the arts and every-day busi- 
 ness of life. 
 
 “ I have formed projects, but what good have I ever actually 
 done to my fellow-creatures ?” said Forester to himself. With 
 melancholy steps he walked to examine every thing in the room. 
 ‘‘ Dr. Campbell sits in this arm-chair, does not he ? And where 
 does Henry sit?” The old woman placed the chairs for him 
 as they usually were placed. Upon one of the shelves there 
 was a slate, which, as it had been written upon, the little girl 
 had put by very carefully ; there were some calculations upon 
 the weight of different gases, and the figures Forester knew to 
 he Henry’s : he looked at every thing that was Henry’s with 
 pleasure. “ Because I used to he so rough in my manner to 
 him,” said Forester to himself, ‘‘ I dare say that he thinks I 
 have no feeling, and I suppose he has forgotten me by this 
 time : I deserve, indeed, to be forgotten by every body ! How 
 could I leave such friends ! ” On the other side of the slate 
 poor Forester saw his own name written several times over, in 
 his friend’s hand-writing, and he read two lines of his own 
 poetry, which he remembered to have repeated to Henry the 
 day that they walked to Arthur’s Seat. Forester felt much 
 pleasure from this little proof of his friend’s affection. “ Now 
 won’t you look at our nice rooms ?” said the child, who had 
 waited with some patience till he had done pondering upon the 
 slate. 
 
 The little rooms were well arranged, and their neatness was 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 not now as much lost upon our hero as it would have been some 
 time before. The old woman and her grand-daughter, with all 
 the pride of gratitude, exhibited to him several little presents 
 of furniture which they had received from Dr. Campbell’s family. 
 
 Mr. Henry gave me this ! Miss Flora gave me that ! ” was 
 frequently repeated. The little girl opened the door of her 
 own room. On a clean white deal bracket, which “ Mr. Henry 
 had put up with his own hands” stood the well-known geranium 
 in its painted flower-pot. Forester saw nothing elise in the 
 room, and it was in vain that both the old woman and her 
 grand-daughter talked to him at once ; he heard not a word that 
 was said to him. The flowers were all gone, and the brown 
 calyces of the geranium flowers reminded him of the length of 
 time which had elapsed since he had first seen them. “ I am 
 sorry there are no flowers to offer you,” said the little girl, ob- 
 serving Forester’s melancholy look ; ‘‘ but I thought you did 
 not like geraniums ; for I remember when I gave you a fine 
 flower in the watchmaker’s shop you pulled it to pieces, and 
 threw it on the ground.” “ I should not do so now,” said 
 Forester. The black marks on the painted flower-pot had been 
 entirely effaced : he tru'ned away, endeavoured to conceal his 
 emotion, and took leave of the place as soon as the grateful 
 inhabitants would suffer him to depart. The reflection that he 
 had wasted his time, that he had never done any good to any 
 human being, that he had lost opportunities of making both 
 himself and others happy, pressed upon his mind ; but his 
 Stoical pride still resisted the thought of returning to Dr. Camp- 
 bell’s. It will be imagined that I yield my opinions from 
 meanness of spirit,” said he to himself. Dr. Campbell cer- 
 tainly has no further regard or esteem for me ; neither he nor 
 Henry have troubled themselves about my fate : they are doing 
 good to more deserving objects; they are intent upon literary 
 pursuits, and have not time to bestow a thought upon me. And 
 Flora, I suppose, is as gay as she is good. I alone am unhappy, 
 — a wanderer, — an outcast, — a useless being.” 
 
 Forester, whilst he was looking at the geranium, or soon after- 
 wards, missed his handkerchief ; the old woman and her grand- 
 daughter searched for it all over the house, but in vain : he then 
 
THE MEADOWS. 
 
 83 
 
 thought he must have left it at the washerwoman’s, where he 
 met the little girl ; he called to inquire for it, upon his return 
 to Edinburgh. When he returned to this woman’s house for 
 his handkerchief, he found her sitting upon a low stool, in her 
 laundry, weeping bitterly ; her children stood round her. Fo- 
 rester inquired into the cause of her distress, and she told him 
 that a few minutes after he left her, the young gentleman who 
 had been thrown from his horse into the scavenger’s cart was 
 brought into her house, whilst his servant went home for another 
 suit of clothes for him. “ I did not at first guess that I had 
 ever seen the young gentleman before,” continued she; ‘‘but 
 when the mud was cleared from his face I knew him to be Mr. 
 Archibald Mackenzie. I am sure I wish I had never seen his 
 face then or at any time. He was in a very bad humour after 
 his tumble, and he began again to threaten me about a ten- 
 guinea bank-note, which he and his servant declare they sent in 
 his waistcoat pocket to be washed : I’m sure I never saw it. 
 Mr. Henry Campbell quieted him about it for awhile ; but just 
 now he began again with me, and he says he has spoken to a 
 lawyer, and that he will make me pay the whole note ; and he 
 swore at me as if I had been the worst creature in the world ; 
 and, God knows, I work hard for my children, and never 
 wronged any one in my days ! ” 
 
 Forester, who forgot all his own melancholy reflections as 
 soon as he could assist any one who was in distress, bade the 
 poor woman dry her tears, and assured her that she had nothing 
 to fear ; for he would instantly go to Dr. Campbell, and get him 
 to speak to Mackenzie. “ If it is necessary,” said he, “ I’ll 
 pay the money myself.” She clasped her hands joyfully as he 
 spoke, and all her children joined in an exclamation of delight. 
 “ I’ll go to Dr. Campbell’s this instant,” said our hero, whose 
 pride now yielded to the desire of doing justice to this injured 
 woman ; he- totally forgot himself, and thought only of her : 
 “ I’ll go to Dr. Campbell’s, and I will speak to Mr. Mackenzie 
 immediately.” 
 
84 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 A SUMMONS. 
 
 Whilst Forester was walking through the streets, with that 
 energy which the hope of serving his fellow-creatures always 
 excited in his generous mind, he even forgot a scheme which 
 he had, in spite of his Stoical pride and his dread of being 
 thought to give up his opinions from meanness, resolved in his 
 imagination. He had formed the design of returning to his 
 friends an altered being in his external appearance : he had 
 ordered a fashionable suit of clothes, which were now ready. 
 He had laid aside the dress and manners of a gentleman from 
 the opinion that they were degrading to the character of a man : 
 as soon as this prejudice had been conquered, he began to 
 think he might resume them. Many were the pleasing antici- 
 pations in which he indulged himself : the looks of each of his 
 friends, the generous approving eye of Henry, the benevolent 
 countenance of Dr. Campbell, the arch smile of Flora, were all 
 painted by his fancy ; and he invented every circumstance that 
 was likely to happen — every word that would probably be said 
 by each individual. We are sure that our readers will give our 
 enthusiastic hero credit for his forgetting these pleasing reveries 
 — for his forgetting himself, nay, even Flora Campbell — when 
 humanity and justice called upon him for exertion. 
 
 When he found himself in George ’s-square, within sight of 
 Dr. Campbell’s house, his heart beat violently, and he suddenly 
 stopped to recollect himself. He had scarcely stood a few 
 instants, when a hard, stout-looking man came up to him, and 
 asked him if his name were Forester : he started, and answered. 
 
 Yes, sir, what is your business with me?” The stranger re- 
 plied by producing a paper, and desiring him to read it. The 
 paper, which was half printed, half written, began with these 
 words : — “ You are hereby required to appear before me ” 
 
 ‘‘What is all this?” exclaimed our hero. “It is a sum- 
 mons,” replied the stranger: “I am a constable, and you will 
 
 please to come with me before Mr. W . This is not the first 
 
 time you have been before him, I am told.” To this last inso- 
 lent taunt Forester made no reply, but in a firm tone said that 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 85 
 
 he was conscious of no crime, but that he was ready to follow 
 
 the constable, and to appear before Mr. W , or any other 
 
 magistrate, who wished to inquire into his conduct. Though 
 he summoned all his fortitude, and spoke with composure, he was 
 much astonished by this proceeding ; he could not help reflecting, 
 that an individual in society who has friends, an established 
 character, and a home^ is in a more desirable situation than an 
 unconnected being, who has no one to answer for his conduct, 
 — no one to rejoice in his success, or to sympathize in his mis- 
 fortunes. “ Ah, Dr. Campbell ! happy father ! in the midst 
 of your own family, you have forgotten your imprudent ward ! ” 
 said Forester to himself, while his mind revolted from seeking 
 his friend’s assistance in this discreditable situation. ‘‘ You do 
 not know how near he is to you ! you do not know that he was 
 just returning to you ! you do not see that he is, at this mo- 
 ment, perhaps, on the brink of disgrace ! ” 
 
 THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 Forester was mistaken in his idea that Dr. Campbell had 
 forgotten him ; but we shall not yet explain further upon this 
 subject; we only throw out this hint, that our readers may not 
 totally change their good opinion of the doctor. We must now 
 beg their attention to the continuation of the history of Archi- 
 bald Mackenzie’s bank-note. 
 
 Lady Catherine Mackenzie one day observed that the colours 
 were changed in one spot on the right-hand pocket of her son’s 
 waistcoat. “ My dear Archibald,” said she, ‘‘ what has hap- 
 pened to your smart waistcoat ? What is that terrible spot?” 
 
 Really, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Archibald, with his usual 
 soft voice and deceitful smile. Henry Campbell observed that 
 it seemed as if the colours had been discharged by some acid. 
 
 Did you wear that waistcoat, Mr. Mackenzie,” said he, the 
 night the large bottle of vitriolic acid was broken — the night 
 that poor Forester’s cat was killed: don’t you remember?” 
 “ Oh, I did not at first recollect ; I cannot possibly remember, 
 indeed, — it is so long ago, — what waistcoat I wore on that par- 
 ticular night.” The extreme embarrassment in Archibald’s 
 
sa 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 manner surprised Henry. ‘‘ I really don’t perceive your diijl,'" 
 continued Mackenzie : what made you ask the question so 
 
 earnestly?” He was relieved when Henry answered, that he 
 only wished to know whether it was probable that it was stained 
 with vitriolic acid; because,” said he, ‘‘ I think that is the 
 pocket in which you said you left your ten-guinea note ; then, 
 perhaps, the note may have been stained.” Perhaps so,” 
 replied Mackenzie dryly. “ And if it were, you could identify 
 the note : you have forgotten the number ; but if the note has 
 been stained with vitriolic acid, we should certainly be able to 
 know it again ; the acid would have changed the colour of the 
 ink.” Mackenzie eagerly seized this idea; and immediately, in 
 pursuance of Henry’s advice, went to several of the principal 
 bankers in Edinburgh, and requested that if a note, stained in 
 such a manner, should be presented to them, they would stop 
 payment of it till Mackenzie should examine it. Some time 
 elapsed, and nothing was heard of the note. Mackenzie gave 
 up all hopes of recovering it ; and in proportion as these hopes 
 diminished, his old desire of making the poor washerwoman 
 answerable for his loss increased. We have just heard this 
 woman’s account of his behaviour to her, when he came into 
 her house to be refitted, after his tumble from Sawney into the 
 scavenger’s cart. All his promises to Henry he thought proper 
 to disregard : promises appeared to him mere matters of con- 
 venience; and the idea of taking in"' such a young man as 
 Henry Campbell was to him an excellent joke. He resolved to 
 keep the five guineas quietly which Henry lent him ; and, at 
 the same time, to frighten this innocent industrious woman into 
 paying him the value of his bank-note. 
 
 Upon Mackenzie’s return to Dr. Campbell’s, after his fall 
 from Sawney, the first thing he heard was that his note was 
 found ; that it had been stopped at the bank of Scotland ; and 
 that one of the clerks of the bank, who brought it for his ex- 
 amination, had been some time waiting for his return from 
 riding. When the note was produced, Henry saw that two or 
 three of the words which had been written in ink, the name of 
 the person to whom it was payable, and the date of the month 
 and year, were so pale as to be scarcely visible ; and that there 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 87 
 
 was a round hole through one corner of’ the paper. This round 
 hole puzzled Henry, but he had no doubt that the ink had been 
 thus nearly obliterated by vitriolic acid. He poured a few 
 drops, diluted with water, upon some printing, and the ink was 
 quickly turned to nearly the same pale colour as that in Mac- 
 kenzie’s note. The note was easily traced, as it had not passed 
 through many hands — our readers will be sorry to hear it — to 
 M. Pasgrave, the dancing-master. Mackenzie and the clerk 
 went directly to his house, found him at home, and without: 
 much preface, informed him of their business. The dancing- 
 master trembled from head to foot, and, though innocent, ex- 
 hibited all the signs of guilt ; he had not the slightest knowledge 
 of business, and the manner and language of the banker’s clerk 
 who accompanied Mackenzie terrified him beyond measure, 
 because he did not comprehend one word in ten that he said 
 about checks, entries, and day-books ; and he was nearly a 
 quarter of an hour before he could recover sufficient presence 
 of mind to consider from whom he received the note. At 
 length, after going over, in an unintelligible manner, all the 
 puzzled accounts of monies received and paid which he kept in 
 his head, he declared that he clearly recollected to have received 
 the ten-guinea note at Mr. Macpherson’s, the tailor ; that he 
 went a few weeks ago to settle his year’s account with him ; 
 and that in change for a twenty-pound note, he received that 
 which the banker’s clerk now produced. To Mackenzie it was 
 perfectly indifferent who was found guilty, so that he could re- 
 cover his money. ‘‘ Settle it as you will amongst you,” said 
 he, ‘‘ the money must be refunded, or I must have you all 
 before a magistrate directly.” Pasgrave, in great perturbation, 
 set out for Mr. Macpherson’s, showed him the note, and re- 
 minded him of the day when he paid his account. “ If you 
 received the note from us, sir,” said the master-tailor, very 
 calmly, it must be entered in our books, for we keep regular 
 accounts.” The tailor’s foreman, who knew much more of the 
 affair than his master, appealed, with assumed security, to the 
 entry in the books. By this entry it appeared that M. Pasgrave 
 settled his account the 17th of October; that he paid the balance 
 by a twenty-pound note, and that he received in change a ten- 
 
88 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 guinea note on Sir William Forbes’s bank. ‘‘ You see, sir,” 
 said tbe tailor, “ this cannot possibly be Mr. Mackenzie’s ; for 
 bis note is on tbe bank of Scotland. Our entry is as full as 
 possible ; and I am ready to produce my books, and to abide 
 by them, in any court of justice in tbe world.” M. Pasgrave 
 was totally at a loss ; he could only repeat, that he remembered 
 to have received Mackenzie’s note from one of the tailor’s men, 
 who brought it to him from an inner room. The foreman 
 boldly asserted, that be brought tbe change exactly as his 
 master gave it to him, and that be knew nothing more of tbe 
 matter. But, in fact, be knew a great deal more : he had found 
 the note in the pocket of Mackenzie’s waistcoat, which his ser- 
 vant had left to he mended, after he had torn it furtively, as 
 has been already related. When his master called him into the 
 inner room, to give him the change for Pasgrave, he observed that 
 there was a ten-guinea note wrapped up with some halfpence ; 
 and he thought that it would he a prudent thing to substitute 
 Mackenzie’s note, which he had by him, in the place of this. 
 He accordingly gave Pasgrave Mackenzie’s note, and thrust the 
 note which he had received from his master into a corner of his 
 trunk, where he usually kept little windfalls, that came to him 
 by the negligence of customers — toothpick-cases, loose silver, 
 odd gloves, &c., all which he knew how to dispose of. But 
 this bank-note was a higher prize than usual, and he was afraid 
 to pass it till all inquiry had blown over. He knew his master’s 
 regularity ; and he thought that if the note was stopped after- 
 wards at any of the hanks, it could never be traced further than 
 to M. Pasgrave. He was rejoiced to see that this poor man 
 was in such trepidation of mind that he could not, in the least, 
 use his understanding ; and he saw, with much satisfaction, that 
 his master, who was a positive man, and proud of the accuracy 
 of his books, was growing red in the face in their defence. 
 Mackenzie, in the meantime, who had switched his boots with 
 great impatience during their debate, interfered at last with. 
 Come, gentlemen, we can’t stand here all day to hear you 
 give one another the lie. One of you, it’s plain, must shell 
 out your corianders ; but, as you can’t settle which, we must 
 put you to your oath, I see.” “ Mr. W ’s is not far off, 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 89 
 
 and I am ready to go before him with my books this instant,” 
 said the fiery master-tailor. “ My books were never called in 
 question since I was in trade till this instant ; and nobody but 
 a French dancing-master, who understands no more of debtor 
 and creditor than my goose, would stand out against such an 
 entry as this.” 
 
 To Mr. W ’s the tailor, his foreman, the dancing-master, 
 
 the hanker’s clerk, and Mackenzie, repaired. Pasgrave turned 
 paler than ever dancer turned before ; and gave himself, his 
 character, and his wife and children, all up for lost, when he 
 heard that he was to be put upon his oath. He drew back 
 
 when Mr. W held the book to him, and demanded whether 
 
 he would swear to the person from whom he received the note. 
 He said he could not swear ; but to the best of his belief — en 
 conscience — en honneur — foi d’honn^te homme — he was con- 
 vinced he received it from Mr. Macpherson’s foreman. The 
 foreman, who, from one step in villany, found himself hurried 
 on to another and another, now scrupled not to declare that he 
 was ready to take his oath that he delivered the note and 
 change, just as his master gave it to him, to M. Pasgrave. The 
 magistrate turned to the paler, conscientious, incapacitated 
 dancing-master, and in a severe tone said — “ Appearances are 
 strangely against you, M. Pasgrave. Here’s a young gentleman 
 has lost a bank-note — it is stopped at the bank of Scotland — it 
 is traced home to you — you say you got it from Mr. Macpherson 
 or his foreman — ^his books are produced — the entry in them is 
 clearly against you ; for it states that the note given to you in 
 change was one of Sir William Forbes’s bank ; and this which 
 I hold now in my hand is of the Bank of Scotland. Please now 
 to tell how this note of the Bank of Scotland, which has been 
 proved to be the property of Mr. Mackenzie, came into your 
 possession? From whom did you receive it? or how did you 
 come by it ? I am not surprised that you decline taking an 
 oath upon this occasion.” ‘‘Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi!” 
 cried the innocent, but terrified man, throwing himself upon one 
 knee, in an attitude, which, on the stage, would have produced 
 a sublime effect — “ Ah, monsieur, ayez pitie de moi ! 1 have 
 
 no more dan de child no sense in affairs.” Mackenzie inter- 
 
90 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 rupted him with a brutal laugh. The more humane banker’s 
 clerk was moved by the simplicity of this avowed ignorance of 
 business. He went up to the distracted dancer, and said, “ It 
 is not to be expected that every body should understand busi- 
 ness as we do, sir : if you are innocent, only give yourself time 
 to recollect ; and though it’s unfortunate that you never keep 
 any regular accounts, maybe we shall be able to make out this 
 
 affair of the entry. If Mr. W will give me leave to take 
 
 this pen and ink, and if you will try to recollect all the persons 
 
 from whom you have received money lately ” “Ah, mon 
 
 Dieu ! dat is impossible.” Then he began to name the quarterly 
 and half-yearly payments that he had received from his various 
 pupils. “ Did any of them lately give you a ten-guinea note?” 
 “ Ah, oui, je me rappelle — un jeune monsieur — un certain 
 monsieur, qui ne veut pas que — qui est la incognito — who I 
 would not betray for the world ; for he has behave wid de most 
 parfaite generosite to me.” “But did he give you a ten-guinea 
 bank-note? that is all we want to know,” said the magistrate. 
 “Mais — oui — yes.” “About wbat time?” said the clerk. It 
 was about the beginning of October ; and this was so near the 
 time when he settled accounts with Mr. Macpherson, the tailor, 
 that he even himself began to believe it possible that he had 
 mistaken one note for the other. “ When the young gentleman 
 gave you the note,” said the banker’s clerk, “ surely you must 
 have looked at it — you must have observed these remarkable 
 stains?” Pasgrave replied, that he did look at it, he sup- 
 posed ; that he saw it was a ten-guinea note ; it might be 
 stained, it might not be stained ; he could not pretend to . be 
 certain about it. He repeated his assurances that he was igno- 
 rant of business, and of every thing in this world but dancing. 
 “ Pour la danse, je m’y connois — pour les affaires, je n’en sais 
 rien, moi.” He, with his usual simplicity, added, that if Mr. 
 W would give him leave, he would go to the young gentle- 
 
 man, his friend, and learn from him exactly the number of the 
 note which he had given him ; that he was sure he could recol- 
 lect his own note immediately. Mackenzie, who thought that 
 this was merely pretence, in order to escape, told him that he 
 could not be suffered to go out upon his parole. “ But,” said 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 91 
 
 Mr. W , ‘‘tell us the name of this young gentleman 
 
 who has so much generosity, and who lives incognito. J 
 don’t like gentlemen who live incognito. I think I had a 
 young man here before me, about two months ago, charged 
 with breaking a confectioner’s windows in a riot, the night 
 of the great illuminations — Hey? don’t I remember some 
 such thing? And you, M. Pasgrave, if I mistake not, in- 
 terested yourself mightily about this young man, and told 
 me and my daughters, sir, that he was a young gentle- 
 man incognito. I begin to see through this affair. Perhaps 
 this is the same young gentleman from whom you received the 
 note. And pray what value did you give for it?” Pasgrave, 
 whose fear of betraying Forester now increased his confusion, 
 stammered, and first said the note was a present, but afterwards 
 added, “ I have been giving de young person lessons in dancing 
 for dese six week.” 
 
 “Well, then, we must summon this young person,” said Mr. 
 
 W . “Tell us his name, if you please,” said Mackenzie ; 
 
 “ I have some suspicion that I know your gentleman incognito.” 
 “You need not trouble him,” said the magistrate ; “ I know the 
 name already, and I know where the bird is to be found : his 
 name, if he has not changed it since he was last in this room, is 
 Forester.” “ Forester !” exclaimed Mackenzie ; “ I thought so ! 
 I always thought how he would turn out. I wonder what his 
 friends, the Campbells, will have to say for him now !” 
 
 Mr. W ’s pen stopped. “ His friends, the Campbells — 
 
 humph ! So the Campbells are his friends, are they?” repeated 
 he. “They were his friends,” answered Mackenzie ; “ but Mr. 
 Forester thought proper, nobody knows why, to run away from 
 them, some months ago ; the only reason I could ever learn 
 was that he did not like to live amongst gentlemen : and he has 
 b<ien living ever since incognito, amongst blackguards, and we 
 the fruits of it.” Mackenzie eagerly handed the summons, 
 
 as soon as it was signed, to a constable ; and Mr. W directed 
 
 the constable to Mr. ’s, the bookseller, adding, “ Book- 
 
 sellers and printers are dangerous persons.” The constable, who 
 had seen Forester the night that he was confined with Tom 
 Random, knew his face and person; and we have told our 
 
92 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 readers that he met Forester in George ’s-square, going to 
 Dr. Campbell’s, to vindicate the innocence of the poor washer- 
 woman. 
 
 The tailor’s foreman was not a little alarmed when the sum- 
 mons was sent for our hero ; he dreaded that the voice of truth 
 should be heard, and he skulked behind the rest of the com- 
 pany. What astonishment did Forester feel when he entered 
 the room, and saw the group that surrounded the justice’s 
 table ! — Archibald Mackenzie, with an insulting sneer on hi? 
 lips — Pasgrave, with eyes fixed upon him in despair — Mr. 
 Macpherson, the tailor, pointing to an entry in his hook — his 
 foreman shrinking from notice — the banker’s clerk, with bene- 
 volent scepticism in his countenance — and the justice, with a 
 portentous scowl upon his brow. 
 
 ‘‘Come forward, Mr. Forester,” said the magistrate, as our 
 hero made a sudden pause of astonishment; “come forward, 
 sir !” Forester advanced with calm intrepidity. “ You are better 
 dressed than when I had the honour of seeing you here some 
 time ago, sir. Are you a printer still, or a gentleman ? Your 
 dress certainly bespeaks a change in your condition.” “ I am 
 sure I should hardly know Mr. Forester again, he has grown 
 such a beau — comparatively speaking, I mean,” said Mackenzie. 
 “ But certainly, M. Pasgrave, you must have made some mis- 
 take ; I don’t know how to believe my senses ! Is this the 
 
 young gentleman to whom you alluded ? do you know him ?” 
 
 “Give me leave, Mr. Mackenzie,” interrupted the justice : “I 
 shall examine this young incognito myself. I think I know 
 how to come at the truth. Will you do me the favour, sir, to 
 inform me whether you recollect any thing of a ten-guinea 
 bank-note which you gave or paid, some time in last October, 
 to this gentleman?” pointing to M. Pasgrave. “ I do,” replied 
 Forester, in a distinct, unembarrassed voice, “perfectly well 
 remember giving M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea bank-note.” “Ah, 
 
 monsieur, je ne suis pas un ingrat. Ne pensez pas que ” 
 
 “ Oh, M. Pasgrave,” interrupted Mackenzie, “ this is no time 
 for compliments and fine speeches : for God’s sake, let us get to . 
 the bottom of this affair without further ceremony ! ” “Sir,” 
 said the banker’s clerk, “ all we want to know is the nmnber of 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 93 
 
 your note, and the firm of the house. Was your note one of 
 Sir William Forbes’s, or of the Bank of Scotland?” Forester 
 was silent. I do not recollect,” said he, after some pause. 
 
 “ You don’t recollect, sir,” said the justice, ‘‘is something like 
 an evasive answer. You must have a vast number of bank- 
 notes then, we must presume, if you cannot recollect to what 
 bank your ten-guinea note belonged.” Forester did not under- 
 stand this logic ; but he simply repeated his assertion. “ Pray, 
 sir,” said the tailor, who could no longer restrain his impatience 
 — “Pray, sir,” said the magistrate, in a solemn manner, “he 
 silent. I shall find out the truth. So, Mr. Forester, you can- 
 not possibly recollect the house of your note? You will tell us 
 next, I dare say, that you cannot possibly recollect how you 
 came by it.” “Sir,” said Forester, “if it is necessary, I can 
 readily tell you how I came by it.” “ It is very necessary, sir, 
 for your own credit.” “I received it from Dr. Campbell.” 
 “Dr. Campbell!” repeated the magistrate, changing his tone. 
 “ And I have some idea that the doctor gave me a list of the 
 numbers of that and four other notes, with which I fortunately 
 have not parted.” “ Some idea means nothing in a court of 
 justice, sir; if you have any such paper, you can do us the 
 favour to produce it.” Now this list was locked up in the trunk, 
 of which the key was dropped into the hrewing-vat. Richard- 
 son, the clerk, had returned the key to him ; hut, such is the 
 force of habit, he had not cured himself of the foolish trick of 
 twirling it upon his thumb ; and about two months ago he 
 dropped it in one of his walks to Arthur’s Seat. He long 
 searched for it amongst the rocky fragments, but at last gave 
 it up — he little imagined of how much consequence it might be 
 to him. Dr. Campbell had once refused to break open the lock, 
 and he felt very unwilling to apply to him in his present cir- 
 cumstances. However, he wrote a few lines to Henry Campbell ; 
 but, as soon as he had written them, his pride again revolted 
 from the thoughts of supplicating the assistance of his friend in 
 such a disgraceful situation. “If you don’t choose to write,” 
 said the officious malevolence of Archibald, “ I can, however, 
 speak; I’ll desire Dr. Campbell to open your trunk, and search 
 
94 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 for tlie paper.” He left the room before Forester could make 
 any further opposition. 
 
 I have answered, I hope, both distinctly and respectfully, all 
 the questions that you have asked me,” said Forester, turning to 
 
 Mr. W . “ I hope you will no longer keep me in the dark. 
 
 Of what am I suspected ?” ‘‘I will tell you, sir,” replied the 
 deliberate, unfeeling magistrate ; you are suspected of having, I 
 will not say stolen^ but you are more than suspected of having 
 come unfairly by a certain ten-guinea bank-note, which the 
 young gentleman who has just left the room lost a few months 
 ago.” Forester, as this speech was slowly pronounced, sat 
 down, folded his arms, and appeared totally insensible — quite 
 unconscious that he was in the presence of a magistrate, or that 
 any human being was observing him. ‘‘ Ah, mon cher monsieur, 
 pardonnez!” cried Pasgrave, bursting into tears. ‘‘ N’en parlons 
 plus,” added he, turning to the magistrate. Je pay erai tout 
 ce qu’il faut. I will pay de ten guineas. I will satisfy every 
 body. I cannot never forgive myself if I bring him into any 
 disgrace.” ‘‘Disgrace!” exclaimed Forester, starting up, and 
 repeating the word in a tone which made every person in the 
 room, not excepting the phlegmatic magistrate, start and look 
 up to him, with a sudden feeling of inferiority. His ardent eye 
 spoke the language of his soul. No words could express his 
 emotion. The master-tailor dropped his day-book. “ Constable 
 ■ — call a constable !” cried the justice. “ Sir, you forget in 
 whose presence you are — you think, I suppose, that your friends, 
 the Campbells, will hear you out. Sir, I would have you to 
 know that all the Campbells in Scotland can’t bail you for a 
 felony. Sir, philosophers should know these things. If you 
 cannot clear yourself to my entire satisfaction, Mr. Forester, I 
 shall commit you — in one word — to gaol : yes — look as you 
 please, sir — to gaol. And if the doctor and his son, and all his 
 family, come up to bail you, I shall, meo periculoj refuse their 
 hail. The law, sir, is no respecter of persons. So none of your 
 rhodomontades, young gentleman, in my presence ; but step 
 into this closet, if you please ; and, I advise you, bring your 
 mind into a becoming temperament, whilst I go to dinner. 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 95 
 
 Gentlemen,” continued he to Macpherson and Pasgrave, ^‘you’ll 
 be so good to wait here in this apartment. Constable, look to 
 your prisoner,” pointing to the door of the closet. “ John, let 
 me know when Dr. Campbell arrives ; and tell them to send up 
 dinner directly,” said the justice to his butler. 
 
 Whilst he dines, we must leave the tailor complaining that 
 he was wasting precious time ; the foreman in the panic of guilt ; 
 and the good-natured dancing-master half distracted betwixt his 
 fears and his ignorance. He looked from time to time through 
 the key-hole of the closet in which Forester was confined, and 
 exclaimed, “ Grand Dieu! comme il a Pair noble a cet instant! 
 Ah ! lui coupable ! he go to gaol ! it is impossible !” 
 
 ‘‘We shall see how that will be presently,” said the foreman, 
 who had hitherto preserved absolute silence. “ I abide by my 
 books,” said the master- tailor ; “ and I wish Dr. Campbell would 
 make haste. I have lost a day 
 
 In spite of the tailor’s imperial exclamation, he was obliged 
 to wait some time longer. When Mackenzie arrived at Dr. 
 Campbell’s, Henry was not at home : he was gone to the house 
 at the hack of the meadows, to prepare some chemical experi- 
 ments for the next day’s lecture. Mackenzie, however, found 
 Dr. Campbell at home in his study ; and, in a soft hypocritical 
 voice, lamented that he was obliged to communicate some dis- 
 agreeable circumstances relating to young Mr. Forester. “ You 
 do not, I presume, know where that unfortunate, misguided 
 youth is at present — at this moment, I mean.” “I do not 
 know where he is at this moment,” said Dr. Campbell, calmly; 
 
 “ but I know where he has been for some time — at Mr. ’s, 
 
 the bookseller. I have had my eye upon him ever since 
 he left this house. I have traced him from place to place. 
 Though I have said little about him, Mr. Mackenzie, I have a 
 great regard for my unfortunate ward.” “I am sorry for it, 
 sir,” said Mackenzie : “I fear I must wound your feelings the 
 more deeply.” “What is the matter? pray speak at once,” 
 cried Dr. Campbell, who now forgot all his usual calmness. 
 “Where is Forester?” “He is at this moment before Mr. 
 
 W , the magistrate, sir, charged with but, I own, I 
 
 cannot believe him guilty “Charged with what? For 
 
FORESTER. 
 
 V6 
 
 God’s sake, speak plainly, Mr. Mackenzie!” “ Then, in one 
 word, sir, my lost bank-note is traced home to Mr. Forester. 
 M. Pasgrave says he received it from him.” Surely, sir,” 
 said Dr. Campbell, with indignation, “ you would not insinuate 
 that Forester has stolen your bank-note?” “I insinuate no- 
 thing, doctor,” said Archibald ; “ but, I fear, the thing is too 
 plainly proved. My bank-note has certain stains, by which it 
 
 has been identified. All that I know is, that Mr. W says 
 
 he can take no bail ; and that he must commit Mr. Forester to 
 gaol, unless he can clear himself. He says, that a few days 
 before he left your house, you paid him his quarterly allowance 
 of fifty guineas, in five ten-guinea bank-notes.” He says 
 true — I did so,” said Dr. Campbell eagerly. “And he says that 
 you gave them to him wrapped in a piece of paper, on which 
 the numbers of the notes were written.” “ I remember it dis- 
 tinctly : I desired him to take care of that paper.” “ He is 
 not famous for taking care, you know, sir, of any thing. He 
 says, he believes he threw it into his trunk ; but he has lost the 
 key of the trunk, I understand.” “No matter; we can break 
 it open this instant, and search for the paper,” cried Dr. Camp- 
 bell, who was now extremely alarmed for his ward. Mackenzie 
 stood by without offering any assistance, whilst Dr. Campbell 
 broke open the trunk, and searched it with the greatest anxiety. 
 It was in terrible disorder. The coat and waistcoat which 
 Forester wore at the ball were crammed in at the top ; and 
 underneath appeared unfolded linen, books, boots, maps, shoes, 
 cravats, fossils, and heaps of little rumpled bits of paper, in 
 which the fossils had once been contained. Dr. Campbell opened 
 every one of these. The paper he wanted was not amongst 
 them. He took every thing out of the box, shook and searched 
 all the pockets of the coat, in which Forester used, before his 
 reformation, to keep hoards of strange papers. No list of 
 bank-notes appeared. At length. Dr. Campbell espied the 
 white corner of a paper-mark in a volume of Goldsmith’s 
 Animated Nature. He pulled out this mark, and to his great 
 joy, he found it to be the very paper he wanted. “-So it’s 
 found, is it?” said Mackenzie, disappointed; whilst Dr. Camp- 
 bell seized his hat, left every thing upon the floor, and was very 
 
THE BANK-NOTES. 
 
 97 
 
 near locking the door of the room upon Mackenzie. “ Don’t 
 lock me in here, doctor — I am going back with you to Mr. 
 
 W ’s,” said Archibald. “Won’t you stay? dinner’s going 
 
 up — Mr. W was going to his dinner when I came away.” 
 
 Without listening to him, Dr. Campbell just let him out, locked 
 the door, and hurried away to his poor ward. 
 
 “ I have let things go too far,” said he to himself. “ As long 
 as Forester’s credit was not in danger, as long as he was un- 
 known, it was very well ; but now his character is at stake ; he 
 may pay too dear for his experience.” 
 
 “ Dr. Campbell,” said the pompous magistrate, who hated 
 philosophers, rising from table as Dr. Campbell entered, “ do 
 not speak to me of bailing this ward of yours — ^it is impossible, 
 sir; I know my duty.” “ I am not come to oifer bail for my 
 ward,” said Dr. Campbell, “ but to prove his innocence.” 
 
 “We must hope the best,” said Mr. W ; and, having 
 
 forced the doctor to pledge him in a bumper of port, “ Now I 
 am ready to proceed again to the examination of all the parties 
 concerned.” 
 
 Dr. Campbell was now shown into the room where Mr. Mac- 
 pherson, his foreman, and Pasgrave, were waiting. “ Ah, mon- 
 sieur, Dieu merci, vous voila!” exclaimed Pasgrave. “You 
 
 may go,” said Mr. W to the constable; “ but wait below 
 
 stairs.” He unlocked the closet-door. Forester, at the sight 
 of Dr. Campbell, covered his face with his hands ; but, an in- 
 stant afterwards, he advanced with intrepidity. “You cannot, 
 I am sure, believe me to be guilty of any meanness. Dr. Camp- 
 bell,” said he. “ Imprudent I have been, and I suiFer for my 
 folly.” “ Guilty !” cried Dr. Campbell ; “ no ; I could almost 
 as soon suspect my own son of such an action. But my belief 
 is nothing to the purpose. We must 'prove your innocence.” 
 “ Ah, oui, monsieur — and mine too ; for I am innocent, I can 
 assure you,” cried M. Pasgrave. “ The whole business, sir,” 
 said the banker’s clerk, who had, by this time, returned to hear 
 the termination of the affair — “ the whole thing can be settled 
 in two minutes, by a gentleman like you, who understands 
 business. Mr. Forester cannot recollect the number or the firm 
 of a ten-guinea bank-note which he gave to M. Pasgrave. M. 
 
 H 
 
9S 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Pasgrave cannot recollect either ; and he is in doubt whether 
 he received this stained note, which Mr. Mackenzie lost, from 
 Mr. Forester or from Mr. Macpherson, the tailor.” ‘‘ There 
 can be no doubt about me,” said Macpherson. ‘‘Dr. Campbell, 
 wdll you be so good to look at the entry ? I acknowledge, I 
 gave M. Pasgrave a ten-guinea note ; but here’s the number of 
 it, 177, of Forbes’s bank. Mr. Mackenzie’s note, you see, is of 
 the bank of Scotland ; and the stains upon it are so remarkable, 
 that, if I had ever seen it before, I should certainly remember 
 it. ril take my oath I never saw it before.” “ Sir,” said Fo- 
 rester eagerly to Dr. Campbell, “ you gave me five ten-guinea 
 notes : here are four of them in this pocket-book ; the fifth I 
 gave to M. Pasgrave. Can you tell me the number of that 
 note?” “ I can,” said Dr. Campbell, producing the paper which 
 he found in Goldsmith’s Animated Nature. “ I had the pre- 
 caution to write down the numbers of all your notes myself : 
 here they are.” Forester opened his pocket-book : his four re- 
 maining notes were compared, and perfectly agreed with the 
 numbers in the list. The fifth, the number of the note which 
 he gave to Pasgrave, was 1260, of the New Bank. “ One of 
 your ten-guinea notes,” said Dr. Campbell to Pasgrave, “ you 
 paid into the bank of Scotland; and this gentleman,” pointing 
 to the banker’s clerk, “ stopped it this morning. Now you have 
 had another ten-guinea note; what became of that?” Pas- 
 grave, who understood Dr. Campbell’s plain method of ques- 
 tioning him, answered immediately, “ I did give the other to 
 
 my hair-dresser, not long ago, who lives in street.” Dr. 
 
 Campbell instantly went himself to the hair-dresser, found that 
 he had the note still in his possession, brought him to Mr. 
 
 W ’s, and, when the note was examined, it was found to be 
 
 1260 of the New Bank, which exactly corresponded with the 
 entry in the list of notes which Dr. Campbell had produced. 
 
 “ Then all is right,” said Dr. Campbell. “ Ah, oui ! — Ah, 
 non!” exclaimed Pasgrave. “What will become of me?” 
 “ Compose yourself, my good sir,” said Dr. Campbell. “You 
 had but two ten-guinea notes, you are sure of that?” “But 
 two — but two : I will swear but two.” “You are now certain 
 which of these two notes you had from my ward. The 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 99 
 
 Other, you say, you received from ^ “ From dis gen- 
 ileman, I will swear,” cried Pasgrave, pulling the tailor’s fore- 
 man forwards. “ I can swear now I am in no embarras : I 
 am sure I did get de oder note from dis gentleman.” The 
 master-tailor was astonished to see all the pallid marks of guilt 
 in his foreman’s countenance. “ Did you change the note that 
 I gave you in the inner room?” said Mr. Macpherson. The 
 foreman, as soon as he could command his voice, denied the 
 charge ; and persisted in it that he gave the note and change, 
 which his master wrapped up, exactly as it was, to the dancing- 
 master. Dr. Campbell proposed that the tailor’s shop, and the 
 
 foreman’s room, should be searched. Mr. W sent proper 
 
 people to Mr. Macpherson’s ; and whilst they are searching 
 his house, we may inquire what has become of Henry Camp- 
 bell. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 Henry Campbell, the last time we heard of him, was at the 
 house at the back of the meadows. When he went into the 
 large room to his chemical experiments, the little girl, who was 
 proud of having arranged it neatly, ran on before him, and 
 showed him the places where all his things were put. ‘‘ The 
 -writing and the figures are not rubbed off your slate — there it 
 is, sir,” said she, pointing to a high shelf. “ But whose hand- 
 kerchief is this ?” said Henry, taking up a handkerchief which 
 was under the slate. “ Gracious ! that must be the good gen- 
 tleman’s handkerchief ; he missed it just as he was going out of 
 the house. He thought he had left it at the washerwoman’s, 
 where I met him ; and he’s gone back to look for it there. I’ll 
 run -with it to the washerwoman’s, — maybe she knows where 
 to find him.” “ But you have not told me who he is. Whom do 
 you mean by the good gentleman?” ‘‘The good gentleman, 
 sir, that I saw with you at the watchmaker’s, the day that you 
 helped me to carry the great geranium out of my grandmother’s 
 room.” “ Do you mean that Forester has been here ?” ex- 
 claimed Flenry. “ I never heard his name, sir ; but I mean 
 that the gentleman has been here, whom I call the good gentle- 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 man, because it was he who went with me to my cross school- 
 mistress, to try to persuade her to use me well. She beat me, 
 to be sure, after he was gone, for v/hat he had said; hut I’m 
 not the less obliged to him, because he did every thing as he 
 thought for the best. And so I’ll run with his handkerchief to 
 the woman’s, who will give it safe to him.” 
 
 Henry recollected his promise to his father. It required all 
 his power over himself to forbear questioning the child, and 
 endeavouring to find out something more of his friend. He 
 determined to mention the circumstance to his father, and to 
 Flora, as soon as he returned home. He was always impatient 
 to tell any thing to his sister that interested himself or his 
 friends ; for Flora’s gaiety was not of that unfeeling sort which 
 seeks merely for amusement, and which, unmixed with sym- 
 pathy for others, may divert in a companion, but disgusts in a 
 friend. 
 
 Whilst Henry was reflecting upon the manner in which he 
 might most expeditiously arrange his chemical experiments and 
 return home, the little girl came running hack, with a face of 
 great distress. As soon as she had breath to speak, she told 
 Henry that when she went to the washerwoman’s with the 
 handkerchief, she was told a sad piece of news ; that Mr. Fo- 
 rester had been taken up, and carried before Mr. W , the 
 
 magistrate. “ We don’t know what he has done : I’m sure I 
 don’t think he can have done any thing wrong.” Henry no 
 sooner heard these words than he left all his retorts, rushed out 
 of the house, hurried home to his father, and learned from 
 Flora, with great surprise, that his father had already been sent 
 for, and was gone to Mr. W ’s. She did not know the cir- 
 
 cumstances that Mackenzie related to Dr. Campbell, hut she 
 told him that her father seemed much alarmed ; that she met 
 him crossing the hall, and that he could not stop to speak to 
 
 her. Henry proceeded directly to Mr. W ’s, and he arrived 
 
 there just as the people returned from the search of the tailor’s 
 house. His opinion of Forester’s innocence was so strong, that 
 when he entered the room, he instantly walked up to him, and 
 embraced him, with a species of frank confidence in his manner 
 which, to Forester, was more expressive than any thing that 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 101 
 
 he could have said. The whole affair was quickly explained to 
 him ; and the people who had been sent to Mr. Macpherson’s 
 
 now came up-stairs to Mr. W , and produced a ten-guinea 
 
 bank-note, which was found in the foreman’s box. Upon ex- 
 amination, this note was discovered to be the very note which 
 Mr. Macpherson sent w'ith the change to Pasgrave. It was No. 
 177, of Sir William Forbes’s bank, as mentioned in the circum- 
 stantial entry in the day-book. The joy of the poor dancing- 
 master at this complete proof of his innocence was rapturous 
 and voluble. Secure of the sympathy of Forester, Henry, and 
 Dr. Campbell, he looked at them by turns, whilst he congratu- 
 lated himself upon this ‘‘ eclair cissement,'' and assured the 
 banker’s clerk that he would in future keep accounts. We are 
 impatient to get rid of the guilty foreman : he stood a horrible 
 image of despair. He was committed to gaol ; and was carried 
 away by the constables, without being pitied by any person 
 present. Every body, however, was shocked. Mackenzie broke 
 silence first, by exclaiming, ‘‘ Well, now, I presume, Mr. 
 
 W , I may take possession of my bank-note again.” He 
 
 took up all the notes which lay upon the table to search amongst 
 them for his own. “ Mine, you know, is stained,” said Archi- 
 bald. “ But it is very singular,” said Henry Campbell, who 
 was looking over his shoulder, ‘‘ that here are two stained notes. 
 That which was found in the foreman’s box is stained in one 
 corner, exactly as yours was stained, Mr. Mackenzie.” Mac- 
 pherson, the tailor, now stooped to examine it. Is this No. 
 177, the note that I sent in change, by my foreman, to M. 
 Pasgrave? I’ll take my oath it was not stained in that manner 
 when I took it out of my desk. It was a new and quite clean 
 note: it must have been stained since.” “ And it must have 
 been stained with vitriolic acid,” continued Henry. Ay, 
 there’s cunning for you,” cried Archibald. “ The foreman, I 
 suppose, stained it, that it might not be known again.” “ Have 
 you any vitriolic acid in your house ?” pursued Henry, address- 
 ing himself to the master-tailor. Not I, indeed, sir ; we have 
 nothing to do with such things. They’d be very dangerous to 
 us.” ‘‘ Pray,” said Henry, ‘‘ will you give me leave, Mr. 
 W , to ask the person who searched the foreman’s box a few 
 
102 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 questions?’* Certainly sir,” said Mr. W ; ‘‘though, I 
 
 protest, I cannot see what you are driving at.” Henry inquired 
 what was found in the box with the bank-note. The man who 
 searched it enumerated a variety of things. “ None of these,” 
 said Henry, “ could have stained the note : are you sure that 
 there was nothing else ?” “ Nothing in the world; nothing but 
 
 an old glass stopper, I believe.” “ I wish I could see that 
 stopper,” said Henry. “ This note was rolled round it,” said 
 the man : “ but I threw it into the box again. I’ll go and fetch 
 it, sir, if you have any curiosity to see it.” “ Curiosity to see 
 an old stopper? No!” cried Archibald Mackenzie, with a 
 forced laugh ; “what good would that do us? We have been 
 kept here long enough. I move that we go home to our 
 dinners.” But Dr. Campbell, who saw that Henry had some 
 particular reason for wishing to see this glass stopper, seconded 
 his son. The man went for it ; and when he brought it into 
 the room, Henry Campbell looked at it very carefully, and then 
 decidedly said, fixing his eyes upon Archibald Mackenzie, who 
 in vain struggled to keep his countenance from changing. 
 “ This glass stopper, Mr. Mackenzie, is the stopper of my 
 father’s vitriolic acid bottle, that was broken the night the 
 cat was killed. This stopper has stained both the bank-notes. 
 And it must have been in the pocket of your waistcoat.” “ My 
 pocket !” interrupted Archibald : “ how should it come into my 
 pocket? It never was in pocket, sir.” Henry pointed to 
 the stain on his waistcoat. He wore the very waistcoat in ques- 
 tion. “ Sir,” said Archibald, “ I don’t know what you mean 
 by pointing at my waistcoat. It is stained, it is true, and very 
 likely by vitriolic acid ; hut, as I have been so often in the 
 doctor’s laboratory, when your chemical experiments have been 
 going on, is it not very natural to suppose that a drop of one of 
 the acids might have fallen on my clothes ? I have seen your 
 waistcoats stained, I am sure. Really, Mr. Campbell, you are 
 unfriendly, uncharitable ; your partiality for Mr. Forester 
 should not blind you, surely. I know you want to exculpate 
 him from having any hand in the death of that cat : but that 
 should not, my dear sir, make you forget what is due to justice. 
 You should not, permit me to say, endeavour to criminate an 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 103 
 
 innocent person.” “ This is all very fine,” said Henry; ‘‘ and 
 you may prove your innocence to me at once, Mr. Mackenzie, 
 if you think proper, by showing that the waistcoat was really, 
 as you assert, stained by a drop of vitriolic acid falling upon 
 the outside of it. Will you show us the inside of the pocket?” 
 Mackenzie, who was now in too much confusion to know dis- 
 tinctly what Henry meant to prove, turned the pocket inside 
 out, and repeated, “ That stopper was never in my pocket. I’ll 
 swear.” ‘‘ Don’t swear to that, for God’s sake,” said Henry. 
 “ Consider what you are saying. You see that there is a hole 
 burnt in this pocket. Now if a drop of acid had fallen, as you 
 said, upon the outside of the waistcoat, it must have been more 
 burnt on the outside than on the inside.” “ I don’t know — I 
 can’t pretend to be positive,” said Archibald ; ‘‘ but what 
 signifies all this rout about the stopper?” ‘‘ It signifies a great 
 deal to me,” said Dr. Campbell, turning away from Mackenzie 
 with contempt, and addressing himself to his ward, who met 
 his approving eye with proud delight — ‘‘ it signifies a great 
 deal to me. Forgive me, Mr. Forester, for having doubted 
 your word for a moment.” Forester held his guardian’s hand, 
 without being able for some instants to reply. ‘‘You are 
 coming home with us. Forester?” said Henry. “ No,” said 
 Dr. Campbell, smiling ; “ you must not ask him to come home 
 with us to-night. We have a little dance at our house to- 
 night. Lady Catherine Mackenzie wished to take leave of her 
 Edinburgh friends. She goes from us to-morrow. We must 
 not expect to see Forester at a ball ; but to-morrow morning 
 
 ” “ I see,” said Forester, smiling, “ you have no faith in 
 
 my reformation. Well, I have affairs to settle with my master, 
 the printer. I must go home, and take leave of him. He has 
 been a good master to me ; and I must go and finish my task 
 of correcting. Adieu.” He abruptly left Dr. Campbell and 
 Henry, and went to the bookseller’s, to inform him of all that 
 had passed, and to thank him for his kindness. “ You will be 
 at a loss to-morrow for a corrector of the press,” said he. “ I 
 am determined you shall not suffer for my vagaries. Send 
 home the proof-sheets of the work in hand to me, at Dr. Camp- 
 bell’s, and I will return them to you punctually corrected. 
 
104 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Employ me till you have provided yourself with another, I will 
 not say a better hand. I do not imagine,” continued Forester, 
 ‘‘ that I can pay you for your kindness to me by presents ; in- 
 deed, I know you are in such circumstances that you disdain 
 money. But I hope you will accept of a small mark of my re- 
 gard — a complete font of new types.” 
 
 Whilst Forester’s generous heart expanded with joy at the 
 thoughts of returning once more to his friends, we are sorry to 
 leave him, to finish the history of Archibald Mackenzie. He 
 sneaked home after Dr. Campbell and Henry, whose silent con- 
 tempt he well understood. Dr. Campbell related all that had 
 passed to Lady Catherine. Her ladyship showed herself more 
 apprehensive that her son’s meanness should be made known to 
 the world, than indignation or sorrow for his conduct. Archi- 
 bald, whilst he was dressing for the ball, began to revolve in his 
 mind certain words which his mother had said to him about his 
 having received the lie direct from Henry Campbell — his not having 
 the spirit of a gentleman, ‘‘ She certainly meant,” said he to 
 himself, that I ought to fight him. It’s the only way I can 
 
 come off, as he spoke so plainly before Mr. W , and all 
 
 those people : the banker’s clerk too was by ; and, as my 
 mother says, it will be talked of. I’ll get Sir Philip Gosling 
 to go with my message. I think I’ve heard Dr. Campbell say, 
 he disapproved of duels. Perhaps Henry won’t fight. Has Sir 
 Philip Gosling sent to say, whether he would be with us at the 
 ball to-night?” said Archibald to the servant who was dress- 
 ing his hair. “ No, sir,” replied the servant : Sir Philip’s 
 
 man has not been here : but Major O’Shannon has been here 
 twice since you were away, to see you. He said he had some 
 message to deliver from Sir Philip to you.” “ To me! — ^mes- 
 sage to me!” repeated Archibald, turning pale. Archibald 
 knew Major O’Shannon, who had of late insinuated himself into 
 Sir Philip Gosling’s favour, had a particular dislike to him, and 
 had successfully bullied him upon one or two occasions. Archi- 
 bald had that civil cowardice, which made him excessively 
 afraid of the opinion of the world; and Major O’Shannon, a 
 gamester, who was jealous of his influence over the rich dupe. 
 Sir Philip, determined to entangle him in a quarrel. The major 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 105 
 
 knocked at the door a third time before Archibald was dressed ; 
 and when he was told that he was dressing, and could not see 
 any one, he sent up the following note : — 
 
 Sir, 
 
 ‘‘ The last time I met you at the livery-stables, in company 
 with my friend. Sir Philip Gosling, I had the honour of telling 
 you my mind, in terms sufficiently explicit, concerning a trans- 
 action, which cannot have escaped your memory. My friend. 
 Sir Philip, declares you never hinted that the pony was spavined. 
 I don’t pretend to be so good a jockey as you, but you’ll excuse 
 my again saying, I can’t consider your conduct as that of a 
 gentleman. Sir Philip is of my mind ; and if you resent my 
 interference, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gen- 
 tleman. If not, you will do well to leave Edinburgh along with 
 your mother to-morrow morning ; for Edinburgh is no place 
 for cowards, as long as one has the honour of living in it, who 
 calls himself (by courtesy) 
 
 “ Your humble servant, 
 
 Cornelius O’Shannon. 
 
 “ P.S. Sir Philip is at your service, after your settling with 
 me.” 
 
 Archibald, oppressed with the sense of his own meanness, 
 and somewhat alarmed at the idea of fighting three duels, to 
 retrieve his credit, thought it best to submit, without struggle, 
 in the first instance, to that public disgrace which he had 
 merited. He wrote a shabby apology to Major O’ Shannon and 
 Sir Philip, concluding with saying, that rather than lose a friend 
 he so much valued as Sir Philip Gosling, he was willing to 
 forget all that had passed, and even to take back the pony, and 
 to return Sawney, if the matter could, by this means, be ad- 
 justed to his satisfaction. He then went to his mother, and 
 talked to her, in a high style, of his desperate intentions with 
 respect to Henry Campbell. Either he or I must fall, before 
 we quit the ground,” said the artful Archibald — well knowing 
 that Lady Catherine’s maternal tenderness would be awakened 
 by these ideas. Other ideas were also awakened in the prudent 
 
106 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 mother’s mind. Dr. Campbell was nearly related to a general 
 officer, from whom she looked for promotion for her son. She 
 repented, upon reflection, of what she had hastily said concern- 
 ing the lie direct, and the spirit of a gentleman ; and she softened 
 down her pride, and talked of her dislike to breaking up old 
 family friendships. Thence she digressed into hints of the ad- 
 vantages that might accrue from cultivating Dr. Campbell’s 
 good opinion ; admitted that Henry was strangely prejudiced 
 in favour of his rough friend Forester; but observed that Mr. 
 Forester, after all, though singular, was a young man of merit, 
 and at the head of a very considerable estate. ‘‘Archibald,” 
 said she, “ we must make allowances, and conciliate matters — 
 unless you make this young gentleman your friend, you can 
 never hope to be on an eligible footing with his guardian. His 
 guardian, you see, is glad to get him back again, and, I dare 
 say, has his reasons. I never saw him, and I know him well, 
 in such spirits in my life as he was when he came back to us to 
 announce the probability of his ward’s return to-morrow morn- 
 ing. The doctor, I dare say, has good reasons for what he 
 does ; and I understand his ward is reconciled to the idea of 
 living in the world, and enjoying his fine fortune like other 
 people. So I hope you and he, and of course you and the 
 doctor, and Henry Campbell, will be very good friends. I shall 
 leave you at Edinburgh for a few months, till we get our com- 
 mission ; and I shall beg the doctor to introduce you to his 
 
 friend and relation. General D . If he can do nothing for 
 
 you, you may look towards the Church. I trust to your pru- 
 dence, not to think of Flora Campbell, though I leave you in 
 the house with her ; for you can’t afford, Archibald, to marry 
 a girl with so small a fortune ; and, you may be sure, her friends 
 have other views for her. Pray let me hear no more of duels 
 and quarrels. And let us go down into the ball-room ; for 
 Miss Campbell has been dressed and down-stairs this half hour ; 
 and I would not have you inattentive — that might displease as 
 much as the other extreme. In short, I may safely leave you 
 to your own discretion.” Lady Catherine, after this prudent 
 exhortation, entered the ball-room, where all the company soon 
 after assembled. Seated in gay ranges, the well-dressed belles 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 107 
 
 were eager for the dancing to commence. Lady Catherine stood 
 hy Dr. Campbell ; and as soon as the ball began, when the 
 music played, and she saw every one absorbed in themselves, 
 or in their partners, she addressed herself to the doctor on the 
 subject which was next her heart, or rather next her imagina- 
 tion. “ The general is to be with you shortly, I understand,” 
 said she. Dr. Campbell coldly answered in the affirmative. 
 
 To he candid with you, doctor, if you’ll sit down, I want to 
 have a little chat with you about my Archibald. He is not 
 every thing I could wish, and I see you are displeased with him 
 about this foolish business that has just happened. For my 
 own part, I think him to blame ; but we must pardon, we must 
 make allowances for the errors of youth ; and I need not, to a 
 man of your humanity, observe what a cruel thing it is to pre- 
 judice the world against a young man, by telling little anecdotes 
 to his disadvantage. Relations must surely uphold one another ; 
 and I am convinced you will speak of Archibald with candour 
 and friendship.” 
 
 ‘‘With candour and with truth,” replied Dr. Campbell. “ I 
 cannot pretend to feel friendship merely on the score of re- 
 lationship.” 
 
 The proud blood mounted into Lady Catherine’s face, and she 
 replied, “ Some consideration of one’s own relations, I think, is 
 not unbecoming. Archibald, I should have thought, had as 
 strong a claim upon Dr. Campbell’s friendship as the son of an 
 utter stranger to the family. Old Mr. Forester had a monstrous 
 fortune, ’tis true ; but his wife, who was no grand affair, I be- 
 lieve — a merchant’s daughter, I’m told — brought him the 
 greatest part of it; and yet, without any natural connexion 
 between the families, or any thing very desirable, setting fortune 
 out of the question, you accept the guardianship of this young 
 man, and prefer him, I plainly see, to my Archibald. I candidly 
 ask you the question, and answer me candidly.” 
 
 “ As you have explicitly asked the question, I will answer 
 your ladyship candidly. I do prefer my ward to your son. I 
 have avoided drawing comparisons between your son and 
 Forester; and I now wish to avoid speaking of Mr. Archibald 
 
108 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 Mackenzie, because I have little hope of being of service to 
 him.” 
 
 ^‘Nay,” said Lady Catherine, softening her tone, you 
 know you have it in your power to be of the greatest service 
 to him.” 
 
 “ I have done all I could,” said Dr. Campbell, with a sigh ; 
 “but habits of ” 
 
 “ Oh, but I’m not talking of habits,” interrupted Lady 
 Catherine. “ I’ll make him alter his habits. We shall soon 
 turn him into what you like : he’s very quick ; and you must 
 not expect every young man to he just cut out upon the pattern 
 of our dear Henry. I don’t want to trouble you to alter his 
 habits, or to teach him chemistry, or any of those things. 
 But you can, you know, without all that, do him an essential 
 service.” 
 
 “ How?” said Dr. Campbell. 
 
 “ Why how ? I don’t know you this evening, you are so dry. 
 Ken you not what I mean ? Speak three words for him to your 
 friend, the general.” 
 
 “Your ladyship must excuse me,” said Dr. Campbell. 
 
 Lady Catherine was stunned by this distinct refusal. She 
 urged Dr. Campbell to explain the cause of his dislike to her 
 son. 
 
 “There is a poor washerwoman now below stairs,” replied 
 Dr. Campbell, “ who can explain to you more than I wish to 
 explain ; and a story about a horse of Sir Philip Gosling was 
 told to me the other day, by one of the baronet’s friends, which 
 I should be glad Mr. Archibald Mackenzie could contradict 
 effectually.” 
 
 “Archibald, come here,” said Lady Catherine i “before the 
 next dance begins, I must speak to you. What is this about a 
 horse of Sir Philip Gosling?” 
 
 “Ma’am!” said Archibald, with great astonishment. At 
 this instant one of Dr. Campbell’s servants came into the room, 
 and gave two notes to Archibald, which, he said, two gentlemen 
 had just left, and desired him to deliver to Mr. Mackenzie whilst 
 he was in the ball-room, if possible 
 
THE CATASTROPHE. 
 
 109 
 
 “What is it? — What are they, child?” cried Lady Catherine. 
 “I will see them.” Her ladyship snatched the notes, read, and 
 when she saw that her son, in the grossest terms, was called a 
 coward, for refusing the challenges of two such fashionable men 
 as Sir Philip Gosling and Major O’Shannon, all her hopes of 
 him were at an end. “ Our family is disgraced for ever !” she 
 exclaimed ; and then, perceiving that she had uttered this un- 
 guarded sentence loud enough for several of the company to 
 hear, she endeavoured to laugh, and fell into violent hysterics. 
 She was carried out of the ball-room. A whisper now ran round 
 the room of — “ What’s the matter with Lady Catherine Mac- 
 kenzie?” It was at an unfortunate moment that she was carried 
 out, for all the dancers had just seated themselves, after a brisk 
 country dance ; and the eyes of all the young and old were 
 upon her ladyship as she made her exit. A young man, a friend 
 of Major O’ Shannon, who was present, whispered the secret to 
 his partner ; she, of course, to her next neighbour. Archibald 
 saw that the contents of the notes were made public ; and he 
 quitted the apartment, “to inquire how his mother did.” 
 
 The buzz of scandal was general for some moments ; hut a 
 new object soon engrossed the attention of the company. 
 “Pray,” said a young lady, who was looping up Flora Camp- 
 hell’s gown, “ who is this gentleman, who is just coming into 
 the room ?” Flora looked up, and saw a well-dressed stranger 
 entering the room, who had much the appearance of a gentle- 
 man. He certainly resembled a person she had seen before ; 
 but she could scarcely believe that her eyes did not deceive her. 
 Therefore she hesitatingly replied to the young lady’s question, 
 “ I don’t know — I am not sure.” But she, an instant after- 
 wards, saw her brother Henry and her father advance so eagerly 
 to meet the stranger, that her doubts vanished ; and, as he now 
 directed his steps towards the spot where she was standing, 
 she corrected her first answer to her companion’s question, 
 and said, “ Yes, I fancy — it certainly is — Mr. Forester.” Fo- 
 rester, with an open countenance, slightly tinged with the blush 
 of ingenuous shame, approached her, as if he was afraid she 
 had not forgotten some things which he wished to be forgotten ; 
 and yet as if he was conscious that he was not wholly unworthy 
 
no 
 
 FORESTER. 
 
 of her esteem. “Amongst other prejudices of which I have 
 cured myself,” said he to Dr. Campbell, “since we parted, I 
 have cured myself of my foolish antipathy to Scotch reels.” 
 “That I can scarcely believe,” said Dr. Campbell, with an 
 incredulous smile. 
 
 “I will convince you of it,” said Forester, “if you will pro- 
 mise to forget all my other follies.” 
 
 All!” said Dr. Campbell. “Convince me first; and then 
 it will be time enough to make such a desperate promise.” 
 
 Flora was rather surprised when our once cynical hero 
 begged the favour of her hand, and led her to dance a reel. 
 M. Pasgrave would have been in ecstasy if he had seen his 
 pupil’s performance. 
 
 “And now, my dear Forester,” said Dr. Campbell, as his 
 ward returned to claim his promise of a general amnesty, “ if 
 you do not turn out a coxcomb, if you do not ‘ mistake reverse 
 of wrong for right,’ you will infallibly be a very great man. 
 Give me a pupil who can cure himself of any one foible, and I 
 have hope of him. What hope must I not have of him who has 
 cured himself of so many !’* 
 
THE 
 
 PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 Frederick the Second, king of Prussia, after his conquest of 
 Saxony, transported, it is said^, by force, several manufacturers 
 from Dresden to Berlin, where he was very desirous of establish- 
 ing the manufacture of china. These unfortunate people, sepa- 
 rated from their friends, their home, and their native country, 
 were compelled to continue their labours for the profit and for 
 the glory of their conqueror. Amongst the number of those 
 sufferers was Sophia Mansfeld. She was young, handsome, and 
 possessed considerable talents. Several pieces of porcelain of 
 her design and modelling were shown to Frederick, when he 
 visited the manufactory at Meissen, in Saxony ; and their taste 
 and workmanship appeared to him so exquisite, that he deter- 
 mined to transport the artist to his capital. But from the time 
 of her arrival at Berlin, Sophia Mansfeld’s genius seemed to 
 forsake her. It was her business to sketch designs, and to 
 paint them on the porcelain ; hut either she could not or would 
 not execute these with her former elegance : the figures were 
 awkward and spiritless, and it was in vain that the overseer of 
 the works attempted to rouse her to exertion ; she would sit for 
 hours, with her pencil in her hand, in a sort of reverie. It was 
 melancholy to see her. The overseer had compassion upon 
 her ; hut his compassion was not so great as his dread of the 
 
 1 Vide WraxaH’s Memoirs of the Court of Berlin. 
 
112 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 king’s displeasure ; and he at length declared, that the next 
 time Frederick visited the works, he must complain of her obsti- 
 nate idleness. 
 
 The monarch was expected in a few days ; for, in the midst 
 of his various occupations, Frederick, who was at this time 
 extremely intent upon the establishment of the porcelain manu- 
 factory at Berlin, found leisure frequently to inspect it in person. 
 The king, however, was prevented from coming at the appointed 
 hour by a review at Potzdam. His majesty had formed the 
 singular project of embodying, and training to the science of 
 arms, the Jews in his dominions-. They were rather awkward 
 in learning the manual exercise; and the Jewish review, though 
 it afforded infinite amusement to the spectators, put Frederick 
 so much out of humour, that, as soon as it was over, he rode to 
 his palace of Sans Souci, and shut himself up for the remainder 
 of the morning. The preceding evening an English traveller, 
 who had passed some time at Paris with the Count de Laura- 
 gais, in trying experiments upon porcelain clays, and who had 
 received much instruction on this subject from Mr. Wedgewood, 
 of Etruria, had been presented to the king, and his majesty had 
 invited him to be present at a trial of some new process of 
 importance, which was to be made this morning at his manufac- 
 tory. The English traveller, who was more intent upon his 
 countryman Mr. Wedgewood’s fame than upon the martial 
 manoeuvres of the Jews, proceeded, as soon as the review was 
 finished, to exhibit his English specimens to a party of gentle- 
 men, who had appointed to meet him at the china-works at 
 Berlin. 
 
 Of this party, was a youth of the name of Augustus Laniska, 
 who was at this time scarcely seventeen years old. He was a 
 Pole by birth — a Prussian by education. He had been bred up 
 at the military school at Potzdam, and being distinguished by 
 Frederick as a boy of high spirit and capacity, he was early 
 inspired with enthusiastic admiration of this monarch. His 
 admiration, however, was neither blind nor servile. He saw 
 Frederick’s faults as well as his great qualities ; and he often 
 
 2 Wraxall’s Memoirs of the Court of Berlin, &c. 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 113 
 
 expressed himself with more openness and warmth upon this 
 subject than prudence could justify. He had conversed with 
 unusual freedom about Frederick’s character witri our English 
 traveller ; and whilst he was zealous to display every proof of 
 the king’s greatness of mind, he was sometimes forced to ac- 
 knowledge that “there are disadvantages in living under the 
 power of a despotic sovereign.” 
 
 “A despotic sovereign! You will not then call your Fre- 
 derick a despot?” whispered the English traveller to the young 
 Pole, as they entered the china-works at Berlin. “ This is a 
 promising manufactory, no doubt,” continued he; “and Dresden 
 china will probably soon be called Berlin china, by which the 
 world in general will certainly be much henefited. But in the 
 meantime look around you, and read your monarch’s history in 
 the eyes of those prisoners of war — for such I must call these 
 expatriated manufacturers.” 
 
 There were, indeed, many countenances in which great dejec- 
 tion was visible. “ Look at that picture of melancholy,” resumed 
 the Englishman, pointing to the figure of Sophia Mansfeld — ■ 
 “ observe even now, whilst the overseer is standing near her, 
 how reluctantly she works ! ’Tis the way with all slaves. Our 
 English manufacturers (I wish you could see them) work in 
 quite another manner — for they are free ” 
 
 “And are free men, or free women, never ill ?” said Laniska; 
 “or do you Englishmen blame your king, whenever any of his 
 subjects turn pale? — The woman at whom you are now looking 
 is evidently ill. I will inquire from the overseer what is the 
 matter with her.” 
 
 Laniska then turned to the overseer, and asked him in Ger- 
 man several questions, to which he received answers that he did 
 not translate to the English traveller ; he was unwilling that any 
 thing unfavourable to the cause of his sovereign should appear ; 
 and, returning to his companion, he changed the conversation. 
 When all the company were occupied round the furnaces, 
 attending to the Englishman’s experiments, Laniska went back 
 to the apartment where Sophia Mansfeld was at work. “ My 
 good girl,” said he to her, “ what is the matter with you ? The 
 overseer tells me, that since you came here you have done 
 
 1 
 
114 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 nothing that is worth looking at ; yet this charming piece (point- 
 ing to a bowl of her painting, which had been brought from 
 Saxony) is of your design, is it not?” 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied Sophia, “ I painted it — to my sorrow. If 
 
 the king had never seen or liked it, I should now be ” The 
 
 recollection of her home, which at this instant rushed full upon 
 her mind, overpowered her, and she paused. 
 
 “You would now be in Saxony,” resumed Laniska; “but 
 forget Saxony, and you will be happy at Berlin.” 
 
 “I cannot forget Saxony, sir,” answered the young woman, 
 with modest firmness ; “ I cannot forget a father and mother 
 whom I love, who are old and infirm, and who depended on me 
 for their support. I cannot forget every thing — every body 
 that I have ever loved : I wish I could,” 
 
 “Sir,” w'hispered a Prussian workman, who stood by — “sir, 
 she has a lover in Saxony, to whom she was just going to be 
 married, when she was carried off from her cottage, and brought 
 hither.” 
 
 “ Cannot her lover follow her ?” said Laniska. 
 
 “He is in Berlin, in concealment,” replied the workman, in 
 a whisper ; “ you won’t betray him, I am sure.” 
 
 “Not I,” said Laniska; “I never betrayed any one, and I 
 never shall — much less the unfortunate. But why is her lover 
 in concealment?” 
 
 “ Because it is the king’s pleasure,” replied the Prussian, 
 “that she should no longer consider him as her lover. You 
 know, sir, several of these Saxon women have been compelled, 
 since their arrival at Berlin, to marry Prussians. Sophia Mans- 
 feld has fallen to the lot of a Prussian soldier, who swears that if 
 she delays another month to marry him, he will complain to the 
 king of her obstinacy. Our overseer, too, threatens to complain 
 of her idleness. She is ruined if she go on in this way : w^e tell 
 her so, but she seems to have lost all sense ; for she sits as she 
 does now, like one stupified, half the day, let us say what we 
 will to her. We pity her; but the king knows best: the king 
 must be obeyed.” 
 
 “Slave!” exclaimed Laniska, bursting into a sudden trans- 
 port of indignation, “ slave ! you are fit to live only under a 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 115 
 
 tyrant. Tlie king knows best! tlie king must be obeyed! 
 Wliat ! when his commands are contrary to reason, to justice, to 
 humanity?” Laniska stopped short, but not before the high 
 tone of his voice, and the boldness of the words he uttered, had 
 astonished and dismayed all present, — all except Sophia Mans- 
 feld : her whole countenance became suddenly illuminated ; she 
 started up, rushed forwards, threw herself at the feet of Laniska, 
 and exclaimed, Save me ! you can save me ! you have cou- 
 rage ; and you are a powerful lord, and you can speak to the 
 king. Save me from this detested marriage !” 
 
 The party of gentlemen who had been in the next chambei 
 now entered the room, curious to know what had drawn thither 
 such a crowd of workmen. On seeing them enter, Sophia, 
 recollecting herself, rose, and returned to her work quietly ; 
 whilst Laniska, much agitated, seized hold of the Englishman’s 
 arm, and hurried out of the manufactory. 
 
 ‘‘You are right, you are right,” cried he, “Frederick is a 
 tyrant ! But how can I save his victim?” 
 
 “ Not by violence, my Augustus; not by violence!” replied 
 a young man of the name of Albert, who followed Laniska, 
 anxious to restrain the impetuosity of his friend’s temper, with 
 which he was well acquainted. “By imprudence,” said he, 
 “ you will but expose yourself to danger ; you will save, you will 
 serve no one.” 
 
 “ Tame prudence will neither save nor serve any one, how- 
 ever it may prevent its possessor from exposing himself to 
 danger,” retorted Laniska, casting upon Albert a look of con- 
 temptuous reproach. “ Prudence be your virtue, — courage 
 mine.” 
 
 “ Are they incompatible?” said Albert, calmly. 
 
 “ I know not,” replied Laniska ; “ but this I know, that I am 
 in no humour to reason that point, or any other, according to 
 all those cursed forms of logic, which, I believe, you love better 
 than any thing else.” 
 
 “ Not better than I love you, as I prove by allowing you to 
 curse them as much and as often as you think proper,” replied 
 Albert, with a smile, which could not, however, force one from 
 bis angry friend. 
 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 “You are right to practise logic and rhetoric,’* resumed 
 Laniska, “ as much and as often as you can, since in your pro- 
 fession you are to make your bread by your tongue and your 
 pen. I am a soldier, or soon to be a soldier, and have other 
 arms and other feelings.” 
 
 “ I will not dispute the superiority of your arms,” replied 
 Albert ; “ I will only beg of you to remember, that mine will be 
 at your service whenever you want or wish for them.” 
 
 This temperate and friendly reply entirely calmed Laniska. 
 “What would become of Augustus Laniska,” said he, giving 
 Albert his hand, “if he had not such a friend as you are? My 
 mother may well say this, as she does ten times a-day ; but now 
 take it in your sober manner, what can we do for this poor 
 woman ? for something must be done.” 
 
 After some consideration, Albert and Laniska determined to 
 draw up a petition for Sophia, and to present it to the king, 
 who was known to pay ready and minute attention to every 
 application made to him in writing, even by the meanest of his 
 subjects. The petition was presented, and an answer anxiously 
 expected. Frederick, when at Potzdam, often honoured the 
 Countess Laniska with a visit. She was a woman of considerable 
 information and literature, acquirements not common amongst 
 the Polish or Prussian ladies ; and the king distinguished the 
 countess by his approbation, in order to excite some emulation 
 amongst his female subjects. She held a sort of conversazione 
 at her house, which was frequented by all foreigners of distinc- 
 tion, and especially by some of the French literati, who were at 
 this time at Frederick’s court. 
 
 One evening — it was a few days after Sophia Mansfeld’s 
 petition had been presented — the king was at the Countess 
 Laniska’s, and the company were conversing upon some literary 
 subject, when Frederick, who had been unusually silent, sud- 
 denly turned to the English traveller, who was one of the com- 
 pany, and asked him whether his countryman, Mr. Wedgewood, 
 had not made a beautiful imitation of the Barberini, or Portland 
 Vase ? 
 
 The Englishman replied, that the imitation was so exquisite, 
 as scarcely to be known by the best judges from the original ; 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 117 
 
 and he went on, with much eagerness, to give a description of 
 the vase, that he might afterward, for the honour of his country, 
 repeat some lines written upon the subject by an English poet*^. 
 Frederick was himself a poet, and a judge of poetry ; he listened 
 to the lines with attention ; and, as soon as the Englishman had 
 finished speaking, he exclaimed, I will write a description of 
 the Prussian vase myself.” 
 
 ‘‘The Prussian Vase !” said the English traveller: “I hope 
 I may have the honour of seeing it before I leave Berlin.” 
 
 “ If you prolong your stay another month, your curiosity will 
 probably be gratified,” replied Frederick. “The Prussian Vase 
 is not yet in being ; but I have this day determined to offer a 
 reward, that I know will produce a vase worthy of Prussia. 
 Those who have the command of motives, and know their 
 power, have also the command of all that the arts, or what is 
 called a genius for the arts, can produce. The human mind, 
 and human fingers, are much the same in Italy, in England, 
 and in Prussia. Then, why should not we have a Prussian as 
 as well as a Wedgewood’s or a Barberini Vase ? We shall see. 
 I do not understand mon metier de roi, if I cannot call forth 
 talents where I know them to exist. There is,” continued the 
 king, fixing his eyes full upon Laniska, “ there is, in my por- 
 celain manufactory at Berlin, a woman of considerable talents, 
 who is extremely anxious to return, along with some lovers of 
 hers, to Saxony. Like all other prisoners of war, she must pur- 
 chase her liberty from the conqueror ; and if she cannot pay her 
 ransom in gold, let her pay it by her talents. I do not give 
 premiums to idleness or obstinacy. The king must he obeyed, 
 whether he knows how to command or not : let all the world, who 
 are able to judge, decide.” Frederick, as soon as he had finished 
 this speech, which he pronounced in a peremptory tone, left the 
 room ; and Laniska’s friend, who perceived that the imprudent 
 words he had uttered in Berlin had reached the king’s ear, gave 
 the young man up for lost. To their surprise, however, the 
 king took no further notice of what had happened, but received 
 
 3 Darwin. — See his description of the Barberini vase in the Botanic 
 Garden. W e hope our readers will pardon this anachronism. 
 
118 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 I 
 
 Laniska the next day at Sans Souci with all his usual kind- 
 ness. Laniska, who was of an open, generous temper, was 
 touched by this conduct ; and, throwing himself at Frederick’s 
 feet, he exclaimed : — 
 
 ‘‘ My king ! forgive me, if in a moment of indignation I called 
 you a tyrant.” 
 
 My friend, you are yet a child, and I let children and fools 
 speak of me as they please,” replied Frederick. ‘‘ When you 
 are an older man, you will judge more wisely, or, at least, you 
 will speak with more discretion within twenty miles of a tyrants 
 palace. Here is my answer to your Sophia Mansfeld’s peti- 
 tion,” added he, giving Laniska the paper, which Albert had 
 drawn up ; at the bottom of which was written, in the king’s 
 own hand, these words : — 
 
 I will permit the artist who shall produce, before this day 
 month, the most beautiful vase of Berlin china, to marry or not to 
 marry, whomsoever he or she shall think proper, and to return to 
 Saxony with all imaginable expedition. If the successful artist 
 choose to remain at Berlin, I will add a reward of 500 crowns. 
 The artist’s name shall be inscribed on the vase, which shall be 
 called the Prussian Vase.” No sooner had Sophia Mansfeld 
 read these words, than she seemed animated with new life and 
 energy. She was likely to have many competitors ; for, the 
 moment the king’s intentions were made known in the manu- 
 factory, all hands and heads were at work. Some were excited 
 by the hope of regaining their liberty ; others stimulated by the 
 mention of 500 crowns ; and some were fired with ambition to 
 have their name inscribed on the Prussian Vase. But none had 
 so strong a motive for exertion as Sophia. She was indefatig- 
 able. The competitors consulted the persons whom they believed 
 to have the best taste in Berlin and Potzdam. Sophia’s designs 
 were shown, as soon as they were sketched, to the Countess 
 Laniska, whose advice was of material use to her. 
 
 At length, the day which was to decide her fate arrived. The 
 vases were all ranged, by the king’s order, in his gallery of 
 paintings at Sans Souci ; and in the evening, when Frederick 
 had finished the business of the day, he went thither to examine 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 119 
 
 them. Laniska and some others were permitted to accompany 
 him : no one spoke, whilst Frederick was comparing the works 
 of the different competitors. 
 
 ‘‘Let this be the Prussian Vase,” said the king. It was 
 Sophia Mansfeld’s. Laniska just stayed to show her name, 
 which was written underneath the foot of the vase, and then he 
 hurried away to communicate the happy news to Sophia, who 
 was waiting, with her lover, at the house of the Countess 
 Laniska, in Potzdam, impatient to hear her fate. She heard it 
 with inexpressible joy ; and Laniska’s generous heart sympa- 
 thized in her happiness. It was settled that she should the next 
 morning be married to her lover, and return with him to her 
 father and mother in Saxony. The happy couple were just 
 taking leave of the young count and his mother, when they were 
 alarmed by the sound of many voices on the great staircase. 
 Some persons seemed to be disputing with the countess’s ser- 
 vants for admittance. Laniska went out to inquire into the 
 cause of the disturbance. The hall was filled with soldiers. 
 
 “ Are you the young Count Laniska?” said an officer to him, 
 the moment he appeared. 
 
 “ I am the young Count Laniska,” replied he, in a firm tone. 
 “What do you want with me? and why this disturbance in my 
 mother’s house at this unseasonable hour?” 
 
 “We come here by the king’s orders,” replied the soldier. 
 “ Is not there in this house a woman of the name of Sophia 
 Mansfeld?” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Laniska : “ what do you want with her?” 
 
 “ She must come with us; and you are our prisoner, count,” 
 replied the soldier. 
 
 It was in vain to ask for further explanation. The soldiers 
 could give none ; they knew nothing, but that their orders were 
 to convey Sophia Mansfeld immediately to Meissen in Saxony, 
 and to lodge Count Laniska in the castle of Spandau, a state 
 prison. 
 
 “ I must know my crime before I submit to punishment,” 
 cried Laniska, in a passionate voice ; but he restrained the 
 natural violence of his temper, on seeing his mother appear, 
 and, at her request, yielded himself up a prisoner without re- 
 
120 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 sistance, and without a munnur. ‘‘ I depend on your innocence, 
 my son, and on the justice of the king,” said the countess; and 
 she took leave of him without shedding a tear. The next day, 
 even before the king arrived at Potzdam, she went to the palace, 
 determined to wait there till she could see him, that she might 
 hear from his own lips the cause of her son’s imprisonment. 
 She waited a considerable time — for, without alighting from 
 horseback, Frederick proceeded to the parade, where he was 
 occupied for some hours ; at length he alighted, and the first 
 person he saw, on entering his palace, was the Countess 
 Laniska. 
 
 I am willing to believe, madam,” said he, ‘‘ that you have 
 no share in your son’s folly and ingratitude.” 
 
 ‘^My son is, I hope, incapable of ingratitude, sir,” answered 
 the countess, with an air of placid dignity. I am well aware 
 that he may have been guilty of great imprudence.” 
 
 ‘‘ At six o’clock this evening let me see you, madam,” replied 
 the king, at Sans Souci, in the gallery of paintings, and you 
 shall know of what your son is accused.” 
 
 At the appointed hour she was in the gallery of paintings at 
 Sans Souci. No one was there. She waited quietly for some 
 time, then walked up and down the gallery with extreme im- 
 patience and agitation; at last, she heard the king’s voice and 
 his step ; the door opened, and Frederick appeared. It was an 
 awful moment to the mother of Laniska. She stood in silent 
 expectation. 
 
 ‘‘ I see, madam,” said the king, after fixing his penetrating 
 eye for some moments on her countenance, “ I see that you are, 
 as I believe you to be, wholly ignorant of your son’s folly.’* 
 As he spoke, Frederick put his hand upon the vase made by 
 Sophia Mansfeld, which was placed on a small stand in the 
 middle of the gallery. The countess, absorbed by her own re- 
 flections, had not noticed it. 
 
 “You have seen this vase before,” said the king; “and you 
 have probably seen the lines which are inscribed on the foot 
 of it.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the countess, “they are my son’s writing.” 
 
 “ And they are written by his own hand,” said the king. 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 121 
 
 “ They are. The poor Saxon woman who draws so admirably 
 cannot write ; and my son wrote the inscription for her.” 
 
 “The lines are in a high strain oi panegyric,'' said the king; 
 and he laid a severe emphasis on the vf oxdi panegyric. 
 
 “ Whatever may be my son’s faults,” said the countess, “ your 
 majesty cannot suspect him of being a base flatterer. Scarcely 
 a month has elapsed since his unguarded openness exposed him 
 to your displeasure. Your majesty’s magnanimity, in pardoning 
 his imprudent expressions, convinced him at once of his error 
 in having used them ; and, in the fit of enthusiasm with which 
 your kindness upon that occasion inspired him, he, who is by no 
 means a poet by profession, composed the two lines oi panegyric 
 which seem to have given your majesty offence, but which I 
 should never have conceived could be the cause of his imprison- 
 ment.” 
 
 “You plead like a mother, madam,” said the king; “but 
 you reason like a woman. Have I ever said that your son was 
 imprisoned for having written two lines of flattery? No, 
 madam : I know how to smile both at flattery and satire, when 
 they are undisguised ; but there is a degree of baseness which I 
 cannot so easily pardon. Be patient, madam ; I will listen to 
 all you can say in your son’s defence, when you have read this 
 inscription. But, before you read it, understand that I was 
 upon the point of sending this vase to Paris. I had actually 
 given orders to the man who was packing up that case (pointing 
 to a half-packed case of porcelain) to put up the Prussian Vase 
 as a present for a Prussian hel esprit of your acquaintance. The 
 man showed me the inscription at the bottom of the vase. I 
 read the flattering lines with pleasure, and thought them — as 
 people usually think flattering lines made on themselves — excel- 
 lent. I was even fool enough immediately to consider how I 
 could reward the author, when my friend, the packer, inter- 
 rupted the course of my thoughts, by observing, with some 
 exclamation of astonishment, that the blue colour of the vase 
 came off in one spot, where he had been rubbing it. I looked, 
 and saw that part of the inscription at the bottom of the vase 
 had been covered over with blue paint. At first sight, I read 
 the words, ‘ On the character of Frederick the Great the blue 
 
122 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 paint had concealed the next word, which is now, madam, suf- 
 ficiently legible.” The word to which the king pointed was — 
 tyrant. Those flattering lines, madam, you comprehend, were 
 written — ‘ On the character of Frederick, the great tyrant' 
 
 “ I shall spare you, madam, all the reflections I have made 
 on this occasion. Tyrant as I am, I shall not punish the 
 innocent mother for the follies of her son. I shall be at 
 your house, along with the rest of your friends, on Tuesday 
 evening.” 
 
 The unhappy mother of Laniska withdrew from the presence 
 of the king, without attempting any reply. Her son’s conduct 
 admitted, she thought, of no apology, if it were really true that 
 he had written the words to which his name was signed. Of this 
 she doubted ; but her consternation was at first so great, that 
 she had not the power to think. A general belief remained in 
 her mind of her son’s innocence ; but then a number of his 
 imprudent words and actions came across her memory ; the in- 
 scription was, apparently, in his own hand-writing. The con- 
 versation which had passed in the porcelain manufactory at 
 Berlin corroborated the idea expressed in this inscription. The 
 countess, on her return home, related the circmnstances, with as 
 much composure as she could, to Albert, who was waiting to 
 hear the result of her interview with the king. Albert heard 
 her relation with astonishment; he could not believe in his 
 friend’s guilt, though he saw no means of proving his innocence. 
 He did not, however, waste his time in idle conjectures, or more 
 idle lamentations : he went immediately to the man who was 
 employed to pack up the vase ; and, after questioning him with 
 great care, he went to Berlin to the porcelain manufactory, and 
 inquired whether any persons were present when Laniska wrote 
 the inscription for Sophia Mansfeld. After Albert had collected 
 all the information that could be obtained, his persuasion of 
 Laniska’s innocence was confirmed. 
 
 On Tuesday Frederick had promised to come to the countess’s 
 conversazione. The company, previous to his majesty’s arrival, 
 were all assembled round the sofa, on which she was seated, and 
 they were eagerly talking over Laniska’s affair. “What a 
 blessing it is,” cried the English traveller, “ to live in a country 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 123 
 
 where no man can be imprisoned without knowing of what he 
 is accused ! What a blessing it is to live under a government 
 where no man can be condemned without trial, and where his 
 trial must be carried on in open day, in the face of his country, 
 
 his peers, his equals !” The Englishman was in the midst of 
 
 a warm eulogium upon the British mode of trial by jury, when 
 Frederick entered the room, as it was his custom, without being 
 announced : and the company were so intently listening to our 
 traveller, they did not perceive that the king was one of his 
 auditors. ‘‘Would to Heaven,” cried the Countess Laniska, 
 when the Englishman paused — “ would to Heaven my son 
 could have the advantage of such a trial !” 
 
 “ And would to Heaven,” exclaimed Albert, “ that I might 
 plead his cause !” 
 
 “ On one condition,” said Frederick ; and, at the sound of 
 his voice, every one started — “ on one condition, young man, 
 your prayer shall be granted. You shall plead your friend’s 
 cause, upon condition that, if you do not convince his judges of 
 his innocence, you shall share his punishment. His punish- 
 ment will be a twelvemonth’s imprisonment in the castle of 
 Spandau ; and yours the same, if you fail to establish your 
 cause and his. Next to the folly of being imprudent ourselves, 
 that of choosing imprudent friends is the most dangerous. 
 Laniska shall he tried by his equals ; and, since twelve is the 
 golden, harmonic, divine number, for which justice has a blind 
 predilection, let him have twelve judges, and call them, if you 
 please, a jury. But I will name my counsel, and you counsel 
 for Laniska. You know the conditions — do you accept of 
 them ?” 
 
 “Willingly, sire!” cried Albert, joyfully. “ You will per- 
 mit me to have access to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau?” 
 
 “ That is a new condition ; hut I grant it. The governor 
 shall have orders to admit you to see and converse with his 
 prisoner for two hours ; but if, after that conversation, your 
 opinion of your friend should change, you will not blame me if 
 I hold you to your word.” 
 
 Albert declared that he desired no more : and the Countess 
 Laniska, and all who were present, joined in praising Frede- 
 
124 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 rick’s clemency and Albert’s generosity. The imprisonment 
 of Laniska had been much talked of, not only in public com- 
 panies at Potzdam and at Berlin, but, what affected Frederick 
 much more nearly, it had become the subject of conversation 
 amongst the literati in his own palace at Sans Souci. An 
 English traveller, of some reputation in the literary world, also 
 knew the circumstances, and was interested in the fate of the 
 young count. Frederick seems to have had a strong desire to 
 he represented in an amiable point of view by writers who, he 
 believed, could transmit his fame to posterity. Careless of what 
 might he said of him, he was anxious that nothing should be 
 printed derogatory to his reputation. Whether the desire to 
 give to foreigners a striking proof of his magnanimity, cr 
 whether his regard for the young count, and his friendship for 
 his mother, were his motives in granting to Laniska this trial hy 
 jury^ cannot and need not he determined. Unmixed virtue 
 is not to he expected from kings more than from common 
 men. 
 
 After his visit to the prisoner in the castle of Spandau, Albeit 
 felt no inclination to recede from the agreement into which he 
 had entered ; but Laniska was much alarmed when he was told 
 of what had passed. “ Oh, my generous friend!” exclaimed 
 the young count, ‘‘ why did you accept of the conditions offered 
 to you by the king ? You may — I am sure you do — believe in 
 my innocence ; but you will never be able to prove it. You 
 will soon be involved in my disgrace.” 
 
 I shall think it no disgrace,” replied Albert, “ to be the 
 fellow-prisoner of an innocent friend.” 
 
 ‘‘ Do not you remember,” said Laniska, “ that, as we were 
 returning from Berlin, after my unlucky visit to the porcelain 
 manufactory, you promised me, that whenever I should be in 
 want of your weapons, they should be at my service ? I little 
 thought that I should so soon be in such need of them. Fare- 
 well — I pray for their success.” 
 
 On the day appointed for the trial of Laniska, crowds of 
 people of all ranks flocked to hear the proceedings. A spacious 
 building in Potzdam, intended for a barrack, was, upon this 
 occasion, converted into a hall of justice ; a temporary gallery 
 
THE FRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 125 
 
 was erected for the accommodation of the audience ; and a plat- 
 form was raised in the centre of the hall, where the judge’s chair 
 was placed : on the right hand of his chair a space was railed 
 in for the reception of the twelve young gentlemen, who were to 
 act as jurors ; on the left another space was railed in for spec- 
 tators. In the front there was a large table, on each side of 
 which were benches for the counsel and witnesses : those for 
 the crown on the right hand ; those for the prisoner on the left. 
 Every thing had, by the king’s orders, been prepared in this 
 manner, according to the English custom. 
 
 The Countess Laniska now entered the court, with a few 
 friends, who had not yet forsaken her. They took their seats 
 at the lower end of the gallery ; and as every eye turned upon 
 the mother, who waited to hear the trial of her son, an awful 
 silence prevailed. This lasted hut for a few moments ; it was 
 succeeded by a general whispering amongst the crowds, both in 
 the hall and in the gallery. Each individual gave his opinion 
 concerning the event of the trial : some declared that the cir 
 cumstances which must appear against Laniska were so strong, 
 that it was madness in Albert to undertake his defence ; others 
 expressed great admiration of Albert’s intrepid confidence in 
 himself and his friend. Many studied the countenance of the 
 king, to discover what his wishes might be ; and a thousand 
 idle conjectures were formed from his most insignificant move- 
 ments. 
 
 At length, the temporary judge having taken his seat, twelve 
 young gentlemen were chosen, from the most respectable 
 families in Potzdam, to act as jurors. The prisoner was sum- 
 moned to answer to the charges brought against him, in the name 
 of Frederick the Second, king of Prussia. Laniska appeared, 
 guarded by two officers : he walked up to the steps of the plat- 
 form with an air of dignity, which seemed expressive of con- 
 scious innocence ; but his countenance betrayed involuntary 
 marks of emotion, too strong for him to command, when, on 
 raising his eyes, he beheld his friend Albert, who stood full in 
 his view. Albert maintained an immovable composure of 
 countenance. The prisoner was now asked whether he had any 
 objections to make to any of the twelve persons who had been 
 
12G 
 
 THE I RUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 selected to judge his cause. lie made none. They proceeded 
 to take an oath, “ that, in their decision, they would suffer no 
 motives to influence them but a sense of truth and justice.” 
 The judge then rose, and addressing himself to the jury, said : — 
 “ Gentlemen, 
 
 ‘‘ You are here, by the king’s order, to form your opinions 
 concerning the guilt or innocence of the prisoner, commonly 
 known by the name of Count Augustus Laniska. You will 
 learn the nature and circumstances of the accusation against 
 him from Mr. Warendorff, the gentleman on my right hand, 
 who in this cause has the honour of being counsel for his 
 majesty. You will hear from the gentleman on my left, Albert 
 Altenburg, all that can be said in defence of the prisoner, for 
 whom he voluntarily offers himself as counsel. After having 
 listened to the arguments that may he adduced, and to the 
 witnesses that shall be examined on each side, you are, gentle- 
 men, according to the ten our of the oath which has just been 
 administered to you, to decide, without regard to any consider- 
 ation but truth and justice. Your opinion is to be delivered to 
 me by the eldest amongst you, and it is to he expressed in one 
 or other of these phrases — guilty or not guilty. 
 
 “ When I shall have heard your decision, I am, in his 
 majesty’s name, to pronounce sentence accordingly. If the 
 prisoner be judged by you not guilty^ I am to announce to him 
 that he is thenceforward at liberty, and that no stain affixes to 
 his honour from the accusation that has been preferred against 
 him, or from his late imprisonment, or from this public trial. 
 If, on the contrary, your judgment shall be, that the prisoner is 
 guilty, I am to remand him to the castle of Spandau, where he 
 is to remain confined for twelve months from this day. To the 
 same punishment I am also to condemn Albert Altenburg, if he 
 fail to establish in your minds the innocence of the Count 
 Laniska. It is upon this condition that he is permitted to plead 
 the cause of his friend. 
 
 ‘‘ Gentlemen, you are called upon to give impartial atten- 
 tion in this cause, by your duty to your king and to your 
 country.” 
 
 As soon as the judge, after making this short address to the 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 127 
 
 jury, had seated himself, Mr. Warendorff, counsel for the crown, 
 rose, and spoke in the following manner : — 
 
 ‘‘ My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, 
 
 “ It is with inexpressible concern that I find myself called 
 upon to plead in this cause. To be the accuser of any man is 
 an invidious task : to be the accuser of such a man as I once 
 thought — as you perhaps still think — the young Count Laniska 
 must, to a person of generous feelings, be in a high degree 
 difficult and distressing. I do not pretend to more generosity 
 or delicacy of sentiment than others ; but I beg any of you, 
 gentlemen, to imagine yourselves for a moment in my place, 
 and to conceive what must be my sensations as a man, and as 
 an advocate. I am not ignorant how popular the name of 
 Augustus Laniska is, both in Berlin and Potzdam. I am not 
 ignorant that the young count has been in the habit of living 
 amongst you, gentlemen, on terms of familiarity, friendship, 
 and confidence ; nor can I doubt that the graceful, manly 
 manner, and open deportment, for which he is so eminently 
 distinguished, must have strongly prepossessed you in his 
 favour. I am not ignorant that I have to plead against him 
 before his friends, in the presence of his mother — a mother 
 respected even in a higher degree than her son is beloved; 
 respected for her feminine virtues — for her more than feminine 
 endowments ; who, had she no other claim upon your hearts, 
 must, by the unfortunate situation in which she now appears, 
 command your sympathy. 
 
 “ You must all of you feel, likewise, strongly prepossessed in 
 favour of that noble-minded youth, who has undertaken to de- 
 fend the prisoner’s cause, at the hazard of sharing his punish- 
 ment. I respect the general character of Albert Altenburg ; I 
 admire his abilities ; I applaud him, for standing forward in 
 defence of his friend ; I pity him, because he has a friend, for 
 whom, I fear, even he will find it impossible to establish any 
 plausible defence. But the idea that he is acting handsomely, 
 and that he has the sympathy of numbers in his favour, will 
 doubtless support the young advocate in his arduous task. He 
 appears in this court in the striking character of counsel, 
 disinterested counsel, for his friend. 
 
128 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 “ Gentlemen, I also appear in this court as counsel, disin- 
 terested counsel for a friend. Yes, gentlemen, I am permitted 
 to call Frederick the Great viy fiiend. He is not, as other great 
 monarchs have been, ambitious to raise himself above the sphere 
 of humanity ; he does not desire to he addressed in the fulsome 
 strains either of courtly or of poetical adulation : he wishes not 
 to be worshipped as a god, but to be respected as a man^*. It 
 is his desire to have friends that shall be faithful, or subjects 
 that shall be obedient. Happy his obedient subjects — they are 
 secure of his protection : happy, thrice happy, his faithful 
 friends — they are honoured with his favour and his confidence. 
 It was in the power of the prisoner now before you to have been 
 in this enviable class. You all of you know that the Countess 
 Laniska, his mother, has for years been honoured by the friend- 
 ship of her sovereign ; even the conduct of her son has not 
 been able to shake his confidence in her. A Pole by birth, 
 Augustus Laniska was educated amongst the first of the Prus- 
 sian nobility, at the military academy at Potzdam, that nursery 
 of heroes. From such an education — from the son of such a 
 mother — honourable sentiments and honourable conduct were 
 to be expected. Most confidently were they expected by his 
 king, who distinguished the young count, as you all know, even 
 in his boyish days. The count is said to be of a temper natu- 
 rally impetuous : the errors into which such a temper too‘ 
 publicly betrayed him were pardoned by the indulgence of his 
 king. I am compelled to recall one recent instance of the truth 
 of these assertions, as it is immediately connected with the pre- 
 sent cause.” 
 
 Here Mr. Warendorff related all that had passed at the por- 
 celain manufactory at Berlin, and the king’s subsequent conduct 
 towards Count Laniska. On the magnanimity of his majesty, 
 the eloquent counsel expatiated for a considerable time ; but the 
 applauses with which this part of his oration was received by a 
 party in the gallery, who were seated near the king, were so 
 loud, as almost to drown the voice of the orator, and effectually 
 to distract the attention of those employed to take down his 
 
 jEschylus. 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 129 
 
 words. When he could again be heard distinctly, he resumed 
 as follows : 
 
 I am not surprised at these testimonies of admiration which 
 burst from the warm hearts of his majesty’s subjects ; I am only 
 surprised that a heart could be found in his dominions on whom 
 such magnanimity could make no impression. I am shocked, 
 I am grieved, when I find such a heart in the person of Count 
 Laniska. Can it be believed that, in the course of one short 
 month after this generous pardon, that young nobleman proved 
 himself the basest of traitors — a traitor to the king, who was his 
 friend and benefactor ? Daring no longer openly to attack, he 
 attempted secretly to wound the fame of his sovereign. You 
 all of you know what a degree of liberty, even licence, Frede- 
 rick the Great permits to that species of satirical wit with which 
 the populace delight to ridicule their rulers. At this instant 
 there are various anonymous pasquinades on the garden-gates 
 at Sans Souci, which would have provoked the resentment — the 
 fatal resentment — of any other monarch upon earth. It cannot 
 be doubted that the authors of these things could easily be dis- 
 covered, if the king condescended to make any inquiries con- 
 cerning them : it cannot be doubted that the king has power to 
 punish the offenders : yet they remain untouched, perhaps un- 
 known. Our sovereign is not capable of feeling the petty 
 emotions of vulgar spleen or resentment ; but he could not be 
 insensible to the treacherous ingratitude of one, whom he 
 imagined to have been attached to him by every tie of kindness 
 and of duty. That the Count Laniska should choose the instant 
 when the king was showing him unusual favour, to make that 
 favour an instrument of his base malice, is scarcely credible. 
 Yet, Prussians, incredible as it sounds to us, it is true. Here 
 are my proofs : here are my witnesses.” 
 
 Mr. Warendorff, at this instant, uncovered the Prussian Vase, 
 and then pointed to a Jew, and to the master of the porcelain 
 manufactory, who stood beside him, ready to give their evidence. 
 We omit that part of Mr. Warendorff ’s speech which contained 
 the facts that have been already related. The Prussian Vase 
 was handed to the jury : the verses in praise of Frederick the 
 Great were read, and the word tyrant was seen, afterward, with 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 the utmost surprise. In the midst of the general indignation, 
 Mr. Warendorft' called upon the Jew to come forward and give 
 his evidence. This Jew was an old man, and there was some- 
 thing remarkable in his looks. His head was still ; his neck 
 was stiff ; hut his eyes moved with incessant celerity from side 
 to side, and he seemed uneasy at not being able to see what 
 was passing behind him : there was a certain firmness in his 
 attitude, but his voice trembled when he attempted to speak. 
 All these circumstances prepossessed Laniska’s friends against 
 the Jew the moment he appeared ; and it was justly observed, 
 that his having the misfortune to be a Jew was sufficient to 
 prejudice many of the populace against him, even before a word 
 he uttered reached their ears. But impartial spectators judged that 
 the poor man was only terrified at being called upon to speak in 
 so large an assembly. Solomon (for that was the name of the 
 Jew), after having taken an oath upon the Talmud that he would 
 speak nothing but the truth, made the following answers to the 
 questions put to him by Mr. Warendorff: — 
 
 Mr, Warendorff. — “ Did you ever see this vase before V* 
 Solomon. — Yes.” 
 
 Mr. Warendorff. — “ Where ? when ? Tell all you know about 
 it to the gentlemen of the jury.” 
 
 Solomon. — “ The first time I saw that vase was in the gallery 
 of paintings, at the king’s palace of Sans Souci ; to the best of 
 my recollection, it was on the night of the first day of the 
 month, about ten o’clock, or, perhaps, it might be eleven : I 
 wish to be exact ; but I cannot be certain as to the hour pre- 
 cisely.” 
 
 Mr. Warendorff. — ‘‘ The exact hour is not of any conse- 
 quence : proceed. Tell us how you came to see this vase. 
 Take your time to speak. We are in no hurry: the truth will 
 appear sooner or later.” 
 
 Solomon. — “ His majesty himself put the vase into my hands, 
 and commanded me to pack it up, with some other china, which 
 he was going to send as a present to a gentleman at Paris. I 
 am something of a judge of china myself, being used to selling 
 small pieces of it up and down the town and coimtry. So I 
 was struck with the first sight of this beautiful vase ; I looked 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 131 
 
 at it very carefully, and wiped away, with my handkerchief, the 
 dust which had settled on the white figures : here is the very 
 handkerchief. I wiped the vase all over ; but, when I came to 
 rub the bottom, I stopped to read the verses on the character of 
 Fredench the Great; and having read these, I rubbed the 
 white letters quite clean : the ground on which they were written 
 was blue. I found that some of the blue colour came off upon 
 my handkerchief, which surprised me a good deal. Upon 
 examining further, I perceived that the colour came off only in 
 one spot, of about an inch long, and half an inch broad. The 
 king was at this time standing with his back to me, looking at 
 a new picture which had just been hung up in the gallery ; but 
 hearing me make an exclamation (‘ Father Abraham V I believe 
 it was that I said), his majesty turned round. ‘ What is the 
 matter with you, Solomon ? You look wondrous wise,’ his 
 majesty was pleased to say. ‘ Why do you call on Father 
 Abraham at this time of day ? Do you expect that he will help 
 you to pack up that china — ^hey, Solomon, my friend V I had 
 no power to answer this question, for by this time, to my utter 
 astonishment, I had discovered that, on the spot where I had 
 rubbed off the blue paint, there was a word written — the word 
 was tyrant. ‘ On the character of Frederick, the great tyrant F 
 Said I to myself — ‘ what can this mean V The king snatched 
 the vase from my hands, read what I had read, saw the paint 
 which had been rubbed off upon my handkerchief, and without 
 saying one word left the gallery. This is all I know about the 
 matter.” 
 
 The Jew bowed to the court, and Mr. Warendorff told him 
 that, having closed his evidence, he might depart. But Albert 
 rose to desire that the judge would order him to remain 
 in court, as he purposed to examine, or, according to the 
 English term, to cross-e.i,amine him further, at a proper time. 
 The judge ordered the Jew to remain in court. The next wit- 
 ness called, on the part of the crown, was the master of the 
 porcelain manufactory of Berlin ; to whom Mr. Warendorff put 
 the following questions : — 
 
 Q . — “ Have you seen the verses which are inscribed on the 
 foot of this vase ?” 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 Answer. — Yes, I have.” 
 
 Q . — Do you recollect what words are written over the 
 verses?” 
 
 Answer. — “ I do : the words are — ‘ On the character of Fre- 
 derick, the great tyrant.’ ” 
 
 Q. — ‘‘ Do you know by whom those words and these verses 
 were written ?” 
 
 Answer. — “ I believe that they were written by Count Augus- 
 tus Laniska.” 
 
 Q. — ‘‘ How do you know ? or why do you believe it?” 
 
 Answer. — “ I was present when Sophia Mansfeld, the woman 
 by whom the vase was designed, told the count that she did 
 not know how to write, and that she would be obliged to him 
 if he would write the inscription himself on it. The vase at 
 this time had not been put into the furnace. It was in what we 
 call biscuit. The Count Laniska took a proper tool, and said 
 that he would write the inscription as she desired. I saw him 
 writing on the bottom of the vase for some minutes. I heard 
 him afterward call to one of the workmen, and desire that he 
 would put the vase into the furnace : the workman accordingly 
 carried it into the next room to the furnace, as I believe.” 
 
 Q. — “ Did you see the inscription on the vase after it was 
 taken out of the furnace ? and was the word ‘ tyrant’ then on it ?” 
 
 Answer. — I did not see the vase immediately upon its being 
 taken out of the furnace ; but I saw it about an hour afterward. 
 At that time I read the inscription : the word ‘ tyrant’ was not 
 then visible on the vase ; the place where it now appears was 
 blue. I carried it myself, along with some others, to the king’s 
 palace at Sans Souci. The night of the first day of this month 
 his majesty sent for me, and showed me the word tyrant on the 
 vase : I had never seen it there till then. It could not have 
 been written after the china was baked : it must have been 
 written whilst the biscuit was soft ; and it must have been 
 covered over with the blue paint after the vase was taken out 
 of the furnace. I believe the word was written by Count 
 Laniska, because I saw nobody else mate upon the vase bul 
 him ; because the word exactly resembles the handwriting of the 
 rest of the inscription ; and because I, upon a former occasion. 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 133 
 
 heard the count make use of that very word in speaking of Fre- 
 derick the Great.” 
 
 Here the master of the porcelain manufactory finished speak- 
 ing, and was going, with Mr. WarendorfT s permission, to retire; 
 but Albert signified his intention to cross-examine him also, and 
 the judge commanded that he should remain in court. The two 
 next witnesses who were produced and examined were the work- 
 man who carried the vase to the furnace, and the man whose 
 business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace. Neither of 
 these witnesses could write or read. The workman deposed, 
 that he carried the Prussian Vase, as he was desired, to the 
 furnace ; that no one touched it on the way thither. The man 
 whose business it was to put the biscuit into the furnace swore 
 that he put it along with several other vases into the furnace ; 
 that he attended the fire, and that no one touched any of them 
 till they were baked and taken out by him. Here the evidence 
 for the prosecution closed. Mr. Warendorff observed, that he 
 should forbear to expatiate further upon the conduct of the pri- 
 soner ; that he had been ordered by his sovereign to speak of 
 him with all possible moderation ; that he earnestly hoped the 
 defence that should be made for Count Laniska might be satis- 
 factory ; and that the mode of trial which had been granted to 
 him by the king was a sufficient proof of the clemency of his 
 majesty, and of his earnest desire to allow the prisoner every 
 possible means of re-establishing his character in the eyes of 
 the public. Albert now rose. The Count Laniska, who had 
 appeared unmoved during Mr. WarendortFs oration, changed 
 countenance the moment Albert rose in his defence ; the Countess 
 Laniska leaned forward over the rails of the gallery in breath- 
 less anxiety : there was no sound heard in the whole gallery, 
 except the jingling of the chain of the king’s sword, with which 
 he was playing. 
 
 ‘‘I shall not attempt, gentlemen,” said Albert, “to move 
 your sympathy by a pathetic description of my own feelings as 
 a man, ajid as an advocate. Whatever mine may be, it is my 
 wish and my duty to repress them. I have need of that calm 
 possession of my understanding, which will be necessary to con- 
 vince yours of the innocence of my friend. To convince is my 
 
134 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 object. If it were in my power, I should, upon the present 
 occasion, disdain to persuade. I should think it equally incom- 
 patible with my own honour and that of the Count Laniska. 
 With these sentiments, I refrain, Prussians, from all eulogium 
 upon the magnanimity of your king. Praises from a traitor, or 
 from the advocate of a traitor, must he unworthy of a great 
 monarch, or of a generous people. If the prisoner before you 
 shall be proved to be no traitor, he will doubtless have oppor- 
 tunities of expressing by actions, better than I can by words, his 
 gratitude to his sovereign, for having allowed him this public 
 trial by his equals — men who are able to discern and to assert 
 the truth. It cannot have escaped their observation, that no 
 positive evidence whatever has yet been produced against the 
 prisoner. No one has yet been heard to swear that he saw 
 Count Laniska write the word tyrant upon this vase. The first 
 witness, Solomon the Jew, has informed us of what our senses 
 could not leave us room to doubt, that the word is actually 
 engraved upon the porcelain : further, he has told us that it 
 was covered over with blue paint, which he rubbed off with his 
 handkerchief. All this may be true ; but the wisdom of Solo- 
 mon, united to that of Baron Warendorff, has failed to point out 
 to us any certain connexion between tbis blue paint, this hand- 
 kerchief, and the supposed guilt of the Count Laniska. The 
 master of the porcelain manufactory came next, and I appre- 
 hended that, as being a more respectable witness than the Jew, 
 it was reserved for him to supply this link in the chain of evi- 
 dence. But this respectable witness simply swore, that he heard 
 a woman say she could not write or read ; that she asked Count 
 Laniska to write an inscription upon a vase for her ; that, in 
 consequence of {his request, the count wrote something upon 
 the vase, he does not pretend to know what ; but he believes 
 that the word tyrant must have been one of the words then 
 written by the count, because he saw no one else write on the 
 vase ; because the hand- writing of that word resembles the rest 
 of the inscription ; and because the count, in his hearing, had, 
 upon a former occasion, made use of the same expression in 
 speaking of the king. I recapitulate this evidence, to show that 
 it is in no part positive ; that it all rests upon circumstances. In 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 135 
 
 order to demonstrate to you that the word in question could not 
 have been written by any person but Laniska, two witnesses are 
 produced — the workman who carried the vase to the furnace, 
 and he who put it into the fire. The one has positively sworn 
 that no person touched the vase on the way to the furnace. The 
 other as positively swears that no one meddled with the vase 
 after it was put into the furnace. 
 
 “ It is granted that the word could not have been engraved 
 after the biscuit was baked. The witness, however, has not 
 sworn, or asserted, that there was no interval of time between 
 his receiving the vase and his putting it into the fire. What 
 became of it during this interval ? How long did it last? Will 
 the witness swear that no one touched it during this interval ? 
 
 “ These are questions which I shall put to him presently. I 
 hope I have established my first assertion, that you have no 
 positive evidence of the prisoner’s guilt. 
 
 ‘‘You well know, gentlemen, that where positive evidence of 
 any supposed fact cannot be produced, our judgments must he 
 decided by the balance of probabilities ; and it is for this reason 
 that the study of probabilities, and the power of comparing them, 
 has, in a late celebrated essay, been called the Science of Judges 
 To you, judges of my friend, all the probabilities of his sup- 
 posed guilt have been stated. Weigh and compare them with 
 those which I shall produce in favour of his innocence. His 
 education, his character, his understanding, are all in his favour. 
 The Count Laniska must be much below the common standard 
 of .human virtue and capacity, if, without any assignable motive, 
 he could have committed an action at once so base and so 
 absurd as this of which he is accused. His temper is naturally 
 or habitually open and impetuous, even to extreme imprudence. 
 An instance of this imprudence, and of the manner in which it 
 was pardoned by the king, has been stated to you. Is it pro- 
 bable that the same man should be both ingenuous and mean ? 
 Is it probable that the generosity with which he was treated 
 made no impression upon his heart ? His heart must, upon this 
 supposition, be selfish and unfeeling. Look up, gentlemen, 
 
 ® Voltaire — Essai sur les Probabilites en fait de Justice. 
 
136 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 towards that gallery — look at that anxious mother ! tliose eager 
 friends ! Could Laniska’s fate excite such anxiety, if he were 
 selfish and unfeeling ? Impossible ! But, suppose him destitute 
 of every generous sentiment, you cannot imagine Count Laniska 
 to be a fool. You have been lately reminded that he was early 
 distinguished for his abilities by a monarch, whose penetration 
 we cannot doubt. He was high in the favour of his sovereign : 
 just entering upon life — a military life ; his hopes of distinction 
 resting entirely upon the good opinion of his general and his 
 king : all these fair expectations he sacrifices — for what ? for the 
 pleasure — but it could be no pleasure — for the folly of writing 
 a single word. Unless the Count Laniska he supposed to have 
 been possessed with an insane desire of writing the word tyrant, 
 how can we account for his writing it upon this vase ? Did he 
 wish to convey to France the idea, that Frederick the Great is 
 a tyrant ? A man of common sense could surely have found, at 
 least, safer methods of doing so than by engraving it as his 
 opinion upon a vase which he knew was to pass through the 
 hands of the sovereign whom he purposed thus treacherously 
 to insult. The extreme improbability that any man in the 
 situation, with the character, habits, and capacity of Count 
 Laniska, should have acted in this manner amounts, in my judg- 
 ment, almost to a moral impossibility. I knew nothing more, 
 gentlemen, of this cause, when I first offered to defend Laniska 
 at the hazard of my liberty : it was not merely from the en- 
 thusiasm of friendship that I made this offer ; it was from the 
 sober conviction of my understanding, founded upon the accu- 
 rate calculation of moral probabilities. 
 
 It has been my good fortune, gentlemen, in the course of 
 the inquiries which I have since made, to obtain further con- 
 firmation of my opinion. Without attempting any of that 
 species of oratory which may be necessary to cover falsehood, 
 but which would encumber instead of adorning truth, I shall 
 now, in the simplest manner in my power, lay the evidence 
 before the court.” 
 
 The first witness Albert called was the workman who carried 
 the vase to the man at the furnace. Upon his cross-examina- 
 tion, he said that he did not deliver the vase into the hands of 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 137 
 
 the man at the furnace, hut that he put it, along with several 
 other pieces, upon a tray, on a table, which stood near the 
 furnace. 
 
 Albert. — ‘‘You are certain that you put it upon a tray?” 
 Witness. — “ Quite certain.” 
 
 Albert. — “ What reason have you for remembering that cir- 
 cumstance particularly ?” 
 
 Witness. — “ I. remember it, because I at first set this vase 
 upon the ledge of the tray, and it was nearly falling. I was 
 frightened at that accident, which makes me particularly re- 
 member the thing. I made room upon the tray for the vase, 
 and left it quite safe upon the tray : I am positive of it.” 
 
 Albert. — “That is all I want with you, my good friend.” 
 
 The next witness called was the man whose business it was 
 to put the vases into the furnace. 
 
 Albert. — “ Did you see the witness who was last examined put 
 this vase upon a tray when he left it under your care?” 
 
 Witness. — “ I did.” 
 
 Albert. — “ You are certain that he put it upon the tray ? 
 What reason have you to remember that circumstance par- 
 ticularly ?” 
 
 Witness. — “ I remember it, because I heard the witness cry 
 out, ‘There, William, I had like to have thrown down this 
 cursed vase ; but, look you here, I’ve left it quite safe upon the 
 tray.’ Upon this, I turned and looked, and saw that vase stand- 
 ing upon the tray, safe, with some others.” 
 
 Albert. — “Do you recollect any thing else that passed?” 
 Witness. — “ Only that the witness told me I must put it — the 
 vase, I mean — into the furnace directly; and I answered to 
 that, ‘ All in good time ; the furnace is not ready yet ; it will 
 go in along with the rest.’ ” 
 
 Albert. — “Then you did not put it into the furnace imme- 
 diately after it was left with you?” 
 
 Witness. — “ No, I did not — but that was not my fault — I could 
 not; the furnace was not hot enough.” 
 
 Albert. — “ How long do you think it was, from the time it was 
 left upon the tray, till you put it into the furnace ?” 
 
 Witness. — “ I don’t know — I can’t be positive : it might be a 
 
138 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes ; or it might be half an 
 hour. I cannot be positive, sir; I cannot be positive.” 
 
 Albert, — “ You need not be positive. Nobody wants you to 
 be positive. Nobody wants to entrap you, my good friend. 
 During this quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, or half an 
 hour, that you speak of, did you ever lose sight of this vase ?” 
 Witness. — “ To be sure I did. I did not stand watching it all 
 the while. Why should I ? It was safe enough.” 
 
 Albert. — Do you recollect where you found the vase when 
 you took it to put it into the furnace?” 
 
 Witness. — ‘‘Yes: it was standing as it might be here, in the 
 middle of the table.” 
 
 Albert. — “ Do you recollect whether it was standing upon the 
 tray or not ?” 
 
 Witness. — “It was not upon the tray, as I recollect: no. I’m 
 sure it was not, for I carried to the furnace first the tray and all 
 that was on it, and then I remember, I came back for this, which 
 was standing, as I said before, as it might be here, in the middle 
 of the table.” 
 
 Albert. — “ Was any body, except yourself, at the furnace, or 
 in the room, from the time that this vase was brought to you, 
 till you put it into the furnace ?” 
 
 Witness. — “ Not as I remember. It was our dinner-time. All 
 the men, except myself, were gone to dinner : I stayed to mind 
 the furnace.” 
 
 Albert. — “ It was you, then, that took this vase off the tray, 
 was it?” 
 
 Witness. — “ No, it was not. I never took it off the tray. I 
 told you it was not upon the tray with the others ; I told you it 
 was upon the table, as it might be here.” 
 
 Albert. — “ Yes, when you were going to put it into the furnace, 
 you said that you saw it standing in the middle of the table ; 
 but you recollect that you saw the workman who brought it put 
 it upon the tray. You told us you remembered that circum- 
 stance perfectly.” 
 
 Witness. — “ Yes, so I do.” 
 
 Albert. — “ The vase could not have got off the tray of itself. 
 You did not take it otF. How came it off, do you think ?” 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 139 
 
 Witness . — “I don’t know. I can’t tell. Somebody, to be 
 sure, must have taken it off. 1 was minding the furnace. My 
 back was to the door. I don’t recollect seeing any body come 
 in ; but many might have come in and out, without my heeding 
 them.” 
 
 Albert . — “ Take your own time, my good friend. Recollect 
 yourself; perhaps you may remember.” 
 
 Witness . — “ Oh, yes, now you put me upon recollecting, I do 
 remember that Solomon the Jew came in, and asked me where 
 Sophia Mansfeld was; and it certainly must have been he who 
 took the vase off the tray ; for now I recollect, as I looked round 
 once from the furnace, I saw him with it in his hand ; he was 
 looking at the bottom of it, as I remember : he said, here are 
 some fine verses, or some such thing ; but I was minding the 
 furnace. That’s all I know about the matter.” 
 
 Albert . — ‘‘That is enough.” 
 
 The next witness who came forward was the husband of 
 Sophia Mansfeld. — He deposed, that on the 29th of April, the 
 day on which the Prussian Vase was finished, as stated by the 
 former evidence, and sent to be put into the furnace, he met 
 Sophia Mansfeld in the street : she was going home to dinner. 
 He asked to see the vase : she said that it was, she believed, 
 put into the furnace, and that he could not then see it ; that she 
 was sorry he had not come sooner, for that he could have 
 written the inscription on it for her, and that would have spared 
 her the shame of telling Count Laniska that she could not read 
 or write. She added, that the count had written all that was 
 wanting for her. The witness, being impatient to see the vase, 
 went as fast as he could to the manufactory, in hopes of getting 
 a sight of it before it was put into the furnace. He met Solomon 
 the Jew at the door of the manufactory, who told him that he 
 was too late, that all the vases were in the furnace ; he had just 
 seen them put in. The Jew, as the witness now recollects, 
 though it did not strike him at the time, was eager to prevent 
 him from going into the furnace-room. Solomon took him by 
 the arm, and walked with him up the street, talking to him of 
 some money which he was to remit to Meissen, to Sophia Mans- 
 feld’s father and mother. 
 
140 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 Albert asked the witness on whose account this money was to 
 be remitted by the Jew to Meissen. 
 
 Witness. — “ The money was to be remitted on Sophia Mans- 
 feld’s account.” 
 
 Albert. — “ Did she borrow it from the Jew ?” 
 
 Witness. — ‘‘No; the Jew owed it to her for work done by 
 her. She had the art of painting on glass. She had painted 
 some glasses for a large magic lantern, and several small pictures 
 on glass. She did these things at the hours when she was not 
 obliged to be at the manufactory. She rose very early in the 
 morning and worked hard. She sold her work to the Jew upon 
 condition that he would remit the price agreed upon to her 
 father and mother, who were old, and depended on her for 
 support.” 
 
 Albert. — “ Was the money punctually remitted to her father 
 and mother by the Jew ?” 
 
 Witness. — “Not a farthing of it was remitted by him, as 
 Sophia discovered since her return to Meissen.” 
 
 Albert. — “Did you ever hear this Jew say anything about 
 Sophia Mansfeld’s returning to Saxony?” 
 
 Witness. — “ Yes ; I once heard the Jew say that he hoped she 
 never would leave Berlin, because she was of great use to him. 
 He advised me to settle in Berlin. This passed about six weeks 
 ago. About a week before the prize was decided by the king, I 
 met the Jew, and told him Sophia had good hopes of getting 
 back to Saxony. He looked very much vexed, and said, ‘ She 
 is not sure of that.’ ” 
 
 Albert. — “ Did you ever hear this J ew speak of Count Laniska ?” 
 
 Witness. — “Yes, about two months ago I saw him in the 
 street when I was speaking to Solomon, and I asked the Jew 
 who he was. He answered, ‘ He is the Count Laniska — a man 
 that I hate, and on whom I will be revenged some time or 
 other.’ I asked why he hated the count. The Jew replied, 
 ‘Because the Christian dog has made the corps of Jews his 
 laughing-stock. This day, when my son was going through his 
 manual exercise before the king. Count Laniska was holding his 
 sides with laughter. I’ll be revenged upon him some time or 
 other.’ ” 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE, 
 
 141 
 
 Albert . — ‘‘ I have no occasion, sir, to trouble you with any 
 farther questions.” 
 
 The next witness who appeared was a druggist of Berlin. He 
 deposed, that, on the 30th of April, Solomon the Jew came to 
 his shop and asked for blue paints ; that, after trying the colours 
 very carefully upon the back of a letter, which he took out of 
 his pocket, he bought a small quantity of a shade of blue, which 
 the witness produced in court. 
 
 Albert ordered that the paint should be handed to the gentle- 
 men of the jury, that they might compare it with the blue 
 ground of the Prussian Vase. With this it was found, upon 
 comparison, to match exactly. 
 
 Albert to the druggist . — “ Do you know what became of the 
 paper upon which you say the Jew tried your colours ?” 
 
 Witness. — ‘‘Yes; here it is. I found it under the counter, 
 after the Jew went away, and I kept it to return to him, as I 
 saw there was an account on the other side of the paper, which 
 I imagined he might want. He never happened to call at my 
 shop afterwards, and I forgot that I had such a paper, till you, 
 sir, called upon me about a week ago, to make inquiry on this 
 subject. You desired me to keep the paper carefully, and not 
 to let any one know that it was in my possession, till the day on 
 which the trial of Count Laniska was to come on. I have com- 
 plied with your request, and here is the paper.” 
 
 The paper was handed to the jury; and one of the shades of 
 blue exactly matched that of the ground of the Prussian Vase. 
 Albert now called upon the Jew to produce, once more, the 
 handkerchief with which he had rubbed off the paint. The 
 chain of evidence was now complete, for the blue on the hand- 
 kerchief was precisely the same as the colours on the paper and 
 on the vase. After the jury had satisfied themselves of this 
 resemblance, Albert begged that they would read what was 
 written upon the paper. The first thing that struck their eyes 
 was the word tyrant frequently repeated, as if by some one who 
 had been practising to write different hands. One of these words 
 was an exact resemblance of the word tyrant on the Prussian 
 Vase ; and Albert pointed out a circumstance, which had till 
 now escaped attention, that the letter r, in this word, was made 
 
142 
 
 THE PRUSSIAN VASE. 
 
 differently from all the ars in the rest of the inscription. The 
 writing of the Count Laniska had, in every other respect, been 
 successfully imitated. 
 
 After Albert had shown these things to the jury, he here 
 closed the evidence in favour of the prisoner, observing, that 
 the length of time which the trial had lasted seemed to have 
 somewhat fatigued both the judge and jury ; and, knowing that 
 it was now their usual hour of dinner, he prudently forbore 
 to make a long speech upon the evidence which had been laid 
 before them in favour of his friend : he left it to their own under- 
 standings to determine the balance of probabilities between the 
 honour of Count Laniska and the honesty of Solomon the Jew. 
 
 The judge, in a manner which would have done honour even 
 to the English bench, summed up the evidence on both sides, 
 and gave a distinct and impressive charge to the jury, who, 
 without leaving the court, gave a verdict in favour of the pri- 
 soner. Loud acclamations filled the hall. In the midst of 
 these acclamations, the word — Silence !” was pronounced by 
 that voice which never failed to command instantaneous obedi- 
 ence in Prussia. All eyes turned upon the monarch. 
 
 ‘‘ This court is now dissolved,” said his majesty. ‘‘ My judg- 
 ment confirms the verdict of the jury. Count Laniska, I took 
 your sword from you too hastily. Accept of mine in its stead.” 
 And as he pronounced these words, Frederick ungirded his 
 sword, and presented it to the young count. “ As for you, sir,” 
 continued the king, addressing himself to Albert, “ you want no 
 sword for the defence of your friends. Your arms are superior to 
 ours. Let me engage them in my service ; and, .trust me, I shall 
 not leave them long unemployed, or unrewarded.” 
 
 There was but one person present to whom this speech seemed 
 to give no satisfaction. This person was Solomon the Jew, who 
 stood apart, waiting in black silence to learn his own fate. He 
 was sentenced, not to a year’s imprisonment in the castle of 
 Spandau, but to sweep the streets of Potzdam (including the 
 court in front of Count Laniska’s palace) for a twelvemonth. 
 
 After having heard this sentence, which was universally ap- 
 proved of, the spectators began to retire. 
 
 The king dined — it is always important to know where great 
 
THE PRUSSIAN VASE, 
 
 143 
 
 men dine — Frederick the Great dined this day at the Countess 
 Laniska’s, in company with her son, his friend Albert, and the 
 English traveller. After dinner, the king withdrew to. attend 
 parade ; and it was observed that he wore the Count Laniska’s 
 sword. 
 
 You will allow,” said the countess to the English traveller, 
 that our king is a great man ; for none but great men can 
 hear to acknowledge that they have been mistaken.” 
 
 “ You will allow, madam,” replied the Englishman, “ that it 
 was our English trial by jury which convinced the king of his 
 mistake.” 
 
 “ And you applaud him for granting that trial,” said Albert. 
 “To a certain degree I do,” said the Englishman, from whom 
 it was difficult to extort praise of a despotic king — “ to a certain 
 degree, I do ; but you will observe, that this trial by jury, 
 which is a matter of favour to you Prussians, is a matter of 
 right to us Englishmen. Much as I admire your king of 
 Prussia, I admire our English constitution more.” 
 
IHB 
 
 GOOD AUNT. 
 
 Charles Howard was left an orphan when he was very young. 
 His father had dissipated a large fortune, and lost his life in a 
 duel, about some debt of honour, which had been contracted at 
 the gaming-table. Without fortune and without friends, this 
 poor boy would probably have lived and died in wretchedness, 
 but for the humanity of his good aunt, Mrs. Frances Howard. 
 This lady possessed a considerable fortune, which, in the opinion 
 of some of her acquaintance, was her highest merit: others 
 respected her as the branch of an ancient family : some courted 
 her acquaintance because she was visited by the best company 
 in town : and many were ambitious of being introduced to her, 
 because they were sure of meeting at her house several of those 
 distinguished literary characters who throw a radiance upon all 
 who can contrive to get within the circle of their glories. Some 
 few, some very few of Mrs. Howard’s acquaintance, admired 
 her for her real worth, and merited the name of friends. 
 
 She was a young and cheerful woman when she first under- 
 took the education of her little nephew. She had the courage 
 to resist the allurements of dissipation, or all that by her sex 
 are usually thought allurements. She had the courage to apply 
 herself seriously to the cultivation of her understanding: she 
 educated herself, that she might be able to fulfil the important 
 duty of educating a child. Hers was not the foolish fondness 
 of a foolish aunt ; she loved her nephew, and she wished to 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 145 
 
 educate him, so that her affection might increase, instead of 
 diminishing, as he grew up. By associating early pleasure 
 with reading, little Charles soon became fond of it : he was 
 never forced to read books which he did not understand ; his 
 aunt used, when he was very young, to read aloud to him any 
 thing entertaining that she met with ; and whenever she per- 
 ceived by his eye that his attention was not fixed, she stopped. 
 When he was able to read fluently to himself, she selected for 
 him passages from books, which she thought would excite his 
 curiosity to know more ; and she was not in a hurry to cram 
 him with knowledge, but rather anxious to prevent his growing 
 appetite for literature from being early satiated. She always 
 encouraged him to talk to her freely about what he read, and to 
 tell her when he did not like any of the books which she gave 
 him. She conversed with him with so much kindness and 
 cheerfulness ; she was so quick at perceiving his latent mean- 
 ing; and she was so gentle and patient when she reasoned with 
 him, that he loved to talk to her better than to any body else ; 
 nor could little Charles ever thoroughly enjoy any pleasure with- 
 out her sympathy. 
 
 The conversation of the sensible, well-informed people who 
 visited Mrs. Howard contributed to form her nephew’s taste. 
 A child may learn as much from conversation as from books — 
 not so many historic facts, but as much instruction. Greek and 
 Latin were the grand difficulties. Mrs. Howard did not un- 
 derstand Greek and Latin ; nor did she, though a woman, set 
 too high or too low a value upon the learned languages. She 
 was convinced that a man might be a great scholar without 
 being a man of sense ; she was also persuaded that a man of 
 sense might be a good scholar. She knew that, whatever 
 abilities her nephew might possess, he could not be upon a 
 footing with other men in the world, without possessing that 
 species of knowledge which is universally expected from gentle- 
 men, as an essential proof of their having received a liberal 
 education ; nor did she attempt to undervalue the pleasures of 
 classic taste merely because she was not qualified to enjoy 
 them : she was convinced, by the testimony of men of candour 
 and judgment, that a classical taste is a source of real enjoy- 
 
146 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 ment, and she wished her nephew’s literary pleasures to have as 
 extensive a range as possible. 
 
 To instruct her nephew in the learned languages, she engaged 
 a good scholar and a man of sense : his name — for a man is 
 nothing without a name — was Russell h Little Charles did not 
 at first relish Latin ; he used sometimes to come from his Latin 
 lessons with a very dull, stupified face, which gradually bright- 
 ened into intelligence, after he had talked for a few minutes 
 with his aunt. Mrs. Howard, though pleased to perceive that he 
 was fond of her, had not the weakness to sacrifice his perma- 
 nent advantage to her transient gratification. One evening 
 Charles came running up-stairs to his aunt, who was at tea; 
 several people happened to be present. “ I have done with 
 Mr. Russell, and my Latin, ma’am, thank goodness — now may 
 I have the elephant and the camel, or the bear and her cubs, 
 that you marked for me last night?” 
 
 The company laughed at this speech of Charles : and a silly 
 lady — for even Mrs. Howard could not make all her acquaint- 
 ance wise — a silly lady whispered to Charles, I’ve a notion, 
 if you’d tell the truth, now, that you like the bear and her cubs 
 a great deal better than you do Latin and Mr. Russell.” 
 
 “ I like the bear a great deal better than I do Latin, to be 
 sure,” said the boy ; ‘‘ but as for Mr. Russell — why, I think,” 
 added he, encouraged by the lady’s smiles, I tliink I like the 
 bear better than Mr. Russell.” 
 
 The lady laughed affectedly at this sally. 
 
 I am sure,” continued Charles, fancying that every person 
 present was delighted with his wit, “ I am sure, at any rate, 
 I like the learned pig fifty times better than Mr. Russell !” 
 
 The judicious lady burst into a second fit of laughter. Mrs. 
 Howard looked very grave. Charles broke from the lady’s 
 caresses, and going up to his aunt, timidly looking up in her 
 face, said, “ Am I a fool?” 
 
 * Russell. — This name is chosen for that of a good tutor, because it was 
 the name of Mr. Edgeworth’s tutor, at Oxford : Mr. Russell was also tutor 
 to the late Mr. Day. Both by Mr. Day and Mr. Edgeworth he was re- 
 spected, esteemed, and beloved, in no common degree. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 147 
 
 ‘‘You are but a child,” said Mrs. Howard; and, turning 
 away from him, she desired the servant, who waited at tea, to 
 let Mr. Russell know that she desired ihe honour of his company. 
 Mrs. Holloway — for that was the silly lady’s name — at the 
 words, ‘‘ honour of his company,” resumed her gravity, but 
 looked round to see what the rest of the company thought. 
 
 Give me leave, Mr. Russell,” said Mrs. Howard, as soon 
 as he came into the room, ‘‘ to introduce you to a gentleman, 
 for whose works I know you have a great esteem.” The gen- 
 tleman was a celebrated traveller, just returned from abroad, 
 whos^ conversation was as much admired as his writings. 
 
 The conversation now took a literary turn. The traveller 
 being polite, as well as entertaining, drew out Mr. Russell’s 
 knowledge and abilities. Charles now looked up to his tutor 
 with respect. Children have sufficient penetration to discover 
 the opinions of others by their countenance and manner, and 
 their sympathy is quickly influenced by the example of those 
 around them. Mrs. Howard led the traveller to speak of what 
 he had seen in different countries — of natural history — of the 
 beaver, and the moose-deer, and the humming-bird, that is 
 scarcely larger than a humble bee ; and the mocking-bird, 
 that can imitate the notes of all other birds. Charles niched 
 himself into a corner of the sofa upon which the gentlemen 
 were sitting, and grew very attentive. He was rather surprised 
 to perceive that his tutor was as much entertained with the con- 
 versation as he was himself. 
 
 ‘‘Pray, sir,” said Mrs. Howard to the traveller, “is it true 
 that the humming-bird is a passionate little animal ? Is the story 
 told by the author of the Farmer’s Letters true ?” 
 
 “What story?” said Charles, eagerly. 
 
 “ Of a humming-bird that ffew into a fury with a ffower, and 
 tore it to pieces, because it could not get the honey out of it all 
 at once.” 
 
 “ Oh, ma’am,” said little Charles, peeping over his tutor’s 
 shoulders, “ will you show me that ? Have you got the book, 
 dear aunt?” 
 
 “ It is Mr. Russell’s book,” said his aunt. 
 
 “ Your book !” cried Charles : “what, and do you know all 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 about animals, and those sorts of entertaining things, as well as 
 Latin ? And can you tell me, then, what I want very much to 
 know, how they catch the humming-bird ?” 
 
 “ They shoot it.” 
 
 “ Shoot it ! hut what a large hole they must make in its body 
 and beautiful feathers ! I thought you said its whole body was 
 no bigger than a bee — a humble bee.” 
 
 “ They make no hole in its body — they shoot it without ruf- 
 fling even its feathers.” 
 
 ‘‘ How, how?” cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, whom 
 he now regarded no longer as a mere man of Latin. 
 
 ‘‘They charge the gun with water,” said Mr. Russell, “and 
 the poor little humming-bird is stunned by the discharge.” 
 
 The conversation next turned upon the entertaining chapter 
 on instinct, in Dr. Darwin’s Zoonomia. Charles did not under- 
 stand all that was said, for the gentlemen did not address them- 
 selves to him. He never listened to what he did not under- 
 stand : but he was very quick at hearing whatever was within 
 the limits of his comprehension. He heard of the tailor-bird, 
 that uses its long bill as a needle, to sew the dead and the 
 living leaf toge her, of which it makes its light nest, lined with 
 feathers and gossamer : of the fish called the ‘ old soldier,’ that 
 looks out for the empty shell of some dead animal, and fits this 
 armour upon himself : of the J amaica spider, that makes him- 
 self a house under ground, with a door and hinges, which door 
 the spider and all the members of his family take care to shut 
 after them, whenever they go in and out. 
 
 Little Charles, as he sat eagerly attentive in his corner of 
 the sofa, heard of the trumpet of the common gnat^, and 
 of its proboscis, which serves at once for an awl, a saw, and 
 a pump. 
 
 “ Are there any more such things,” exclaimed Charles, “ in 
 these books?” 
 
 “ A great many,” said Mr. Russell. 
 
 “I’ll read them all,” cried Charles, starting up — “may I? 
 may not I, aunt?” 
 
 2 St. Pierre, Etudes de la Nature, 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 149 
 
 “Ask Mr. Russell,” replied his aunt: “he who is obliged to 
 give you the pain of learning what is tiresome, should have the 
 pleasure of rewarding you with entertaining books. Whenever 
 he asks me for Dr. Darwin and St. Pierre, you shall have them. 
 We are both of one mind. We know that learning Latin is not 
 the most amusing occupation in the world, but still it must be 
 learned.” 
 
 “ Why,” said Charles modestly, “ you don’t understand Latin, 
 aunt, do you ?” 
 
 “No,” said Mrs. Howard, “ but I am a woman, and it is not 
 thought necessary that a woman should understand Latin ; nor 
 can I explain to you, at your age, why it is expected that a 
 gentleman should ; hut here are several gentlemen present — ask 
 them whether it be not necessary that a gentleman should.” 
 
 Charles gathered all the opinions, and especially that of the 
 entertaining traveller. 
 
 Mrs. Plolloway, the silly lady, during that part of the con- 
 versation from which she might have acquired some knowledge, 
 had retired to the further end of the room to a game at trictrac 
 with an obsequious chaplain. Her game being finished, she 
 came up to hear what the crowd round the sofa could he talking 
 about ; and hearing Charles ask the opinions of the gentlemen 
 about the necessity of learning Latin, she nodded sagaciously at 
 Mrs. Howard, and, by way of making up for former errors, said 
 to Charles, in the most authoritative tone, — 
 
 “ Yes, I can assure you, Mr. Charles, I am quite of the gentle- 
 men’s opinion, and so is every body — and this is a point upon 
 which I have some right to speak ; for my Augustus, who is 
 only a year and seven months older than you are, sir, is one of 
 the best scholars of his age, I am told, in England. But then, 
 to he sure, it was flogged into him well at first, at a public 
 school, which, I understand, is the best way of making good 
 scholars.” 
 
 “And the best way of making boys love literature?” said 
 Mrs. Howard. 
 
 “Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Holloway, who mistook 
 Mrs. Howard’s tone of inquiry for a tone of assertion, a tone 
 more familiar to her — “ certainly, ma’am, I knew you would 
 
150 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 come round to my notions at last. I’m sure my Augustus must 
 be fond of his Latin, for never in the vacations did I ever catch 
 him with any English book in his hand!” 
 
 ‘‘Poor boy!” said Charles, with unfeigned compassion. 
 
 “And when, my dear Mrs. Howard,” continued Mrs. Hollo- 
 way, laying her hand upon Mrs. Howard’s arm, with a yet un- 
 tasted pinch of snuff between her fingers, “ when will you send 
 Mr. Charles to school?” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt, don’t send me away from you Oh, sir ! Mr. 
 
 Russell, try me — I will do my very, very best, without having it 
 flogged into me, to learn Latin — only try me.” 
 
 “Dear sir, I really beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Holloway 
 to Mr. Russell ; “ I absolutely only meant to support Mrs. 
 Howard’s opinion for the sweet boy’s good ; and I thought I 
 saw you go out of the room, or somebody else went out, whilst 
 I was at trictrac. But I’m convinced a private tutor may do 
 wonders at the same time ; and if my Augustus prejudiced me 
 in favour of public education, you’ll excuse a mother’s par- 
 tiality. Besides, I make it a rule never to interfere in the edu- 
 cation of my boys. Mr. Holloway is answerable for them ; and 
 if he prefer public schools to a private tutor, you must be sensi- 
 ble, sir, it would be very wrong in me to set my poor judgment 
 in opposition to Mr. Holloway’s opinion.” 
 
 Mr. Russell bowed; for, when a lady claims a gentleman’s 
 assent to a series of inconsistent propositions, what answer can 
 he make but — a bow ? Mrs. Holloway’s carriage was now at 
 the door, and, without troubling herself any further about the 
 comparative merits of public and private education, she de- 
 parted. 
 
 When Mrs. Howard was left alone with her nephew, she 
 seized the moment, while his mind was yet warm, to make a 
 lasting impression. Charles, instead of going to Buffbn’s ac- 
 count of the elephant, which he was very impatient to read, sat 
 down resolutely to his Latin lesson. Mrs. Howard looked over 
 his shoulder, and when he saw her smile of approbation, he said, 
 “Then you won’t send me away from you?” 
 
 “ Not unless you oblige me to do so,” said his aunt : “I love 
 to have you with me, and I will try for one year whether 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 151 
 
 you have energy enough to learn what is disagreeable to you, 
 without ” 
 
 “Without its being flogged into me,” said Charles: “you 
 shall see ” 
 
 This boy had a great deal of energy and application. The 
 Latin lessons were learned very perfectly ; and as he did not 
 spend above an hour a day at them, he was not disgusted with 
 application. His general taste for literature, and his fund of 
 knowledge, increased rapidly from year to }^ear, and the activity 
 of his mind promised continual improvement. His attachment 
 to Mrs. Howard increased as he grew up, for she never claimed 
 any gratitude from her pupil, or exacted from him any of those 
 little observances, which women sometimes consider as essential 
 proofs of affection. She knew that these minute attentions are 
 particularly irksome to boys, and that they are by no means the 
 natural expressions of their feelings. She had sufficient strength 
 of mind to be secure in the possession of those qualities which 
 merit esteem and love, and to believe that the child whom she 
 had educated had a heaijt and understanding that must feel and 
 appreciate her value. 
 
 When Charles Howard was about thirteen, an event happened 
 which changed his prospects in life. Mrs. Howard’s large for- 
 tune was principally derived from an estate in the West Indies, 
 which had been left to her by her grandfather. She did not 
 particularly wish to be the proprietor of slaves ; and from the 
 time that she came to the management of her own affairs, she 
 had been desirous to sell her West India property. Her agent 
 represented to her that this could not be done without consider- 
 able loss. From year to year the business was delayed, till at 
 length a gentleman, who had a plantation adjoining to hers, 
 offered to purchase her estate. She was neither one of those 
 ladies who, jealous of their free will, would rather act for them^ 
 selves^ that is to say, follow their own whims in matters of busi- 
 ness, than consult men who possess the requisite information ; 
 nor was she so ignorant of business, or so indolent, as to be at 
 the mercy of any designing agent or attorney. After consulting 
 proper persons, and after exerting a just proportion of her own 
 judgment, she concluded her bargain with the West Indian. 
 
152 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 Her plantation was sold to him, and all her property was shipped 
 for her on board The Lively Peggy. Mr. Alderman Holloway, 
 husband to the silly Mrs. Holloway, was one of the trustees ap- 
 pointed by her grandfather’s wdll. The alderman, w^ho was 
 supposed to be very knowing in all worldly concerns, sanctioned 
 the affair with his approbation. The lady was at this time rich ; 
 and Alderman Holloway applauded her humanity in having 
 stipulated for the liberty and provision grounds of some old 
 negroes upon her plantation ; he even suggested to his son Au- 
 gustus, that this would make a very pretty, proper subject for a 
 copy of verses, to be addressed to Mrs. Howard. The verses 
 were written in elegant Latin ; and the young gentleman was 
 proceeding with some difficulty in his English translation of 
 them, when they were suppressed by parental authority. The 
 alderman changed his opinion as to the propriety of the argu- 
 ment of this poem : the reasons which worked upon his mind 
 were never distinctly expressed ; they may, however, be deduced 
 from the perusal of the following letter : — 
 
 “ TO MRS. FRANCES HOWARD. 
 
 “ DEAR MADAM, 
 
 “ Sorry am I to be under the disagreeable necessity of com- 
 municating to you thus abruptly, the melancholy news of the 
 loss of ‘The Lively Peggy,’ with your valuable consignment 
 on board, viz. sundry puncheons of rum, and hogsheads of 
 sugar, in which commodities (as usual) your agent received the 
 purchase-money of your late fine West India estate. I must 
 not, however reluctantly, omit to mention the casket of your 
 grandmother’s jewels, which I now regret was sent by this 
 opportunity. ’Tis an additional loss — some thousands, I appre- 
 hend. 
 
 “ The captain of the vessel I have just seen, who was set on 
 shore, on the 15th ultimo, on the coast of Wales : his mate 
 mutinied, and, in conspiracy with the crew, have run away with 
 the vessel. 
 
 “ I have only to add, that Mrs. Holloway and my daughter 
 Angelina sincerely unite with me in compliments and condo- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 153 
 
 lence ; and I shall be happy if I can he of any service in the 
 settlement of your affairs. 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs Holloway desires me to say, she would do herself the 
 honour of waiting upon you to-morrow, but is setting out for 
 Margate. 
 
 “ 1 am, dear madam, 
 
 “ Your most obedient and humble servant, 
 
 ‘‘ A. T. Holloway. 
 
 “ P.S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting to insure.” 
 
 Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, gave it 
 to her nephew, who was reading in the room with her when she 
 received it. He showed more emotion on reading it than she 
 had done. The coldness of the alderman’s letter seemed to 
 strike the boy more than the loss of a fortune — “ And this is a 
 friend!” he exclaimed with indignation. 
 
 ‘‘ No, my love,” said Mrs. Howard, with a calm smile, I 
 never thought Mr. Holloway any thing more than a common 
 acquaintance : I hope — I am sure I have chosen my friends 
 better.” 
 
 Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, which 
 seemed to say, Did you mean to call me one of your friends?” 
 and then he grew very thoughtful. 
 
 “ My dear Charles, said the aunt, after nearly a quarter of 
 an hour’s silence, ‘‘may I know what you have been thinking of 
 all this time ?” 
 
 “Thinking of, ma’am!” said Charles, starting from his reve- 
 rie — “ of a great many things — of all you have done for me — of 
 — of what I could do — I don’t mean now ; for I know I am a 
 child, and can do nothing — I don’t mean nothing. — I shall soon 
 be a man, and then I can be a physician, or a lawyer, or some- 
 thing. — Mr. Russell told me the other day, that if I applied 
 myself, I might be whatever I pleased. What would you wish 
 me to be, ma’am ? — ^because that’s what I will be — if I can.” 
 
 “Then I wish you to be what you are.” 
 
 “ O madam,” said Charles, with a look of great mortification, 
 ^‘but that’s nothing. Won’t you make me of some use to you ? 
 
154 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 — But I beg your pardon, I know you can’t think about me 
 just now. Good night,” said he, and hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 The news of the loss of the Lively Peggy, with all the parti- 
 culars mentioned in Alderman Holloway’s letter, appeared in 
 the next day’s newspapers, and in the succeeding paper appeared 
 an advertisement of Mrs. Howard’s house in Portman-square, of 
 her plate, china, furniture, books, &c. — She had never in afflu- 
 ence disdained economy. She had no debts ; not a single trades- 
 man was a sufferer by her loss. She had always lived within 
 her annual income ; and though her generous disposition had 
 prevented her from hoarding money, she had a small sum in the 
 funds, which she had prudently reserved for any unforeseen 
 exigence. She had also a few diamonds, which had been her 
 mother’s, which Mr. Carat, the jeweller, who had new set them, 
 was very willing to purchase. He waited upon Mrs. Howard, 
 in Portman-square, to complete the bargain. 
 
 The want of sensibility which Charles showed when his aunt 
 was parting with her jewels to Mr. Carat, would have infallibly 
 ruined him in the opinion of most ladies. He took the trinkets 
 up, one by one, without ceremony, and examined them, asking 
 his aunt and the jeweller questions about the use and value of 
 diamonds — about the working of the mines of Golconda — about 
 the shining of diamonds in the dark, observed by the children of 
 Cogi Hassan, the rope-maker, in the Arabian Tales — about the 
 experiment of Francis the First upon melting of diamonds and 
 rubies. Mr. Carat was a Jew, and, though extremely cunning, 
 profoundly ignorant. 
 
 ‘‘ Dat king wash very grand fool, beg his majesty’s pardon,” 
 said the Jew, with a shrewd smile; ‘‘but kings know better 
 nowadays. Heaven bless dere majesties.” 
 
 Charles had a great mind to vindicate the philosophic fame of 
 Francis the First, but a new idea suddenly started into his head. 
 “My dearest aunt,” cried he, stopping her hand as she was 
 giving her diamond ear-rings to Mr. Carat — “ stay, my dearest 
 aunt, one instant, till I have seen whether this is a good day for 
 selling diamonds.” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 155 
 
 “ O my dear young gentleman, no day in de Jewish calendar 
 more proper for de purchase,” said the Jew. 
 
 For the purchase ! yes,” said Charles ; ‘‘hut for the sale ?” 
 “ My love,” said his aunt, “surely you are not so foolish as 
 to think there are lucky and unlucky days.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t mean any thing about lucky and unlucky days,” 
 said Charles, running up to consult the barometer ; “ but what 
 I mean is not foolish indeed : in some book I’ve read that the 
 dealers in diamonds buy them when the air is light, and sell 
 them when it is heavy, if they can ; because their scales are so 
 nice that they vary with the change in the atmosphere. Per- 
 haps I may not remember exactly the words, but that’s the 
 sense, I know. I’ll look for the words ; I know whereabout to 
 find them.” He jumped upon a chair, to get down the book. 
 
 “But, Master Charles,” said the Jew, with a show of defer- 
 ence, “ I will not pretend to make a bargain with you — I see 
 you know a great deal more than I of dese traffics.” 
 
 To this flattery Charles made no answer, but continued look- 
 ing for the passage he wanted in his book. 
 
 Whilst he was turning over the leaves, a gentleman, a friend 
 of Mrs. Howard, who had promised her to meet Mr. Carat, came 
 in. He was the gentleman formerly mentioned by the name of 
 the traveller : he was a good judge of diamonds, and, what is 
 better, he was a good judge of the human heart and understand- 
 ing. He was much pleased with Charles’s ready recollection of 
 the little knowledge he possessed, with his eagerness to make 
 that knowledge of use to his aipt, and more with his perfect 
 simplicity and integrity ; for Charles, after a moment’s thought, 
 turned to the Jew and said, — 
 
 “ But the day that is good for my aunt must be bad for you. 
 The buyers and sellers should each have fair play. Mr. Carat, 
 your weights should be diamonds, and then the changes in the 
 weight of the air would not signify one way or the other ^.” 
 
 Mr. Carat smiled at this speech, but, suppressing his con- 
 tempt for the young gentleman, only observed, that he should 
 
 3 This observation was literally made by a boy of ten years of age. 
 
156 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT, 
 
 most certainly follow Mr. Charles’s advice, whenever he wash 
 rich enough to have diamonds for weights. 
 
 The traveller drew from his pocket a small hook, took a pen, 
 and wrote in the title-page of it, For one who will make a good me 
 of it; and, with Mrs. Howard’s permission, he gave the book to 
 her nephew. 
 
 ‘‘I do not believe,” said the gentleman, ‘Uhat there is at 
 present another copy in England : I have just got this from 
 France by a private hand.” 
 
 The sale of his aunt’s books appeared to Charles a much more 
 serious affair than the parting with her diamonds. He under- 
 stood something of the value of hooks, and he took a sorrowful 
 leave of many which he had read, and of many more which he 
 had intended to read. Mrs. Howard selected a few for her own 
 use, and she allowed her nephew to select as many for himself as 
 she had done. He observed that there was a beautiful edition 
 of Shakspeare, which he knew his aunt liked particularly, hut 
 which she did not keep, reserving instead of it Smith’s Wealth 
 of Nations, which would in a few years, she said, he very useful 
 to him. He immediately offered his favourite Etudes de la 
 Nature to redeem the Shakspeare ; but Mrs. Howard would not 
 accept of it, because she justly observed, that she could read 
 Shakspeare almost as well without its being in such a beautiful 
 binding. Her readiness to part with all the luxuries to which 
 she had been for many years accustomed, and the freedom and 
 openness with which she spoke of all her affairs to her nephew, 
 made a great impression upon his mind. 
 
 Those are mistak^ who think that young people cannot be 
 interested in such things : if no mystery be made of the tech- 
 nical parts of business, young people easily learn them, and they 
 early take an interest in the affairs of their parents, instead of 
 learning to separate their own views from those of their friends. 
 Charles, young as he was, at this time, was employed by his 
 aunt frequently to copy, and sometimes to write, letters of 
 business for her. He drew out a careful inventory of all the 
 furniture before it was disposed of ; he took lists of all the books 
 and papers ; and at this work, however tiresome, he was indefa- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 157 
 
 tigable, because he was encouraged by the hope of being useful. 
 This ambition had been early excited in his mind. 
 
 When Mrs. Howard had settled her affairs, she took a small 
 neat house near Westminster schooH, for the purpose of a 
 boarding-house for some of the Westminster boys. This plan 
 she preferred, because it secured an independent means of sup- 
 port, and at the same time enabled her, in some measure, to 
 assist in her nephew’s education, and to enjoy his company. 
 She was no longer able to afford a sufficient salary to a well- 
 informed private tutor ; therefore she determined to send Charles 
 to Westminster school ; and, as he would board with her, she 
 hoped to unite by this scheme, as much as possible, the advan- 
 tages of a private and of a public education. Mr. Russell 
 desired still to have the care of Mrs. Howard’s nephew ; he 
 determined to offer himself as a tutor at Westminster school; 
 and, as his acquirements were well known to the literary world, 
 he was received with eagerness. 
 
 “ My dear boy,” said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, when he 
 first went to Westminster, “ I shall not trouble you with a long 
 chapter of advice : do you remember that answer of the oracle, 
 which seemed to strike you so much the other day, when you 
 were reading the life of Cicero?” 
 
 Yes,” said Charles, I recollect it — I shall never forget it. 
 When Cicero asked how he should arrive at the height of glory, 
 the oracle answered, ‘ By making his own genius, and not the 
 opinion of the people, the guide of his life.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘Well,” said Mrs. Howard, smiling, “if I were your oracle, 
 and you were to put the same question to me, I think I should 
 make you nearly the same answer ; except that I should change 
 the word genius into good sense ; and, instead of the people^ I 
 should say the world, which, in general, I think, means all the 
 silly people of one’s acquaintance. Farewell ; now go to the 
 Westminster world.” 
 
 Westminster was quite a new world to young Howard. The 
 bustle and noise at first astonished his senses, and almost con- 
 founded his understanding ; but he soon grew accustomed to 
 the din, and familiarized to the sight of numbers. At first, he 
 
 * See tlie account of Mrs. C. Ponten, in Gibbon’s Life. 
 
loS 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 thought himself much inferior to all his companions, because 
 practice had given them the power of doing many things with 
 ease, which to him appeared difficult, merely because he had 
 not been used to them. In all their games and plays, either of 
 address or force, he found himself foiled. In a readiness of 
 repartee, and a certain ease and volubility of conversation, he 
 perceived his deficiency ; and though he frequently was con- 
 scious that his ideas were more just, and his arguments better, 
 than those of his companions, yet he could not at first bring out 
 his ideas to advantage, or manage his arguments so as to stand 
 his ground against the mixed raillery and sophistry of his school- 
 fellows. He had not yet the tone of his new society, and he was 
 as much at a loss as a traveller in a foreign country, before he 
 understands the language of a people who are vociferating round 
 about him. As fast, however, as he learned to translate the 
 language of his companions into his own, he discovered that 
 there was not so much meaning in their expressions as he had 
 been inclined to imagine whilst they had remained unintelli- 
 gible : but he was good-humoured and good-natured, so that, 
 upon the whole, he was much liked ; and even his inferiority, in 
 many little trials of skill, was, perhaps, in his favour. He 
 laughed with those that laughed at him, let them triumph in 
 his awkwardness, but still persisted in new trials, till at last, to 
 the great surprise of the spectators, he succeeded. 
 
 The art of boxing cost him more than all the rest ; but as he 
 was neither deficient in courage of mind nor activity of body, he 
 did not despair of acquiring the necessary skill in this noble 
 science — necessary, we say, for Charles had not been a week at 
 Westminster before he was made sensible of the necessity of 
 practising this art in his ow’n defence. He had yet a stronger 
 motive ; he found it necessary for the defence of one who looked 
 up to him for protection. 
 
 There was at this time at Westminster, a little boy of the 
 name of Oliver, a Creole, lively, intelligent, open-hearted, and 
 affectionate in the extreme, but rather passionate in his temper, 
 and adverse to application. His literary education had been 
 strangely neglected before he came to school, so that his igno- 
 rance of the common rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, 
 and arithmetic, made him the laughing-stock of the school. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 159 
 
 The poor boy felt inexpressible shame and anguish ; his cheek 
 burned with blushes, when every day, in the public class, he was 
 ridiculed and disgraced ; hut his dark complexion, perhaps, 
 prevented those blushes from being noticed by his companions, 
 otherwise they certainly would have suppressed, or would have 
 endeavoured to repress, some of their insulting peals of laughter. 
 He suffered no complaint or tear to escape him in public ; but 
 his book was sometimes blistered with the tears that fell when 
 nobody saw them : what was worse than all the rest he found 
 insurmountable difficulties, at every step, in his grammar. He 
 was unwilling to apply to any of his more learned companions 
 for explanations or assistance. He began to sink into despair 
 of his own abilities, and to imagine that he must for ever remain, 
 what indeed he was every day called, a dunce. He was usually 
 flogged three times a week. Day after day brought no relief, 
 either to his bodily or mental sufferings : at length his honest 
 pride yielded, and he applied to one of the elder scholars for 
 help. The boy to whom he applied was Augustus Holloway, 
 Alderman Holloway’s son, who was acknowledged to be one of 
 the best Latin scholars at Westminster. He readily helped 
 Oliver in his exercises, but he made him pay most severely for 
 this assistance, by the most tyrannical usage ; and, in all his 
 tyranny, he thought himself fully justifiable, because little 
 Oliver, beside his other misfortunes, had the misfortune to be a fag. 
 
 There may be — though many schoolboys will, perhaps, think 
 it scarcely possible — there may be, in the compass of the civilised 
 world, some persons so barbarously ignorant as not to know what 
 is meant by the term fag. To these it may be necessary to 
 explain, that at some English schools it is the custom, that all 
 little boys, when they first go to school, should be under the 
 dominion of the elder boys. These little boys are called fags, 
 and are forced to wait upon and obey their master-companions. 
 Their duties vary in different schools. I have heard of its being 
 customary in some places, to make use of a fag regularly in the 
 depth of winter instead of a warming-pan, and td send the 
 shivering urchin through ten or twenty beds successively to 
 take off the chill of cold for their luxurious masters. They are 
 expected, in most schools, to run of all the elder boys’ errands. 
 
160 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 to be ready at their call, and to do all their high behests. They 
 must never complain of being tired, or their complaints will, at 
 least, never be regarded, because, as the etymology of the word 
 implies, it is their business to be tired. The substantive fag is 
 not to be found in Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary ; but the verb to 
 fag is there a verb neuter, from fatigo, Latin, and is there 
 explained to mean, to grow weary, to faint with weariness.” 
 This is all the satisfaction we can, after the most diligent research, 
 afford the curious and learned reader upon the subject o^fags 
 in general. 
 
 In particular, Mr. Augustus Holloway took great delight in 
 teasing his fag, little Oliver. One day it happened that young 
 Howard and Holloway were playing at nine-pins together, and 
 little Oliver was within a few yards of them, sitting under a 
 tree, with a book upon his knees, anxiously trying to make out 
 his lesson. Holloway, whenever the nine-pins were thrown 
 down, called to Oliver, and made him come from his book and 
 set them up again : this he repeatedly did, in spite of Howard’s 
 remonstrances, who always offered to set up the nine-pins, and 
 who said it teased the poor little fellow to call him every minute 
 from what he was about. 
 
 “Yes,” said Holloway, “I know it teases him — that I see 
 plain enough, by his running so fast back to his form, like a 
 hare — there he is, squatting again : halloo ! halloo ! come, start 
 again here,” cried Holloway; “you have not done yet: bring 
 me the bowl, halloo ! ” 
 
 Howard did not at all enjoy the diversion of hunting the f)oor 
 boy about in this manner, and he said, with some indignation, 
 “ How is it possible, Holloway, that the boy can get his lesson, 
 if you interrupt him every instant?” 
 
 “ Pooh ! what signifies his foolish lesson ? ” 
 
 “ It signifies a great deal to mm,” replied Howard : “ you know 
 what he suffered this morning because he had not learned it.” 
 “Suffered! why, what did he suffer?” said Holloway, upon 
 whose memory the sufferings of others made no very deep 
 impression. “ Oh, ay, true — you mean he was flogged : more 
 shame for him! — why did not he mind and get his lesson 
 better?” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 161 
 
 I had not time to understand it rightly,” said Oliver, with a 
 deep sigh ; “ and I don’t think I shall have time to-day either.” 
 More shame for you,” repeated Holloway: ‘‘I'll lay any 
 bet on earth, I get all you have to get in three minutes.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah, you, to be sure,” said Oliver, in a tone of great humi- 
 liation ; “ but then you know what a difference there is between 
 you and me.” 
 
 Holloway misunderstood him ; and, thinking he meant to 
 allude to the difference in their age, instead of the difference of 
 their abilities, answered sharply, 
 
 “ When I was your age, do you think I was such a dunce as 
 you are, pray ?” 
 
 “No, that I am sure you never were,” said Oliver; “but 
 perhaps you had some good father or mother, or somebody, who 
 taught you a little before you came to school.” 
 
 “I don’t remember any thing about that,” replied Holloway; 
 “ I don’t know who was so good as to teach me, but I know I 
 was so good as to learn fast enough, which is a goodness. I’ve a 
 notion, some folks will never have to boast of — so trot, and fetch 
 the bowl for me, do you hear, and set up the nine-pins. You’ve 
 sense enough to do that, have not you ? and as for your lesson. 
 I’ll drive that into your head by and by, if I can,” added he, 
 rapping with his knuckles upon the little boy’s head. 
 
 “As to my lesson,” said the boy, putting aside his head from 
 the insulting knuckles, “ I had rather try and make it out by 
 myself, if I can.” 
 
 “*If you can!” repeated Holloway, sneering; “but we all 
 know you can’t.” 
 
 “Why can’t he, Holloway?” exclaimed Howard, with a 
 raised voice, for he was no longer master of his indignation. 
 
 “Why can’t he?” repeated Holloway, looking round upon 
 Ploward, with a mixture of surprise and insolence. “You must 
 answer that question yourself, Howard : I say he can’t.” 
 
 “And I say he can, and he shall,” replied Howard; “and 
 he shall have time to learn : he’s willing, and. I’ll answer for it, 
 able to learn ; and he shall not be called a dunce ; and he shall 
 have time; and he shall have justice.” 
 
 “Shall! shall! shall!” retorted Holloway, vociferating with 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 a passion of a different sort from Howard’s. Pray, sir, who 
 allowed you to say shall to me ? and how dare you to talk in 
 this here style to me about justice? — and what business have 
 you, I should be glad to know, to interfere between me and my 
 fag ? What right have you to him, or his time either ? And if 
 I choose to call him a dunce forty times a day, what then ? he 
 is a dunce, and he will be a dunce to the end of his days, I say, 
 and who is there thinks proper to contradict me ?” 
 
 “ I,” said Howard, firmly; “and I’ll do more than contradict 
 you — I’ll prove that you are mistaken. Oliver, bring your hook 
 to me.” 
 
 “ Oliver, stir at your peril ! ” cried Holloway, clinching his 
 fist with a menacing gesture : “ nobody shall give any help to 
 my fag but myself, sir,” added he to Howard. 
 
 “ I am not going to help him, I am only going to prove to 
 him that he may do it without your help,” said Howard. 
 
 The little boy sprang forward, at these words, for his book ; 
 but his tormentor caught hold of him, and pulling him back, 
 said, “ He’s my fag! do you recollect, sir, he’s my fag?” 
 
 “Fag or no fag,” cried Howard, “ you shall not make a slave 
 of him.” 
 
 “ I will ! I shall ! I will ! ” cried Holloway, worked up to ' the 
 height of tyrannical fury : “I will make a slave of him, if I 
 choose it — a negro-slave, if I please I ” 
 
 At the sound of negro-slave, the little Creole burst into tears. 
 Howard sprang forward to free him from his tyrant’s grasp : 
 Holloway struck Howard a furious blow, which made him 
 stagger backwards. 
 
 “Ay,” said Holloway, “learn to stand your groimd, and 
 fight, before you meddle with me, I advise you.” 
 
 Holloway was an experienced pugilist, and he knew that 
 Howard was not ; but before his defiance had escaped his lips, 
 he felt his blow returned, and a battle ensued. Howard fought 
 with all his soul; but the body has something to do, as well as 
 the soul, in the art of boxing, and his body was not yet a match 
 for his adversary’s. After receiving more blows than Holloway, 
 perhaps, could have borne, Howard was brought to the ground. 
 
 “ Beg my pardon, and promise never to interfere between me 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 163 
 
 and my fag any more,” said Holloway, standing over him 
 triumphant : “ ask my pardon.” 
 
 ‘‘Never,” said the fallen hero: “I’ll fight you again, in the 
 same cause, whenever you please; I can’t have a better;” and 
 he struggled to rise. 
 
 Several boys had, by this time, gathered round the combatants, 
 and many admired the fortitude and spirit of the vanquished, 
 though it is extremely difficult to boys, if not to men, to sym- 
 pathize with the beaten. Every body called out that Howard 
 had had enough for that night ; and though he was willing to 
 have renewed the battle, his adversary was withheld by the 
 omnipotence of public opinion. As to the cause of the combat, 
 some few inquired into its merits, but many more were content 
 with seeing the fray, and with hearing, vaguely, that it began 
 about Howard’s having interfered with Holloway’s fag in an 
 impertinent manner. V 
 
 Howard’s face was so much disfigtrred, and his clothes were 
 so much stained with blood, that he did not wish to present 
 himself such a deplorable spectacle before his aunt ; besides, no 
 man likes to be seen, especially by a woman, immediately after 
 he has been beaten ; therefore, he went directly to bed as soon 
 as he got home, but desired that one of his companions, who 
 boarded &t Mrs. Howard’s, would, if his aunt inquired for him 
 at supper, tell her “ that he had been beaten in a boxing match, 
 but hoped to be more expert after another lesson or two.” This 
 lady did not show her tenderness to her nephew by wailing over 
 his disaster : on the contrary, she was pleased to hear that he 
 had fought in so good a cause. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as Howard went to school, he saw 
 little Oliver watching eagerly for him. 
 
 “ Mr. Howard — Charles,” said he, catching hold of him, “ I’ve 
 one word to say : let him call me dunce, or slave, or negro, or 
 what he will, don’t you mind any more about me — I can’t bear 
 to see it,” said the affectionate child: “I’d rather have the 
 blows myself, only I know I could not bear them as you did.” 
 Oliver turned aside his head, and Howard, in a playful voice, 
 said, “ Wh)?”, my little Oliver, I did not think you were such a 
 coward : you must not make a coward of me.” 
 
 M 2 
 
1G4 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 No sooner did the boys go out to play in the evening, than 
 Howard called to Oliver, in Holloway’s hearing, and said, ‘‘ If 
 you want any assistance from me, remember. I’m ready.” 
 
 ‘‘You may he ready, hut you are not able,” cried Holloway, 
 “ to give him any assistance — therefore, you’d better be quiet : 
 remember last night.” 
 
 “ I do remember it perfectly,” said Howard, calmly. 
 
 “And do you want any more? — Come, then. I’ll tell you 
 what. I’ll box with you every day, if you please, and when you 
 have conquered we, you shall have my fag all to yourself, if you 
 please ; but, till then, you shall have nothing to do with him.” 
 
 “ I take you at your word,” said Howard, and a second battle 
 began. As we do not delight in fields of battle, or hope to 
 excel, like Homer, in describing variety of wounds, we shall 
 content ourselves with relating, that after five pitched battles, in 
 which Oliver’s champion received bruises of all shapes and sizes, 
 and of every shade of black, blue, green, and yellow, his uncon- 
 quered spirit still maintained the justice of his cause, and with 
 as firm a voice as at first he challenged his constantly victorious 
 antagonist to a sixth combat. 
 
 “ I thought you had learned by this time,” said the successful 
 pugilist, “ that Augustus Holloway is not to be conquered by 
 one oi woman breed.'' To this taunt Howard made no reply; 
 but whether it urged him to superior exertion, or whether the 
 dear-bought experience of the five preceding days had taught 
 him all the caution that experience only can teach, v/e cannot 
 determine ; but, to the surprise of all the spectators, and to the 
 lively joy of Oliver, the redoubted Holloway was brought, after 
 an obstinate struggle, fairly to the ground. Every body sym- 
 pathized with the generous victor, who immediately assisted his 
 fallen adversary to rise, and offered his hand in token of 
 reconciliation. Augustus Holloway, stunned by his fall, and 
 more by his defeat, returned from the field of battle as fast as 
 the crowd would let him, who stopped him continually with 
 their impertinent astonishment and curiosity; for though the 
 boasted unconquerable hero had pretty evidently received a 
 black eye, not one person would believe it without looking close 
 in his face ; and many would not trust the information of their 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 165 
 
 own senses, but pressed to hear the news confirmed by the 
 reluctant lips of the unfortunate Augustus. In the meantime, 
 little Oliver, a fag no longer, exulting in his liberty, clapped his 
 joyful hands, sang, and capered round his deliverer. — “And 
 now,” said he, fixing his grateful, affectionate eyes upon Howard, 
 “you will suffer no more for me; and if you’ll let me. I’ll be 
 your fag. Do, will you ? pray let me ! I’ll run of your errands 
 before you can say one, two, three, and away ; only whistle for 
 me,” said he, whistling, “and I’ll hear you, wherever I am. If 
 you only hold up your finger when you want me, I’m sure I 
 shall see it ; and I’ll always set up your nine-pins, and fly for 
 your ball, let me be doing what I will. May I be your fag?” 
 
 “ Be my friend!'' said Howard, taking Oliver in his arms, 
 with emotion which prevented him from articulating any other 
 words. The word friend went to the little Creole’s heart, and 
 he clung to Howard in silence. To complete his happiness, 
 little Oliver this day obtained permission to board at Mrs. 
 Howard’s, so that he was now constantly to be with his pro- 
 tector. Howard’s friendship was not merely the sudden enthu- 
 siasm of a moment ; it was the steady persevering choice of a 
 manly mind, not the caprice of a school-boy. Regularly, every 
 evening, Oliver brought his books to his friend, who never was 
 too busy to attend to him. Oliver was delighted to find that 
 he understood Howard’s manner of explaining : his own opinion 
 of himself rose with the opinion which he saw his instructor 
 had of his abilities. He was convinced that he was not doomed 
 to be a dunce for life ; his ambition was rekindled ; his industry 
 was encouraged hy hope, and rewarded by success. He no 
 longer expected daily punishment, and that worst of all punish- 
 ments, disgrace. His heart was light, his spirits rose, his 
 countenance brightened with intelligence, and resumed its na- 
 tural vivacity : to his masters and his companions he appeared 
 a new creature. “ What has inspired you?” said one of his 
 masters to him one day, surprised at the rapid development of 
 his understanding — “ what has inspired you ?” 
 
 “ My good genius,” said the little boy, pointing to Howard. 
 Howard had some merit in giving up a good deal of his time 
 to Oliver, because he knew the value of time, and he had not 
 
1G6 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 quite so much as he wished for himself. The day was always 
 too short for him ; every moment was employed ; his active 
 mind went from one thing to another as if it did not know the 
 possibility of idleness, and as if he had no idea of any recreation 
 but in a change of employment. Not that he was always 
 poring over books, but his mind was active, let him be about 
 what he would ; and, as his exertions were always voluntary, 
 there was not that opposition in his opinion between the ideas 
 of play and work, which exists so strongly in the imaginations 
 of those school-boys who are driven to their tasks by fear, and 
 who escape from them to that delicious exercise of their free- 
 will which they call play. 
 
 “ Constraint, that sweetens liberty,” 
 
 often gives a false value to its charms, or rather a false idea to 
 its nature. Idleness, ennui, noise, mischief, riot, and a name- 
 less train of mistaken notions of pleasure, are often classed, in a 
 young man’s mind, under the general head of liberty, 
 
 Mr. Augustus Holloway, who is necessarily recalled to our 
 notice, when we want to personify an ill-educated young man, 
 was, in the strictest sense of the word, a school-boy — a clever 
 school-boy — a good scholar — a good historian : he wrote a good 
 hand — read with fluency — declaimed at a public exhibition of 
 Westminster orators with no bad grace and emphasis, and had 
 always extempore words, if not extempore sense, at command. 
 But still he was but a school-boy. His father thought him a 
 man, and more than a man. Alderman Holloway prophesied 
 to his friends that his son Augustus would be one of the first 
 orators in England. He was in a hurry to have him ready to 
 enter college, and had a borough secure for him at the proper 
 age. The proper age, he regretted, that parliament had fixed 
 to twenty-one; for the alderman was impatient to introduce 
 his young statesman to the house, especially as he saw honours, 
 perhaps a title, in the distant perspective of his son’s advance- 
 ment. 
 
 Whilst this vision occupied the father’s imagination, a vision 
 of another sort played upon the juvenile fancy of his son — 
 a vision of a gig ; for, though Augustus 'was but a school- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 167 
 
 boy, he had very manly ideas — if those ideas be manly which 
 most young men have. Lord Rawson, the son of the Earl of 
 Marryborough, had lately appeared to Augustus in a gig. The 
 young Lord Rawson had lately been a school-boy at Westmin- 
 ster like Augustus : he was now master of himself and three 
 horses at College. Alderman Holloway had lent the Earl of 
 Marryborough certain monies, the interest of which the earl 
 scrupulously paid in civility. The alderman valued himself 
 upon being a shrewd man ; he looked to one of the earl’s 
 boroughs as a security for his principal, and, from long-sighted 
 political motives, encouraged an intimacy between the young 
 nobleman and his son. It was one of those useful friendships, 
 one of those fortunate connexions, which some parents consider 
 as the peculiar advantage of a public school. Lord Rawson’s 
 example already powerfully operated upon his young friend’s 
 mind, and this intimacy was most likely to have a decisive in- 
 fluence upon the future destiny of Augustus. Augustus was 
 the son of an alderman. Lord Rawson was two years older 
 than Holloway — ^had left school — had been at college — had 
 driven both a curricle and a barouche, and had gone through 
 all the gradations of coachmanship — was a man, and had seen 
 the world. How many things to excite the ambition of a school- 
 boy ! Augustus was impatient for the moment when he might 
 ‘‘ be what he admired.” The drudgeiy of Westminster, the 
 confinement, the ignominious appellation of a hoy^ were all 
 insupportable to this young man. He had obtained from his 
 father a promise, that he should leave school in a few months ; 
 but these months appeared to him an age. It was rather a 
 misfortune to Holloway that he was so far advanced in his 
 Latin and Greek studies, for he had the less to do at school ; 
 his school business quickly despatched, his time hung upon 
 his hands. He never thought of literature as an amusement 
 for his leisure hours; he had no idea of improving himself 
 further in general science and knowledge. He was told that 
 his education was nearly at an end ; he believed it was quite 
 finished, and he was glad of it, and glad it was so well over. 
 In the idle time that hung upon his hands, during this inter- 
 mediate state at Westminster, he heartily regretted that be 
 
168 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 could not commence his manly career by learning to drive — to 
 drive a curricle. Lord llawson had carried him down to the 
 country, tlie last summer vacation, in his dog-cart, driven 
 randem' tandem. The reins had touched his fingers. The whip 
 had been committed to his hand, and he longed for a repetition 
 of these pleasures. From the windows of the house in West- 
 minster, where he boarded, Holloway at every idle moment 
 lolled, to enjoy a view of every carriage, and of every coachman 
 that passed. 
 
 Mr. Supine, Mr. Holloway’s tutor, used, at these leisure 
 moments, to employ himself with practising upon the German 
 flute, and was not sorry to be relieved from his pupil’s conver- 
 sation. Sometimes it was provoking to the amateur in music 
 to be interrupted by the exclamations of his pupil ; but he kept 
 his eyes steadily upon his music-book, and contented himself 
 with recommending a difficult passage, when Mr. Holloway’s 
 raptures about horses, and coachmanship, and driving well 
 in hand, offended his musical ear. Mr. Supine was, both 
 from nature and fashion, indolent ; the trouble of reproving or 
 of guiding his pupil was too much for him ; besides, he was 
 sensible that the task of watching, contradicting, and thwarting 
 a young gentleman, at Mr. Holloway’s time of life, would have 
 been productive of the most disagreeable scenes of altercation, 
 and could possibly have no effect upon the gentleman’s cha- 
 racter, which he presumed was perfectly well formed at this 
 time. Mr. and Mrs. Holloway were well satisfied with his im- 
 provements. Mr. Supine was on the best terms imaginable 
 with the whole family, and thought it his business to keep 
 himself well with his pupil ; especially as he had some secret 
 hope that, through Mr. Holloway’s interest with Lord Rawson, 
 and through Lord Rawson’s influence with a young nobleman, 
 who was just going abroad, he might be invited as a travelling 
 companion in a tour upon the continent. His taste for music 
 and painting had almost raised him to the rank of a connoisseur : 
 an amateur he modestly professed himself, and he was fre- 
 quently stretched, in elegant ease, upon a sofa, already in 
 reverie in Italy, whilst his pupil was conversing out of the 
 window, in no very elegant dialect, with the driver of a stage- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 169 
 
 coach in the neighbourhood, Young Holloway was almost as 
 familiar with this coachman as with his father’s groom, who, 
 during his visits at home, supplied the place of Mr. Supine, in 
 advancing his education. The stage-coachman so effectually 
 wrought upon the ambition of Augustus, that his desire to learn 
 to drive became uncontrollable. The coachman, partly by en- 
 treaties, and partly by the mute eloquence of a crown, was pre- 
 vailed upon to promise, that, if Holloway could manage it 
 without his tutor’s knowledge, he should ascend to the honours 
 of the box, and at least have the satisfaction of seeing some good 
 driving. 
 
 Mr. Supine was soon invited to a private concert, at which 
 Mrs. Holloway was expected, and at which her daughter, Miss 
 Angelina Holloway, was engaged to perform. Mr. Supine’s 
 judicious applause of this young lady’s execution was one of 
 his greatest recommendations to the whole family, at least to 
 the female part of it ; he could not, therefore, decline an invita- 
 tion to this concert. Holloway complained of a sore throat, 
 and desired to be excused from accompanying his tutor, adding, 
 with his usual politeness, that “ music was the greatest bore in 
 nature, and especially Angelina’s music.” For the night of the 
 concert Holloway had arranged his plan with the stage-coach- 
 man. Mr. Supine dressed, and then practised upon the German 
 flute, till towards nine o’clock in the evening. Holloway heard 
 the stage-coach rattling through the street, whilst his tutor was 
 yet in the middle of a long concerto : the coachman was to 
 stop at the public-house, about ten doors off, to take up parcels 
 and passengers, and there he was to wait for Holloway ; but 
 he had given him notice that he could not wait many minutes. 
 
 “ You may practise the rest without book, in the chair, as 
 
 you are going to street, quite at your ease, Mr. Supine,” 
 
 said Holloway to his tutor. 
 
 Faith, so I can, and Fll adopt your idea, for it’s quite a 
 novel thing, and may take, if the fellows will only carry one 
 steady. Good night : I’ll mention your sore throat properly to 
 Mrs. Holloway.” 
 
 No sooner were the tutor and his German flute safely raised 
 upon the chairmen’s shoulders, than his pupil recovered from 
 
170 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 his sore throat, ran down to the place where the stage w'as 
 waiting, seized the stage-coachman’s down-stretched hand, 
 sprang up, and seated himself triumphantly upon the coach- 
 box. 
 
 ‘‘ Never saw a cleverer fellow,” said the coachman : “ now 
 we are off.” 
 
 Give me the reins, then,” said Holloway. 
 
 “ Not till we are out o’town,” said the coachman : “when we 
 get off the stones, we’ll see a little of your driving.” 
 
 When they got on the turnpike road, Holloway impatiently 
 seized the reins, and was as much gratified by this coachman’s 
 praises of his driving as ever he had been by the applauses he 
 had received for his Latin verses. A taste for vulgar praise is 
 the most dangerous taste a young man can have ; it not only 
 leads him into vulgar company, but it puts him entirely in the 
 power of his companions, whoever they may happen to be. 
 Augustus Holloway, seated beside a coachman, became, to all 
 intents and purposes, a coachman himself; he caught, and 
 gloried in catching, all his companion’s slang, and with his 
 language caught all his ideas. The coachman talked w’ith 
 rapture of some young gentleman’s horses which he had lately 
 seen ; and said that, if he was a gentleman, there was nothing 
 he should pride himself so much upon as his horses. Holloway, 
 as he was a gentleman, determined to have the finest horses 
 that could be had for money, as soon as he should become his 
 own master. 
 
 “ And then,” continued the coachman, “ if I was a gentleman 
 born. I’d never be shabby in the matters of wages and perqui- 
 sites to them that be to look after my horses, seeing that horses 
 can’t be properly looked after for nothing.” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” agreed the young gentleman : — “my friend, 
 lord Rawson, I know, has a prodigious smart groom, and so will 
 I, all in good time.” 
 
 “ To be sure,” said the coachman ; “but it was not in regard 
 to grooms I was meaning, so much as in regard to a coachman, 
 which, I take it, is one of the first persons to be considered in a 
 really grand family, seeing how great a trust is placed in him — 
 (mind, sir, if you please, the turn at the corner, it’s rather 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 171 
 
 sharp) — seeing how great a trust is placed in him, as I was 
 observing, a good coachman is worth his weight in gold.” 
 
 Holloway had not leisure to weigh the solidity of this obser- 
 vation, for the conversation was now interrupted by the sound 
 of a postchaise, which drove rapidly by. 
 
 ‘‘The job and four!” exclaimed the coachman, with as many 
 oaths “as the occasion required” 
 
 “ Why did you let it pass us?” And with enthusiasm which 
 forgot all ceremony, he snatched the whip from his young com- 
 panion, and, seizing the reins, drove at a furious rate. One of 
 the chaise postilions luckily dropped his whip. They passed 
 the job and four; and the coachman, having redeemed his 
 honour, resigned once more the reins to Holloway, upon his 
 promising not to let the job and four get a head of them. The 
 postilions were not without ambition : the men called to each 
 other, and to their horses ; the horses caught some portion of 
 their masters’ spirit, and began to gain upon the coach. The 
 passengers in the coach put out their heads, and female voices 
 screamed in vain. All these terrors increased the sport ; till at 
 length, at a narrow part of* the road, the rival coachman and 
 postilions hazarded every thing for precedency. Holloway was 
 desperate in proportion to his ignorance. The coachman 
 attempted to snatch the reins, hut, missing his grasp, he short- 
 ened those of the off-hand horse, and drew them the wrong 
 way : the coach ran upon a bank, and was overturned. Hollo- 
 way was dismayed and silent ; the coachman poured forth a 
 torrent of abuse, sparing neither friend nor foe ; the complaints 
 of the female passengers were so incoherent, and their fears 
 operated so much upon their imagination, that in the first 
 ‘moments of confusion, each asserted that she had broken either 
 an arm or a leg, or fractured her skull. 
 
 The moon, which had shone bright in the beginning of the 
 evening, was now under a cloud, and the darkness increased the 
 impatience of the various complainers ; at length a lantern was 
 brought from the turnpike-house, which was near the spot where 
 the accident happened. As soon as the light came, the ladies 
 looked at each other, and after they had satisfied themselves 
 that no material injury had been done to their clothes, and that 
 
172 
 
 THE G00l» AUNT. 
 
 their faces were in no way disfigured, they began to recover 
 from their terrors, and were brought to allow that all their limbs 
 were in good preservation, and that they had been too hasty in 
 declaring that their skulls were fractured. Holloway laughed 
 loudly at all this, and joined in all the wit of the coachman upon 
 the occasion. The coach was lifted up ; the passengers got in ; 
 the coachman and Holloway mounted the box, when, just as 
 they were setting off, the coachman heard a voice crying to him 
 to stop. He listened, and the voice, which seemed to be that 
 of a person in great pain, again called for assistance. 
 
 ‘‘It’s the mulatto woman,” said the coachman: “we forgot 
 her in the bustle. Lend me hold of the lantern, and stand at 
 the horses’ heads, whilst I see after her,” added the coachman, 
 addressing himself to the man who had come from the turnpike- 
 house. 
 
 “ I sha’n’t stir for a mulatto^ I promise you,” said Holloway, 
 brutally : “ she was on the top of the coach, wasn’t she? She 
 must have had a fine hoist ! ” 
 
 The poor woman was found to be much hurt : she had been 
 thrown from the top of the coach into a ditch, which had stones 
 at the bottom of it. She had not been able to make herself 
 heard by any body, whilst the ladies’ loud complaints continued ; 
 nor had she been able long to call for any assistance, for she 
 had been stunned by her fall, and had not recovered her senses 
 for many minutes. She was not able to stand ; but when the 
 coachman held her up, she put her hand to her head, and, in 
 broken English, said she felt too ill to travel farther that night. 
 
 “ You shall have an inside place, if you’ll pluck up your 
 heart; and you’ll find yourself better with the motion of the 
 coach.” 
 
 “ What, is she hurt — the mulatto woman ? — I say, coachy, 
 make haste,” cried Holloway ; “ I want to be off.” 
 
 “ So do I,” said tbe coachman ; “but we are not likely to be 
 off yet : here’s this here poor woman can’t stand, and is all over 
 bruises, and won’t get into the inside of the coach, though I 
 offered her a place.” 
 
 Holloway, who imagined that the sufferings of all who were 
 not so rich as himself could be bought off for money, pulled out 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 173 
 
 a handful of silver, and leaning from the coach-box, held it 
 towards the fainting woman ; — ‘‘ Here’s a shilling for every 
 bruise at least, my good woman — but the woman did not hear 
 him, for she was very faint. The coachman was forced to carry 
 her to the turnpike-house, where he left her, telling the people 
 of the house that a return chaise would call for her in an hour’s 
 time, and would carry her either to the next stage, or back to 
 town, whichever she pleased. Holloway’s diversion for the rest 
 of the night was spoiled, not because he had too much sympathy 
 with the poor woman that was hurt, but because he had been 
 delayed so long by the accident, that he lost the pleasure of 
 driving into the town of * * * *. He had intended to have 
 gone the whole stage, and to have returned in the job and four. 
 This scheme had been arranged before he set out by his friend 
 the coachman; hut the postilions in the job and four having 
 won the race, and made the best of their way, had now returned, 
 and met the coach about two miles from the turnpike-house. 
 
 ‘‘So,” said Holloway, “I must descend, and get home before 
 Mr. Supine wakens from his first sleep.” 
 
 Holloway called at the turnpike-house, to inquire after the 
 mulatto ; or, rather, one of the postilions stopped as he had been 
 desired by the coachman, to take her up to town, if she was able 
 to go that night. 
 
 The postilion, after he had spoken to the woman, came to the 
 chaise-door, and told Holloway “ that he could hardly under- 
 stand what she said, she talked such outlandish English ; and 
 ihat he could not make out where she wanted to be carried to.” 
 “Ask the name of some of her friends in town,” cried Hollo- 
 way, “ and don’t let her keep us here all night.” 
 
 “ She has no friends, as I can find,” replied the postilion, 
 “ nor acquaintance neither.” 
 
 “ Well, whom does she belong to, then ?” 
 
 “ She belongs to nobody — she’s quite a stranger in these 
 parts, and doesn’t know no more than a child where to go in all 
 London ; she only knows the Christian name of an old gardener, 
 where she lodged, she says.” 
 
 “ What would she have us to do with her, then ?” said Hollo- 
 way. “ Drive on, for I shall be late.’* 
 
174 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT, 
 
 The postilion, more humane than Holloway, exclaimed. 
 No, master, no ! — it’s a sin to leave her upon the road this 
 ways, though she’s no Christian, as we are, poor copper-coloured 
 soul ! I was once a stranger myself in Lon on, without a six- 
 pence to bless myself ; so I know what it is, master.” 
 
 The good-natured postilion returned to the mulatto woman. 
 “ Mistress,” said he, “ I’d fain see ye safe home, if you could 
 but think of the t’other name of that gardener that you men- 
 tioned lodging with ; because there be so many Pauls in London 
 town, that I should never find your Paul, as you don’t know 
 
 neither the name of his street But I’ll tell ye now all the 
 
 streets I’m acquainted with, and that’s a many: do you stop 
 me, mistress, when I come to the right ; for you’re sadly bruised, 
 and I won’t see ye left this ways on the road.” 
 
 He then named several streets : the mulatto woman stopped 
 him at one name, which she recollected to be the name of the 
 street in which the gardener lived. The woman at the turnpike- 
 house, as soon as she heard the street in which he lived named, 
 said she knew this gardener ; that he had a large garden about 
 a mile off, and that he came from London -early almost every 
 morning with his cart, for garden-stuff for the market : she 
 advised the mulatto woman to stay where she was that night, 
 and to send to ask the gardener to come on to the turnpike- 
 house for her in the morning. The postilion promised to go to 
 the gardener’s ‘‘ by the first break of day.” The woman raised 
 her head to bless him ; and the impatient Holloway loudly 
 called to him to return to his horses, swearing that he would not 
 give him one farthing for himself if he did not. 
 
 The anxiety which Holloway felt to escape detection kept 
 him in pain ; but Holloway never measured or estimated his 
 pleasures and his pains ; therefore he never discovered that, 
 even upon the most selfish calculation, he had paid too dear 
 for the pleasure of sitting upon a coach-box for one hour. 
 
 It was two o’clock in the morning before the chaise arrived in 
 town, when he was set down at the house at which the stage- 
 coach put up, walked home, got in at his bedchamber window — 
 his bedchamber was upon the ground-floor. Mr. Supine was 
 fast asleep, and his pupil triumphed in his successful frolic. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 175 
 
 AVhilst Holloway, in his dreams, was driving again, and again 
 overturning stage-coaches, young Howard, in his less manly 
 dreams, saw Dr. B., the head master of Westminster school, 
 advancing towards him, at a public examination, with a prize 
 medal in his hand, which turned, Howard thought, as he looked 
 upon it, first into the face of his aunt, smiling upon him ; then 
 into a striking likeness of his tutor, Mr. Russell, who also smiled 
 upon him ; and then changed into the head of little Oliver, 
 whose eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. Just at the instant, 
 Howard awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw Oliver’s face close to 
 him, laughing heartily. 
 
 ‘‘Why,” exclaimed Oliver, “you seized my head with both 
 your hands when 1 came to waken you : what could you he 
 dreaming of, Charles?” 
 
 “ I dreamed I took you for a medal, and I was right glad to 
 have hold of you,” said Howard, laughing; “but I shall not 
 get my medal by dreaming about it. What o’clock is it? I 
 shall be ready in half a second.” 
 
 “Ay,” said Oliver, “.I wont tell you what o’clock it is till 
 you’re dressed : make haste ; I have been up this half hour, and 
 I’ve got every thing ready, and I’ve carried the little table, and 
 all your books, and the pen and ink, and all the things, out to 
 our seat ; and the sun shines upon it, and every thing looks 
 cheerful, and you’ll have a full hour to work, for it’s only half 
 after five.” 
 
 At the back of Mrs. Howard’s house there was a little garden ; 
 at the end of the garden was a sort of rool^house, which Oliver 
 had cleaned out, and which he dignified by the title of the seat. 
 There were some pots of geraniums and myrtles kept in it, with 
 Mrs. Howard’s permission, by a gardener, who lived next door 
 to her, and who frequently came to work in her garden. Oliver 
 watered the geraniums, and picked off the dead leaves, whilst 
 Howard was writing at the little table which had been prepared 
 for him. Howard had at this time two grand works in hand, 
 on which he was enthusiastically intent : he was translating the 
 little French book which the traveller had given to him ; and he 
 was writing an essay for a prize. The young gentlemen at 
 Westminster were engaged in writing essays for a periodical 
 
176 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 paper; and Dr. B. had promised to give a prize medal as the 
 reward for that essay, which he, and a jury of critics, to be 
 chosen from among the boys themselves, should pronounce to 
 he the best composition. 
 
 “I won’t talk to you, I won’t interrupt you,” said Oliver to 
 Howard ; “ but only answer me one question : what is your 
 essay about?” 
 
 Howard put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head. 
 
 I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it 
 this morning before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think 
 I shall ever be able to write essays ?” 
 
 “ To he sure,” said Howard ; “ why not ?” 
 
 “Ah,” said Oliver, with a sigh, “because I’ve no genius, 
 you know.” 
 
 “But,” said Howard, “have not you found out that you 
 could do a great many things that you thought you could not 
 do?” 
 
 “ Ay, thank you for that : but then you know, those are 
 the sort of things which can he done without genius.” 
 
 “ And what are the things,” replied Howard, “ which cannot 
 be done without genius ?” 
 
 “Oh, a great, great many, I believe,” said Oliver: “you 
 know Holloway said so.” 
 
 “ But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said 
 so, are we ? Besides, a great many things may mean any thing, 
 buckling your shoes, or putting on your hat, for instance.” 
 Oliver laughed at this, and said, “ These, to be sure, are not 
 the sort of things that can’t be done without genius.” 
 
 “What are the sort of things?” repeated Howard. “ Let us, 
 now I’ve the pen in my hand, make a list of them.” 
 
 “ Take a longer bit of paper.” 
 
 “ No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. 
 What shall I put first? — make haste, for I’m in a hurry.” 
 
 “Well — writing, then — writing, I am sure, requires genius.” 
 
 “ Why?” 
 
 “ Because I never could write, and I’ve often tried and tried 
 to write something, hut I never could ; because I’ve no genius 
 for it.” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 177 
 
 “What did you try to write?” said Howard. 
 
 “ Why, letters,” said Oliver: “ my uncle, and my aunt, and 
 my two cousins, desired I would write to them regularly once a 
 fortnight ; but I never can make out a letter, and I’m always 
 sorry when letter-writing day comes ; and if I sit thinking and 
 thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to say. I used 
 always to beg a beginning from somebody ; but then, when I’ve 
 got over the beginning, that’s only three or four lines ; and if I 
 stretch it out ever so much, it won’t make a whole letter; and 
 what can I put in the middle ? There’s nothing but that I am 
 well, and hope they are all well; or else, that I am learning 
 Latin, as you desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English. 
 The end I can manage well enough, because there’s duty and 
 love to send to every body ; and about the post is just going 
 out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and affectionate 
 nephew. But then,” continued little Oliver, “this is all non- 
 sense, I know, and I’m ashamed to write such had letters. Now 
 your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit 
 down to it ; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good 
 letter, whilst I am writing ‘ My dear uncle John,' and that’s 
 what I call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you 
 came by it : could you write good letters when you were of my 
 age ?” 
 
 “ I never wrote any letters at your age,” said Howard. 
 
 “ Oh, how happy you must have been ! But then, if you never 
 learned, how comes it that you can write them now ? How can 
 you always find something to say?” 
 
 “ I never write hut when I have something to say ; and you 
 know, when you had something to say last post about Easter 
 holidays, your pen, Oliver, went scratch, scratch, scratch, as 
 fast as any body’s.” 
 
 “ So it did,” cried Oliver ; “but then the thing is, I’m forced 
 to write when I’ve nothing about the holidays to say.” 
 
 “ Forced?” 
 
 “Yes, because I’m afraid my uncle and cousins should be 
 angry if I didn’t write.” 
 
 “I’m sure I’m much obliged,” said Howard, “to my dear 
 aunt, who never forced me to write : she always said, ‘ Never 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 write, Charles, but when you like it and I never did. When 
 I had any thing to say, that is, any thing to describe, or any 
 reasons to give upon any subject, or any questions to ask, which 
 I very much wished to have answered, then, you know, I could 
 easily write, because I had nothing to do but to write down just 
 the words which I should have said, if I had been speaking.” 
 
 ‘‘ But I thought writing was quite a different thing from 
 speaking, because, in writing, there must be sentences, and long 
 sentences, and fine sentences, such as there are in books.” 
 
 In soyne books,” said Howard; ‘‘but not in all.” 
 
 “Besides,” continued Oliver, “one person’s speaking is quite 
 different from another person’s speaking. Now I believe I make 
 use of a great number of odd words, and vulgar expressions, and 
 bad English, which I learned from being with the servants, I 
 believe, at home. You have never talked to servants, Charles, 
 I dare say, for you have not one of their words.” 
 
 “ No,” said Charles, “never; and my aunt took a great deal 
 of pains to prevent me from hearing any of their conversation ; 
 
 therefore it was impossible that I should catch ” 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of 
 old Paul, the gardener. 
 
 “ So, Paul,” cried little Oliver, “I’ve been doing your work 
 for you this morning; I’ve watered all the geraniums, and put 
 the Indian corn in the sun ; what kept you so late in your bed 
 this fine morning, Paul? — fie, Paul!” 
 
 “ You would not say fie, master,” replied Paul, “if you knew 
 how early I had been out of my bed, this morning : I was 
 abroad afore sunrise, so I was, master.” 
 
 “And why didn’t you come to work then, Paul? You shall 
 not have the watering-pot till you tell me : don’t look so grave 
 about it; you know you must smile when I please, Paul.” 
 
 “I can’t smile, just now, master,” said old Paul; but he 
 smiled, and then told Oliver, that “the reason he could not 
 smile was, that he was a little sick at heart, with just coming 
 from the sight of a poor soul who had been sadly bruised by a 
 fall from the top of the stage, which was overturned last night. 
 She was left all night at the pike, and as she had no other 
 friends, she sent for me by a return chay-boy, and I went for 
 
THE GOOD AUNT 
 
 179 
 
 her, and brought her home in my covered cart, to my good 
 woman, which she liked, with good reason, better ten to one 
 than the stage. And she’s terribly black and blue, and does 
 not seem quite right in her head, to my fancy.” 
 
 I wish we could do something for her,” said Howard. “ As 
 soon as Mr. Russell is up. I’ll ask him to go with us to see her. 
 We will call as we go by to school this morning.” 
 
 “ But, master,” said the gardener, ‘‘ I should warn ye before- 
 hand, that mayhap you mayn’t pity her so much, for she’s 
 rather past her best days ; and bad must have been her best, 
 for she’s swarthy, and not like one of this country ; she comes 
 from over the seas, and they call her a — a — not quite a negro.” 
 A mulatto ! — I like her the better,” cried Oliver; ‘‘ for my 
 nurse was a mulatto. I’ll go and waken Mr. Russell this instant, 
 for I’m sure he’ll not be angry.” He ran away to Mr. Russell, 
 who was not angry at being awakened, but dressed himself almost 
 as expeditiously as Oliver wished, and set out immediately with 
 his pupils, delighted to be the companion of their benevolent 
 schemes, instead of being the object of their fear and hatred. 
 Tutors may inspire affection, even though they have the mis- 
 fortune to be obliged to teach Greek and Latin^. 
 
 When the boys arrived at the gardener’s, they found the poor 
 mulatto woman lying upon a bed, in a small close room, which 
 was so full of smoke, when they came in, that they could hardly 
 breathe : the little window, that let in but a glimmering light, 
 could not, without difficulty, be opened. The poor woman made 
 but few complaints ; she appeared to be most concerned at the 
 thoughts of being a burden to the good old gardener and his 
 wife. She said that she had not been long in England ; that 
 she came to London in hopes of finding a family who had been 
 very kind to her in her youth ; but that, after inquiry at the 
 house where they formerly lived, she could hear nothing of 
 them. After a great deal of trouble, she discovered that a West 
 India gentleman, who had known her abroad, was now at Bath ; 
 but she had spent the last farthing of her money, and she was, 
 therefore, unable to undertake the journey. She had brought 
 
 5 Vide Dr. Johnson's assertions to the contrary, in Mrs. Piozzi's Anecdotes. 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 over with her, she said, some foreign seeds of flowers, which her 
 young mistress used to be fond of when she was a child, which 
 she had kept till hunger obliged her to offer them to a gardener 
 for a loaf of bread. The gardener to whom she offered them 
 was old Paul, who took compassion upon her distress, lodged 
 her for a week, and at last paid for an outside place for her upon 
 the Bath coach. There was such an air of truth and simplicity 
 in this woman, that Mr. Russell, more experienced than his 
 pupils, believed her story, at once, as implicitly as they did. 
 ‘‘ Oh,” exclaimed little Oliver, have but this half-crown for 
 her: I wish Holloway had but paid me my half-guinea; I’ll 
 ask him for it again to-day ; and will you come with us here 
 again, this evening, Mr. Russell, that I may bring it then?” 
 
 Mr. Russell and Howard hired the room for a fortnight in 
 which the mulatto woman was now lying, and paid old Paul, 
 the gardener, for it, promising, at the same time, to supply her 
 with food. The gardener’s wife, at the poor woman’s earnest 
 request, promised that, as soon as she was able to sit up, she 
 would get her some coarse plain work to do. 
 
 ‘‘ But,” said Oliver, “ how can she see to work in this smoke? 
 I’m sure it makes my eyes water so that I can hardly bear it, 
 though I have been in it scarcely ten minutes.” 
 
 wish,” exclaimed Howard, turning to Mr. Russell, “that 
 this chimney could be cured of smoking.” 
 
 “ Oh, well-a-day,” said the gardener, “we must put up with it 
 as it is, for I’ve had doctors to it, at one time or another, that 
 have cost me a power of money ; but, after all, it’s as bad as 
 ever, and my good dame never lights a fire in it this fine spring 
 weather ; howsomever, she (pointing to the mulatto woman) is 
 so chilly, coming from a country that, by all accounts, is a hot- 
 house, compared with ours, that she can’t sleep o’ nights, or live 
 o’ days without a small matter of fire, which she’s welcome to, 
 though, you see, it almost fills the house with smoke.” 
 
 Howard, during the gardener’s speech, had been trying to 
 recollect where it was that he had lately seen some essay upon 
 smoky chimneys ; and he suddenly exclaimed, “ It was in Dr. 
 Franklin’s works — was it not, Mr. Russell ?’* 
 
 “ What?” said Mr. Russell, smiling. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 181 
 
 ‘‘ That essay upon smoky chimneys which I said I would 
 skip over, the other day, because I had nothing to do with it, 
 and I thought I should not understand. Don’t you remember 
 telling me, sir, that I had better not skip it, because it might, 
 some time or other, be useful to me ? I wish I could get the 
 book now ; I would take pains to understand it, because, per- 
 haps, I might find out how this poor man’s chimney might be 
 cured of smoking. As for his window, I know how that can 
 be easily mended, because I once watched a man who was 
 hanging some windows for my aunt — I’ll get some sash line.” 
 Do you recollect what o’clock it is, my good friend?” said 
 Mr. Russell, holding out his watch to Howard. ‘‘We cannot 
 wait till you are perfect master of the theory of smoky chim- 
 neys, and the practice of hanging windows; it is time that we 
 should be gone.” Mr. Russell spoke this with an air of raillery, 
 as he usually did, when he was particularly pleased. 
 
 As they were going away, Oliver earnestly repeated his re- 
 quest, that Mr. Russell would come again in the evening, that 
 he might have an opportunity of giving the poor woman, his 
 half- guinea. Mr. Russell promised him that he would ; but he 
 at the same time added, “ All charity, my dea-r Oliver, does 
 not consist in giving money : it is easy for a man to put his 
 hand in his pocket, and take out a few shillings, to give any 
 person in distress.” 
 
 “ I wish,” said Oliver, “ I was able to do more ! what can I 
 do ? I’ll think of something. Howard, will you think of some- 
 thing that I can do ? But I must see about my Latin lesson 
 first, for I had not time to look it over this morning, before I 
 came out.” 
 
 When they got back, the business of the day, for some hours, 
 suspended all thoughts of the mulatto woman ; but, in the first 
 interval of leisure, Oliver went in search of Mr. Holloway, to 
 ask for his half-guinea. Holloway had a crowd of his com- 
 panions round him, whom he seemed to be entertaining with 
 some very diverting story, for they were laughing violently 
 when little Oliver first came up to them ; but they no sooner 
 perceived him than all their merriment suddenly ceased. Hol- 
 loway first lowered his voice into a whisper, and then observing 
 
182 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 that Oliver still stood his ground, he asked him, in his usual 
 peremptory tone, what might be his business ? Oliver drew 
 him aside, and asked him to pay him the half-guinea. The 
 half-guinea?” repeated Holloway : ‘‘ man, you talk of the half- 
 guinea as if there was but one half-guinea in the world : you 
 
 shall have the half-guinea, for I hate to be dunned Stay, I 
 
 believe I have no ^a^a-guinea about me : you can’t give me 
 two half-guineas for a guinea, can ye ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Me !” 
 
 Well, then, you must wait till I can get change.” 
 
 ‘‘ Must I wait? but I really want it for a particular reason, 
 this evening : I wish you could give it me now — you know you 
 promised ; hut I don’t like putting people in mind of their pro- 
 mises, and I would not ask you about the money, only that I 
 really want it.” 
 
 Want it! — nonsense: what can you want money for, such 
 a little chap as you? I’ll lay you any wager, your particular 
 reason, if the truth was told, is, that you can’t resist the tart- 
 woman.” 
 
 I can resist the tart^woman,” cried Oliver proudly ; ‘‘ I 
 have a much better use for my money : but I don’t want to 
 boast, neither ; only, Holloway, do give me the half-guinea : 
 shall I run and ask somebody to give you two half-guineas for a 
 guinea?” 
 
 No, no. I’ll not be dunned into paying you. If you had 
 not asked me for it, I should have given it you to-night : but 
 since you could not trust to my honour, you’ll please to wait till 
 to-morrow morning.” 
 
 ‘‘ But I did trust to your honour for a whole month.” 
 
 A month ! — a great while, indeed ; then trust to it a day 
 longer ; and if you ask me for the money to-morrow, you sha’n’t 
 have it till the next day. I’ll teach you not to be such a little 
 dun : nobody, that has any spirit, can bear to be dunned, par- 
 ticularly for such small sums. I thought you had been above 
 such meanness, or, I promise you, I should never have bor- 
 rowed your half-guinea,” added Holloway ; and he left his 
 unfortunate creditor to reflect upon the new ideas of meanness 
 and spirit, which had been thus artfully thrown out. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 183 
 
 Oliver was roused from his reflections by his friend Howard. 
 Mr. Russell is ready to go with us to the gardener’s again,” 
 said Howard : have you a mind to come ?” 
 
 “ A great mind ; but I am ashamed, for I’ve not got my half- 
 guinea which I lent.” Here his newly acquired fear of mean- 
 ness checked Oliver, and without complaining of his creditor’s 
 want of punctuality, he added, hut I should like to see the 
 poor woman though, for all that.” 
 
 They set out, but stopped in their way at a bookseller’s, 
 where Howard inquired for that essay of Dr. Franklin on 
 smoky chimneys, which he was impatient to see. This book- 
 seller was well acquainted with Mr. Russell. Howard had 
 promised to give the bookseller the translation of the little 
 French book which we formerly mentioned ; and the bookseller, 
 on his part, was very obliging in furnishing Howard with any 
 books he wanted. 
 
 Howard was deep in the essay on smoky chimneys, and ex- 
 amining the references in the print belonging to it, whilst Mr. 
 Russell was looking over the prints in the Encyclopaedia, with 
 little Oliver. They were all so intent upon what they were 
 about, ^liat they did not perceive the entrance of Holloway and 
 Mr. Supine. Mr. Supine called in merely to see what Mr. 
 Russell could be looking at, with so much appearance of in- 
 terest. The indolent are always curious, though they will not 
 always exert themselves, even to gratify their curiosity. 
 
 “ Only the Encyclopaedia prints,” said Supine, looking over 
 Mr. Russell’s shoulder: ‘‘I thought you had got something 
 new.” 
 
 “ Only smoky chimneys,” exclaimed Holloway, looking over 
 Howard’s shoulder : “ what upon earth, Howard, can you find 
 so entertaining in smoky chimneys? Are you turned chimney- 
 doctor, or chimney-sweeper ? This will be an excellent thing 
 for Lord Rawson, won’t it, Mr. Supine? We’ll tell it to him 
 on Thursday; it will be a good joke for us, for half the day. 
 Pray, doctor Charles Howard,” continued the wit, with mock 
 solemnity, “ do you go up the chimneys yourself ?” 
 
 Howard took this raillery with so much good-humour, that 
 Holloway looked quite disappointed; and Mr. Supine, in a 
 
1S4 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 careless tone, cried, I take it, reading such things as these 
 will scarcely improve your style, sir — will they, think ye, Mr. 
 Russell ?” 
 
 I am not sure,” replied Mr. Russell, “ that Mr. Howard’s 
 first object in reading is to improve his style ; “ but,” added he, 
 turning to the title-page, and pointing to Franklin’s name, 
 
 ‘‘ you, perhaps, did not know ” 
 
 Oh, Dr. Franklin’s works,” interrupted Supine : I did 
 
 not see the name before — to be sure I must bow down to that.” 
 
 Having thus easily satisfied Mr. Supine’s critical scruples by 
 the authority of a name, Mr. Russell rose to depart, as he 
 perceived that there was no chance of getting rid of the 
 idlers. 
 
 ‘‘ What are you going to do with yourself, Russell ?” said Mr. 
 Supine ; we’ll walk with you, if you are for walking, this fine 
 evening ; only don’t let’s walk like penny postmen.” 
 
 But he’s in a hurry,” said Oliver; ‘‘ he’s going to see a 
 poor woman.” 
 
 ‘‘A poor woman!” said Supine; ‘‘down this close lanei 
 too !” 
 
 “ Oh, let’s see all that’s to be seen,” whispered Holloway ; 
 “ ten to one we shall get some diversion out of it : Russell’s a 
 quiz worth studying, and Howard’s his ditto.” 
 
 They came to the gardener’s house. Holloway’s high spirits 
 suddenly subsided when he beheld the figure of the mulatto 
 woman. 
 
 “ What’s the matter?” said Oliver, observing that he started; 
 “ why did you start so?” 
 
 “ Tell Howard I want to speak one word with him, this in- 
 stant, in the street; bid him come out to me,” whispered Hol- 
 loway ; and he hastily retreated before the poor woman saw his 
 face. 
 
 “ Howard,” cried Holloway, “ I sent for you to tell you a 
 great secret.” 
 
 “ I’m sorry for it,” said Charles; “ for I hate secrets.” 
 
 “ But you can keep a secret, man, can’t you ?” 
 
 “ If it were necessary, I hope I could ; but I’d rather not 
 hear ” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 185 
 
 ‘‘ Pooh, nonsense,” interrupted Holloway, you must hear 
 it ; I’ll trust to your honour ; and, besides, I have not a moment 
 to stand shilly shally : I’ve got a promise from my father to 
 let me go down, this Easter, with Lord Rawson, to Marry borough, 
 in his dog-cart, randem-tandem^ you know.” 
 
 I did not know it, indeed,” said Charles ; ‘‘ hut what 
 then ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, then, you see, I must be upon my good behaviour ; 
 and you would not do such an ill-natured trick as to betray 
 me ?” 
 
 Betray you ! I don’t know what you mean,” said Howard, 
 astonished. 
 
 Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach adventure, 
 and concluded by saying, he was afraid that the mulatto 
 woman should recollect either his face or voice, and should 
 blow Mm, 
 
 ‘‘ And what,” said Howard, shocked at the selfishness which 
 Holloway showed — and what do you want me to do ? why do 
 you tell me all this?” 
 
 Because,” said Holloway, I thought if you heard what 
 the woman said, when she saw me, you would have got it all 
 out of her to be sure ; therefore I thought it best to trust you 
 with my secret, and so put you upon honour with me. All I 
 ask of you is, to hold your tongue about my — my — my — frolic, 
 and just make some excuse for my not going into the room 
 again where the mulatto woman is : you may tell Supine, if he 
 asks what’s become of me, that I’m gone to the music-shop, to 
 get some new music for him : that will keep him quiet. Good 
 
 i5y-” 
 
 When Howard returned to the room where the mulatto 
 woman lay, he expected to be questioned by Mr. Supine about 
 Holloway’s sudden departure ; but this gentleman was not in 
 the habit of paying great attention to his pupil’s motions. He 
 took it for granted that Holloway had escaped, because he did 
 not wish to be called upon for a charitable subscription. From 
 the same fear, Mr. Supine affected unusual absence of mind 
 whilst Mr. Russell talked to the mulatto woman, and at length, 
 professing himself unable to endure any longer the smell of 
 
186 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 smoke, he pushed his way into the street. ‘‘ Mr. Holloway, I 
 suppose,” said he, ‘‘ has taken himself home, very wisely, and 
 I shall follow him : we make it a rule, I think, to miss one 
 another ; hut to keep a young man in leading-strings would be 
 a great hore. We’re upon the best footing in the world toge- 
 ther : as to the rest ” 
 
 New difficulties awaited Holloway. He got home some time 
 before Mr. Supine, and found his friend, the stage-coachman, 
 waiting for him with a rueful face. 
 
 ‘‘ Master,” said he, “ here’s a sad job : there was a parcel lost 
 last night, in the confusion of the overturn of the coach ; and I 
 must make it good ; for it’s booked, and it’s booked to the value 
 of five guineas, for it was a gold muslin gown that a lady was 
 very particular about ; and, master, I won’t peach if you’ll pay : 
 but as for losing my place, or making up five guineas afore 
 Saturday, it’s what I can’t take upon me to do.” 
 
 Holloway was much dismayed at this news ; he now began to 
 think he should pay too dear for his frolic. The coachman 
 persisted in his demand. Mr. Supine appeared at the corner of 
 the street ; and his pupil was forced to get rid immediately of 
 the coachman, by a promise, that the money should be ready 
 on Saturday. When Holloway made this promise, he was not 
 master of two guineas in the world ; how to procure the whole 
 siun was now the question. Alderman Holloway, with the hope 
 of exciting in his son’s mind a love for literature, made it a 
 practice to rewar(J him with solid gold, whenever he brought 
 home any certificate of his scholarship. Holloway had lately 
 received five guineas from his father, for an approved copy of 
 Latin verses ; and the alderman had promised to give him five 
 guineas more if he brought home the medal which was to be the 
 reward for the best essay in the periodical paper, which the 
 Westminster boys were now writing. Holloway, though he 
 could write elegant Latin verses, had not any great facility in 
 English composition ; he, consequently, according to the usual 
 practice of little minds, undervalued a talent which he did not 
 possess. He had ridiculed the scheme of writing an English 
 essay, and had loudly declared, that he did not think it worth 
 his while to write English. His opinion was, however, some- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 187 
 
 what changed by his father’s promised reward ; and the stage- 
 coachman’s impatience for his money now impelled Holloway 
 to exertion. He began to write his essay late on Friday evening 
 — the medal was to be given on Saturday morning — so that 
 there could not be much time for revisal and corrections. Cor- 
 rections he affected to disdain, and piqued himself upon the 
 rapidity with which he wrote. ‘‘Howard,” said he, when they 
 met to deliver in their compositions, “you have been three 
 weeks writing your essay ; I ran mine off in three hours and a 
 quarter.” 
 
 Mr. Holloway had not considered, that what is written with 
 ease is not always read with ease. His essay was written with 
 such a careless superfluity of words, and such a lack of ideas 
 appeared in the performance, that the judges unanimously threw 
 it aside, as unworthy of their notice. “ Gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., 
 coming forward among the anxious crowd of expectants, “ which 
 of you owns this motto? — 
 
 “ ‘ Hear it, ye Senates, hear this truth sublime, 
 
 He who allows oppression shares the crime®.’ ” 
 
 “ It’s his ! — ^it’s his ! — it’s his ! ” exclaimed little Oliver, clap- 
 ping his hands — “ it’s Howard’s, sir.” 
 
 Dr. B., pleased with this grateful little boy’s honest joy, put 
 the medal into his hands, without speaking, and Oliver ran with 
 it to his friend. “Only,” said he, “only let me be by, when 
 you show it to your aunt.” 
 
 How much the pleasure of success is increased by the sym- 
 pathy of our friends ! The triumph of a school-boy over his 
 competitors is sometimes despicable ; but Howard’s joy was not 
 of this selfish and puerile sort. All the good passions had 
 stimulated him to exertion, and he was rewarded by his own 
 generous feelings. He would not have exchanged the delight 
 which he saw in his little friend Oliver’s face, the approving 
 smile of his aunt, and the proud satisfaction Mr. Russell 
 expressed at the sight of his medal, for all the solid gold which 
 Alderman Holloway deemed the highest reward of literature. 
 
 ® Botanic Garden, vol. ii. 
 
188 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 Alderman Holloway was filled with indignation when he 
 heard from Mr. Supine that his son’s essay had been rejected 
 with contempt. The young gentleman was also much surprised 
 at the decision of the judges ; and his tutor, by way of pleasing 
 his pupil’s friends, hesitated not to hint, that there “certainly 
 was great injustice done to Mr. Augustus Holloway’s talents.” 
 The subject was canvassed at a turtle dinner at the alderman’s, 
 “There shall not be injustice done to my Augustus,” said the 
 irritated fathei', wisely encouraging his Augustus in all his mean 
 feelings. “Never mind ’em all, my boy; you have a father, 
 you may thank Heaven, who can judge for himself, and will: 
 you shall not be the loser by Dr. B.’s or doctor any body’s 
 injustice ; I’ll make it up to you, my boy ; in the meantime, 
 join us in a bumper of port. Here’s to Dr. B.’s better judgment ; 
 wishing him health and happiness these Easter holidays, and a 
 new ])air of spectacles^ — ^hey, Mr. Supine?” 
 
 This well-chosen toast was drunk with much applause and 
 laughter by the company. The alderman insisted upon having 
 his Augustus’s essay produced in the evening. Holloway had 
 now ample satisfaction, for the whole company were unanimous 
 in their plauditSj after Mr. Supine had read two or three sen- 
 tences : the alderman, to confirm his own critical judgment, 
 drew out his purse, and counting out ten bright guineas, pre- 
 sented them, with a look of high self-satisfaction, to his son. 
 “Here, Augustus, my boy,” said he; “I promised you five 
 guineas if you brought me home the prize medal ; but I now 
 present you with ten, to make you the amends you so richly 
 deserve, for not having got their medal. Thank God, I am able 
 to afford it; and I hope,” added the alderman, looking round, 
 and laughing, “ I hope I’m as good a patron of the belles lettres 
 as the head doctor of Westminster himself.” 
 
 Holloway’s eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of the glittering 
 bribe. He began some speech in reply, in which he compared 
 his father to Maecenas ; but being entangled in a sentence, in 
 which the nominative case had been too long separated from the 
 verb, he was compelled to pause abruptly. Nevertheless, the 
 alderman rubbed his hands with exultation ; and “ Hear him ! 
 hear him! — hear your member!” was vociferated by all the 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 189 
 
 friends of the young orator. ^‘Well, really,” concluded his 
 mother to the ladies, who were complimenting her upon her 
 son’s performance, ‘‘it was not a had speech, considering he 
 had nothing to say ! ” 
 
 Lord Ilawson, who was one of the company, now congratu- 
 lated his friend in a whisper — “You’ve made a good job of it 
 to-day, Augustus,” said he : “ solid pudding’s better than empty 
 praise. We’re going,” continued his lordship to the alderman, 
 “to try my new horses this evening;” and he pulled Augustus 
 with him out of the room. 
 
 “ There they go,” said the prudent father, delighted with his 
 own son’s being the chosen friend of a nobleman — “ there they go, 
 arm in arm, a couple of rare ones : we shall have fine w^ork with 
 them, I foresee, when Augustus gets to college — but young men 
 of spirit must not be curbed like common hoys — we must make 
 allowances — I have been young myself, — hey, Mr. Supine?” 
 
 “Certainly, sir,” said the obsequious tutor; “and you still 
 have all the sprightliness of youth ; and my ideas of education 
 square completely with yours.” 
 
 According to Alderman Holloway’s ideas of education, the 
 holy days were always to be made a season of complete idleness 
 and dissipation, to relieve his son from his school studies. It 
 was his great delight to contrast the pleasures of home with the 
 hardships of school, and to make his son compare the indulgence 
 of a father with the severity of a schoolmaster. How he could 
 expect an education to succeed which he sedulously endeavoured 
 to counteract, it may be difficult for any rational person to 
 conceive. 
 
 After Lord Rawson and Holloway had enjoyed the pleasures 
 of driving the new horses, tandem^ in a dog-cart, and had con- 
 versed about dogs and horses till they had nothing left to say to 
 each other, his lordship proposed stepping in to Mr. Carat, the 
 jeweller’s shop, to look at some new watches : his lordship said 
 he was tired of his own, for he had had it six months. Mr. 
 Carat was not in the way when they first went in. One of the 
 young men who attended in the shop said, “ that his master was 
 extremely busy, in settling some accounts with a captain of a 
 ship, who was to leave England in a few days.” 
 
190 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 ‘‘Don’t tell me of settling accounts,” cried Lord Rawson — “ 1 
 hate the sound of settling accounts : run and tell Mr. Carat that 
 Lord Rawson is here, and must speak to him this instant, for I’m 
 in a desperate hurry.” 
 
 A quarter of an hour elapsed before the impatient lord could 
 be obeyed ; during this time, his lordship and Holloway rum- 
 maged over every thing in the shop. A pretty bauble to hang 
 to his watch caught his lordship’s fancy. His lordship hap- 
 pened to have no money in his pocket. “ Holloway,” said 
 he, “my good fellow, you’ve ten guineas in your pocket, I 
 know ; do lend me them here.” Holloway, rather proud of his 
 riches, lent his ten guineas to his noble friend with alacrity ; but 
 a few minutes afterward recollected that he should want five of 
 them that very night, to pay the poor stage-coachman. His 
 recollection came too late, for after Lord Rawson had paid three 
 or four guineas for his trinket, he let the remainder of the 
 money down with an absent nonchalance, into his pocket. 
 “We’ll settle — I’ll pay you, Holloway, to-morrow morning, you 
 know.” 
 
 Holloway, from false shame, replied, “ Oh, very well.” And 
 at this instant Mr. Carat entered the shop, bowing and apolo- 
 gizing to his lordship for having been busy. 
 
 “ I’m always, to be sure, in a very great hurry,” cried Lord 
 Rawson ; “I never have a minute that I can call my own. All 
 I wanted though, just now, was to tell you, that I could not 
 settle any thing — you understand — till we come back from 
 Marryborough. I go down there to-morrow.” 
 
 The Jew bowed with unlimited acquiescence, assuring his 
 lordship that he should ever wait his perfect convenience. As 
 he spoke, he glanced an inquiring eye upon Holloway. 
 
 “ Mr. Holloway, the eldest, the only son of Alderman Hollo- 
 way — rich as a Jew! and he’ll soon leave Westminster,” whis- 
 pered Lord Rawson to the Jew. “ Holloway,” continued he, 
 turning to his friend, “ give me leave to introduce Mr. Carat to 
 you. You may,” added his lordship, lowering his voice, “find 
 this Jew a useful friend some time or other, my lad. 'He’s my 
 man in all money jobs.” 
 
 The Jew and the school-boy seemed equally flattered and 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 191 
 
 pleased by this introduction ; they were quickly upon familiar 
 terms with one another; and Mr. Carat, who was willing that 
 such an acquaintance should begin in the most advantageous 
 and agreeable manner on his part, took the young gentleman, 
 with an air of mystery and confidence, into a little room behind 
 the shop ; there he produced a box full of old-fashioned second- 
 hand trinkets, and, without giving Holloway time to examine 
 them, said that he was going to make a lottery of these things. 
 ‘‘If I had any young favourite friends,” continued the wily 
 Jew, “I should give them a little whisper in the ear, and bid 
 them try their fortune ; they never will have a finer oppor- 
 tunity.” He then presented a hand-bill, drawn up in a style 
 which even Messrs. Goodluck and Co. need not have disdained 
 to admire. The youth was charmed with the composition. The 
 Jew made him a present of a couple of tickets for himself, and 
 gave him a dozen more, to distribute amongst his companions at 
 Westminster. Holloway readily undertook to distribute the 
 tickets upon condition that he might have a list of the prizes in 
 the lottery. “ If they don’t see a list of the prizes,” said he, 
 “not a soul will put in.” 
 
 The J ew took a pen immediately, and drew up a captivating 
 list of prizes. 
 
 Holloway promised to copy it, because Mr. Carat said his 
 hand must not appear in the business, and it must be conducted 
 with the strictest secrecy; because “ the law,” added the Jew, 
 “has a little jealousy of these sort of things — government likes 
 none but licensed lotteries, young gentleman.” 
 
 “ The law ! I don’t care what the law likes,” replied the 
 school-boy ; “if I break the law, I hope I’m rich enough to pay 
 the forfeit, or my father will pay for me, which is better still.” 
 
 To this doctrine the Jew readily assented, and they parted, 
 mutually satisfied with each other. 
 
 It was agreed that Lord Rawson should drive his friend to 
 Marryborough the next Tuesday, and that he should return on 
 Wednesday, with Holloway, to Westminster, on purpose that he 
 might meet Mr. Carat there, who was then to deliver the prizes. 
 
 “ I’ll lay you a bet,” cried Lord Rawson, as he left the Jew’s, 
 
192 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 that you’ll have a prize yourself. Now are you not obliged to 
 me for introducing you to Carat?” 
 
 “Yes, that I am,” replied Holloway; “it’s easier to put 
 into the lottery than to write Latin verses and English essays. 
 I’ll puzzle and bore myself no more with those things, I promise 
 my father.” 
 
 “Who does, after they’ve once left school, I want to know?” 
 said his noble friend. “ I’m sure I’ve forgot all I ever learned 
 from Latin and Greek fellows ; you know they tell just for 
 nothing when one gets into the world. I make it a principle 
 never to talk of books, for nobody does, you know, that has any 
 thing else to talk of. None but quizzes and quozzes ever came 
 out with any thing of that sort. Now, how they’d stare at 
 Marry borough, Holloway, if you were to begin sporting some of 
 your Horace and Virgil!” 
 
 The dashing, yet bashful school-boy, with much emotion, 
 swore that he cared as little for Horace and Virgil as his lord- 
 ship did. Holloway was really an excellent scholar, but he 
 began to be heartily ashamed of it in his lordship’s company, 
 and prudently resolved to adopt the principles he had just 
 heard ; to forget as fast as possible all he had learned : never to 
 talk of books ; and to conceal both his knowledge and his 
 abilities, lest they should stare at him at Marryhorough. 
 
 The lottery tickets were easily disposed of amongst the young 
 gentlemen at Westminster. As young men can seldom calcu- 
 late, they are always ready to trust to their individual good 
 fortune, and they are, consequently, ever ready to put into any 
 species of lottery. 
 
 “Look here!” cried little Oliver, showing a lottery ticket to 
 Howard ; “ look what Holloway has just offered to give me, 
 instead of half-a-guinea, which he owes me. I told him I would 
 just run and ask your advice. Shall I accept of it?” 
 
 “I would advise you not,” answered Howard; “you are 
 sure of your half-guinea, and you have only a chance of getting 
 any thing in the lottery.” 
 
 “ Oh, but then I’ve a chance of such a number of fine things ! 
 You have not seen the list of prizes. Do you know there’s a 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 193 
 
 watch amongst them ? Now, suppose my ticket should come up 
 a prize, and that I should get a watch for my half-guinea! — a 
 real watch ! — a watch that would go ! — a watch that I should 
 wind up myself every night! O Charles ! would not that be a 
 good bargain for my half-guinea? I’m sure you have not read 
 the list of prizes, have you?” 
 
 ‘‘No, I have not,” said Howard: “have you seen the list of 
 blanks?” 
 
 “ Of blanks! No,” said Oliver, with a changed countenance; 
 “ I never thought of the blanks.” 
 
 “ And yet in most lotteries there are many more blanks than 
 prizes, you know.” 
 
 “Are there? Well, but I hope I shall not have a blank,” 
 said Oliver. 
 
 “ So every body hopes, but some people must be disap- 
 pointed.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the little boy, pausing — “but then some people 
 must win, and I have as good a chance as another, have not I?” 
 
 “ And do you know what the chance against your winning is ? 
 Once I had a great mind, as you have now, Oliver, to put into 
 a lottery. It was just after my aunt lost all her fortune, and I 
 thought that if I were to get the twenty thousand pound prize, I 
 could give it to her.” 
 
 “ I’ll give my watch (if I get it, I mean) to somebody. I’ll 
 give it to the mulatto woman, because she is poor. No; I’ll 
 give it to you, because you are the best, and I love you the best, 
 and I am more obliged to you than to any body in the world, 
 for you have taught me more ; and you have taught me as I 
 was never taught before, without laughing at, or scolding, or 
 frightening, or calling me blockhead or dunce ; and you have 
 made me think a great deal better of myself; and I am always 
 happy when I’m with you; and I’m quite another creature 
 since you came to school. I hope you’ll never leave school 
 whilst I am here,” cried Oliver. 
 
 “ But you have quite forgot the lottery,” said Howard, smil- 
 ing, and much touched by his little friend’s simplicity and 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 o 
 
191 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 ‘‘Oh, the lottery! ay,” said Oliver, “you were telling me 
 something about yourself; do go on.” 
 
 “ I once thought, as you do now, that it would be a charming 
 thing to put into a lottery.” 
 
 “ Well, and did you win?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Did you lose ?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ How then?” 
 
 “ I did not put into the lottery, for I was convinced that it 
 was a foolish way of spending money.” 
 
 “ If you think it’s foolish or wrong,” said Oliver, “I’ll have 
 nothing to do with this lottery.” 
 
 “ I don’t want to govern you by my opinion,” said Howard ; 
 “ but if you have patience to attend to all the reasons that con- 
 vinced me, you will he able to judge, and form an opinion for 
 yourself. You know I must leave school some time or other, 
 and then ” 
 
 “ Well, don’t talk of that, but tell me all the reasons, quick.” 
 “I can’t tell them so very quickly,” said Howard, laughing : 
 “ when we go home this evening I’ll ask my aunt to look for 
 the passage in Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which she showed me.” 
 “Oh!” interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, Smith's Wealth of 
 what? That’s a book. I’m sure, I shall never be able to under- 
 stand; is it not that great large book that Mr. Russell reads?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ But I shall never understand it.” 
 
 “ Because it’s a large book ?” 
 
 “No,” said Oliver, smiling, “but because I suppose it’s very 
 difficult to understand.” 
 
 “Not what I’ve read of it: but I have only read passages 
 here and there. That passage about lotteries, I think, you 
 would understand, because it is so plainly written.” 
 
 “ I’ll read it, then,” said Oliver, “ and try ; and in the mean- 
 time I’ll go and tell Holloway that I had rather not put into the 
 lottery, till I know whether it’s right or not.” 
 
 Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver when 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 195 
 
 he went to return his lottery ticket. He abused and ridiculed 
 Howard for his interference, and succeeded so well in raising a 
 popular cry, that the moment Howard appeared on the play- 
 ground, a general hiss, succeeded by a deep groan, was heard. — 
 Howard recollected the oracle’s answer to Cicero, and was not 
 dismayed by the voice of the multitude. Holloway threw down 
 half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself, ‘‘ I’ll 
 make you remember this, Mr. Oliver.” 
 
 I’ll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and that’s 
 much better than putting it into a lottery, Charles,” said the 
 little boy ; and, as soon as the business of the day was done,, 
 Oliver, Howard, and Mr. Russell, topk their usual evening’s 
 walk towards the gardener’s house. 
 
 Ay, come in,” cried old Paul, ‘‘come in! God bless you 
 all I I don’t know which is the best of you. I’ve been looking 
 out of my door this quarter of an hour for ye,” said he, as soon 
 as he saw them ; ‘‘ and I don’t know when I’ve been idle a 
 quarter of an hour afore. But I’ve put on my best coat, though 
 it’s not Sunday, and wife has treated her to a dish of tea, and 
 she’s up and dressed — the mulatto woman, I mean — and quite 
 hearty again. Walk in, walk in ; it will do your hearts good to 
 see her ; she’s so grateful too, though she can’t speak good 
 English, which is her only fault, poor soul; but we can’t be 
 horn what we like, or she would have been as good an English- 
 man as the best of us. Walk in, walk in. — And the chimney 
 does not smoke, master, no more than I do ; and the window 
 opens too ; and the paper’s up, and looks beautiful. God bless 
 ye, God bless ye — walk in.” Old Paul, whilst he spoke, had 
 stopped the way into the room ; but at length he recollected 
 that they could not walk in whilst he stood in the door-way, and 
 he let them pass. 
 
 The little room was no longer the smoky, dismal, miserable 
 place which it was formerly. It was neatly papered; it was 
 swept clean; there was a cheerful fire, which burnt quite 
 clearly : the mulatto woman was cleanly dressed, and, rising 
 from her work, she clasped her hands together with an emotion 
 of joyful gratitude, which said more than any words could have 
 expressed. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 This room was not papered, nor was the chimney cured of 
 smoking, nor was the woman clad in new clothes, by magic. 
 It was all done by human means — by the industry and abilities 
 of a benevolent boy. 
 
 The translation of the little French book, which Howard had 
 completed, procured him the means of doing good. The book- 
 seller to whom he offered it was both an honest man, and a 
 good judge of literary productions. Mr. Russell’s name also 
 operated in his pupil’s favour, and Howard received ten guineas 
 for his translation. 
 
 Oliver was impatient for an opportunity to give his half- 
 guinea, which he had h^ld in his hand, till it was quite warm. 
 “ Let me look at that pretty thimble of yours,” said he, going 
 up to the mulatto woman, who had now taken up her work 
 again ; and, as he playfully pulled off the thimble, he slipped 
 his half-guinea into her hand ; then he stopped her thanks, by 
 running on to a hundred questions about her thimble. “ What 
 a strange thimble ! How came you by such a thimble? Was 
 it given to you? Did you buy it? What’s the use of this 
 screw round the inside of the rim of it ? Do look at it, 
 Charles !” 
 
 The thimble was, indeed, remarkable ; and it seemed extraor- 
 dinary that such a one should belong to a poor woman, who had 
 lately been in great distress. 
 
 ‘‘ It is gold,” said Mr. Russell, examining it, “ and very old 
 gold.” 
 
 The mulatto woman sighed ; and as she put the thimble upon 
 her finger again, said, that she did not know whether it w^as 
 gold or not ; but she had a great value for it ; that she had had 
 it a great many years ' that it had been given to her by the best 
 friend she had ever had. 
 
 ‘‘ Tell me about that best friend,” said Oliver; I like to 
 hear about best friends.” 
 
 “ She was a very good friend indeed; though she was but 
 young, scarcely bigger than yourself, at the time she gave me 
 this thimble : she was my young mistress ; I came all the way 
 from Jamaica on purpose to find her out, and in hopes to live 
 with her in my elder days,” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 197 
 
 “Jamaica!” cried Howard; “Jamaica!” cried Oliver, in 
 the same breath ; “ what was her name ?” 
 
 “ Frances Howard.” 
 
 “ My aunt,” exclaimed Howard. 
 
 “ I’ll run and tell her; I’ll run and bring her here, this in- 
 stant!” said Oliver. But Mr. Russell caught hold of him, and 
 detained him, whilst they further questioned the woman. Her 
 answers were perfectly consistent and satisfactory. She said, 
 that her mistress’s estate in Jamaica had been sold just before 
 she left the island ; that some of the old slaves had been set at 
 liberty, by orders, which came, she understood, in her mistress’s 
 last letter; and that, amongst the rest, she had been freed: 
 that she had heard say that her good mistress had desired the 
 agent to give her also some little provision ground, upon the 
 plantation, but that this had never been done ; and that she had 
 sold all the clothes and little things she possessed, to raise 
 money to pay for her passage to England, hoping to find her 
 mistress in London. She added, that the agent had given her 
 a direction to her mistress ; but that she had, in vain, applied 
 at the house, and at every house in the same street. “ Show 
 us the direction, if you have it,” said Mr. Russell. The woman 
 said she had kept it very carefully ; but now it was almost worn 
 out. The direction was, however, still legible upon the ragged 
 bit of paper which she produced — To Mrs. Frances Howard, 
 Portmctn Square^ London. The instant Mr. Russell was satis- 
 fied, he was as expeditious as Oliver himself ; they all three 
 went home immediately to Mrs. Howard : she had, some time 
 before, been confined to her room by a severe toothache. 
 “ You promised me, aunt,” said her nephew, “ that as soon as 
 you were well enough, you would go to old Paul’s with us, to 
 see our poor woman ; can you go this evening?” 
 
 “ Oh do! do, pray; I’m sure you won’t catch cold,” said 
 Oliver ; “ for we have a very particular reason for wishing you 
 to go.” 
 
 “ There is a sedan chair at the door,” said Mr. Russell, “ if 
 you are afraid, madam, of catching cold.” 
 
 “ I am not rich enough to go out in sedan chairs,” interrupted 
 
198 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 Mrs. Howard, “ nor prudent enough, I am afraid, to stay at 
 home.’^ 
 
 “Oh! thank you,” said Oliver, who had her clogs ready 
 in his hands; “now you’ll see something that will surprise 
 you.” 
 
 “ Then take care you don’t tell me what it is, before I see it,” 
 said Mrs. Howard. 
 
 Oliver, with some difficulty, held his tongue during the walk, 
 and contented himself with working off his superfluous animation^ 
 by jumping over every obstacle in his way. 
 
 The meeting between the poor mulatto woman and her mis- 
 tress was as full of joy and surprise as little Oliver had expected ; 
 and this is saying a great deal, for where much is expected, 
 there is usually much disappointment ; and very sympathetic 
 people are often angry with others, for not being as much 
 astonished, or as much delighted, as they think the occasion 
 requires. 
 
 The day which Mr. Augustus Holloway imagined would 
 bring him such complete felicity — the day on which Lord Raw- 
 son had promised to call for him in his dog-cart, and to drive 
 him down randem-tandem^ to Marryborough — was now arrived. 
 His lordship, in his dog-cart, was at the door ; and Holloway, 
 in high spirits, was just going to get into the carriage, when 
 some one pulled his coat, and begged to speak a few words 
 with him. It was the stage-coachman, who was absolutely in 
 distress for the value of the lost parcel, which Holloway had 
 promised him should be punctually paid : but Holloway, now 
 that his excursion to Marryborough was perfectly secure, thought 
 but very little of the poor coachman’s difficulties ; and though 
 he had the money, which he had raised by the lottery tickets, 
 in his pocket, he determined to keep that for his amusements 
 during the Easter holidays. “ You must wait till I come back 
 from Marryborough ; I can’t possibly speak to you now ; I 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 199 
 
 can’t possibly, you see, keep Lord Rawson waiting. Why didn’t 
 you call sooner? I am not at all convinced that any parcel was 
 lost.” 
 
 ‘‘ I’ll show you the books — it’s book’d, sir,” said the man, 
 eagerly. 
 
 “ Well, well, this is not a time to talk of booking. I’ll be 
 with you in an instant, my lord,” cried Holloway to Lord 
 Rawson, who was all impatience to he off. But the coachman 
 would not quit his hold. I’m sorry to come to that, master,” 
 said he : “ as long as we were both upon honour together, it 
 was very well ; but, if you break squares with me, being a gen- 
 tleman, and rich, you can’t take it ill, I being a poor man and 
 my place and all at stake, if I take the shortest way to get my 
 own : I must go to Dr. B. for justice, if you won’t give it me 
 without my peaching,” said the coachman. 
 
 ‘‘ I’ll see you again to-morrow morning,” said Holloway, 
 alarmed ; “ we come up to town again to-morrow.” 
 
 ‘‘ To-morrow won’t do,” said the coachman ; I shall lose 
 my place and my bread to-day. I know how to trust to young 
 gentlemen’s to-morrows.” 
 
 A volley of oaths from Lord Rawson again summoned his 
 companion. At this instant, Mr. Russell, young Howard, and 
 little Oliver, came up the street, and were passing on to Mrs. 
 Howard’s, when Holloway stopped Howard, who was the last 
 of the party. “ For Heaven’s sake,” said he, in a whisper, 
 “ do settle for me with this confounded coachman ! I know 
 you are rich ; your bookseller told me so ; pay five guineas for 
 me to him, and you shall have them again to-morrow, there’s a 
 good fellow. Lord Rawson’s waiting ; good by.” 
 
 Stay, stay,” said Howard, who was not so easily to be 
 drawn into difficulties by a moment’s weakness, or by the 
 want of a moment’s presence of mind : ‘‘ I know nothing of this 
 business ; I have other uses for my money ; I cannot pay five 
 guineas for you, Holloway.” 
 
 “ Then let it alone,” cried Holloway, with a brutal execra- 
 tion; and he forcibly broke from the coachman, shook hands 
 v/ith his tutor, Mr. Supine, who was talking to Lord Rawson 
 about the varnish of his gig, jumped into the carriage, and was 
 
200 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 whirled away from all reflection in a moment, by his noble com 
 panion. 
 
 The poor coachman entreated Howard to stay one instant, to 
 hear him. He explained the business to him, and reproached 
 himself bitterly for his folly. “ Fm sure I thought,” said he, 
 
 I was sure of a gentleman’s honour ; and young gentlemen 
 ought to he above not paying handsome for ^Jieir frolics, if they 
 must have frolics ; and a frolic’s one thing, and cheating a poor 
 man like me is another ; and he had liked to have killed a poor 
 mulatto woman, too, by the overturn of the coach, which was 
 all his doings.” 
 
 The woman is got very well, and is very well off now,” in- 
 terrupted Howard ; “ you need say nothing about that.” 
 
 Well, hut my money, I must say about said the 
 
 coachman. Here Howard observed, that Mr. Supine had re- 
 mained at the door in a lounging attitude, and was quite near 
 enough to overhear their conversation. Howard, therefore, to 
 avoid exciting his attention by any mysterious whispers, walked 
 away from the coachman ; but in vain ; he followed : “ I’ll 
 peach,” said he; ‘‘I must in my own defence.” 
 
 “Stay till to-morrow morning,” said Howard: “perhaps 
 you’ll be paid then.” 
 
 The coachman, who was a good-natured fellow, said, “ Well, 
 I don’t like making mischief among young gentlemen ; I will 
 wait till to-morrow, but not a day more, master, if you’d go 
 down on your knees to me.” 
 
 Mr. Supine, whose curiosity was fully awake, called to the 
 coachman the moment Howard was out of hearing, and tried, 
 by various questions, to draw the secret from him. The words, 
 “ overturn of the coach — mulatto woman f and the sentence, 
 which the irritated coachman had pronounced in a raised voice, 
 that “ young gentlemen should be above not jjayhig handsome for 
 their frolics f had reached Mr. Supine’s attentive ear, before 
 Howard had been aware that the tutor was a listener. Nothing 
 more could Mr. Supine draw, however, from the coachman, who 
 now felt himself wpon honour^ having promised Howard not to 
 peach till the next morning. Difficulties stimulated Mr. Su- 
 pine’s curiosity ; but he remained for the present satisfied in the 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 201 
 
 persuasion that he had discovered a fine frolic of the immaculate 
 Mr. Charles Howard ; his own pupil he did not suspect upon 
 this occasion. Holloway’s whisperings with the coachman had 
 ended the moment Mr. Supine appeared at the door, and the 
 tutor had in the same moment been so struck with the beautiful 
 varnish of Lord Rawson’s dog-cart, that his pupil might have 
 whispered longer, without rousing his attention. Mr. Supine 
 was further confirmed in his mistake about Howard, from the 
 recollection of the mulatto woman, whom he had seen at the 
 gardener’s : he knew that she had been hurt by a fall from a 
 stage-coach. He saw Howard much interested about her. All 
 this he joined with what he had just overheard about a frolic, 
 and he was rejoiced at the idea of implicating in this business 
 Mr. Russell, whom he disliked. 
 
 Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went immediately to 
 Alderman Holloway’s, where he had a general invitation to 
 dinner. Mrs. Holloway approved of her son’s tutor, full as 
 much for his love of gossiping, as for his musical talents : Mr. 
 Supine constantly supplied her with news and anecdotes ; upon 
 the present occasion, he thought that his story, however imper- 
 fect, would be eagerly received, because it concerned Howard. 
 
 Since the afiair of the prize essay, and the medal, Mrs. Hollo- 
 way had taken a dislike to young Howard, whom she considered 
 as the enemy of her dear Augustus. No sooner had she heard 
 Mr. Supine’s blundering information, than, without any farther 
 examination, she took the whole for granted : eager to repeat 
 the anecdote to Mrs. Howard, she instantly wrote a note to her, 
 saying that she would drink tea with her that evening. 
 
 When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr. Supine, went, in the 
 evening, to Mrs. Howard’s, they found with her Mrs. B., the 
 lady of Dr. B., the master of Westminster School. 
 
 “ Is not this an odd rencontre whispered Mrs. Holloway to 
 Mr. Supine, as she drew him to a recessed window, commodious 
 for gossiping : ‘‘I shall be called a tell-tale, I know, at West- 
 minster ; but I shall tell our story, notwithstanding. I would 
 keep any other boy’s secret ; but Howard is such a saint : and I 
 hate saints.” 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway ; she looked 
 
202 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 out of the window. “ Oh, here he comes, up the steps,” con- 
 tinued she, “ after his sober evening promenade, and his Mr. 
 Russell with — and, I declare, the mulatto woman with him. 
 Now for it ! ” 
 
 Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a 
 low voice, — 
 
 ‘‘ Ma’am, poor Cuba is come ; she is rather tired with walking, 
 and she is gone to rest herself in the front parlour.” 
 
 “ Her lameness, though,” pursued little Oliver, who followed 
 Howard into the room, ‘Hs almost well. I just asked her how 
 
 high she thought the coach was from which she was ” 
 
 A look from Howard made Oliver stop short ; for though he 
 did not understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed 
 to silence him. Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway’s 
 secret to Mr. Supine or to Mrs. Holloway : his aunt sent him 
 out of the room with some message to Cuba, which gave Mrs. 
 Holloway an opportunity of opening her business. 
 
 ‘‘Pray,” said she, “ might I presume to ask — for I perceive 
 the young gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which 
 he may have good reasons for — may I, just to satisfy my own 
 mind, presume to ask whether, as her name leads one to guess, 
 your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto woman ?” 
 
 Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly 
 replied, “ Yes, madam — a mulatto woman.” 
 
 “And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?” persisted 
 the curious lady, turning to little Oliver. 
 
 “ Yes, she’s a little lame still ; but she will soon he quite well.” 
 “ Oh ! then, her lameness came^ I presume, from an accident, 
 sir, and not from her birth ?” 
 
 “From an accident, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Oh ! an accident — a fall — a fall from a coach — from a stage- 
 coach, perhaps,” continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly 
 at Mr. Supine : “you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, 
 I see by your astonishment,” continued she to Oliver; “but a 
 little bird told me the whole story; and 1 see Mrs. Howard 
 knows how to keep a secret as well as myself.” 
 
 Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation. 
 
 “ Nay,” said Mrs. Holloway, “ you know best, Mrs. Howard; 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 203 
 
 but as we’re all out of school now, I shall not be afraid to mefttion 
 such a little affair, even before the doctor’s lady ; for, to be sure, 
 she would never let it reach the doctor’s ears.” 
 
 ‘‘Really, ma’am,” said Mrs. Howard, “you puzzle me a 
 little ; I wish you would explain yourself : I don’t know what 
 it is that you would not have reach the doctor’s ears.” 
 
 “You don’t? — well, then, your nephew must have been very 
 clever, to have kept you in the dark ; mustn’t he, Mr. Supine ?” 
 “ I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very 
 clever^ ma’am,” said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis. 
 
 Mrs. Howard’s colour now rose, and with a mixture of indig- 
 nation and anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. 
 Holloway to be explicit. “ I hate mysteries! ” said she. Mrs. 
 Holloway still hung back, saying it was a tender point; and 
 hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and confidence in one 
 most dear to her, to hear the whole truth. 
 
 “Do you mean Howard, ma’am?” exclaimed little Oliver: 
 “ oh, speak ! speak ! it’s impossible Charles Howard can have 
 done any thing wrong.” 
 
 “ Go for him, my dear,” said Mrs. Howard, resuming her 
 composure ; “let him be present. I hate mysteries.” 
 
 “ But, my dear Mrs. Howard,” whispered Mrs. Holloway, 
 “ you don’t consider ; you’ll get your nephew into a shocking 
 scrape ; the story will infallibly go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You 
 are warm, and don’t consider consequences.” 
 
 “ Charles,” said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the moment he 
 appeared, “ from the time you were five years old, till this 
 instant, I have never known you tell a falsehood ; I should, 
 therefore, be very absurd, as well as very unjust, if I were to 
 doubt your integrity. Tell me — ^liave you got into any diffi- 
 culties ? I would rather hear of them from yourself, than from 
 any body else. Is there any mystery about overturning a stage- 
 coach, that you know of, and that you have concealed from me ?” 
 “ There is a mystery, ma’am, about overturning a stage-coach,” 
 replied Howard, in a firm tone of voice; “ but when I assure 
 you that it is no mystery of mine — nothing in which I have 
 myself any concern — I am sure that you will believe me, my 
 dear aunt, and that you will press me no further.” 
 
204 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 “ Not a word further, not a frown further,” said his aunt, with 
 a smile of entire confidence ; in which Mr. Russell joined, but 
 which appeared incomprehensible to Mr. Supine. 
 
 ‘‘Very satisfactory indeed!” said that gentleman, leaning 
 hack in the chair ; “I never heard any thing more satisfactory 
 to my mind ! ” 
 
 “Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word!” echoed Mrs. Hol- 
 loway ; but no looks, no inuendoes, could now disturb Mrs. 
 Howard’s security, or disconcert the resolute simplicity which 
 appeared in her nephew’s countenance. Mrs. Holloway, inter- 
 nally devoured by curiosity, w^as compelled to submit in silence. 
 This restraint soon became so irksome to her, that she shortened 
 her visit as much as she decently could. 
 
 In crossing the passage, to go to her carriage, she caught a 
 glimpse of the mulatto woman, who was going into a parlour. 
 Resolute, at all hazards, to satisfy herself, Mrs. Holloway called 
 to the retreating Cuba — began by asking some civil questions 
 about her health ; then spoke of the accident she had lately met 
 wdth ; and, in short, by a skilful cross-examination, drew her 
 whole story from her. The gratitude with which the poor 
 woman spoke of Howard’s humanity was by no means pleasing 
 to Mr. Supine. 
 
 “Then it was not he who overturned the coach?” said Mrs. 
 Holloway. 
 
 The woman eagerly replied, “ Oh no, madam ! ” and proceeded 
 to draw, as well as she could, a description of the youth who 
 had been rhounted upon the coach-box : she had seen him only 
 by the light of the moon, and afterwards by the light of a 
 lantern ; but she recollected his figure so well, and described 
 him so accurately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture instantly, 
 and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, “ Can it be Augustus ?” 
 
 “ Mr Holloway ! — Impossible ! — I suppose ” 
 
 But the woman interrupted him by saying that she recollected 
 to have heard the young gentleman called by that name by the 
 coachman. 
 
 The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confounded by 
 this discovery. Mrs. Holloway got into her carriage, and, in 
 their way home, Mr. Supine represented, that he should be 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 205 
 
 ruined for ever with the alderman, if this transaction came to 
 his knowledge ; that, in fact, it was a mere boyish frolic ; but 
 that the alderman might not consider it in that light, and would, 
 perhaps, make Mr. Augustus feel his serious displeasure. The 
 foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length promised 
 to be silent upon the subject. But, before he slept, Alderman 
 Holloway heard the whole story. The footman, who had 
 attended the carriage, was at the door when Mrs. Holloway was 
 speaking to the mulatto woman, and had listened to every word 
 that was said. This footman was in the habit of telling his 
 master, when he attended him at night, all the news which he 
 had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no favourite 
 of his ; because, whenever the tutor came to the house, he gave 
 a great deal of trouble, being too indolent to do any thing for 
 himself, and yet not sufficiently rich, or sufficiently generous, to 
 pay the usual premiums for the active civility of servants. This 
 footman was not sorry to have an opportunity of repeating any 
 story that might injure Mr. Supine with his master. Alderman 
 Holloway heard it under the promise of concealing the name of 
 the person who had given him the information, and resolved to 
 discover the truth of the affair the next day, when he was to 
 visit his son at Westminster. 
 
 But we must now return to Mrs. Howard’s. We mentioned 
 that Mrs. B. spent the evening with her. Dr. B., soon after 
 Mrs. Holloway went away, called to take his lady home : he 
 had been engaged to spend the evening at a card assembly ; 
 but, as he was a man who liked agreeable conversation better 
 than cards, he had made his escape from a rout, to spend half 
 an hour with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was a 
 man of various literature ; able to appreciate others, he was not 
 insensible to the pleasure of seeing himself appreciated. Half 
 an hour passes quickly in agreeable conversation : the doctor 
 got into an argument, concerning the propriety of the distinction 
 made by some late metaphysical writers, between imagination 
 and fancy. Thence he was led to some critical remarks upon 
 Warton’s beautiful Ode to Fancy; then to the never-ending 
 debate upon original genius ; including also the doctrine of 
 
206 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 hereditary temper and dispositions, which the doctor warmly 
 supported, and which Mrs. Howard coolly questioned. 
 
 In the midst of their conversation, they were suddenly inter- 
 rupted by a groan. They all looked round to see whence it 
 came. It came from little Oliver: he was sitting at a little 
 table at the farther end of the room, reading so intently in a 
 large book that he saw nothing else : a long unsnuffed candle, 
 with a perilous fiery summit to its black wick, stood before him, 
 and his left arm embraced a thick china jar, against which he 
 leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a general 
 silence in the room, whilst every one looked at Oliver, as at a 
 picture. Mrs. Howard moved gently round behind his chair, to 
 see what he was reading : the doctor followed her. It was the 
 account of the execution of two rebel Koromantyn negroes, 
 related in Edwards’s History of the West Indies^. To try whe- 
 ther it would interrupt Oliver’s deep attention, Mrs. Howard 
 leaned over him, and snufied his dim candle ; but the light was 
 lust upon him — he did not feel the obligation. Dr. B. then put 
 his hand upon the jar, which he pulled from Oliver’s embrace. 
 “ Be quiet! I must finish this !” cried Oliver, still holding fast 
 the jar, and keeping his eyes upon the book. The doctor gave 
 a second pull at the jar, and the little boy made an impatient 
 push with his elbow ; then casting his eye upon the large hand 
 which pulled the jar, he looked up, surprised, in the doctor’s 
 face. 
 
 The nice china jar, which Oliver had held so sturdily, was 
 very precious to him. His uncle had just sent him two jars of 
 fine West India sweetmeats. One of these he had shared with 
 his companions : the other he had kept, to give to Mrs. Howard, 
 who had once said, in his hearing, that she was fond of AVest 
 India sweetmeats. She accepted Oliver’s little present. Chil- 
 dren sometimes feel as much pleasure in giving away sweet- 
 meats as in eating them ; and Mrs. Howard too well under- 
 stood the art of education, even in trifles, to deny to grateful 
 and generous feelings their natural and necessary exercise. A 
 child can show gratitude and generosity only in trifles. 
 
 ^ Vol. ii. p. 57, second edition. 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 207 
 
 ‘‘Are these all the sweetmeats that you have left, Oliver?” 
 said Mrs. Howard. 
 
 “ Yes — all.” 
 
 “ Was not Rousseau wrong, Dr. B.,” said Mrs. Howard, 
 “ when he asserted, that no child ever gives away his last mouth- 
 ful of any thing good?” 
 
 “Of any thing goofl? ” said the doctor, laughing ; “when I 
 have tasted these sweetmeats, I shall he a better judge.” 
 
 “ You shall taste them this minute, then,” said Mrs. Howard; 
 and she rang for a plate, whilst the doctor, to little Oliver’s 
 great amusement, exhibited various pretended signs of impa- 
 tience, as Mrs. Howard deliberately untied the cover of the jar. 
 One cover after another she slowly took off ; at length the last 
 transparent cover was lifted up : the doctor peeped in ; hut lo ! 
 instead of sweetmeats there appeared nothing but paper. One 
 crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard pulled out ; 
 still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely stuffed with paper, to 
 the very bottom. Oliver was silent with amazement. 
 
 “ The sides of the jar are quite clean,” said Howard. 
 
 “ But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with 
 iweetmeats,” said Dr. B. 
 
 “There must have been sweetmeats in it lately,” said Mrs. 
 Howard, “ because the jar smells so strongly of them.” 
 
 Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled 
 out of the jar. Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some 
 writing : he looked it over. 
 
 “ Humph ! What have we here ? What’s this ? What can 
 this be about a lottery ? — tickets, price half a guinea — prizes — 
 gold watch ! — silver ditto — chased tooth-pick case — buckles — 
 knee-buckles. What is all this? — April 10th, 1797 — the draw- 
 ing to begin — prizes to be delivered at Westminster school, by 
 Aaron Carat, jeweller ? Hey, young gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., 
 looking at Oliver and Charles, “ do you know any thing of this 
 lottery ?” 
 
 “ I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you,” said Howard. 
 
 “Nor I, thank goodness — I mean, thank you, Charles,” 
 exclaimed Oliver ; “ for you hindered me from putting into the 
 lottery : how very lucky I was to take your advice !” 
 
208 
 
 TIIZ GOOD AUNT. 
 
 ‘‘How very wise, you should say, Oliver,” said Dr. B. “I 
 must inquire into this business ; I must find out who ordered 
 these things from Mr. Aaron Carat. There shall be no lotteries, 
 no gaming at Westminster school, whilst I have power to pre- 
 vent it. To-morrow morning I’ll inquire into this affair; and 
 to-morrow morning we shall also know, my little fellow, w’hat 
 became of your sweetmeats.” 
 
 “ Oh, never mind that,'" cried the good-natured Oliver ; “ don’t 
 say any thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don’t mind 
 about them ; I know already — I guess now, who took them ; 
 therefore you need not ask ; I dare say it was only meant for a 
 joke.” 
 
 Dr. B. made no reply; hut folded up the paper which he 
 had been reading, put it into his pocket, and soon after took his 
 leave. 
 
 Lord Rawson was one of those young men who measure their 
 own merit and felicity by the number of miles which their horses 
 can go in a day ; he undertook to drive his friend up from 
 Marryborough to Westminster, a distance of forty miles, in five 
 hours. The arrival of his lordship’s gig was a signal, for which 
 several people were in waiting at Westminster school. The 
 stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand his money 
 from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, was arrived, and eager 
 to settle with Mr. Holloway about the lottery : he had brought 
 the prizes in a small case, to be delivered, upon receiving from 
 Holloway the money for all the tickets of which he had dis- 
 posed. Dr. B. was waiting for the arrival of Mr. Holloway, as 
 he had determined to collect all his pupils together, and to exa- 
 mine into the lottery business. Little Oliver was also watching 
 for Holloway, to prevent mischief, and to assure him of forgive- 
 ness about the sweetmeats. 
 
 Lord Raws on’s dog-cart arrived. Holloway saw the stage- 
 coachman as he alighted, and, abruptly turning from him, shook 
 hands with little Oliver, saying, “ You look as if you had been 
 waiting for me.” 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 209 
 
 ^‘Yes,” said Oliver: “but I can’t say what I want to say 
 before every body.” 
 
 “I’ll wait upon you presently,” said Holloway, escaping 
 from the coachman. As he crossed the hall, he descried Mr. 
 Carat, and a crowd of boys surrounding him, crying, “Mr. 
 Carat’s come — he has brought the prizes ! — he has brought the 
 prizes ! he’ll show them all as soon as you’ve settled with him.” 
 Holloway called to the Jew ; but little Oliver insisted upon 
 being heard first. 
 
 “ You must hear me : I have something to say to you about 
 the prizes — about the lottery.” 
 
 The words arrested Holloway’s attention : he followed Oliver ; 
 heard with surprise and consternation the history of the paper 
 which had been found in the jar, by Dr. B. “ I’ve done for 
 myself, now, faith!” he exclaimed; “I suppose the doctor 
 knows all about the hand / have in the lottery.” 
 
 “No,” replied Oliver, “he does not.” 
 
 “ Why, you must have known it ; and did not he question 
 you and Howard?” 
 
 “Yes ; but when we told him that we had nothing to do with 
 it, he did not press us farther.” 
 
 “ You are really a noble little fellow,” exclaimed Holloway, 
 “ to bear me no malice for the many ill turns I have done you : 
 this last has fallen upon myself, as ill-luck would have it : but 
 before we go any farther — your sweetmeats are safe in the press, 
 in my room ; I didn’t mean to steal them ; only to plague you, 
 child : — but you have your revenge now.” 
 
 “I don’t want any revenge, indeed,” said Oliver, “for I’m 
 never happy when I’ve quarrelled with any body: and even 
 when people quarrel with me, I don’t feel quite sure that I’m in 
 the right, which makes me uncomfortable ; and, besides, I don’t 
 want to find out that they are quite in the wrong; and that 
 makes me uncomfortable the other way. After all, quarrelling 
 and bearing malice are very disagreeable things, somehow or 
 other. Don’t you, when you have made it up with people, and 
 shaken hands, Holloway — don’t you feel quite light, and ready 
 to jump again ? So shake hands, if you are not above shaking 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 hands with such a little hoy as I am ; and I shall never think 
 again about the sweetmeats, or old fag times.” 
 
 Holloway could not help feeling touched. ‘‘ Here’s my 
 hand,” cried he, ‘‘ I’m sorry I’ve tormented you so often ; I’ll 
 never plague you any more. But now — I don’t know what upon 
 earth to do. Where’s Charles Howard ? If he can’t help me, 
 I’m undone. I have got into more scrapes than I can get out 
 of, I know. I wish I could see Howard.” 
 
 “ I’ll run and bring him to you ; he’s the best person at 
 knowing what should be done — at least for me, I know — that 
 ever I saw.” 
 
 Holloway abruptly began, as soon as Howard came up to 
 him : “ Howard,” said he, “ you know this plaguy lottery busi- 
 ness — hut you don’t know half yet; here’s Carat come to be 
 paid for his tickets ; and here’s that dunning stage-coachman 
 sticks close to me for his five guineas ; and not one farthing 
 have I upon earth.” 
 
 ‘‘ Not a farthing! but you don’t mean that you have not the 
 money for Mr. Carat?” 
 
 ‘‘ But I do though.” 
 
 Why, you cannot have spent it since yesterday morning?” 
 No ; but I have lost half and lent half; and the half that I 
 have lent is gone for ever, I am afraid, as much as that which I 
 lost.” 
 
 ‘‘ Whom did you lend the money to ? How did you lose it ?” 
 “ I lost part to Sir John O’Shannon, last night, at billiards — 
 more fool I to play, only because I wanted to cut a figure 
 amongst those fine people at Marryborough. I wonder my 
 father lets me go there ; I know I sha’n’t go back there this 
 Easter, unless Lord Rawson makes me an apology, I can tell 
 him. I’ve as good a right to be upon my high horse as he has ; 
 for though his father’s an earl, my father’s a great deal richer, 
 I know ; and has lent him a great deal of money, too, and that’s 
 
 the only reason he’s civil to us ; but I can tell him ” 
 
 Here Howard brought the angry Holloway from his high 
 horse, by asking what all this had to do with Mr. Carat, who 
 was waiting to be paid ? 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 211 
 
 Why, don’t I explain to you,” said Holloway, “ that I lent 
 Um — Lord Rawson, I mean — all the money I had left yester- 
 day, and I couldn’t get it out of him again, though I told him 
 my distress about the stage-coachman? Did you ever know 
 any thing so selfish ? Did you ever know any thing so shabby, 
 so shameful ? And then to make me his butt, as he did last 
 night at supper, because there were two or three dashing young 
 men by ; I think more of that than all the rest. Do you know, 
 he asked me to eat custard with my apple-pie, just to point me 
 out for an alderman’s son ; and when I only differed from him 
 about Captain Shouldham’s puppy’s ears. Lord Rawson said, 
 to be sure, I must know about dog’s ears, just to put me in 
 mind that I was a school-boy; but I’ll never go to Marry- 
 borough ally more, unless he begs my pardon. I’ve no notion 
 of being a humble friend ; but it does not signify being in a 
 passion about it now,” continued Holloway. ‘‘ What I want 
 you, Howard, to do for me is, just to think ; for I can’t think 
 at present. I’m in such a hurry, with all these things coming 
 across me at once. What can I do to find money for the stage- 
 coachman and for Mr. Carat? Why both together come to 
 fifteen guineas. And what can I do about Dr. B. ? And, do 
 you know, my father is coming here this very morning. How 
 shall I manage? He’d never forgive me: at least he’d not 
 give me any money for I don’t know how long, if these things 
 were to come out. What would you advise me to do?” 
 
 Howard, with his usual honest policy, advised Holloway at 
 once to tell all the circumstances to his father. Holloway was 
 at first much alarmed at this proposal, and insisted upon it that 
 this method would not do at all with the alderman, though it 
 might do very well with such a woman as Mrs. Howard. At 
 length, however, overcome, partly by the arguments, and partly 
 by the persuasion of his new adviser, Holloway determined 
 upon his confession. 
 
 Alderman Holloway arrived, and was beginning to talk to 
 Dr. B. of his son’s proficiency in his studies, when the young 
 gentleman made his appearance, with a countenance extremely 
 embarrassed and agitated. The sight of Dr. B. deprived Hollch 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 way of courage to speak. The doctor fixed his penetrating eye 
 upon the pale culprit, who immediately stopped short in the 
 middle of the room, stammering out, “ I came to speak, sir — I 
 had something to say to my father, sir — I came, if you please, 
 to speak to my father, sir.” To Holloway’s utter astonishment, 
 Dr. B.’s countenance and manner suddenly changed at these 
 words ; all his severity vanished ; and, with a look and voice 
 the most encouraging, he led the abashed youth towards his 
 father. 
 
 “ You came to speak to your father, sir? Speak to him then 
 without fear, without reserve : you will certainly find in a father 
 your most indulgent friend. I’ll leave you together.” 
 
 This opening of the case by Dr. B. was of equal advantage 
 both to the father and to the son. Alderman Holloway, though 
 without literature, was not without understanding : his affection 
 for his son made him quickly comprehend the good sense of 
 the doctor’s hint. The alderman was not surprised by the story 
 of the overturn of the stage-coach, because he had heard it 
 before from his footman. But the lottery transaction with the 
 Jew — and, above all, with the loss and loan of so much money 
 to his friend. Lord Rawson — struck him with some astonish- 
 ment; yet he commanded his temper, which was naturally 
 violent ; and, after a constrained silence, he begged his son to 
 summon Mr. Supine. ‘‘ At least,” cried the alderman, “ I’ve 
 a right to be in a passion with that careless, indolent, dilettanti 
 puppy, whom I’ve been paying all this while for taking such 
 care of you. I wish I had hold of his German flute at this 
 instant. You are very right, Augustus, to come like a man, 
 and tell me all these things ; and now I must tell you, that 
 some of them I had heard of before. I wish I had that Jew, 
 that Mr. Carat of yours, here ! and that stage-coachman, who 
 had the impertinence to take you out with him at night. But 
 it’s all Mr. Supine’s fault — and mine, for not choosing a better 
 tutor for you. As to Lord Rawson, I can’t blame you either 
 much for that, for I encouraged the connexion, I must own. 
 I’m glad you have quarrelled with him, however ; and pray 
 look out for a better friend as fast as possible. You were very 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 213 
 
 right to tell me all these things; on that consideration, and 
 that only, I’ll lend my hand to getting you out of these 
 scrapes.” 
 
 “ For that,” cried Holloway, I may thank Howard, then; 
 for he advised and urged me to tell you all this at once.” 
 
 ‘‘ Call him ; let me thank him,” said the alderman ; “ he’s an 
 excellent young man then — call him.” 
 
 Dr. B. now entered the room with little Oliver. 
 
 When Holloway returned with Howard, he heheld the stage- 
 coachman standing silent on one side of his father ; Mr. Carat, 
 the Jew, on the other side, jabbering an unintelligible vindica- 
 tion of himself; whilst Dr. B. was contemplating the box of 
 lottery prizes, which lay open upon the table. Mr. Supine, 
 leaning against the chimney-piece, appeared in the attitude of 
 an Antinous in despair. 
 
 Come, my little friend,” said Dr. B. to Oliver, ‘‘ you did 
 not put into the lottery, I understand. Choose from amongst 
 these things whatever you please. It is better to trust to pru- 
 dence than fortune, you see. Mr. Howard, I know that I am 
 rewarding you, at this instant, in the manner you best like, and 
 best deserve.” 
 
 There was a large old-fashioned chased gold toothpick-case, 
 on which Oliver immediately fixed his eye. After examining 
 it very carefully, he drew the doctor aside, and, after some con- 
 sultation, Oliver left the room hastily ; whilst the alderman, 
 with all the eloquence of which he was master, expressed his 
 gratitude to Howard for the advice which he had given his son. 
 ‘‘ Cultivate this young gentleman’s friendship,” added he, turn- 
 ing to Holloway : ‘‘ he has not a title ; but even /, Augustus, am 
 now ready to acknowledge he is worth twenty Lord Rawsons. 
 Had he a title, he would grace it ; and that’s as much as I can 
 say for any man.” 
 
 The Jew, all this time, stood in the greatest trepidation ; he 
 trembled lest the alderman should have him taken up and 
 committed to gaol for his illegal, unlicensed lottery. He poured 
 forth as many protestations as his knowledge of the English 
 language could afford of the purity of his intentions ; and, to 
 demonstrate his disinterestedness, began to display the trinkets 
 
214 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 in his prize-box, with a panegyric upon each. Dr. B. inter- 
 rupted him, by paying for the toothpick-case, which he had 
 bought for Oliver. 
 
 ‘‘ Now, Mr. Carat,” said the doctor, ‘‘ you will please to re- 
 turn, in the first place, the money you have received for your 
 illegal lottery tickets.” 
 
 The word illegal^ pronounced in a tremendous tone, operated 
 instantaneously upon the Jew; his hand, which had closed 
 upon Holloway’s guineas, opened; he laid the money down 
 upon the table, but mechanically seized his box of trinkets, 
 which he seemed to fear would be the next seized, as forfeits. 
 No persons are so apprehensive of injustice and fraud as those 
 who are themselves dishonest. Mr. Carat, bowing repeatedly to 
 Alderman Holloway, shuffled toward the door, asking if he 
 might now depart; when the door opened with such a force, as 
 almost to push the retreating Jew upon his face. 
 
 Little Oliver, out of breath, burst into the room, whispered a 
 few words to Dr. B. and Alderman Holloway, who answered, 
 
 He may come in ;” and a tall, stout man, an officer from Bow- 
 street, immediately entered. There’s your man, sir,” said the 
 alderman, pointing to the Jew; ‘‘there is Mr. Carat.” The 
 man instantly seized Mr. Carat, producing a warrant from 
 
 Justice for apprehending the Jew upon suspicion of his 
 
 having in his possession certain valuable jewels, the property 
 of Mrs. Frances Howard. 
 
 Oliver was eager to explain. “Do you know, Howard,” said 
 he, “how all this came about? Do you know your aunt’s gone 
 to Bow-street, and has taken the mulatto woman with her, and 
 Mr. Russell is gone with her ? and she thinks — and I think— ^ 
 she’ll certainly have her jewels, her grandmother’s jewels, that 
 were left in Jamaica.” 
 
 “How? but how?” exclaimed Howard. 
 
 “Why,” said Oliver, “by the toothpick-case. The reason I 
 chose that toothpick-case out of the Jew’s box was, because it 
 came into my head, the minute I saw it, that the mulatto 
 woman’s curious thimble — you remember her thimble, Howard 
 — would just fit one end of it. I ran home and tried it, and the 
 thimble screwed on as nicely as possible ; and the chasing, as 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 215 
 
 Mr. Russell said, and the colour of the gold, matched exactly. 
 Oh ! Mrs. Howard was so surprised when we showed it to her 
 — so astonished to see this toothpick-case in England; for it 
 had been left, she said, with all her grandmother’s diamonds 
 and things^ in Jamaica.” 
 
 “ Yes,” interrupted Howard ; “ I remember my aunt told us, 
 when you asked her about Cuba’s thimble, that she gave it to 
 Cuba when she was a child, and that it belonged to some old 
 trinket. — Go on.” 
 
 Well, where was I ? Oh, then, as soon as she saw the tooth- 
 
 pick-case, she asked how it had been found ; and I told her all 
 about the lottery and Mr. Carat ; then she and Mr. Russell 
 consulted, and away they went, with Cuba, in a coach ; and all 
 the rest you know ; and I wish I could hear the end of it ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ And so you shall, my good little fellow ; we’ll all go together 
 to hear the Jew’s examination: you shall go with me in my 
 coach to Bow-street,” said Alderman Holloway. 
 
 In the midst of their bustle, the poor stage-coachman, who 
 had waited with uncommon patience in the hope that Alderman 
 Holloway would at last recollect him, pressed forward, and 
 petitioned to he paid his five guineas for the lost parcel. — I 
 have lost my place already,^’ said he, ‘‘and the little goods I 
 have will be seized this day, for the value of that unlucky parcel, 
 master.” 
 
 The alderman put his hand slowly into his purse ; but just 
 when he had pulled out five guineas, a servant came into the 
 room, to inform Dr. B. that a sailor was waiting in the hall, 
 who desired to speak, directly, about something of consequence, 
 to the stage-coachman. 
 
 Dr. B., who imagined that the sailor might have something 
 to do with the business in question, ordered that he might be 
 shown into the room. 
 
 “ I wants one Gregory Giles, a stage-coachman, if such a one 
 be here amongst ye, gentlefolks, and nobody else,” cried the 
 sailor, producing a parcel, wrapped up in brown paper. 
 
 “It’s my very parcel!” exclaimed the stage-coachman. “ 
 am Gregory Giles! God bless your honest heart! — Where did 
 ye find it? — Give it me ! ” 
 
216 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 The sailor said he had found it in a dry ditch on the Bath 
 road, a little beyond the first turnpike, going out of town ; 
 that he had inquired at the turnpike-house ; had heard that the 
 stage had been overturned a few days before, and that a parcel 
 had been lost, about which the coachman had been in great 
 trouble ; that he had gone directly to the inn where the coach 
 put up ; had traced the coachman from place to place ; and was 
 heartily glad he had found him at last. 
 
 ‘‘Thank’ee, with all my heart,” said the coachman, “for all 
 the trouble you’ve been at ; and here’s the crown reward that I 
 offered for it, and my thanks into the bargain.” 
 
 “No, no,” said the honest sailor, pushing back the money; 
 “ I won’t take any thing from a poor fellow like myself : put 
 your silver into your pocket ; I hear you lost your place already 
 by that parcel. There was a great talk at the turnpike-house 
 about your losing your place, for giving some young gentleman 
 a lift. — Put up your money.” 
 
 All present were eager in rewarding the honest sailor. 
 
 A hackney-coach was now come to the door for Mr. Carat, 
 and every body hurried off as fast as possible. 
 
 “ Where are they all steering to?” said the sailor. The stage- 
 coachman told him all that he had heard of the matter. “I’ll 
 be in their wake, then,” cried the sailor; “I shall like to see 
 the Jew upon his court-martial ; I was choused once by a Jew 
 myself.” He got to Bow-street as soon as they did. 
 
 The first thing Howard learned was, that the jewels, which 
 had been all found at Mr. Carat’s, precisely answered the 
 description which his aunt had given of them. The Jew was 
 in the utmost consternation : finding that the jewels were posi- 
 tively sworn to, he declared, upon his examination, that he had 
 bought them from a captain of a ship ; that he had paid the full 
 value for them ; and that, at the time he purchased them, he 
 had no suspicion of their having been fraudulently obtained. 
 This defence appearing evidently evasive, the magistrates who 
 examined Mr. Carat informed him, that, unless he could produce 
 the person from whom he had bought the jewels, he must be 
 committed to Newgate for receiving stolen goods. Terrified at 
 this sentence, the Jew, though he had at first asserted that he 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 217 
 
 knew nothing of the captain from whom he had received the 
 diamonds, now acknowledged that he actually lodged at his 
 house. 
 
 ‘‘Hah!” exclaimed Holloway: “I remember, the day that 
 I and Lord Rawson called at your house, you were settling 
 accounts, your foreman told us, with a captain of a ship, who 
 was to leave England in a few days : it’s well he’s not oif.” 
 
 An officer was immediately sent to Mr. Carat’s in quest of 
 this captain ; hut there were great apprehensions that he might 
 have escaped at the first alarm of the search for the jewels. 
 Fortunately, however, he had not been able to get off, as two 
 constables had been stationed at Mr. Carat’s house. The officer 
 from Bow-street found him in his own bed-chamber, rummaging 
 a portmanteau for some papers, which he wanted to burn. His 
 papers were seized, and carried along with him before the 
 magistrate. 
 
 Alderman Holloway knew the captain the moment he was 
 brought into the room, though his dress and whole appearance 
 were very different from what they had been when he had waited 
 upon the alderman some months before this time, with a dismal, 
 plausible story of his own poverty and misfortunes. He had 
 then told him that his mate and he had had a quarrel, upon the 
 voyage from Jamaica; that the mate knew what a valuable 
 cargo he had on board ; that just when they got in sight of 
 land, the crew rose upon him ; the mate seized him, and by 
 force put him into a boat, and set him ashore. 
 
 The discovery of the jewels at Mr. Carat’s at once overturned 
 the captain’s whole story : cunning people often insert something 
 in their narration to make it better, which ultimately tends to 
 convict them of falsehood. The captain having now no other 
 resource, and having the horrors of imprisonment, and the cer- 
 tainty of condemnation upon a public trial, full before him, 
 threw himself, as the only chance that remained for him, upon Mrs. 
 Howard’s mercy ; confessed that all that he had told her before 
 was false ; that his mate and he had acted in concert ; that the 
 rising of the crew against him had been contrived between them ; 
 that he had received the jewels, when he was set ashore, for his 
 immediate share of the booty ; and that the mate had run the 
 
218 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 ship off to Charlestown, to sell her cargo. According to agree- 
 ment, the captain added, he was to have had a share in the 
 cargo ; but the mate had cheated him of that ; he had never 
 heard from him, or of him, he would take his oath, from the 
 day he was set ashore, and knew nothing of him or the cargo. 
 
 ‘‘Avast, friend, by your leave,” cried the honest sailor who 
 had found the stage-coachman’s parcel — “ avast, friend, by your 
 leave,” said he, elbowing his way between Alderman Holloway 
 and his next neighbour, and getting clear into the middle of the 
 •circle — “ I know more of this matter, my lord^ or please your 
 worship, which is much the same thing, than any body here ; 
 and I’m glad on’t, mistress,” continued the tar, pulling a quid 
 of tobacco out of his mouth, and addressing himself to Mrs. 
 Howard : then turning to the captain, “ Wasn’t she the Lively 
 Peggy, pray? — ^it’s no u&e tacking. Wasn’t your mate one John 
 Matthews, pray? Captain, your face tells truth, in spite of 
 your teeth.” 
 
 The captain instantly grew pale, and trembled : on which the 
 sailor turned abruptly from him, and went on with his stor}\ 
 “ Mistress,’* said he, “ though I’m a loser by it, no matter. The 
 Lively Peggy and her cargo are safe and sound in Plymouth, 
 at this very time being, and we have her mate in limbo, curse 
 him. We made a prize of him, coming from America, for he 
 was under French colours, and a fine prize we thought we’d 
 made. But her cargo belongs to a British subject; and there’s 
 an end to our prize money : no matter for that. There was an 
 ugly look with Matthews from the first ; and I found, the day 
 we took her, something odd in the look of her stern. The 
 rascals had done their best to paint over her name ; but 7, though 
 no great scholar, made a shift to spell the Lively Peggy through 
 it all. We have the mate in limbo at Plymouth : but it’s all 
 come out, without any more to do; and, mistress. I’ll get you 
 her bill of lading in a trice, and I give ye joy with all my heart.” 
 
 Alderman Holloway, a man used to business, would not indulge 
 himself in a single compliment upon this occasion, till he had 
 cautiously searched the captain’s papers. The bill of lading 
 which had been sent with the Lively Peggy from Jamaica, was 
 found amongst them ; it was an exact list, corresponding pre- 
 
THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 219 
 
 cisely with that which Mrs. Howard’s agent had sent her by 
 post, of the consignment shipped after the sale of her plantation. 
 The alderman, satisfied, after counting the puncheons of rum 
 and hogsheads of sugar, turned to Mrs. Howard, and shook 
 hands with her, with a face of mercantile congratulation, de- 
 claring that she was now as good a woman as ever she had 
 been, and need never desire to be better.” 
 
 “ My dear Oliver,” cried Howard, “ this is all owing to you : 
 you discovered ” 
 
 ‘‘No, no, no ! ” interrupted Oliver, precipitately : “all that I 
 did was accident ; all that you did was not accident. You first 
 made me love you, by teaching me that 1 was not a blockhead, 
 and by freeing me from ” 
 
 “ A tyrant^ you were going to say,” cried Holloway, colouring 
 deeply ; “ and, if you had, you’d have said the truth. I thought^ 
 Howard, afterwards, that you were a brave fellow for taking his 
 part, I confess. But, Oliver, I thought you had forgiven me for 
 all these things.” 
 
 “Forgiven! Oh yes, to be sure,” cried little Oliver; “I 
 wasn’t thinking of myself, or you either; I was only thinking 
 of Howard’s good nature; and then,” continued he, “Howard 
 was just as good to the mulatto woman as he was to me — ^wasn’t 
 he, Cuba?” 
 
 “That he was!” replied the poor woman; and, looking at 
 Mrs. Howard, added, “ Massa’s heart as good as hers.” 
 
 “ And his head^s as good as his heart, which makes it all 
 better still,” continued Oliver, with enthusiasm. “Mr. Russell, 
 you know how hard he worked at that translation, to earn money 
 to support poor Cuba, and to paper the room, and to pay the 
 bricklayer ybr the smoky chimney : these things were not done 
 by accident, were they ? though it was by accident that I hap- 
 pened to observe Cuba’s curious thimble.” 
 
 “There are some people,” interrupted Mr. Russell, “who, by 
 accident, never observe any thing. We will not allow you, 
 Oliver, to call your quick habit of observation accident ; your 
 excellent capacity will ” 
 
 My excellent capacity,” repeated Oliver, with unfeigned 
 
220 
 
 THE GOOD AUNT. 
 
 surprise : “ why, you know, I get by rote slower than any body 
 in the world.” 
 
 ‘‘You may,” said Dr. B., “notwithstanding, have an excellent 
 capacity : much may be learned without books ; much more 
 with books, Oliver ; but, for your comfort, you need not learn 
 them by rote.” 
 
 “ I’m glad of it, heartily,” cried Oliver; “ but this put some- 
 thing out of my head that I was in a great hurry to say — O, 
 one other thing about accident. It was not accident^ hut it was 
 Howard’s sense, in persuading me not to put into the lottery, 
 that was the very cause of Dr. B.’s giving me the choice of all 
 the things in the Jew’s box — was it not? ” 
 
 “Well, Oliver, we are ready to allow all you want us to 
 perceive, in one word, that your friend Howard has not been 
 educated by accident,^' said Dr. B., looking at Mrs. Howard. 
 
 The Jew and the captain of the Lively Peggy were now left 
 in the hands of the law. The sailor was properly rewarded. 
 Mr. Russell was engaged to superintend the education of Hollo- 
 way. He succeeded, and was presented by the alderman with 
 a living in Surrey. Mr. Supine never visited Italy, and did not 
 meet with any consolation but in his German flute. Howard 
 continued eager to improve himself ; nor did he imagine that, the 
 moment he left school, and parted from his tutor, his education 
 was finished, and that his books were, “like past misfortunes,” 
 good for nothing but to be forgotten. His love for literature he 
 found one of the first pleasures of his life ; nor did he, after he 
 came into the possession of a large forUme, find that his habits 
 of constant occupation lessened his enjoyments, for he was never 
 known to yawn at a window upon a rainy morning ! 
 
 Little Oliver’s understanding rapidly improved ; his affection 
 for his friend Howard increased as he grew up, for he always 
 remembered that Howard was the first person who discovered 
 that he was not a dunce. Mrs. Howard had the calm satis- 
 faction of seeing an education well finished, which she had well 
 begun ; and she enjoyed, in her nephew’s friendship, esteem, 
 and unconstrained gratitude, all the rewards which her good 
 sense, firmness, and benevolence had so well deserved. 
 
ANGELINA; 
 
 OR, 
 
 L’AMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ‘‘ But, my dear Lady Di., indeed you should not let this affair 
 prey so continually upon your spirits,” said Miss Burrage, in 
 the condoling tone of a humble companion — you really have 
 almost fretted yourself into a nervous fever. I was in hopes 
 that change of air, and change of scene, would have done every 
 thing for you, or I never would have consented to your leaving 
 London ; for you know your ladyship’s always better in London 
 than any where else. And I’m sure your ladyship has thought 
 and talked of nothing but this sad affair since you came to 
 Clifton.” 
 
 ‘‘ I confess,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, ‘‘ I deserve the 
 reproaches of my friends for giving way to my sensibility, as I 
 do, upon this occasion : but I own I cannot help it. — Oh, what 
 will the world say ! What will the world say ! — The world will 
 lay all the blame upon me ; yet I’m sure I’m the last, the very 
 last person that ought to be blamed.” 
 
 “Assuredly,” replied Miss Burrage, “nobody can blame your 
 ladyship ; and nobody will, I am persuaded. The blame will 
 all be thrown, where it ought to be, upon the young lady herself.*” 
 “ If I could but be convinced of that,” said her ladyship, in a 
 tone of great feeling ; “ such a young creature, scarcely sixteen, 
 to take such a step ! — I am sure I wish to Heaven her father 
 had never made me her guardian. I confess, I was most exceed- 
 
222 
 
 ANGELINA J OR, 
 
 ingly imprudent, out of regard to her family, to take under my 
 protection such a self-willed, unaccountable, romantic girl. 
 Indeed, my dear,” continued Lady Diana Chillingworth, turning 
 to her sister. Lady Frances Somerset, it was you that misled 
 me. You remember you used to tell me, that Anne Warwick 
 had such great abilities ! ” — 
 
 ‘‘That I thought it a pity they had not been well directed,” 
 said Lady Frances. 
 
 “ And such generosity of temper, and such warm affections ! ” 
 said Lady Di. — 
 
 “ That I regretted their not having been properly cultivated.” 
 
 “ I confess. Miss Warwick was never a great favourite of 
 mine,” said Miss Burrage ; “but now that she has lost her best 
 friend ” 
 
 “ She is likely to find a great number of enemies,” said Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 “ She has been her own enemy, poor girl ! I am sure I pity 
 her,” replied Miss Burrage ; “but, at the same time, I must 
 say, that ever since she came to my Lady Di. Chillingworth ’s, 
 she has had good advice enough.” 
 
 “ Too much, perhaps ; which is worse than too little,” thought 
 Lady Frances. 
 
 “Advice!” repeated Lady Di, Chillingworth: “why, as to 
 that, my conscience, I own, acquits me there ; for, to be sure, 
 no young person, of her age, or of any age, had ever more 
 advice, or more good advice, than Miss Warwick had from me ; 
 I thought it my duty to advise her, and advise her I did from 
 morning till night, as Miss Burrage very well knows, and will 
 do me the justice, I hope, to say in all companies.” 
 
 “ That I shall certainly make it a principle to do,” said Miss 
 Burrage. “ I am sure it would surprise and grieve you. Lady 
 Frances, to hear the sort of foolish, imprudent things that Miss 
 Warwick, with all her abilities, used to say. I recollect ” 
 
 “ Very possibly,” replied Lady Frances; “but why should we 
 trouble ourselves to recollect all the foolish, imprudent things 
 which tliis poor girl may have said ? — This unfortunate elope- 
 ment is a sufficient proof of her folly and imprudence. With 
 whom did she go off?” 
 
L AMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 223 
 
 “ With nobody,” cried Lady Diana — “ there’s the wonder.” 
 
 ‘‘ With nobody ! — Incredible ! — She had certainly some ad- 
 mirer, some lover, and she was afraid, I suppose, to mention 
 the business to you.” 
 
 ‘‘No such thing, my dear : there is no love at all in the case : 
 indeed, for my part, I cannot in the least comprehend Miss 
 Warwick, nor ever could. She used, every now and then, to 
 begin and talk to me some nonsense about her hatred of the 
 forms of the world, and her love of liberty, and I know not 
 what ; and then she had some female correspondent, to whom 
 she used to write folio sheets, twice a week, I believe ; but I 
 could never see any of these letters. Indeed, in town, you 
 know, I could not possibly have leisure for such things ; but 
 Miss Burrage, I fancy, has one of the letters, if you have any 
 curiosity to see it. Miss Burrage can tell you a great deal more 
 of the whole business than I can ; for you know, in London, 
 engaged as I always was, with scarcely a moment ever to my- 
 self, how could I attend to all Anne Warwick’s oddities? I 
 protest I know nothing of the matter, but that, one morning. 
 Miss Warwick was nowhere to be found, and my maid brought 
 me a letter, of one word of which I could not make sense : the 
 letter was found on the young lady’s dressing-table, according 
 to the usual custom of eloping heroines. Miss Burrage, do 
 show Lady Frances the letters — you have them somewhere ; 
 and tell my sister all you know of the matter, for I declare. I’m 
 quite tired of it; besides, I shall be wanted at the card-table.” 
 
 Lady Diana Chillingworth went to calm her sensibility at the 
 card-table ; and Lady Frances turned to Miss Burrage, for 
 further information. 
 
 “All I know,” said Miss Burrage, “is, that one night I saw 
 Miss Warwick putting a lock of frightful hair into a locket, and 
 I asked her whose it was. — ‘ My amiable Araminta’s,’ said Miss 
 Warwick, ‘ Is she pretty?’ said I. ‘I have never seen her,’ 
 said Miss Warwick ; ‘ but I will show you a charming picture 
 of her mind!' — and she put this long letter into my hand. I’ll 
 leave it with your ladyship, if you please ; it is a good, or rather 
 a bad hour’s work to read it.” 
 
224 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 AramintaV' exclaimed Lady Frances, looking at the signa- 
 ture of the letter — this is only a nom de guerre, I suppose.” 
 “Heaven knows!” answered Miss Burrage ; “but Miss 
 Warwick always signed her epistles Angelina, and her unknown 
 friend's were always signed Araminta. I do suspect that Ara- 
 ininta, whoever she is, was the instigator of this elopement.” 
 
 “ I wish,” said Lady Frances, examining the post-mark of 
 the letter, “ I wish that we could find out where Araminta 
 lives ; we might then, perhaps, recover this poor Miss Warwick, 
 before the affair is talked of in the world — before her reputation 
 is injured.” 
 
 “It would certainly he a most desirable thing,” said Miss 
 Burrage ; “ but Miss Warwick has such odd notions, that I 
 question whether she will ever behave like other people ; and, 
 for my part, I cannot blame Lady Diana Chillingworth for 
 giving her up. She is one of those young ladies whom it is 
 scarcely possible to manage by common sense.” 
 
 “It is certainly true,” said Lady Frances, “that young 
 women of Miss Warwick’s superior abilities require something 
 more than common sense to direct them properly. Young ladies 
 who think of nothing but dress, public amusements, and forming 
 what they call high connexions, are undoubtedly most easily 
 managed, by the fear of what the world will say of them ; but 
 Miss Warwick appeared to me to have higher ideas of excel- 
 lence ; and I therefore regret that she should be totally given 
 up by her friends.” 
 
 “ It is Miss Warwick who has given up her friends,” said 
 Miss Burrage, with a mixture of embarrassment and sarcasm in 
 her manner; “it is Miss Warwick who has given up her 
 friends; not Miss Warwick’s friends who have given up Miss 
 Warwick.” 
 
 The letter from the “ amiable Araminta,” which Miss Bur- 
 rage left for the perrsal of Lady Frances Somerset, contained 
 three folio sheets, of which, it is hoped, the following abridg- 
 ment will be sufficiently ample to satisfy the curiosity even of 
 those who are lovers of long letters : — 
 
 “Yes, my Angelina! our hearts are formed for that higher 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 225 
 
 species of friendsliip, of which common souls are inadequate to 
 form an idea, however their fashionable puerile lips may, in the 
 intellectual inanity of their conversation, profane the term. Yes, 
 my Angelina, you are right — every fibre of my frame, every 
 energy of my intellect, tells me so. I read your letter by moon- 
 light ! The air balmy and pure as my Angelina’s thoughts ! 
 The river silently meandering ! — The rocks ! — The woods ! — 
 Nature in all her majesty. Sublime confidante ! sympathizing 
 with my supreme felicity. And shall I confess to you, friend of 
 my soul ! that I could not refuse myself the pleasure of reading 
 to my Orlando some of those passages in your last, which evince 
 so powerfully the superiority of that understanding, which, if I 
 mistake not strangely, is formed to combat, in all its Proteus 
 forms, the system of social slavery? With what soul-rending 
 eloquence does my Angelina describe the solitariness, the isola- 
 tion of the heart she experiences in a crowded metropolis ! With 
 what emphatic energy of inborn independence does she exclaim 
 against the family phalanx of her aristocratic persecutors ! — 
 Surely — surely she will not be intimidated from ‘the settled 
 purpose of her soul ’ by the phantom-fear of worldly censure ! — 
 The garnish- tinselled wand of fashion has waved in vain in the 
 illuminated halls of folly-painted pleasure ; my Angelina’s eyes 
 have withstood, yes, without a blink, the dazzling enchant- 
 ment. — And will she — no, I cannot, I will not think so for an 
 instant — will she now submit her understanding, spell-bound, to 
 the soporific charm of nonsensical words, uttered in an awful 
 tone by that potent enchantress. Prejudice ? — The declamation, 
 the remonstrances of self-elected judges of right and wrong, 
 should be treated with deserved contempt by superior minds, 
 who claim the privilege of thinking and acting for themselves. 
 The words ward and guardian appal my Angelina ! hut what are 
 legal technical formalities, what are human institutions, to the 
 view of shackle-scorning Reason ! Oppressed, degraded, en- 
 slaved, must our unfortunate sex for ever submit to sacrifice 
 their rights, their pleasures, their will, at the altar of public 
 opinion ; whilst the shouts of interested priests, and idle specta- 
 tors, raise the senseless enthusiasm of the self-devoted victim, or 
 drown her cries in the truth-extorting moment of agonizing 
 
 Q 
 
22G 
 
 ANGELINA J OR, 
 
 nature! You will not perfectly understand, perhaps, to what 
 
 these last exclamations of your Araminta allude : — But, chosen 
 friend of my heart ! — when we meet — and oh, let that be quickly ! 
 — my cottage longs for the arrival of my unsophisticated Ange- 
 lina ! — when we meet you shall know all — your Araminta, too, 
 
 has had her sorrows Enough of this I But her Orlando has 
 
 a heart, pure as the infantine god of love could, in his most perfect 
 mood, delight at once to wound, and own — -joined to an under- 
 standing — shall I say it ? — worthy to judge of your Araminta’s 
 
 And will not my sober-minded Angelina prefer, to all that 
 
 palaces can afford, such society in a cottage ? — I shall reserve 
 for my next the description of a cottage, which I have in my 
 
 eye, within view of ; but I will not anticipate. — Adieu, my 
 
 amiable Angelina. — I enclose, as you desire, a lock of my hair. 
 — Ever, unalterably, your affectionate, though almost heart- 
 broken, 
 
 Araminta. 
 
 “April, 1800 . — Angelina Bower I 
 
 “ So let me christen my cottage !” 
 
 What effect this letter may have on sober-minded readers in 
 general can easily be guessed j but Miss Warwick, who was 
 little deserving of this epithet, was so charmed with the sound 
 of it, that it made her totally to forget to judge of her amiable 
 Araminta’s mode of reasoning. “ Garnish-tinselled wands ” — 
 “shackle-scorning Reason” — “ isolation of the heart” — “soul- 
 rending eloquence” — with “rocks and woods, and a meander- 
 ing river — balmy air — moonlight — Orlando — energy of intellect 
 — a cottage — and a heart-broken friend,” made, when all mixed 
 together, strange confusion in Angelina’s imagination. She 
 neglected to observe, that her Araminta was in the course of 
 two pages — “ almost heart-broken” — and in the possession of — 
 “supreme felicity.” — Yet Miss Warwick, though she judged so 
 like a simpleton, was a young woman of considerable abilities : 
 her want of what the world calls common sense arose from 
 certain mistakes in her education. — She had passed her child- 
 hood with a father and mother, who cultivated her literary taste, 
 but who neglected to cultivate her judgment: her reading was 
 confined to works of imagination ; and the conversation which 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 227 
 
 5he heard was not calculated to give her any knowledge of 
 realities. Her parents died when she was about fourteen, and 
 she then went to reside with Lady Diana Chilling worth, a lady 
 who placed her whole happiness in living in a certain circle of 
 high company in London. Miss Warwick saw the follies of the 
 society with which she now mixed ; she felt insupportable ennui 
 from the want of books and conversation suited to her taste ; she 
 heard with impatience Lady Diana’s dogmatical advice ; ob- 
 served, with disgust, the meanness of her companion, Miss 
 Burrage, and felt with triumph the superiority of her own abili- 
 ties. It was in this situation of her mind that Miss Warwick 
 happened, at a circulating library, to meet with a new novel, 
 called ‘‘The Woman of Genius.” — The character of Araminta, 
 the heroine, charmed her beyond measure ; and having been 
 informed, by the preface, that the story was founded on facts in 
 the life of the authoress herself, she longed to become acquainted 
 with her ; and addressed a letter to “The Woman of Genius,” 
 at her publisher’s. The letter was answered in a highly flattering, 
 and consequently, very agreeable style, and the correspondence 
 continued for nearly two years ; till, at length. Miss W. formed a 
 strong desire to see her unknown friend. The ridicule with which 
 Miss Burrage treated every thing, and every idea, that was not 
 sanctioned by fashion, and her total want of any taste for litera- 
 ture, were continually contrasted in Miss Warwick’s mind, with 
 the picture she had formed of her Araminta. — Miss Burrage, 
 who dreaded, though certainly without reason, that she might 
 be supplanted in the good graces of Lady Diana, endeavoured 
 by every petty means in her power, to disgust her young rival 
 with the situation in which she was placed. She succeeded 
 beyond her hopes. Miss Warwick determined to accept of her 
 unknown friend's invitation to Angelina Bower — a charming ro- 
 mantic cottage in South Wales, where, according to Araminta’^ 
 description, she might pass her halcyon days in tranquil, elegant 
 retirement. It was not difficult for our heroine, though unused 
 to deception, to conceal her project from Lady Diana Chilling- 
 worth, who was much more observant of the appearance of her 
 protegee in public, than interested about what passed in her 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 mind in private. Miss Warwick quitted her ladyship’s house 
 without the least difficulty, and the following is the letter which 
 our heroine left upon her dressing-table. Under all the empha- 
 tic words, according to the custom of some letter-writers, were 
 drawn emphatic lines. 
 
 “ Averse as I am to every thing that may have the appear- 
 ance of a clandestine transaction, I have, however, found my- 
 self under the necessity of leaving your ladyship’s house, with- 
 out imparting to you my intentions. Confidence and sympathy 
 go hand in hand, nor can either be commanded by the voice of 
 authority. Your ladyship’s opinions and mine, upon all sub- 
 jects, differ so essentially^ that I could never hope for your 
 approbation, either of my sentiments or my conduct. It is my 
 unalterable determination to act and think upon every occasion 
 for myself ; though I am well aware, that they who start out 
 of the common track, either in words or action, are exposed to 
 the ridicule and persecution of vulgar or illiberal minds. They 
 who venture to carry the first torch into unexplored or unfre- 
 quented passages in the mine of truth are exposed to the most 
 imminent danger. Rich, however, are the treasures of the 
 place, and cowardly the soul that hesitates ! But I forget 
 myself. 
 
 It may be necessary to inform your ladyship, that, dis- 
 gusted with the frivolity of what is called fashionable life, and 
 unable to live without the higher pleasures of friendship, I have 
 chosen for my asylum the humble, tranquil cottage of a female 
 friend, whose tastes, whose principles have long been known 
 to me : whose genius I admire ! whose virtues I revere ! v/hose 
 example I emulate! 
 
 “ Though I do not condescend to use the fulsome language 
 of a mean dependant^ I am not forgetful of the kindness I have 
 received from your ladyship. It has not been without a painfid 
 struggle that I have broken my bonds asunder — the bonds of 
 what falsely called duty : spontaneous gratitude ever will have 
 full, indisputable^ undisputed power over the heart and understand- 
 ing of 
 
 ‘‘ Anne-Angelina Warwick. 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 229 
 
 P.S. It will be in vain to attempt to discover the place of 
 my retreat. All I ask is to be left in peace, to enjoy, in my 
 retirement, perfect felicity'' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Full of her hopes of finding perfect felicity” in her retreat 
 at Angelina Bower, exulting in the idea of the courage and 
 magnanimity with which she had escaped from her aristo- 
 cratic persecutors,” our heroine pursued her journey to South 
 Wales. 
 
 She had the misfortune — and it is a great misfortune to a 
 young lady of her way of thinking — to meet with no difficulties 
 or adventures, nothing interesting upon her journey. She 
 arrived, with inglorious safety, at Cardiffe. The inn at Cardiffe 
 was kept by a landlady of the name of Hoel. ‘‘ Not high-born 
 Hoel. Alas!” said Angelina to herself, when the name was 
 screamed in her hearing by a waiter, as she walked into the 
 inn. ‘‘ Vocal no more to high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llew- 
 ellynn’s lay!” A harper was sitting in the passage, and he 
 tuned his harp to catch her attention as she passed. “ A harp ! 
 — O play for me some plaintive air!” The harper followed her 
 into a small parlour. 
 
 “ How delightful !” said Miss Warwick, who, in common 
 with other heroines, had the habit of talking to herself ; or, to 
 use more dignified terms, who had the habit of indulging in 
 soliloquy : — how delightful to taste at last the air of Wales. 
 But ’tis a pity ’tis not North instead of South Wales, and Con- 
 way instead of Cardiffe Castle.” 
 
 The harper, after he had finished playing a melancholy air, 
 exclaimed, “ That was but a melancholy ditty, miss — well 
 try a merrier.” And he began — - 
 
 “ Of a noble race was Shenkin.” 
 
 « No more,” cried Angelina, stopping her ears ; no more, 
 barbarous man ! — you break the illusion.” 
 
230 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 Break the what?” said the harper to himself; I thought^ 
 miss, that tune would surely please you; for it is a favourite one 
 in these parts.” 
 
 ‘‘ A favourite with Welsh squires, perhaps,” said our heroine ; 
 but, unfortunately, I am not a Welsh squire, and have no 
 taste for your ‘ Bumper Squire Jones.’ ” 
 
 The man tuned his harp sullenly. ‘‘ I’m sorry for it, miss,” 
 said he : ‘‘more’s the pity, I can’t please you better !” 
 
 Angelina cast upon him a look of contempt. “ He no way 
 fills my idea of a bard ! — an ancient and immortal bard ! — He 
 has no soul — fingers without a soul ! — No ‘ master’s hand,’ oi 
 ‘prophet’s fire!’ — No ‘deep sorrows!’ — No ‘sable garb oi 
 woe ! ’ — No loose beard, or hoary hair, ‘ streaming like a meteoi 
 
 to the troubled air ! ’ — ‘ No haggard eyes ! ’ — Heigho ! ” 
 
 “ It is time for me to be going,” said the harper, who began 
 to think, by the young lady’s looks and manners, that she was 
 not in her right understanding. “It is time for me to be 
 going ; the gentlemen above in the Dolphin will be ready for 
 me.” 
 
 “ A mere modern harper! He is not even blind,” Angelina 
 said to herself, as he examined the shilling which she gave 
 him. “ Begone, for Heaven’s sake!” added she, aloud, as he 
 left the room ; — and “ leave me, leave me to repose.” 
 
 She threw up the sash, to taste the evening air ; but scarcely 
 had she begun to repeat a sonnet to her Araminta — scarcely had 
 she repeated the first two lines— 
 
 “ Hail, far-famed, fairest, unknown friend. 
 
 Our sacred silent sympathy of soul,” 
 
 when a little ragged Welsh boy, who was playing with his com- 
 panions, in a field at the back of Cardiffe Inn, espied her, gave 
 the signal to his playfellows, and immediately they all came 
 running up to the window at which Angelina was standing, and 
 with one loud shrill chorus of “ Gi’ me ha’penny ! — Gi’ me 
 ha’penny! — Gi’ me one ha’penny!” interrupted the sonnet. 
 Angelina threw out some money to the boys, though she was 
 provoked by their interruption : her donation was, in the true 
 spirit of a heroine, much greater than the occasion required: 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 231 
 
 and the consequence was, that these urchins, by spreading the 
 fame of her generosity through the town of Cardiffe, collected 
 a Lilliputian mob of petitioners, who assailed Angelina with 
 fresh vehemence. Not a moment’s peace, not a moment for 
 poetry or reverie would they allow her : so that she was impa- 
 tient for her chaise to come to the door. Her Araminta’s 
 cottage was but six miles distant from Cardiffe ; and to speak 
 in due sentimental language, every moment that delayed her 
 long-expected interview with her beloved unknown friend, ap- 
 peared to her an age. 
 
 ‘‘ And what would you be pleased to have for supper, 
 ma’am?” said the landlady. “ We have fine Tenby oysters, 
 ma’am ; and, if you’d like a Welsh rabbit — ” 
 
 ‘‘ Tenby oysters ! — Welsh rabbits!” repeated Angelina, in a 
 disdainful tone. ‘‘ Oh, detain me not in this cruel manner ! — I 
 want no Tenby oysters, I want no Welsh rabbits; only let me 
 be gone — I am all impatience to see a dear friend. Oh, if you 
 have any feeling, any humanity, detain me not!” cried she, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 Miss Warwick had an ungovernable propensity to make a 
 display of sensibility ; a fine theatrical scene upon every occa- 
 sion ; a propensity which she had acquired from novel-reading. 
 It was never more unluckily displayed than in the present 
 instance; for her audience and spectators, consisting of the 
 landlady, a waiter, and a Welsh boy, who just entered the room 
 with a knife-tray in his hand, were all more inclined to burst 
 into rude laughter than to join in gentle sympathy. The chaise 
 did not come to the door one moment sooner than it would 
 have done without this pathetic wringing of the hands. As 
 soon as Angelina drove from the door, the landlady’s curiosity 
 broke forth — 
 
 “ Pray tell me, Hugh Humphries,” said Mrs. Hoel, turning 
 to the postilion, who drove Angelina from Newport, “ pray, 
 now, does not this seem strange, that such a young lady as this 
 should be travelling about in such wonderful haste ? 1 believe, 
 
 by her flighty airs, she is upon no good errand — and I would 
 have her to know, at any rate, that she might have done better 
 than to sneer, in that way, at Mrs. Hoel of Cardiffe, and her 
 
232 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 Tenby oysters, and her Welsh rabbit. Oh, I’ll make her repent 
 her joehaviour to Mrs. Hoel, of Cardiffe. ‘Not high-born Hoel,’ 
 forsooth ! How does she know that, I should be glad to hear ? 
 The Hoels are as high born. I’ll venture to say, as my young 
 miss herself. I’ve a notion ! and would scorn, moreover, to have 
 a runaway lady for a relation of theirs. Oh, she shall learn 
 to repent her disrespects to Mrs. Hoel, of Cardiffe. I joHieve 
 she shall soon meet herself in the public newspapers — her eyes, 
 and her nose, and her hair, and her inches, and her description 
 at full length she shall see — and her friends shall see it too — 
 and maybe they shall thank, and maybe they shall reward 
 handsomely Mrs. Hoel, of Cardiffe.” 
 
 Whilst the angry Welsh landlady was thus forming projects 
 of revenge for the contempt with which she imagined that her 
 high birth and her Tenby oysters had been treated, Angelina 
 pursued her journey towards the cottage of her unknown friend, 
 forming charming pictures, in her imagination, of the manner 
 in which her amiable Araminta would start, and weep, and 
 faint, perhaps with joy and surprise, at the sight of her Ange- 
 lina. It was a fine moonlight night — an unlucky circum- 
 stance ; for the by-road which led to Angelina Bower was so 
 narrow and bad, that if the night had been dark, our heroine 
 must infallibly have been overturned, and this overturn would 
 have been a delightful incident in the history of her journey; 
 but Fate ordered it otherwise. Miss Warwick had nothing to 
 lament, but that her delicious reveries were interrupted, for 
 several miles, by the Welsh postilion’s expostulations with his 
 horses. 
 
 “Good Heavens!” exclaimed she, “cannot the man hold 
 his tongue ? His uncouth vociferations distract me ! So fine a 
 scene, so placid the moonlight — but there is always something 
 that is not in perfect unison with one’s feelings.” 
 
 “ Miss, if you please, you must light here, and walk for a 
 matter of a quarter of a mile, for I can’t drive up to the house 
 door, because there is no carriage-road down the lane ; but if 
 you be pleased. I’ll go on before you — my horses will stand 
 quite quiet here — and I’ll knock the folks up for you, miss.” 
 
 “ Folks ! — Oh, don’t talk to me of knocking folks up,” cried 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 233 
 
 Angelina, springing out of the carriage “ stay with your 
 horses, man, 1 beseech you. You shall be summoned when you 
 are wanted — I choose to walk up to the cottage alone.” 
 
 ‘‘ As you please, miss,” said the postilion ; only liur had 
 better take care of the dogs.” 
 
 This last piece of sage counsel was lost upon our heroine ; she 
 heard it not — she was ^‘rapt into future times.” 
 
 By moonlight will be our first interview — just as I had pic- 
 tured to myself — but can this be the cottage ? — It does not look 
 quite so romantic as I expected — but ’tis the dwelling of my 
 Araminta — Happy, thrice happy moment ! — Now for our secret 
 signal — I am to sing the first, and my unknown friend the second 
 part of the same air.” 
 
 Angelina then began to sing the following stanza — 
 
 “ O waly waly up the bank, 
 
 And waly waly down the brae, 
 
 And waly waly yon burn side, 
 
 Where I and my love were wont to gae.” 
 
 She sung and paused, in expectation of hearing the second 
 part from her amiable Araminta — but no voice was heard. 
 
 All is hushed,” said Angelina — ever tranquil be her slum- 
 bers! Yet I must waken her — ^her surprise and joy at seeing 
 me thus will be so great ! — by moonlight too I ” 
 
 She knocked at the cottage window — still no answer. 
 
 All silent as night ! ” said she — 
 
 “ ‘ When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 
 And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene.’ ” 
 
 Angelina, as she repeated these lines, stood with her back to 
 the cottage window: the window opened, and a Welsh servant 
 girl put out her head ; her night-cap, if cap it might be called 
 which shape had none, was half off, her black hair streamed 
 over her shoulders, and her face was the face of vulgar, super- 
 stitious amazement. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, ’tis our old ghost of Nelly Gwynn, all in white, walking 
 and saying her prayers packwards — I heard ’em quite plain, as 
 I hope to preathe,” said the terrified girl to herself ; and, shut- 
 ting the window with a trembling hand, she hastened to waken 
 
234 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 an old woman, wlio slept in the same room with her. — Angelina, 
 whose patience was by this time exhausted, went to the door of 
 the cottage, and shook it with all her force. — It rattled loud, and 
 a shrill scream was heard from within. 
 
 ‘‘A scream!” cried Angelina ; ‘‘Oh, my Araminta ! — All is 
 hushed again.” — Then raising her voice, she called as loudly as 
 she could at the window — “ My Araminta ! my unknown friend ! 
 be not alarmed, ’tis your Angelina.” 
 
 The door opened slowly and softly, and a slip-shod beldam 
 peeped out, leaning upon a stick ; the head of Betty Williams 
 appeared over the shoulder of this sibyl ; Angelina was standing, 
 in a pensive attitude, listening at the cottage window. At this 
 instant the postilion, who was tired of waiting, came whistling 
 up the lane ; he carried a trunk on his back, and a bag in his 
 hand. As soon as the old woman saw him, she held up her 
 stick, exclaiming — 
 
 “ A man ! a man ! — a ropper and murterer !-r-Cot save us ! 
 and keep the door fast polted.” — ^They shut the door instantly. 
 
 “ What is all this ?” said Angelina, with dignified composure. 
 
 “ A couple of fools, I take it, miss, who are afraid and in tred 
 of roppers,” said the postilion; “put I’ll make ’em come out. 
 I’ll be pound, plockheads.” — So saying, he went to the door of 
 Angelina Bower, and thundered and kicked at it, speaking all 
 the time very volubly in Welsh. In about a quarter of an hour 
 he made them comprehend that Angelina was a young lady 
 come to visit their mistress : then they came forth curtsying. 
 
 “My name’s Betty Williams,” said the girl, who was tying a 
 clean cap under her chin. “Welcome to Llanwaetur, miss! — 
 pe pleased to excuse our keeping hur waiting, and polling the 
 toor, and taking hur for a ghost and a ropper — ^put we know 
 who you are now — the young lady from London, that we have 
 been told to expect.” 
 
 “ Oh, then, I have been expected ; all’s right — and my Ara- 
 minta, where is she ? where is she ? ” 
 
 “Welcome to Llanwaetur, welcome to Llanwaetur, and Cot 
 pless hur pretty face,” said the old woman, who followed Betty 
 Williams out of the cottage. 
 
 “ Hur’s my grandmother, miss,” said Betty. 
 
;iT' i . ;x 
 
 :;.r;d jmj rrer^:^'' ! - dot iisl 
 
 lO ^'DOJSi. .s rVlPKIN. MARSHALL & C9 
 
 AND OTHER PROPRIETORS. 
 

 . _ . " ... . 
 
 :h 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 235 
 
 Very likely — but let me see my Araminta,” cried Angelina : 
 “ cruel woman ! where is she, I say 
 
 ‘‘ Cot pless hur ! — Cot pless hur pretty face,” repeated the old 
 woman, curtsying. 
 
 a My grandmother’s as deaf as a post, miss — don’t mind her ; 
 she can’t tell Inglis well, put I can : — who would you pe pleased 
 to have?” 
 
 In plain English, then — the lady who lives in this cottage.” 
 “ Our Miss Hodges?” 
 
 This odious name of Hodges provoked Angelina, who was so 
 used to call her friend Araminta, that she had almost forgotten 
 her real name. 
 
 “ Oh, miss,” continued Betty Williams, Miss Hodges has 
 gone to Bristol for a few days.” 
 
 ‘‘ Gone ! how unlucky ! my Araminta gone ! ” 
 
 Put Miss Hodges will pe pack on Tuesday — Miss Hodges 
 did not expect hur till Thursday — put her ped is very well aired 
 — ^pe pleased to walk in, and light hur a candle, and get hur a 
 night-cap.” 
 
 “ Heigho ! must I sleep again without seeing my Araminta ! 
 — Well, but I shall sleep in a cottage for the first time in my 
 life— 
 
 “ ‘ The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed.’” 
 
 At this moment, Angelina, forgetting to stoop, hit herself a 
 violent blow as she was entering Angelina Bower — the roof of 
 which, indeed, ‘‘ was too low for so lofty a head.” — A headache 
 came on, which kept her awake the greatest part of the night. 
 In the morning she set about to explore the cottage; it was 
 nothing like the species of elegant retirement, of which she had 
 drawn such a charming picture in her imagination. It consisted 
 S)f three small bedchambers, which were more like what she 
 had been used to call closets ; a parlour, the walls of which 
 were, in many places, stained with damp ; and a kitchen which 
 smoked. The scanty, moth-eaten furniture of the rooms was 
 very different from the luxury and elegance to which Angelina 
 had been accustomed in the apartments of Lady Diana Chilling- 
 worth. Coarse and ill-dressed was the food which Betty Williams 
 with great bustle and awkwardness served up to her guest ; but 
 
236 
 
 ANGELINA ; OR. 
 
 Angelina was no epicure. The first dinner which she ate on |; 
 wooden trenchers delighted her ; the second, third, fourth, and 
 fifth, appeared less and less delectable ; so that by the time she 
 had boarded one week at her cottage, she was completely con- 
 vinced that 
 
 “ A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring,” 
 
 though delightful to Goldsmith’s Hermit, are not quite so satis- 
 factory in actual practice as in poetic theory ; at least to a young 
 lady who had been habituated to all the luxuries of fashionable 
 life. It was in vain that our heroine repeated 
 
 “ Man wants hut little here below 
 
 she found that even the want of double refined sugar, of green 
 tea, and Mocha coffee, was sensibly felt. Hour after hour, and 
 day after day, passed with Angelina, in anxious expectation of 
 her Araminta’s return home. Her time hung heavy upon her 
 hands, for she had no companion with whom she could converse ; 
 and one odd volume of Rousseau’s Eloise, and a few well-thumbed 
 German plays, were the only books which she could find in the t 
 
 house. There was, according to Betty Williams’s report, ‘‘a J 
 
 vast sight of books in a press, along with some table-cloths,” 
 but Miss Hodges had the key of this press in her pocket. | 
 
 Deprived of the pleasures both of reading and conversation, i 
 
 Angelina endeavoured to amuse herself by contemplating the 
 beauties of nature. There were some wild, solitary walks in 
 the neighbourhood of Angelina Bower ; but though our heroine 
 was delighted with these, she wanted, in her rambles, some 
 kindred soul, to whom she might exclaim — How charming is 
 solitude^ ! ” — The day after her arrival in Wales, she wrote a 
 long letter to Araminta, which Betty Williams undertook to ( 
 send by a careful lad, a particular friend of her own, who would 
 deliver it, without fail, into Miss Hodges’s own hands, and who 
 would engage to bring an answer by three o’clock the next day. 
 
 The careful lad did not return till four days afterward, and he 
 then could give no account of his mission, except that he bad 
 
 * Voltaire. 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 237 
 
 left the letter at Bristol, with a particular friend of his own, who 
 would deliver it, without fail, into Miss Hodges’s own hands, if 
 he could meet with her. The post seems to be the last expedient 
 which a heroine ever thinks of for the conveyance of her letters ; 
 so that, if we were to judge from the annals of romance, we 
 should infallibly conclude there was no such thing as a post-office 
 in England. On the sixth day of her abode at this comfortless 
 cottage, the possibility of sending a letter to her friend by the 
 post occurred to Angelina, and she actually' discovered that 
 there was a post-office at Cardiffe. Before she could receive an 
 answer to this epistle, a circumstance happened, v/hich made 
 her determine to abandon her present retreat. One evening 
 she rambled out to a considerable distance from the cottage, 
 and it was long after sunset ere she recollected that it would be 
 necessary to return homewards before it grew dark. She mistook 
 her way at last, and following a sheep-path, down the steep side 
 of a mountain, she came to a point, at which she, apparently, 
 could neither advance nor recede. A stout Welsh farmer who 
 was counting his sheep in a field, at the top of the mountain, 
 happened to look down its steep side in search of one of his 
 flock that was missing : the farmer saw something white at a 
 distance below him, but there was a mist — it was dusk in the 
 evening — and whether it were a woman, or a sheep, he could 
 not be certain. In the hope that Angelina was his lost sheep, he 
 went to her assistance, and though, upon a nearer view, he was 
 disappointed, in finding that she was a woman, yet he had the 
 humanity to hold out his stick to her, and he helped her up by 
 it, with some difficulty. One of her slippers fell off as she 
 scrambled up the hill — there was no recovering it ; her other 
 slipper, which was of the thinnest kid leather, was cut through 
 by the stones ; her silk stockings were soon stained with the 
 blood of her tender feet ; and it was with real gratitude that she 
 accepted the farmer’s offer, to let her pass the night at his farm- 
 house, which was within view. Angelina Bower was, according 
 to his computation, about four miles distant, as well, he said, as he 
 could judge of the place she meant by her description : she had 
 unluckily forgotten that the common name of it was Llanwaetur. 
 At the farmer’s house, she was, at first, hospitably received, by 
 
238 
 
 ANGELINA ; OR, 
 
 a tiglit-looking woman ; but she had not been many minutes 
 seated, before she found herself the object of much curiosity 
 and suspicion. In one corner of the room, at a small round 
 table, with a jug of ale before him, sat a man, who looked like 
 the picture of a Welsh squire : a candle had just been lighted 
 for his worship, for he was a magistrate, and a great man, in 
 those parts, for he could read the newspaper, and his company 
 was, therefore, always welcome to the farmer, who loved to hear 
 the news, and the reader was paid for his trouble with good ale, 
 which he loved even better than literature. 
 
 “ What news, Mr. Evans?” said the farmer. 
 
 ‘‘What news?” repeated Mr. Evans, looking up from his 
 paper, with a sarcastic smile. “ Why, news that might not be 
 altogether so agreeable to the whole of this good company ; so 
 ’tis best to keep it to ourselves.” 
 
 “ Every thing’s agreeable to me, I’m sure,” said the farmer — 
 “ every thing’s agreeable to me in the way of news.” 
 
 “ And to me, not excepting politics, which you gentlemen 
 always think so polite,” said the farmer’s wife, “ to keep to your- 
 selves ; but, you recollect, I was used to politics when I lived 
 with my uncle at Cardiffe ; not having, though a farmer’s wife, 
 always lived in the country, as you see, ma’am — nor being quite 
 illiterate. — Well, Mr. Evans, let us have it. What news of the 
 fleets?” 
 
 Mr. Evans made no reply, but pointed out a passage in the 
 newspaper to the farmer, who leant over his shoulder, in vain 
 endeavouring to spell and put it together : his smart wife, whose 
 curiosity was at least equal to her husband’s, ran immediately to 
 peep at the wonderful paragraph, and she read aloud the be- 
 ginning of an advertisement : — 
 
 “ Suspected to have strayed, or eloped, from her friends or 
 relations, a young lady, seemingly not more than sixteen years 
 of age, dressed in white, with a straw hat: blue, eyes, light 
 hair.” 
 
 Angelina coloured so deeply whilst this was reading, and the 
 description so exactly suited with her appearance, that the 
 farmer’s wife stopped short ; the farmer fixed his eyes upon 
 her ; and Mr. Evans cleared his throat several times with much 
 
L AMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 239 
 
 significance. — A general silence ensued ; at last tlie three heads 
 nodded to one another across the round table ; the farmer 
 whistled and walked out of the room ; his wife fidgeted at a 
 buffet, in which she began to arrange some cups and saucers ; 
 and, after a few minutes, she followed her husband. Angelina 
 took up the newspaper, to read the remainder of the advertise- 
 ment. She could not doubt that it was meant for her, when she 
 saw that it was dated the very day of her arrival at the inn at 
 CardifFe, and signed by the landlady of the inn, Mrs. Hoel. Mr. 
 Evans swallowed the remainder of his ale, and then addressed 
 Angelina in these words : — 
 
 ‘‘ Young lady, it is plain to see you know when the cap fits : 
 now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll not make the match you 
 have in your eye ; for, though a lord’s son, he is a great gambler. 
 I dined with one that has dined with him not long ago. My 
 son, who has a living near Bristol, knows a great deal — more 
 about you than you’d think ; and ’tis my advice to you, which I 
 wouldn’t be at the trouble of giving, if you were not as pretty 
 as you are, to go back to your relations; for he’ll never marry 
 you, and marriage to be sure is your object. I have no more to 
 say, but only this — I shall think it my duty, as a magistrate, to 
 let your friends know as soon as possible where you are, coming 
 under my cognizance as you do ; for a vagabond, in the eye of 
 the law, is a person ” 
 
 Angelina had not patience to listen to any more of this 
 speech ; she interrupted Mr. Evans with a look of indignation, 
 assured him that he was perfectly unintelligible to her, and 
 walked out of the room with great dignity. Her dignity made 
 no impression upon the farmer or his wife, who now repented 
 having offered her a night’s lodging in their house : in the 
 I morning they were as eager to get rid of her as she was impa- 
 
 I tient to depart. Mr. Evans insisted upon seeing her safe home, 
 
 ; evidently for the purpose of discovering precisely where she 
 I lived. Angelina saw that she could no longer remain undis- 
 
 ! turbed in her retreat, and determined to set out immediately in 
 
 I quest of her unknown friend at Bristol. — Betty Williams, who 
 had a strong desire to have a jaunt to Bristol, a town which she 
 had never seen but once in her life, offered to attend Miss 
 
210 
 
 ANGELINA ; OR, 
 
 Warwick, assuring her that she perfectly well knew the house 
 where Miss Hodges always lodged. Her offer was accepted; 
 and what adventures our heroine met with in Bristol, and what 
 difficulties she encountered before she discovered her Araminta, 
 will be seen in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Angelina went by water from Cardiffe to Bristol ; the water 
 was rather rough, and, as she was unused to the motion of a 
 vessel, she was both frightened and sick. She spent some hours 
 very disagreeably, and without even the sense of acting like a 
 heroine, to support her spirits. It was late in the evening before 
 she arrived at the end of her voyage : she was landed on the 
 quay at Bristol. No hackney-coach was to be had, and she 
 was obliged to walk to the Bush. To find herself in the midst 
 of a bustling, vulgar crowd, by whom she was unknown, but 
 not unnoticed, was new to Miss Warwick. Whilst she was with 
 Lady Diana Chillingworth, she had always been used to see 
 crowds make way for her ; she was now surprised to feel herself 
 jostled in the streets by passengers, who were all full of their 
 own affairs, hurrying different ways, in pursuit of objects which 
 probably seemed to them as important as the search for an un- 
 known friend appeared to Angelina. 
 
 Betty Williams’s friend’s friend, the careful lad, who was to 
 deliver the letter to Miss Hodges, was a waiter at the Bush. 
 Upon inquiry, it was found that he had totally forgotten his 
 promise : Angelina’s letter was, after much search, found in a 
 bottle-drainer, so much stained with port wine, that it was ille- 
 gible. The man answered with the most provoking nonchalance, 
 when Angelina reproached him for his carelessness — ‘‘ That, 
 indeed, no such person as Miss Hodges was to be found : that 
 nobody he could meet with had ever heard the name.” They 
 who are extremely enthusiastic suffer continually from the total 
 indifference of others to their feelings ; and young people can 
 scarcely conceive the extent of this indifference until they have 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 241 
 
 seen something of the world. Seeing the world does not always 
 mean seeing a certain set of company in London. 
 
 Angelina, the morning after her arrival at the Bush, took a 
 hackney-coach, and left the care of directing the coachman to 
 Betty Williams, who professed to have a perfect knowledge of 
 Bristol. Betty desired the man to drive to the drawbridge; 
 and, at the sound of the word drawbridge, various associations 
 of ideas with the drawbridges of ancient times were called up in 
 Miss Warwick’s imagination. How different was the reality 
 from her castles in the air ! She was roused from her reverie 
 by the voices of Betty Williams and the coachman. 
 
 ‘‘ Where I drive ye to, I ask you?” said the coachman, 
 who was an Irishman : Will I stand all day upon the draw- 
 
 bridge stopping the passage ?” 
 
 ‘‘Trive on a step, and I will get out and see apout me,” said' 
 Betty ; “ I know the look of the bouse, as well as I know any 
 thing.” 
 
 Betty got out of the coach, and walked up and down the 
 street, looking at the houses like one bewildered. 
 
 “ Bad luck to you ! for a Welsh woman as you are,” exclaimed 
 the coachman, jumping down from the box, ‘‘will I lave the 
 young lady standing in the streets all day alone for you to be 
 making a fool this way of us both ? — Sorrow take me now ! If I 
 do ” 
 
 “ Pless us, pe not in a pet or a pucker, or how shall I recol- 
 lect any body or any thing. — Good! Good! — Stand you there 
 while I just say over my alphabet : a, p, c, t, e, f, g, h, i, k, 1, 
 m, n, o, b. — It was some name which begins with /?, and ends 
 with a I pelieve.” 
 
 “ Here’s a pretty direction, upon my troth ; some name which 
 begins with a jo, and ends with a cried the coachman ; and 
 after he had uttered half a score of Hibernian execrations upon 
 the Welsh woman’s folly, he with much good nature went along 
 with her to read the names on the street doors. — “ Here’s a 
 name now that’s the very thing for you — ^here’s Pushit now. — 
 Was the name Pushit? — Ricollict yourself, my good girl, was 
 that your name ?” 
 
 “ Pushit ! — Oh, yes, I am sure, and pelieve it was Pushit — 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 ANGELINA ; OR^ 
 
 Mrs. Pushit’s house, Pristol, where our Miss Hodges lodges 
 alway.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs. Pushit — but this is quite another man ; I tell you this 
 is Sir John — Faith now we are in luck,” continued the coach- 
 man — “here’s another p just at hand; here’s Mrs. Puffit; sure 
 she begins with a p, and ends with a t, and is a milliner into the 
 bargain? so sure enough I’ll engage the young lady lodges 
 here. — Puffit — Hey? — Ricollict now, and don’t be looking as if 
 you’d just been pulled out of your sleep, and had never been in 
 a Christian town before now.” 
 
 “ PI ess us. Cot pi ess us !” said the Welsh girl ,who was quite 
 overpowered by the Irishman’s flow of words — and she was on 
 the point of having recourse, in her own defence, to her native 
 tongue, in which she could have matched either male or female 
 in fluency; but, to Angelina’s great relief, the dialogue between 
 the coachman and Betty Williams ceased. The coachman drew 
 up to Mrs. Puffit’s ; but, as there was a handsome carriage at 
 the door. Miss Warwick was obliged to wait in her hackney- 
 coach some time longer. The handsome carriage belonged to 
 
 Lady Frances Somerset. By one of those extraordinary 
 
 coincidences which sometimes occur in real life, but which are 
 scarcely believed to be natural when they are related in books, 
 Miss Warwick happened to come to this shop at the very mo- 
 ment when the persons she most wished to avoid were there. 
 Whilst the dialogue between Betty Williams and the hackney- 
 coachman was passing. Lady Diana Chillingworth and Miss 
 Burrage were seated in Mrs. Puffit’s shop : Lady Diana was 
 extremely busy bargaining with the milliner ; for, though rich, 
 and a woman of quality, her ladyship piqued herself upon 
 making the cheapest bargains in the world. 
 
 “ Your la’ship did not look at this eight and twenty shilling 
 lace,” said Mrs. Puffit ; “ ’tis positively the cheapest thing your 
 la’ship ever saw. J essie ! the laces in the little blue band-box. 
 Quick ! for my Ladi Di. — Quick !” 
 
 “ But it is out of my power to stay to look at any thing more 
 now,” said Lady Diana; “and yet,” whispered she to Miss 
 Burrage, “ when one does go out a shopping, one certainly likes 
 to bring home a bargain.” 
 
l'amie inconnue. 
 
 243 
 
 ‘‘Certainly; but Bristol’s not the place for bargains,” said 
 Miss Barrage ; “ you will find nothing tolerable, I assure you, 
 my dear Lady Di., at Bristol.” 
 
 “ Why, my dear,” said her ladyship, “ were you ever at 
 Bristol before ? How comes it that I never heard that you were 
 at Bristol before? Where were you, child?” 
 
 “ At the Wells, at the Wells, ma’am,” replied Miss Barrage, 
 and she turned pale and red in the space of a few seconds ; but 
 Lady Diana, who was very near-sighted, was holding her head 
 so close to the blue band-box full of lace, that she could not see 
 the changes in her companion’s countenance. The fact was, 
 that Miss Barrage was born and bred in Bristol, where she had 
 several relations, who were not in high life, and by whom she 
 consequently dreaded to be claimed. When she first met Lady 
 Diana Chillingworth at Buxton, she had passed herself upon 
 her for one of the Barrages of Dorsetshire, and she knew that, 
 if her ladyship was to discover the truth, she would cast her off 
 with horror. For this reason, she had done every thing in her 
 power to prevent Lady Di. from coming to Clifton ; and for this 
 reason she now endeavoured to persuade her that nothing 
 tolerable could be met with at Bristol. 
 
 “ I am afraid, Lady Di., you will be late at Lady Mary’s,” 
 said she. 
 
 “ Look at this lace, child, and give me your opinion — eight 
 and twenty shillings, Mrs. Puffit, did you say ?” 
 
 “ Eight and twenty, my lady — and I lose by every yard I 
 sell at that price. Ma’am, you see,” said Mrs. Puffit, appealing 
 to Miss Barrage, “ ’tis real Valenciennes, you see.” 
 
 “ I see ’tis horrid dear,” said Miss Barrage : then in a whisper 
 I to Lady Di. she added, “ at Miss Trentham’s at the Wells, your 
 I ladyship will meet with such bargains !” 
 
 ; Mrs. Puffit put her lace upon the alabaster neck of the large 
 ! doll which stood in the middle of her shop. “ Only look, my 
 i lady — only see, ma’am, how beautiful becoming ’tis to the 
 I neck, and sets off a dress too, you know, ma’am. And (turning 
 to Miss Barrage) eight and twenty, you know, ma’am, is really 
 i nothing for any lace you’d wear ; but more particularly for real 
 I Valenciennes, which can scarce be had real, for love or money, 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 ANGELINA J OR, 
 
 since the French Re vorlution. Real Valenciennes! — and will 
 wear and wash, and wash and wear — not that your ladyship 
 minds that — for ever and ever, — and is such a bargain, and so 
 becoming to the neck, especially to ladies of your la’ship’s com- 
 plexion.” 
 
 “ Well, I protest, I believe, Burrage, I don’t know what to 
 say, my dear — hey?” 
 
 “ I’m told,” whispered Miss Burrage, ‘‘ that Miss Trentham’s 
 to have a lace raffle at the Wells next week.” 
 
 “ A raffle?” cried Lady Di., turning her hack immediately 
 upon the doll and the lace. 
 
 “ Well,” cried Mrs. Puffit, “ instead of eight say seven and 
 twenty shillings. Miss Burrage, for old acquaintance sake.” 
 
 ‘‘Old acquaintance!” exclaimed Miss Burrage: “la! Mrs. 
 Puffit, I don’t remember ever being twice in your shop all the 
 time I was at the Wells before.” 
 
 “ No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Puffit, with a malicious smile-— 
 “ hut when you was living on Saint Augustin’s Back.” 
 
 “ Saint Augustin’s Back, my dear!” exclaimed Lady Diana 
 Chilling worth, with a look of horror and amazement. 
 
 Miss Burrage, laying down a bank-note on the counter, 
 made a quick and expressive sign to the milliner to hold her 
 tongue. 
 
 “ Dear Mrs. Puffit,’* cried she, “ you certainly mistake me 
 for some other strange person. Lady Di., now I look at it 
 with my glass, this lace is very fine, I must agree with you, and 
 not dear, by any means, for real Valenciennes ; cut me off three 
 yards of this lace — I protest there’s no withstanding it. Lady 
 Di.” 
 
 “ Three yards at eight and twenty — here, Jesse,” said Mrs. 
 Puffit. “ I beg your pardon, ma’am, for my mistake ; I sup- 
 posed it was some other lady of the same name ; there are so 
 many Burrages. Only three yards did you say, ma’am?” 
 
 “Nay, I don’t care if you give me four. I’m of the Burrages 
 of Dorsetshire.” 
 
 “ A very good family, those Burrages of Dorsetshire, as any 
 in England,” said Lady Di.-^ — “ and put up twelve yards this 
 for me, Mrs. Puffit.” 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 245 
 
 ‘‘ Twelve at eight and twenty — yes, my lady very much 
 
 obliged to your ladyship — much obliged to you, Miss Burrage. 
 Here, Jesse, this to my Lady Di. Chillingworth’s carriage.” 
 Jesse called at the shop-door, in a shrill voice, to a black 
 servant of Lady Frances Somerset — ‘‘ Mr. Hector, Mr. Hector ! 
 Sir, pray put this parcel into the carriage for Lady Diana 
 Chillingworth.” 
 
 Angelina, who was waiting in her hackney-coach, started ; 
 she could scarcely believe that she heard the name rightly : — 
 but, an instant afterwards, the voice of Lady Diana struck her 
 ear, and she sunk back in great agitation. However, neither 
 Miss Burrage nor Lady Di. saw her ; they got into their car- 
 riage, and drove away. 
 
 Angelina was so much alarmed, that she could scarcely be- 
 lieve that the danger was past when she saw the carriage at the 
 furthest end of the street. 
 
 ‘‘Wouldn’t you be pleased to ’light, ma’am?” said Jesse. 
 “ We don’t bring things to the door.” 
 
 “Who have we here?” cried Mrs. Puffit ; “who have we 
 here ?” 
 
 “ Only some folks out of a hack, that was kept waiting, and 
 couldn’t draw up whilst my Lady Di.’s carriage was at the 
 door,” said Jesse. 
 
 “ A good pretty girl, the foremost,” said Mrs. Puffit. “ But, 
 in the name of wonder, what’s that odd fish coming behind 
 her?” 
 
 “ A queer-looking pair, in good truth !” said Jesse. 
 
 Angelina seated herself, and gave a deep sigh. “ Ribands, 
 if you please, ma’am,” said she to Mrs. Puffit. “ I must,” 
 thought she, “ ask for something before I ask for my Ara- 
 minta.” 
 
 “ Ribands — yes, ma’am — what sort? Keep an eye upon the 
 glass,” whispered the milliner to her shop girl, as she stooped 
 behind the counter for a drawer of ribands — “ keep an eye on 
 the glass, J esse — a girl of the town, I take it. What colour, 
 ma’am ?” 
 
 “ Blue — ‘ cerulean blue.’ Here, child,” said Angelina, turn- 
 ing to Betty Williams, “ here’s a riband for you.” 
 
216 
 
 ANGELINA ; ORj 
 
 Betty Williams did not hear, for Betty was fascinated by 
 the eyes of the great doll, opposite to which she stood fixed. 
 
 ‘‘ Lord, what a fine lady ! and how hur stares at Betty 
 Williams!” thought she: ‘‘ I wish hur would take her eyes 
 off me.” 
 
 “ Betty I Betty Williams ! — a riband for you,” cried Angelina, 
 in a louder tone. 
 
 Betty started — ‘‘Miss! — a riband!” She ran forward, and, 
 in pushing by the doll, threw it backward ; Mrs. Puffit caught 
 it in her arms, and Betty, stopping short, curtsied, and said to 
 the doll — “ Peg pardon, miss — peg pardon, miss — tit I hurt 
 you? — peg pardon. Pless us! ’tis a toll, and no woman, I 
 
 teclare.” 
 
 The milliner and Jesse now burst into uncontrollable, and, 
 as Angelina feared, “ unextinguishable laughter.” Nothing is so 
 distressing to a sentimental heroine as ridicule: Miss Warwick 
 oerceived that she had her share of that which Betty Williams 
 excited; and she who imagined herself to be capable of “ com- 
 bating, in all its Proteus forms, the system of social slavery,” 
 was unable to withstand the laughter of a milliner and her 
 'prentice. 
 
 “ Do you please to want any thing else, ma’am ?” said Mrs. 
 Puffit, in a saucy tone — “ Rouge, perhaps?” 
 
 I wish to know, madam,” said Angelina, “ whether a lady 
 of the name of Hodges does not lodge here?” 
 
 “ A lady of the name of Hodges ! — no, ma’am — I’m very par- 
 ticular about lodgers — no such lady ever lodged with me. — 
 Jesse ! to the door — quick ! — Lady Mary Tasselton’s carriage.” 
 
 Angelina hastily rose and departed. Whilst Jesse ran to the 
 door, and whilst Mrs. Puffit’s attention was fixed upon Lady 
 Mary Tasselton’s carriage, Betty Williams twitched from off the 
 doll’s shoulders the remainder of the piece of Valenciennes lace 
 which had been left there. “ Since bur’s only wood. I’ll make 
 free,” said she to herself, and she carried off the lace unob- 
 served. 
 
 Angelina’s impatience to find her Araminta was increased, 
 by the dread of meeting Lady Di. Chillingworth in every carriage 
 that passed, and in every shop where she might call. At the 
 
l’amie inconnue.» 
 
 247 
 
 next house at which the coachman stopped, the words, Dinah 
 Plaity relict of Jonas Plaity cheesemonger^ were written in large 
 letters over the shop-door. Angelina thought she was in no 
 danger of meeting her ladyship here, and she alighted. There 
 was no one in the shop but a child of seven years old ; he could 
 not understand well what Angelina or Betty said, but he ran 
 to call his aunt. Dinah Plait was at dinner; and when the 
 child opened the door of the parlour, there came forth such a 
 savoury smell, that Betty Williams, who was extremely hungry, 
 could not forbear putting her head in, to see what was upon the 
 table. 
 
 ‘‘ Pless bur ! heggs and paeon and toasted cheese — Cot pless 
 hur!” exclaimed Betty. 
 
 ‘‘ Aunt Dinah,” said the child, “ here are two women in some 
 great distress, they told me — and astray and hungry.” 
 
 In some great distress, and astray and hungry? — then let 
 them in here, child, this minute.” 
 
 There was seated at a small table, in a perfectly neat parlour, 
 a quaker, whose benevolent countenance charmed Angelina the 
 moment she entered the room. 
 
 Pardon this intrusion,” said she. 
 
 “ Friend, thou art welcome,” said Dinah Plait, and her looks 
 said so more expressively than her words. An elderly man 
 rose, and leaving the cork-screw in the half-drawn cork of a 
 bottle of cider, he set a chair for Angelina, and withdrew to the 
 window. 
 
 Be seated, and eat, for verily thou seemest to be hungry,” 
 said Mrs. Plait to Betty Williams, who instantly obeyed, and 
 began to eat like one that had been half famished. 
 
 “ And now, friend, thy business, thy distress — what is it?” 
 said Dinah, turning to Angelina : ‘‘ so young to have sorrows.’.’ 
 I had best take myself away,” said the elderly gentleman, 
 who stood at the window — ‘‘ I had best take myself avray, for 
 miss may not like to speak before me — though she might, for 
 that matter.” 
 
 “Where is the gentleman going?” said Miss Warwick; “I 
 have but one short question to ask, and I have nothing to say 
 that need ” 
 
248 
 
 • ANGELINA ; OR, 
 
 “ I dare say, young lady, you can have nothing to say that you 
 need be ashamed of, only people in distress don’t like so well to 
 speak before third folks, I guess — though, to say the truth, I 
 have never known, by my own experience, what it was to be in 
 much distress since I came into the world — but I hope I am not 
 the more hard-hearted for that — for I can guess, I say, pretty 
 well, how those in distress feel when they come to speak. Do 
 as you would be done by is my maxim till I can find a better — • 
 so I take myself away, leaving my better part behind me, if it 
 will be of any service to you, madam.” 
 
 As he passed by Miss Warwick, he dropped his purse into her 
 lap, and he was gone before she could recover from her surprise. 
 
 '‘Sir! — madam!” cried she, rising hastily, “here has been 
 some strange mistake — I am not a beggar — I am much, very 
 
 much obliged to you, but ” 
 
 “Nay, keep it, friend, keep it,” said Dinah Plait, pressing 
 the purse upon Angelina; “John Barker is as rich as a Jew, 
 and as generous as a prince. Keep it, friend, and you’ll oblige 
 both him and me — ’tis dangerous in this world for one so young 
 and so pretty as you are to be in great distress ; so be not proud.” 
 I am not proud,” said Miss Warwick, drawing her purse 
 from her pocket ; “ but my distress is not of a pecuniary nature 
 — Convince yourself — I am in distress only for a friend, an un~ 
 known friend.” 
 
 “ Touched in her brain, I doubt,” thought Dinah. 
 
 “Coot ale!” exclaimed Betty Williams — “Coot heggs ani 
 paeon.” 
 
 “Does a lady of the name of Araminta — Miss Hodges, I 
 mean — ^lodge here?” said Miss Warwick. 
 
 “ Friend, I do not let lodgings ; and I know of no such person 
 as Miss Hodges.” 
 
 “Well, I swear hur name, the coachman told me, did begin 
 with a p, and end with at,” cried Betty Williams, “ or I would 
 never have let him knock at hur toor.” 
 
 “ Oh, my Araminta ! my Araminta !” exclaimed Angelina, 
 turning up her eyes towards heaven — “ when, oh when shall I 
 find thee? I am the most unfortunate person upon earth.” 
 
 “ Had not hur petter eat a hegg, and a pit of paeon ? here’s 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 249 
 
 one pit left,” said Betty: ‘‘hur must be hungry, for ’tis two 
 o’clock past, and we preakfasted at nine — hur must be hungry;” 
 and Betty pressed her to try the paeon ; but Angelina put it 
 away, or, in the proper style, motioned the bacon from her. 
 
 am in no want of food,” cried she, rising : “happy they 
 who have no conception of any hut corporeal sufferings. Fare- 
 well, madam ! — may the sensibility, of which your countenance 
 is so strongly expressive, never be a source of misery to you !” — 
 and with that depth of sigh which suited the close of such a 
 speech, Angelina withdrew. 
 
 “ If I could but have felt her pulse,” said Dinah Plait to 
 herself, “ I could have prescribed something that, maybe, 
 would have done her good, poor distracted thing ! Now it was 
 well done of J ohn Barker to leave this purse for her — but how 
 is this ? — poor thing ! she’s not fit to be trusted with money — 
 here she has left her own purse full of guineas.” 
 
 Dinah ran immediately to the house-door, in hopes of being 
 able to catch Angelina ; but the coach had turned down into 
 another street, and was out of sight. Mrs. Plait sent for her 
 constant counsellor, John Barker, to deliberate on the means of 
 returning the purse. It should be mentioned, to the credit of 
 Dinah’s benevolence, that, at the moment when she was inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of Betty Williams and Angelina, she was 
 hearing the most flattering things from a person who was not 
 disagreeable to her : her friend, John Barker, was a rich hosier, 
 who had retired from business ; and who, without any ostenta- 
 tion, had a great deal of real feeling and generosity. But the 
 fastidious taste of Jine^ or sentimental readers, will probably be 
 disgustbd by our talking of the feelings and generosity of a 
 hosier and a cheesemonger’s widow. It belongs to a certain 
 class of people to indulge in the luxury of sentiment : we shall 
 follow our heroine, therefore, who, both from her birth and 
 education, is properly qualified to have — “exquisite feelings.” 
 
 The next house at which Angelina -stopped, to search for her 
 amiable Araminta, was at Mrs. Porett’s academy for young 
 ladies. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, Miss Hodges is here — Pray walk into this 
 
250 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 room, and you shall see the young lady immediately.’* Ange- 
 lina burst into the room instantly, exclaiming — 
 
 “ Oh, my Araminta ! have I found you at last?” 
 
 She stopped short, a little confounded at finding herself in a 
 large room full of young ladies, who were dancing reels, and 
 who all stood still at one and the same instant, and fixed their 
 eyes upon her, struck with astonishment at her theatrical entree 
 and exclamation. 
 
 ‘‘Miss Hodges!” said Mrs. Porett — and a little girl of seven 
 years old came forward : — “ Here, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porett to 
 Angelina, “ here is Miss Hodges.” 
 
 “Not my Miss Hodges ! not my Araminta ! alas !” 
 
 “ No, ma’am,” said the little girl ; “ I am only Letty Hodges.” 
 Several of her companions now began to titter. 
 
 “These girls,” said Angelina to herself, “take me for a fool;” 
 and, turning to Mrs. Porett, she apologized for the trouble she 
 had given, in language as little romantic as she could conde- 
 scend to use. 
 
 “ Tid you bid me, miss, wait in the coach, or the passage ?” 
 cried Betty Williams, forcing her way in at the door, so as 
 almost to push down the dancing-master, who stood with his 
 back to it. Betty stared round, and dropped curtsy after curtsy, 
 whilst the young ladies laughed and whispered, and whispered 
 and laughed; and the words, odd — vulgar — strange — who is 
 she ? — what is she? — reached Miss Warwick. 
 
 “This Welsh girl,” thought she, “is my torment. Wherever 
 I go she makes me share the ridicule of her folly.” 
 
 Clara Hope, one of the young ladies, saw and pitied Angelina’s 
 confusion. 
 
 “ Gif over, an ye have any gude nature — gif over your whis- 
 pering and laughing,” said Clara to her companions : “ken ye 
 not ye make her so bashful, she’d fain hide her face wi’ her twa 
 hands.” 
 
 But it was in vain that the good-natured Clara Hope remon- 
 strated: her companions could not forbear tittering, as Betty 
 Williams, upon Miss Warwick’s laying the blame of the mistake 
 on her, replied in a strong Welsh accent — 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 251 
 
 “ I will swear almost the name was Porett or Plait, where our 
 Miss Hodges tid always lodge in Pristol. Porett, or Plait, or 
 Puffit, or some of her names that pekin with a p and ent with 
 a t.” 
 
 Angelina, quite overpowered^ shrunk hack, as Betty bawled 
 out her vindication, and she was yet more confused, when 
 Monsieur Richelet, the dancing-master, at this unlucky instant, 
 came up to her, and with an < elegant bow, said, ‘‘ It is not 
 difficult to see by her air, that mademoiselle dances superiorly. 
 Mademoiselle vould she do me de plaisir — de honneur to dance 
 one minuet?” 
 
 “ Oh, if she would hut dance !” whispered some of the group 
 of young ladies. 
 
 ‘^Excuse me, sir,” said Miss Warwick. 
 
 “Not a minuet? — den a minuet de la cour, a cotillon, or 
 contredanse, or reel ; vatever mademoiselle please vill do us 
 honneur.” 
 
 Angelina, with a mixture of impatience and confusion, re- 
 peated, “Excuse me, sir — I am going — I interrupt — I beg I 
 may not interrupt.” 
 
 “A coot morrow to you all, creat and small,” said Betty 
 Williams, curtsying awkwardly at the door as she went out 
 before Miss Warwick. 
 
 The young ladies were now diverted so much beyond the 
 bounds of decorum, that Mrs. Porett was obliged to call them to 
 order. 
 
 “ Oh, my Araminta, what scenes have I gone through ! to 
 what derision have I exposed myself for your sake !” said our 
 heroine to herself. 
 
 Just as she was leaving the dancing-room, she was stopped 
 short by Betty Williams, who, with a face of terror, exclaimed, 
 “ ’Tis a poy in the hall, that I tare not pass for my lifes ; he has 
 a pasket full of pees in his hand, and I cannot apide pees, ever 
 since one tay when I was a chilt, and was stung on the nose by 
 a pee. The poy in the hall has a pasketful of pees, ma’am,” 
 said Betty, with an imploring accent, to Mrs. Porett. 
 
 “A basketful of bees!” said Mrs. Porett, laughing: “Oh, 
 you are mistaken : I know what the boy has in his basket — they 
 
252 
 
 ANGELINA J OR, 
 
 are only flowers ; they are not bees : you may safely go by 
 them.” 
 
 ‘‘ Put I saw pees with my own eyes,” persisted Betty. 
 
 Only a basketful of the bee orchis, which I commissioned 
 a little boy to bring from St. Vincent’s rocks for my young 
 botanists,” said Mrs. Porett to Angelina : ‘‘you know the flower 
 is so like a bee, that at first sight you might easily mistake it.” 
 Mrs. Porett, to convince Betty Williams that she had no cause 
 for fear, went on before her into the hall ; but Betty still hung 
 hack, crying — 
 
 “ It is a pasket full of pees ! I saw the pees with my own 
 eyes.” 
 
 The noise she made excited the curiosity of the young ladies 
 in the dancing-room : they looked out to see what was the 
 matter. 
 
 “ Oh, ’tis the wee-wee French prisoner hoy, with the bee 
 orchises for us — there, I see him standing in the hall,” cried 
 Clara Hope, and instantly she ran, followed by several of her 
 companions, into the hall. 
 
 “You see that they are not bees,” said Mrs. Porett to Betty 
 Williams, as she took several of the flowers in her hand. Betty, 
 half convinced, yet half afraid, moved a few steps into the hall. 
 
 “You have no cause for dread,” said Clara Hope; “poor 
 boy, he has nought in his basket that can hurt any body.” 
 
 Betty Williams’s heavy foot was now set upon the train of 
 Clara’s gown, and, as the young lady sprang forwards, her gown, 
 which was of thin muslin, was torn so as to excite the com- 
 miseration of all her young companions. 
 
 “What a terrible rent! and her best gown!” said they. 
 “ Poor Clara Hope ! ” 
 
 “ Pless us ! peg pardon, miss! ” cried the awkward, terrified 
 Betty ; “ peg pardon, miss ! ” 
 
 “ Pardon’s granted,” said Clara ; and whilst her companions 
 stretched out her train, deploring the length and breadth of her 
 misfortune, she went on speaking to the little French boy. 
 “ Poor wee boy ! ’tis a sad thing to be in a strange country, far 
 away from one’s ane ane kin and happy hame — poor wee thing,’* 
 said she, slipping some money into his hand. 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 253 
 
 “ What a heavenly countenance ! ” thought Angelina, as she 
 looked at Clara Hope : “ Oh, that my Araminta may resemble 
 her! ” 
 
 “Plait il — take vat you vant — tank you,” said the little boy, 
 offering to Clara Hope his basket of flowers, and a small box of 
 trinkets, which he held in his hand. 
 
 “Here’s a many pretty toys — who’ll buy?” cried Clara, 
 turning to her companions. 
 
 The young ladies crowded round the box and the basket. 
 
 “Is he in distress?” said Angelina; “perhaps I can be of 
 some use to him ! ” and she put her hand into her pocket, to feel 
 for her purse. 
 
 “He’s a very honest, industrious little boy,” said Mrs. Porett, 
 “ and he supports his parents by his active ingenuity.” 
 
 “ And, Louis, is your father sick still?” continued Clara Hope 
 to the poor boy. 
 
 “ Bien malade ! bien malade ! very sick I very sick ! ” said he. 
 
 The unaffected language of real feeling and benevolence is 
 easily understood, and is never ridiculous; even in the broken 
 English of little Louis, and the broad Scotch tone of Clara, it 
 was both intelligible and agreeable. 
 
 Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her pocket 
 for her purse. 
 
 “ ’Tis gone — certainly gone ! ” she exclaimed : “ I’ve lost it ! 
 lost my purse ! Betty, do you know any thing of it ? I had it 
 at Mrs. Plait’s 1 — What shall I do for this poor little fellow ? — 
 This trinket is of gold ! ” said she, taking from her neck a locket 
 — “ Here, my little fellow, I have no money to give you, take 
 this — nay, you must, indeed.” 
 
 “Tanks! tanks! bread for my poor fader! joy! joy! — too 
 much joy ! too much ! ” 
 
 “You see you were wrong to laugh at her,” whispered Clara 
 Hope to her companions : “ I liked her lukes from the first.” 
 
 Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied and 
 satisfied Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for her unknown 
 friend ; and it was not till one of the children observed the lock 
 of hair in her locket that she recollected her accustomed cant of — • 
 
ANGELINA, OR, 
 
 2H 
 
 Ohj my Araminta I my amiable Araminta ! could I part with 
 that hair, more precious than gold?” 
 
 “ Pless us ! ” said Betty ; ‘‘put, if she has lost her purse, who 
 shall pay for the coach, and what will become of our tinners?” 
 Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory dignity. 
 Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and who 
 had been interested for our heroine, by her good-nature to the 
 little French boy, followed Miss Warwick as she left the room. 
 
 “ Let me detain you but for a few minutes,” said she, opening 
 the door of a little study. “You have nothing to fear from any 
 impertinent curiosity on my part ; but, perhaps, I may be of 
 some assistance to you.” — Miss Warwick could not refuse to be 
 detained a few minutes by so friendly a voice. 
 
 “ Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta several 
 times since you came into this house,” said Mrs. Porett, with 
 something of embarrassment in her manner, for she was afraid 
 of appearing impertinent. “ I know, or at least I knew, a lady 
 who writes under that name, and whose real name is Hodges.” 
 “Oh, a thousand, thousand thanks !” cried Angelina : “tell 
 me, where can I find her?” 
 
 “ Are you acquainted with her? You seem to be a stranger, 
 young lady, in Bristol. Are you acquainted with Miss Hodges’s 
 whole history ? ” 
 
 “Yes, \iQV whole history; every feeling of her soul; every 
 thought of her mind ! ” cried Angelina, with enthusiasm. “We 
 have corresponded for two years past.” 
 
 Mrs. Porett smiled. “It is not always possible,” said she, 
 “ to judge of ladies by their letters. I am not inclined to believe 
 above half what the world says, according to Lord Chesterfield’s 
 allowance for scandalous stories; but it may be necessary to 
 
 warn you, as you seem very young, that ” 
 
 “Madam,” cried Angelina, “young as I am, I know that 
 superior genius and virtue are the inevitable objects of scandal. 
 It is in vain to detain me further.” 
 
 “I am truly sorry for it,” said Mrs. Porett; “but, perhaps, 
 
 you will allow me to tell you, that ” 
 
 “No, not a word; not a word more will I hear,” cried our 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 255 
 
 heroine ; and she hurried out of the house, and threw herself 
 into the coach. Mrs. Porett contrived, however, to make Betty 
 Williams hear, that the most probable means of gaining any 
 intelligence of Miss Hodges, would be to inquire for her at the 
 shop of Mr. Beatson, who was her printer. To Mr. Beatson’s 
 they drove — though Betty professed that she was half unwilling 
 to inquire for Miss Hodges from any one whose name did not 
 begin with a p, and end with a t. 
 
 What a pity it is,” said Mrs. Porett, when she returned to her 
 pupils — “ what a pity it is that this young lady’s friends should 
 permit her to go about in a hackney-coach, with such a strange, 
 vulgar servant girl as that ! She is too young to know how 
 quickly, and often how severely, the world judges by appear- 
 ances. Miss Hope, now we talk of appearances, you forget that 
 your gown is torn, and you do not know, perhaps, that your 
 
 friend. Lady Frances Somerset ” 
 
 “Lady Frances Somerset!” cried Clara Hope — “I luve to 
 hear her very name.” 
 
 “For which reason you interrupt me the moment I mention 
 it — I have a great mind not to tell you — that Lady Frances 
 ; Somerset has invited you to go to the play with her to-night : — 
 ‘ The Merchant of Venice, and the Adopted Child.’ ” 
 
 “ Gude-natured Lady Frances Somerset, Fm sure an’ if Clara 
 Hope had been your adopted child twenty times over, you could 
 j not have been more kind to her nor you have been. — No, not 
 ; had she been your ane countrywoman, and of your ane clan — 
 
 I and all for the same reasons that make some neglect and look 
 j down upon her — because Clara is not meikle rich, and is far 
 || away from her ane ane friends. — Gude Lady Frances Somerset! 
 
 Clara Hope luves you in her heart, and she’s as blythe wi’ the 
 I thought o’ ganging to see you as if she were going to dear 
 Inverary.” 
 
 I It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did 
 i not stay a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett’s, that she might 
 j have heard this eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might 
 j have, a second time in one day, discovered that she was on the 
 i very brink of meeting with the persons she most dreaded to see ; 
 
 I but, however temptingly romantic such an incident would have 
 
256 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 been, we must, according to our duty as faithful historians, 
 deliver a plain unvarnished tale. 
 
 Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beat^on’s, and as soon as she 
 had pronounced the name of Hodges, the printer called to his 
 devil for a parcel of advertisements, which he put into her hand ; 
 they were proposals for printing by subscription a new novel — 
 “ The Sorrows of Araminta.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, my Araminta ! my amiable Araminta ! have I found 
 you at last ? — The Sorrows of Araminta^ a novels in nine volumes—' 
 Oh, charming ! — together with a tragedy on the same plan — 
 Delightful ! — Subscriptions received at Joseph BeatsorCs, printer 
 and bookseller ; and by Rachael Hodges — Odious name ! — at Mrs, 
 Bertrand’ sT 
 
 Bartrand! — There now j/om, do ye hear that? the lady lives 
 at Mrs. Bartrand’s : how will you make out now that Bartrand 
 begins with a p, and ends with a t, now?” said the hackney- 
 coachman to Betty, who was standing at the door. 
 
 ‘‘ Pertrant ! why,” cried Betty, what would you have ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Silence! O silence!” said Miss Warwick; and she con- 
 tinued reading — “ Subscriptions received at Mrs, Bertrands.’’ 
 
 “ Perti'ant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman ! ” cried Betty 
 Williams. 
 
 “Bartrand — you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!” 
 retorted Terence O’ Grady. 
 
 “Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta,” 
 continued our heroine ; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams 
 and the hackney-coachman making menacing faces and gestures 
 at one another. 
 
 “ Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven’s sake ! ” said 
 Angelina ; “ if you must fight, fight out of my sight.” 
 
 “For shame, before the young lady!” said Mr. Beatson, 
 holding the hackney-coachman : “ have done disputing so loud.” 
 
 “I’ve done, but she is wrong,” cried Terence. 
 
 “ I’ve done, put he is wrong,” said Betty. 
 
 Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he 
 declared he would not carry her a step further in his coach — 
 that his beasts were tired, and that he must be paid his fare, for 
 that he neither could ^nor would wait any longer. Betty Wil- 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 257 
 
 liams was desired by Angelina to pay him. She hesitated ; but 
 after being assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should be 
 punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that 
 she had silver enough ‘‘in a little box at the bottom of her 
 pocket;” and, after much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, 
 which, she said, had been given to her by her “ creat crand- 
 mother.” — Whilst she was paying the coachman, the printer’s 
 devil observed one end of a piece of lace hanging out of her 
 pocket ; she had, by accident, pulled it out along with the 
 snuff-box. 
 
 “ And was this your great grandmother’s too ?” said the 
 printer’s devil, taking hold of the lace. 
 
 Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from 
 the printer, and she did not see or hear what was passing close 
 to her : the coachman was intent upon the examination of his 
 shillings. Betty, with great assurance, reproved the printer’s 
 devil for touching such lace with his plack fingers. 
 
 “ ’Twas not my crandmother’s — ’tis the young lady’s,” said 
 she : “ let it pe, pray — look how you have placked it, and 
 marked it, with plack fingers.” 
 
 She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and imme- 
 diately went out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another 
 coach. 
 
 Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand’s, we must 
 beg leave to go, and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, 
 to Lady Frances Somerset’s house, at Clifton. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ Well, how I am to get up this hill again. Heaven knows !’ 
 said Lady Diana Ch Illingworth, who had been prevailed upon 
 to walk down Clifton Hill to the Wells. “ Heigho ! that sister 
 of mine. Lady Frances, walks, and talks, and laughs, and ad 
 mires the beauties of nature till I’m half dead.” 
 
 “ Why, indeed. Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow,” said 
 Miss Burrage, “ is not the fittest companion in the world for a 
 person of your ladyship’s nerves ; but then it is to be hoped 
 
 s 
 
2S3 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 that the glass of water which you have just taken fresh at the 
 pump will be of service, provided the racketing to Bristol to 
 the play don’t counteract it, and undo all again.” 
 
 How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!” said 
 Miss Burrage to herself — “ some of my precious relations may 
 be there to claim me. My aunt Dinah — God bless her for a 
 starched quaker — wouldn’t be seen at a play. I’m sure — so she’s 
 safe ; — but the odious sugar-baker’s daughters might be there, 
 dizened out ; and between the acts, their great tall figures 
 might rise in judgment against me — spy me out — stare and 
 curtsy — pop — pop — pop at me without mercy, or bawl out across 
 the benches, ‘Cousin Burrage I Cousin Burrage!’ And Lady 
 Diana Chillingworth to hear it! — oh, I should sink into the 
 earth.” 
 
 “ What amusement,” continued Miss Burrage, addressing 
 herself to Lady Di., “ what amusement Lady Frances Somerset 
 can find at a Bristol playhouse, and at this time of the year too, 
 is to me really unaccountable.” 
 
 “ I do suppose,” replied Lady Diana, “ that my sister goes 
 only to please that child — (Clara Hope, I think they call her) — 
 not to please me. I’m sure ; — but what is she doing all this 
 time in the pump-room ? does she know we are waiting for her ? 
 — oh, here she comes. Frances, I am half dead.” 
 
 “ Half dead, my dear ! well, here is something to bring you 
 to life again,” said Lady Frances : I do believe I have found 
 
 out Miss Warwick.” 
 
 “ I am sure, my dear, that does not revive me — I’ve been 
 almost plagued to death with her already,” said Lady Diana. 
 
 “ There’ s no living in this world without plagues of some 
 sort or other — but the pleasure of doing good makes one forget 
 them all : here, look at this advertisement, my dear,” said Lady 
 Frances : “ a gentleman, whom I have just met with in the 
 pump-room, was reading it in the newspaper when I came in, 
 and a whole knot of scandal-mongers were settling who it could 
 possibly be. One snug little man, a Welsh curate, I believe, 
 Avas certain it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath* who is said 
 to have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left 
 the Welshman in the midst of a long story, about his father and 
 
L AMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 259 
 
 a young lady, who lost her shoe on the Welsh mountains, and I 
 ran away with the paper to bring it to you.” 
 
 Lady Diana received the paper with an air of reluctance. 
 
 “ Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?” said Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from begin- 
 ning to end.” 
 
 “ Ah, because you are not come to the end yet — look — ’tis 
 from Mrs. Hoel, of the inn at Cardiffe, and by the date, she 
 must have been there last week.” 
 
 ‘‘ Who — Mrs. Hoel?” 
 
 Miss Warwick, my dear — I beg pardon for my pronoun — 
 but do read this — eyes — hair — complexion — age — size — it cer- 
 tainly must be Miss Warwick.” 
 
 And what then ?” said Lady Di., with provoking coldness, 
 walking on towards home. 
 
 Why, then, my dear, you know we can go to Cardiffe to- 
 morrow morning, find the poor girl, and, before any body knows 
 I any thing of the matter, before her reputation is hurt, or you 
 blamed, before any harm can happen, convince the girl of her folly 
 and imprudence, and bring her back to you and common sense.” 
 
 To common sense, and welcome, if you can ; but not to 
 I nie.” 
 
 ! Not to you ! — Nay ; but, my dear, what will become of 
 
 1 her?” 
 
 : Nay ; but, my dear Frances, what will the world say ?” 
 
 j ‘‘Of her?” 
 
 “ Of me.” 
 
 I “ My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say ?” 
 
 ! . “ No, Lady Frances, I’ll tell you what the world would 
 
 say — that Lady Diana Chillingworth’s house was an asylum for 
 i runaways.” 
 
 ! “ An asylum for nonsense ! — I beg your pardon, sister — but it 
 
 i always provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they 
 
 think right, because, truly, ‘ the world will say it is wrong.’ 
 
 ! What signifies the uneasiness we may suffer from the idle blame 
 or tittle-tattle of the day, compared with the happiness of a 
 : young girl’s whole life, which is at stake ?” 
 
 s 2 
 
2G0 
 
 ANGKLINA : OR, 
 
 Oh, Lady Frances, that is spoken like yourself — I love 
 you in my heart — that’s right! that’s right!” thought Clara 
 Hope. 
 
 Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might consult 
 one whose advice she always found agreeable to her own 
 opinions. 
 
 “ In my opinion,” whispered Miss Burrage to Lady Diana, 
 “ you are right, quite right, to have nothing more to do with the 
 happiness of a young lady who has taken such a step.” 
 
 They were just leaving St. Vincent’s parade, when they heard 
 the sound of music upon the walk by the river side, and they 
 saw a little boy there, seated at the foot of a tree, playing on 
 the guitar, and singing — 
 
 “ J’ai quitte mon pays et raes amis, 
 
 Pour jouer de la guitare, 
 
 Qui va din, din, qui va din, din, 
 
 Qui va din, din, din, din.” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! my wee wee friend,” said Clara Hope, “are you 
 here '! — I was just thinking of you, just wishing for you. By 
 gude luck, have you the weeny locket about you that the young 
 lady gave you this morning? — the weeny locket, my bonny 
 boy?” 
 
 “ Plait-il?” said little Louis. 
 
 “ He donH understand one word,” said Miss Burrage, laugh- 
 ing sarcastically, “ he don’t understand one word of all your 
 bonnpSj and wee wees and weenies^ Miss Hope ; he, unfortunately, 
 don’t understand broad Scotch, and maybe he mayn’t be so 
 great a proficient as you are in boarding-school French ; but 
 I’ll try if he can understand me, if you’ll tell me what you 
 want.” 
 
 “ Such a trinket as this,” said Clara, showing a locket which 
 hung from her neck. 
 
 “ Ah oui — yes, I comprehend now,” cried the boy, taking 
 from his coat-pocket a small case of trinkets — “ la voila ! — here 
 is vat de young lady did give me — good young lady!” said 
 Louis, and he produced the locket. 
 
 “ I declare,” exclaimed Miss Burrage, catching hold of it. 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 261 
 
 “ ’tis Miss Warwick’s locket ! I’m sure of it — here’s the motto 
 — I’ve read it, and laughed at it twenty times — L’Amie In- 
 connue.” 
 
 ‘‘ When I heard you all talking just now about that descrip- 
 tion of the young lady in the newspaper, I cude not but fancy,” 
 said Clara Hope, ‘‘ that the lady whom I saw this morning 
 must be Miss Warwick.” 
 
 Saw — where?” cried Lady Frances, eagerly. 
 
 At Bristol — at our academy — at Mrs. Porett’s,” said Clara; 
 
 “ but mark me, she is not there now — I do not ken where she 
 may be now.” 
 
 “ Moi je sais ! — I do know de demoiselle did stop in a . 
 coach at one house ; I was in de street — I can show you de 
 house.” 
 
 “ Can you so, my good little fellow? then let us begone 
 directly,” said Lady Frances. 
 
 ‘‘ You’ll excuse me, sister,” said Lady Di. 
 
 ‘‘Excuse you! — I will, but the world will not. You’ll he 
 abused, sister, shockingly abused.” 
 
 This assertion made more impression upon Lady Di. Chil- 
 lingworth than could have been made either by argument or 
 entreaty. 
 
 “ One really does not know how to act — people take so much 
 notice of every thing that is said and done by persons of a cer- 
 tain rank : if you think that I shall be so much abused — I 
 absolutely do not know what to say.” 
 
 “ But I thought,” interposed Miss Burrage, “ that Lady 
 Frances was going to take you to the play to-night. Miss 
 Hope ?” 
 
 “ Oh, never heed the play — ^never heed the play, or Clara 
 Hope — never heed taking me to the play : Lady Frances is 
 
 going to do a better thing. Come on, my bonny boy,” said 
 
 she to the little French boy, who was following them. 
 
 We must now return to our heroine, whom we left on her way 
 to Mrs. Bertrand’s. Mrs. Bertrand kept a large confectionary 
 and fruit shop in Bristol. 
 
 “ Please to walk through this way, ma’am — Miss Hodges is 
 above stairs — she shall be apprized directly Jenny! run up 
 
262 
 
 ANGELINA ; OR, 
 
 stairs,” said Mrs. Bertrand to her maid — ‘‘ run up stairs, and 
 tell Miss Hodges here’s a young lady wants to see her in a great 
 
 hurry You’d best sit down, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Bertrand 
 
 to Angelina, “ till the girl has been up with the message.” 
 
 Oh, my Araminta! how my heart beats!” exclaimed Miss 
 SVarwick. 
 
 ‘‘How my mouth waters!” cried Betty Williams, looking 
 round at the fruit and confectionaries. 
 
 “ Would you, ma’am, be pleased,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “ to 
 take a glass of ice this warm evening ? cream-ice, or water-ice, 
 ma’am? pine-apple or strawberry ice?” As she spoke, Mrs. 
 Bertrand held a salver, covered with ices, toward Miss War- 
 wick : but, apparently, she thought that it was not consistent 
 wdth the delicacy of friendship to think of eating or drinking 
 when she was thus upon the eve of her first interview with her 
 Araminta. Betty Williams, who was of a different nature from 
 our heroine, saw the salver recede with excessive surprise and 
 regret; she stretched out her hand after it, and seized a glass 
 of raspberry-ice ; but no sooner had she tasted it than she made 
 a frightful face, and let the glass fall, exclaiming — 
 
 “ Pless us ! ’tis not as good as cooseberry fool.” 
 
 Mrs. Bertrand next offeredjier a cheesecake, which Betty ate 
 voraciously. 
 
 “ She’s actually a female Sancho Panza !” thought Angelina : 
 her own more striking resemblance to the female Quixote 
 never occurred to our heroine — so blind are we to our own 
 failings. 
 
 “Who is the young lady?” whispered the mistress of the 
 fruit shop to Betty Williams, whilst Miss Warwick was walking 
 — we should say pacing — up and down the room, in anxious 
 solicitude^ and evident agitation. 
 
 “Hur’s a young lady,” replied Betty, stopping to take a 
 mouthful of cheesecake between every member of her sentence, 
 “ a young lady — that has — ^lost hur ” 
 
 “ Her heart — so I thought.” 
 
 “ Hur purse !” said Betty, with an accent, which showed that 
 she thought this the more serious loss of the two. 
 
 “ Her purse ! — that’s bad indeed : — you pay for your own 
 
l'amie inconnue. 
 
 263 
 
 cheesecake and raspberry-ice, and for the glass that you broke,” 
 said Mrs. Bertrand. 
 
 “ Put hur has a great deal of money in hur trunk, I pelieve, 
 at Llanwaetur,” said Betty. 
 
 Surely Miss Hodges does not know I am here,” cried Miss 
 Warwick — her Angelina!” 
 
 ‘‘Ma’am, she’ll be down immediately, I do suppose,” said 
 Mrs. Bertrand. “ What was it you pleased called for — angelica, 
 ma’am, did you say? At present we are quite out. I’m ashamed 
 
 to say, of angelica, ma’am Well, child,” continued Mrs. 
 
 Bertrand to her maid, who was at this moment seen passing by 
 the back door of the shop in great haste. 
 
 “ Ma’am — anan,” said the maid, turning back her cap from 
 off her ear. 
 
 “ Anan ! deaf doll ! didn’t you hear me tell you to tell Miss 
 Hodges a lady wanted to speak to her in a great hurry ?” 
 
 “No, mam,” replied the girl, who spoke in the broad Somer- 
 setshire dialect : “ I heard you zay, up to Miss Hodges ; zoo I 
 thought it was the bottle o ’brandy, and zoo I took alung with 
 the tea-kettle— but I’ll go up again now, and zay miss bes in a 
 hurry, az she zays.” 
 
 “Brandy!” repeated Miss Warwick, on whom the word 
 seemed to make a great impression. 
 
 “Pranty, ay, pranty,” repeated Betty Williams — “our Miss 
 Hodges always takes pranty in her teas at Llanwaetur.” 
 
 “ Brandy ! — then she can’t be my Araminta.” 
 
 “ Oh, the very same, and no other ; you are quite right, 
 ma’am,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “if you mean the same that is 
 publishing the novel, ma’am, — ‘ The Sorrows of Araminta ’ — for 
 the reason I know so much about it is, that I take in the sub- 
 scriptions, and distributed the jowrposals.” 
 
 Angelina had scarcely time to believe or disbelieve what she 
 heard, before the maid returned, with “ Mam, Mizz Hodges haz 
 
 hur best love to you, mizz — and please to walk up There be 
 
 two steps ; please to have a care, or you’ll break your neck.” 
 Before we introduce Angelina to her “unknown friend,” we 
 must relate the conversation which was actually passing be- 
 tween the amiable Araminta and her Orlando, whilst Miss 
 Warwick was waiting in the fruit shop. Our readers will be 
 
264 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 SO good as to picture to themselves a woman, with a face and 
 figure which seemed to have been intended for a man, with a 
 voice and gesture capable of setting even man, ‘‘imperial man,” 
 at defiance — such was Araminta. She was, at this time, sitting 
 cross-legged in an arm-chair at a tea-table, on which, beside 
 the tea equipage, was a medley of things of which no prudent 
 tongue or pen would undertake to give a correct inventory. At 
 the feet of this fair lad}^, kneeling on one knee, was a thin, 
 subdued, simple-looking quaker, of the name of Nathaniel Ga- 
 zabo. 
 
 “ But now. Natty,” said Miss Hodges, in a voice more mas- 
 culine than her looks, “ you understand the conditions — If I 
 give you my hand, and make you my husband, it is upon condi- 
 tion that you never contradict any of my opinions : do you 
 promise me that ?” 
 
 “Yea, verily,” replied Nat. 
 
 “ And you promise to leave me entirely at liberty to act, as 
 well as to think, in all things as my own independent under- 
 standing shall suggest ?” 
 
 “Yea, verily,” was the man’s response. 
 
 “ And you will be guided by me in all things ?” 
 
 “ Yea, verily.” 
 
 “ And you will love and admire me all your life, as much as 
 you do now ?” 
 
 “Yea, verily.” 
 
 “ Swear,” said the unconscionable woman. 
 
 “ Nay, verily,” replied the meekest of men, I cannot swear, 
 my Rachel, being a quaker; but I will affirm.” 
 
 “ Swear, swear,” cried the lady, in an imperious tone, “or I 
 will never be your Araminta.” 
 
 “I swear,” said Nat Gazabo, in a timid voice. 
 
 “ Then, Natty, I consent to be Mrs. Hodges Gazabo. Only 
 remember always to call me your dear Araminta.” 
 
 “My dear Araminta ! thus,” said he, embracing her, “thus 
 let me thank thee, my dear Araminta !” 
 
 It was in the midst of these thanks that the maid interrupted 
 the well-matched pair, with the news that a young lady was 
 below, who was in a great hurry to see Miss Hodges. 
 
 “ Let her come,” said Miss Hodges ; “ I suppose it is only 
 
l’amie inconnde. 
 
 265 
 
 one of the Miss Carvers Don’t stir, Nat ; it will vex her to 
 
 see yon kneeling to me — don’t stir, I say ” 
 
 “Where is she? Where is my Araminta?” cried Miss War- 
 wick, as the maid was trying to open the outer passage-door for 
 her, which had a bad lock. 
 
 “ Get up, get up. Natty ; and get some fresh water in the 
 tea-kettle — quick!” cried Miss Hodges, and she began to clear 
 away some of the varieties of literature, &c., which lay scattered 
 about the room. Nat, in obedience to her commands, was 
 making his exit with all possible speed, when Angelina entered, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 “ My amiable Araminta 1 — My unknown friend !” 
 
 “ My Angelina ! — My charming Angelina!” cried Miss 
 Hodges. 
 
 Miss Hodges was not the sort of person our heroine expected 
 to see ; — and to conceal the panic, with which the first sight of 
 her unknown friend struck her disappointed imagination, she 
 turned hack to listen to the apologies which Nat Gazabo was 
 pouring forth about his awkwardness and the tea-kettle. 
 
 “Turn, Angelina, ever dear!” cried Miss Hodges, with the 
 tone and action of a bad actress who is rehearsing an embrace — 
 “ Turn, Angelina, ever dear ! — thus, thus let us meet, to part no 
 more.” 
 
 “ But her voice is so loud,” said Angelina to herself, “ and 
 her looks so vulgar, and there is such a smell of brandy ! — How 
 unlike the elegant delicacy I had expected in my unknown friend!” 
 Miss Warwick involuntarily shrunk from the stifling embrace. 
 
 “You are overpowered, my Angelina — ^lean on me,” said her 
 Araminta. 
 
 Nat Gazabo re-entered with the tea-kettle — 
 
 “ Here’s boiling water, and we’ll have fresh tea in a trice — the 
 
 young lady’s over-tired, seemingly Here’s a chair, miss, 
 
 ! here’s a chair,” cried Nat. Miss Warwick upon the chair : 
 Miss Hodges seated herself beside her^ continuing to address her 
 in a theatrical tone. 
 
 “ This moment is bliss unutterable ! my kind, my noble- 
 minded Angelina, thus to leave all your friends for your Ara- 
 minta!” — Suddenly changing her voice — “Set the tea-kettle, 
 Nat!” 
 
2G6 
 
 ANGELINA I Oil. 
 
 ‘‘Who is this Nat, I wonder?” thought Miss Warwick. 
 
 “ Well, and tell me,” said Miss Hodges, whose attention was 
 awkwardly divided between the ceremonies of making tea and 
 
 making speeches — “ and tell me, my Angelina That’s water 
 
 enough, Nat and tell me, my Angelina, how did you find 
 
 me out ?” 
 
 “With some difficulty, indeed, my Araminta” Miss Warwick 
 could hardly pronounce the words. 
 
 “ So kind, so noble-minded,” continued Miss Hodges — “ and 
 did you receive my last letter — three sheets? — And how did 
 
 you contrive Stoop the kettle, do, Nat.” 
 
 “ Oh, this odious Nat ! how I wish she would send him 
 away!” thought Miss Warwick. 
 
 “ And tell me, my Araminta — ^my Angelina I mean — ^how 
 did you contrive your elopement — and how did you escape from 
 the eye of your aristocratic Argus — how did you escape from 
 all your unfeeling persecutors ? — Tell me, tell me all your adven- 
 tures, my Angelina! Butter the toast, Nat,” said Miss 
 
 Hodges who was cutting bread and butter, which she did not do 
 with the celebrated grace of Charlotte, in the Sorrows of Werter. 
 
 “I’ll tell you all, my Araminta,” whispered Miss Warwick, 
 “when we are by ourselves.” 
 
 “ Oh, never mind Nat,” whispered Miss Hodges. 
 
 “Couldn’t you tell him,” rejoined Miss Warwick, “ that he 
 need not wait any longer ?” 
 
 “ Wait, my dear! why, what do you take him for?’' 
 
 “ Why, is not he your footman?” whispered Angelina. 
 
 “ My footman ! Nat!” exclaimed Miss Hodges, bursting 
 
 out a laughing, “ my Angelina took you for my footman.” 
 
 “ Good heavens! what is he?” said Angelina, in a low voice. 
 “Verily,” said Nat Gazabo, with a sort of bashful simple 
 laugh, “verily, I am the humblest of her servants.” 
 
 “ And does my Angelina — spare my delicacy,” said Miss 
 Hodges — “ does my Angelina not remember, in any of my long 
 
 letters, the name of — Orlando ! There he stands.” 
 
 “ Orlando ! — Is this gentleman your Orlando, of whom I have 
 heard so much?” 
 
 “He! he! he!” simpered Nat. “I am Orlando, of whom 
 you have heard so much ; and she — (pointing to Miss Hodges) 
 
l'amie inconnue. 
 
 267 
 
 I — she is, to-morrow morning, God willing, to be Mistress 
 
 I Hodges Gazabo.” 
 
 “Mrs. Hodges Gazabo, my Araminta!” said Angelina, with 
 astonishment, which she could not suppress. 
 
 “Yes, my Angelina : so end ‘The Sorrows of Araminta’ 
 
 Another cup? — do I make the tea too sweet?” said Miss 
 
 Hodges, whilst Nat handed the bread and butter to the ladies 
 
 officiously. 
 
 “ The man looks like a fool,” thought Miss Warwick. 
 
 “ Set down the bread and butter, and be quiet, Nat Then, 
 
 f as soon as the wedding is over, we fly, my Angelina, to our 
 i charming cottage in Wales : — there may we bid defiance to the 
 storms of fate — 
 
 ‘ The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’” 
 
 “That,” said Angelina, “‘is the blameless vestal’s lot:’ — 
 
 II but you forget that you are to be married, my Araminta ; and 
 
 you forget that, in your letter of three folio sheets, you said not 
 
 j one word to me of this intended marriage.” 
 
 “Nay, my dear, blame me not for a want of confidence, that 
 I my heart disclaims,” said Miss Hodges: “from the context of 
 my letters, you must have suspected the progress my Orlando 
 had made in my affections; but, indeed, I should not have 
 brought myself to decide apparently so precipitately, had it not 
 been for the opposition, the persecution of my friends — I was 
 j determined to show them that I know, and can assert, my right 
 to think and act, upon all occasions, for myself.” 
 
 Longer, much longer. Miss Hodges, spoke in the most pe- 
 remptory voice ; but whilst she was declaiming on her favourite 
 j topic, her Angelina was “revolving in her altered mind” the 
 :l strange things which she had seen and heard in the course of 
 : the last half-hour ; every thing appeared to her in a new light ; 
 
 ' when she compared the conversation and conduct of Miss 
 li Hodges with the sentimental letters of her Araminta ; when she 
 compared Orlando in description to Orlando in reality, she could 
 scarcely believe her senses : accustomed as she had been to 
 elegance of manners, the vulgarity and awkwardness of Miss 
 j Hodges shocked and disgusted her beyond measure. The dis- 
 
 j order, and — for the words must be said — slatternly dirty ap 
 
268 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 pearance of her Araminta’s dress, and of every thing in her 
 apartment, were such as would have made a hell of heaven ; 
 and the idea of spending her life in a cottage with Mrs. Hodges 
 Gazabo and Nat overwhelmed our heroine with the double fear 
 of wretchedness and ridicule. 
 
 “ Another cup of tea, my Angelina?” said Miss Hodges, when 
 she had finished her tirade against her persecutors, that is to 
 say, her friends, ^‘another cup, my Angelina? — do, after your 
 journey and fatigue, take another cup.” 
 
 ‘‘No more, I thank you.” 
 
 “ Then reach me that tragedy, Nat — you know ” 
 
 “ Your own tragedy, is it, my dear?” said he. 
 
 “Ah, Nat, now! you never can keep a secret,” said Miss 
 Hodges. “ I wanted to have surprised my Angelina.” 
 
 “ I am surprised! ” thought Angelina — “oh, how much sur- 
 prised ! ” 
 
 “ I have a motto for our cottage here somewhere,” said Miss 
 Hodges, turning over the leaves of her tragedy — “but I’ll keep 
 that till to-morrow — since to-morrow’s the day sacred to love 
 and friendship.” 
 
 Nat, by way of showing his joy in a becoming manner, 
 rubbed his hands, and hummed a tune. His mistress frowned, 
 and bit her lips ; but the signals w'ere lost upon him, and he 
 sung out, in an exulting tone — 
 
 “ When the lads of the village so merrily, ah ! 
 
 Sound their tahours, Fll hand thee along.” 
 
 “Fool! Dolt! Idiot!” cried his Araminta, rising furious — 
 “out of my sight! ” Then, sinking down upon the chair, she 
 burst into tears, and threw herself into the arms of her pale, 
 astonished Angelina. “ Oh, my Angelina ! ” she exclaimed, “ I 
 am the most ill-matched ! most unfortunate ! most wretched of 
 women ! ” 
 
 “ Don’t be miss,” said Nat; “she’ll come to again 
 
 presently — ’tis only her way'' As he spoke, he poured out a 
 bumper of brandy, and kneeling, presented it to his mistress. 
 “ ’Tis the only thing in life does her good,” continued he, “in 
 this sort of fits.” 
 
 “Heavens, what a scene!” said Miss Warwick to herself — 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 269 
 
 “ and the woman so heavy, I can scarce support her weight — 
 and is this my unknown friend? ” 
 
 How long Miss Hodges would willingly have continued to sob 
 upon Miss Warwick’s shoulder, or how long that shoulder could 
 possibly have sustained her weight, is a mixed problem in physics 
 and metaphysics, which must for ever remain unsolved : but 
 suddenly a loud scream was heard. Miss Hodges started up — 
 the door was thrown open, and Betty Williams rushed in, crying 
 loudly — “ Oh, shave me ! shave me ! for the love of Cot, shave 
 me, miss ! ” and, pushing by the swain, who held the unfinished 
 glass of brandy in his hand, she threw herself on her knees at 
 the feet of Angelina. 
 
 “Gracious me!” exclaimed Nat, “whatever you are, you 
 need not push one so.” 
 
 “What now, Betty Williams? is the wench mad or drunk? ' 
 cried Miss Hodges. 
 
 “We are to have a mad scene next, I suppose,” said Miss 
 Warwick, calmly — “ I am prepared for everything, after what I 
 have seen.” 
 
 Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wringing her 
 hands — “ Oh, shave me this once, miss ! ’tis the first thing of the 
 kind I ever tid, inteet, inteet ! Oh, shave me this once — I tid 
 not know it was worth so much as a shilling, and that I could 
 
 be hanged, inteet — and, I ” 
 
 Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Puffit, 
 the milliner, the printer’s devil, and a stern-looking man, to 
 whom Mrs. Puffit, as she came in, said, pointing to Betty Wil- 
 liams and Miss Warwick, “ There they are — do your duty, Mr. 
 Constable ; I’ll swear to my lace.” 
 
 “And I’ll swear to my black thumbs,” said the printer’s devil. 
 “ I saw the lace hanging out of her pocket, and there’s the marks 
 of my fingers upon it, Mr. Constable.” 
 
 “ Fellow 1 ” cried Miss Hodges, taking the constable by the arm, 
 “ this is my apartment, into which no minion of the law has a 
 right to enter; for, in England, every man’s house is his castle.” 
 “ I know that as well as you do, madam I ” said the constable; 
 “ but I make it a principle to do nothing without a warrant : 
 here’s my warrant.” 
 
 “ Oh, shave me ! the lace is hers inteet! ” cried Betty Wil- 
 
270 
 
 ANGELINA | OR 
 
 liams, pointing to Miss Warwick. ‘‘ Oh, miss is my mistress 
 inteet ” 
 
 ‘‘ Come, mistress or miss, then, you’ll be pleased to come 
 along with me,” said the constable, seizing hold of Angelina — 
 ‘‘like mistress, like maid.” 
 
 “ Villain ! unfeeling villain ! oh, unhand my Angelina, or I 
 shall die! I shall die ! ” exclaimed Araminta, falling into the 
 arms of Nat Gazabo, who immediately held the replenished 
 glass of brandy to her lips — “ Oh, my Angelina, my Angelina I” 
 
 Struck with horror at her situation. Miss Warwick shrunk 
 from the grasp of the constable, and leaned motionless on the 
 back of a chair. 
 
 “ Come, my angel, as they call you, I think — the lady there 
 has brandy enough, if you want spirits — all the fits and faintings 
 in Christendom won’t serve you now. I’m used to the tricks o’ 
 the trade. — The law must take its course ; and if you can’t walk, 
 I must carry you.” 
 
 “ Touch me at your peril ! I am innocent,” said Angelina. 
 
 “Innocent — innocence itself! pure, spotless, injured inno- 
 cence ! ” cried Miss Hodges. “ I shall die ! I shall die ! I shall 
 die on the spot ! barbarous, barbarous villain ! ” 
 
 Whilst Miss Hodges spoke, the ready Nat poured out a fresh 
 glass of that restorative, which he always had ready for cases of 
 life and death ; and she screamed and pipped, and sipped and 
 screamed, as the constable took up Angelina in his arms, and 
 carried her towards the door. 
 
 “Mrs. Innocence,” said the man, “you shall see whom you 
 shall see.” 
 
 Mrs. Puffit opened the door ; and, to the utter astonishment 
 of every body present. Lady Diana Chillingworth entered the 
 room, followed by Lady Frances Somerset and Mrs. Bertrand. 
 The constable set down Angelina. Miss Hodges set down the 
 glass of brandy. Mrs. Puffit curtsied. Betty Williams stretched 
 out her arms to Lady Diana, crying, “ Shave me ! shave me 
 this once ! ” Miss Warwick hid her face with her hands. 
 
 “ Only my Valenciennes lace, that has been found in that 
 girl’s pocket, and ” said Mrs. Puffit. 
 
 Lady Diana Chillingworth turned away with indescribable 
 haughtiness, and, addressing herself to her sister, said, “ Lady 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 271 
 
 Frances Somerset, you would not, I presume, have Lady Diana 
 Chillingworth lend her countenance to such a scene as this — I 
 hope, sister, that you are satisfied now.” As she said these 
 words, her ladyship walked out of the room. 
 
 “Never was further from being satisfied in my life,” said 
 Lady Frances. 
 
 “If you look at this, my lady,” said the constable, holding 
 out the lace, “ you’ll soon he satisfied as to what sort of a young 
 lady that is.” 
 
 Oh, you mistake the young lady,” said Mrs. Bertrand, and 
 she whispered to the constable. “ Come away : you may be 
 sure you’ll be satisfied — we shall all be satisfied, handsomely, 
 all in good time. Don’t let the delinquency there on her knees,” 
 added she aloud, pointing to Betty Williams — “ don’t let the 
 delinquency there on her knees escape.” 
 
 “Come along, mistress,” said the constable, pulling up Betty 
 Williams from her knees. “ But I say the law must have its 
 course, if I am not satisfied.” 
 
 “Oh, I am confident,” said Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, “we 
 shall all he satisfied, no doubt; but Lady Di. Chillingworth 
 knows my Valenciennes lace, and Miss Burrage too, for they 
 did me this morning the honour ” 
 
 “Will you do me the favour,” interrupted Lady Frances 
 Somerset, “to leave us, good Mrs. Puffit, for the present? Here 
 is some mistake — the less noise we make about it. the better. 
 You shall be satisfied.” 
 
 “ Oh, your ladyship — I’m sure. I’m confident — I sha’n’t utter 
 another syllable — nor never would have articulated a syllable 
 about the lace (though Valenciennes, and worth thirty guineas, 
 if it is worth a farthing), had I had the least intimacy or sus- 
 picion the young lady was your la’ship’s protegee. I sha’n’t, at 
 any rate, utter another syllable.” 
 
 Mrs. Puffit, having glibly run off this speech, left the room, 
 and carried in her train the constable and Betty Williams, the 
 printer’s devil, and Mrs. Bertrand, the woman of the house. 
 
 Miss Warwick, whose confusion during this whole scene was 
 excessive, stood without power to speak or move. 
 
 “ Thank God, they are gone ! ” said Lady Frances ; and she 
 went to Angelina, and taking her hands gently from before her 
 
272 
 
 ANGELINA; OR. 
 
 face, said, in a soothing tone, ‘‘Miss Warwick, your friend. 
 
 Lady Frances Somerset, you cannot think that she suspects ” 
 
 “ La, dear, no! ” cried Nat Gazabo, who had now sufficiently 
 recovered from his fright and amazement to be able to speak : 
 “Dear heart! who could go for to suspect such a thing? but 
 they made such a bustle and noise, they quite flabbergasted me, 
 so maany on them in this small room. Please to sit down, my 
 lady. — Is there any thing I can do?” 
 
 “ If you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a few 
 minutes,” said Lady Frances, in a polite, persuasive manner — 
 “if you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a few 
 minutes.” 
 
 Nat, who was not always spoken to by so gentle a voice, 
 smiled, bowed, and was retiring, when Miss Hodges came 
 forward with an air of defiance : “ Aristocratic insolence ! ” 
 exclaimed she : “ Stop, Nat — stir not a foot, at your peril, at 
 the word of command of any of the privileged orders upon earth — 
 stir not a foot, at your peril, at the behest of any titled She in the 
 universe ! — Madam, or my lady — or by whatever other name more 
 high, more low, you choose to be addressed — this is my husband.” 
 “Very probably, madam,” said Lady Frances, with an easy 
 calmness, which provoked Miss Hodges to a louder tone of 
 indignation. 
 
 “Stir not a foot, at your peril, Nat,” cried she. “I will 
 defend him, I say, madam, against every shadow, every pen- 
 umbra of aristocratic insolence.” 
 
 “ As you and he think proper, madam,” replied Lady Frances. 
 “ ’Tis easy to defend the gentleman against shadows.” 
 
 Miss Hodges marched up and down the room with her arms 
 folded. Nat stood stock still. 
 
 “The woman,” whispered Lady Frances to Miss Warwick, 
 “ is either mad or drunk — or both ; at all events we shall be 
 better in another room.” As she spoke, she drew Miss War- 
 wick’s arm within hers. — “ Will you allow aristocratic insolence 
 to pass by you, sir?” said she to Nat Gazabo, who stood like a 
 statue in the doorway — ^he edged himself aside. 
 
 “And is this your independence of soul, my Angelina? 
 cried Araminta, setting her back to the door, so as effectually 
 to prevent her from passing — “ and is this your independence 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 273 
 
 of soul, my Angelina — thus, thus tamely to submit, to resign 
 yourself again to your unfeeling, proud, prejudiced, intellect- 
 lacking persecutors ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ This lady is my friend, madam,” said Angelina, in as firm 
 and tranquil a tone as she could command, for she was quite 
 terrified by her Araminta’s violence. 
 
 “ Take your choice, my dear ; stay or follow me, as you think 
 best,” said Lady Frances. 
 
 ‘‘ Your friend ! ” pursued the oratorical lady, detaining Miss 
 Warwick with a heavy hand : “ Do you feel the force of the 
 word? Can you feel it, as I once thought you could? Your 
 friend ! am not I your friend, your best friend, my Angelina ? 
 your own Araminta, your amiable Araminta, your unknown 
 friend ? ” 
 
 “ My unknown friend, indeed ! ” said Angelina. Miss Hodges 
 let go her struggling hand, and Miss Warwick that instant fol- 
 lowed Lady Frances, who, having effected her retreat, had by 
 this time gained the staircase. 
 
 ‘‘ Gone ! ” cried Miss Hodges ; “ then never will I see or speak 
 to her more. Thus I whistle her off, and let her down the wind 
 to prey at fortune.” 
 
 Gracious heart! what quarrels,” said Naf, ‘‘ and doings, the 
 night before our wedding-day ! ” 
 
 We leave this well-matched pair to their happy prospects of 
 conjugal union and equality. 
 
 Lady Frances, who perceived that Miss Warwick was scarcely 
 able to support herself, led her to a sofa, which she luckily saw 
 through the half-open door of a drawing-room, at the head of 
 the staircase. 
 
 “To be taken for a thief! — Oh, to what have I exposed 
 myself!” said Miss Warwick. 
 
 “ Sit down, my dear, now we are in a room where we 
 need not fear interruption — sit down, and don’t tremble like 
 an aspen leaf,” said Lady Frances Somerset, who saw that .at 
 this moment, reproaches would have been equally unnecessary 
 and cruel. 
 
 Unused to’ be treated with judicious kindness, Angelina’s 
 heart was deeply touched by it, and she opened her whole mind 
 to Lady Frances, with the frankness of a young person con- 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 scious of her own folly, not desirous to apologize or extenuate, 
 but anxious to regain the esteem of a friend. 
 
 “ To be sure, my dear, it was, as you say, rather foolish to 
 set out in quest of an unknown Jnendj'" said Lady Frances, after 
 listening to the confessions of Angelina. And why, after all, 
 was it necessary to have an elopement?” 
 
 Oh, madam, I am sensible of my folly — I had long formed 
 a project of living in a cottage in Wales — and Miss Burrage 
 described Wales to me as a terrestrial paradise.” 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Burrage ! then why did she not go to paradise along 
 with you?” said Lady Frances. 
 
 “ I don’t know — she was was so much attached to Lady Di. 
 Chillingworth, she said, she could never think of leaving her : 
 she charged me never to mention the cottage scheme to Lady 
 Di., who would only laugh at it. Indeed, Lady Di. was almost 
 always out whilst we were in London, or dressing, or at cards, 
 and I could seldom speak to her, especially about cottages ; 
 and I wished for a friend, to whom I could open my whole 
 heart, and whom I could love and esteem, and who should have 
 the same tastes and notions with myself.” 
 
 I am sorry that last condition is part of your definition of 
 a friend,” said Lady Frances, smiling; ‘‘for I will not swear 
 that my notions are the same as yours, but yet I think you 
 would have found me as good a friend as this Araminta of 
 yours. Was it necessary to perfect felicity to have an unknown 
 friend f’ 
 
 “ Ah ! there was my mistake,” said Miss Warwick. “ I had 
 read Araminta’s writings, and they speak so charmingly of 
 friendship and felicity, that I thought 
 
 ‘ Those best can paint them who can feel them most.’ ” 
 
 “ No uncommon mistake,” said Lady Frances. 
 
 “ But I am fully sensible of my folly,” said Angelina. 
 
 “ Then there is no occasion to say any more about it at pre- 
 sent — to-morrow, as you like romances, we’ll read Arabella, or 
 the Female Quixote ; and you shall tell me which, of all your 
 acquaintance, the heroine resembles most. And in the mean 
 time, as you seem to have satisfied your curiosity about your 
 unknown friend^ will you come home with me ?” 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 275 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, madam,” said Angelina, with emotion, your good- 
 ness^—” 
 
 “ But we have not time to talk of my goodness yet — stay — 
 let me see — yes, it will be best that it should be known that you 
 are with us as soon as possible — for there is a thing, my dear, 
 of which, perhaps, you are not fully sensible — of which you are 
 too young to be fully sensible — that, to people who have nothing 
 to do or to say, scandal is a necessary luxury of life ; and that, 
 by such a step as you have taken, you have given room enough 
 for scandal-mongers to make you and your friends completely 
 miserable.” 
 
 Angelina burst into tears — though a sentimental lady, she 
 had not yet acquired the art of bursting into tears upon every 
 trifling occasion. Hers were tears of real feeling. Lady 
 Frances was glad to see that she had made a sufficient impres- 
 sion upon her mind; but she assured Angelina that she did not 
 intend to torment her with useless lectures and reproaches. 
 Lady Frances Somerset understood the art of giving advice 
 rather better than Lady Diana Chilling worth. 
 
 “ I do not mean, my dear,” said Lady Frances, “ to make 
 you miserable for life — but I mean to make an impression upon 
 you that may make you prudent and happy for life. So don’t 
 cry till you make your eyes so red as not to be fit to be seen 
 at the play to-night, where they must — positively — be seen.” 
 
 But Lady Diana is below,” said Miss Warwick: ‘‘ I am 
 ashamed and afraid to see her again.” 
 
 It will be difficult, but I hope not impossible, to convince 
 my sister,” said Lady Frances, that you clearly understand 
 that you have been a simpleton ; but that a simpleton of sixteen 
 is more an object of mercy than a simpleton of sixty — so my 
 verdict is — Guilty ; — but recommended to mercy.” 
 
 By this mercy Angelina was more touched than she could 
 have been by the most severe reproaches. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Whilst the preceding conversation was passing. Lady Diana 
 Chillingworth was in Mrs. Bertrand’s fruit-shop, occupied with 
 
276 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 her smelling-bottle and Miss Burrage. Clara Hope was there 
 also, and Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, and Mrs. Bertrand, who 
 was assuring her ladyship that not a word of the affair about the 
 young lady and the lace should go out of her house. 
 
 ‘‘ Your la’ship need not be in the least uneasy,” said Mrs. 
 Bertrand, “ for I have satisfied the constable, and satisfied every 
 body ; and the constable allows Miss Warwick’s name was not 
 mentioned in the warrant; and as to the servant girl, she’s gone 
 before the magistrate, who, of course, will send her to the 
 house of correction ; but that will no ways implicate the young 
 lady, and nothing shall transpire from this house detrimental to 
 the young lady, who is under your la’ship ’s protection. And 
 I’ll tell your la’ship how Mrs. Puffit and I have settled to 
 tell the story : with your ladyship’s approbation, I shall say ” 
 
 ‘‘ Nothing, if you please,” said her ladyship, with more than 
 her usual haughtiness. ‘‘ The young lady to whom you allude 
 is under Lady Frances Somerset’s protection, not mine ; and 
 whatever you do or say, I beg that in this affair the name of 
 Lady Diana Chillingworth may not be used.” 
 
 She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as she 
 finished this speech, and walked to the furthest end of the long 
 room, followed by the constant flatterer of all her humours, Miss 
 Burrage. 
 
 The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console them- 
 selves for the mortification they had received from her ladyship’s 
 pride, and for the insolent forgetfulness of her companion, by 
 abusing them both in a low voice. Mrs. Bertrand began with, 
 ‘‘ Her ladyship’s so touchy and so proud ; she’s as high as the 
 moon, and higher.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so,” said 
 Mrs. Puffit ; “ but then, to he sure, they have a right to be so 
 if any body has, for they certainly are real high-born people. 
 But I can’t tolerate to see some people, that aren’t no ways 
 born nor entitled to it, give themselves such airs as some people 
 do. Now, there’s that Miss Burrage, that pretends not to know 
 me, ma’am.” 
 
 “ And me, ma’am, — just the same ; such provoking assur- 
 ance ; — I that knew her from this high.” 
 
 “ On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit. 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 277 
 
 ‘‘ On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” echoed Mrs. Ber- 
 trand. 
 
 “ So I told her this morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Puffit. 
 
 “ And so I told her this evening, ma’am, when the three 
 Miss Herrings came in to give me a call in their way to the 
 play ; girls that she used to walk with, ma’am, for ever and 
 ever in the green, you know.” 
 
 ^‘Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea with, 
 ma’am, when asked, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, ma’am,” pursued Mrs. Bertrand, “ here she had the 
 impudence to pretend not to know them. She takes up her 
 glass — my Lady Di. herself couldn’t have done it better, and 
 squeezes up her ugly face this way, pretending to be near- 
 sighted, though she can see as well as you or I can.” 
 
 ‘‘ Such airs ! she near-sighted !” said Mrs. Puffit : ‘‘ what will 
 the world come to !” 
 
 Oh, I wish her pride may have a fall,” resumed the pro- 
 voked milliner, as soon as she had breath. I dare to say now 
 she wouldn’t know her own relations if she was to meet them ; 
 I’d lay any wager she would not vouchsafe a curtsy to that 
 good old J ohn Barker, the friend of her father, you know, who 
 gave up to this Miss Burrage I don’t know how many hundreds 
 of pounds, that were due to him, or else miss wouldn’t have had 
 a farthing in the world ; yet now. I’ll be bound, she’d forget 
 this as well as St. Augustin’s Back, and wouldn’t know John 
 Barker from Abraham ; and I don’t doubt that she’d pull out 
 her glass at her aunt Dinah, because she is a cheesemonger’s 
 widow.” 
 
 Oh no,” said Mrs. Bertrand, she couldn’t have the base- 
 ness to be near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred her up, 
 and was all in all to her.” 
 
 Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit-shop 
 walked the very persons of whom she had been talking — Dinah 
 Plait and Mr. Barker. 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare !” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand. 
 
 ‘‘ I never was so glad to see you, Mrs. Plait and Mr. Barker, 
 in all my days,” said Mrs. Puffit. 
 
 Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, Mrs. 
 Puffit, I don’t know,” said Mr. Barker, laughing; “ but I’m 
 
278 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 not surprised Dinah Plait should be a welcome guest wherever 
 she goes, especially with a purse full of guineas in her hand.” 
 
 Friend Bertrand,” said Dinah Plait, producing a purse 
 which she held under her cloak, I am come to restore this 
 purse to its rightful owner : after a great deal of trouble, John 
 Barker (who never thinks it a trouble to do good) hath traced 
 her to your house.” 
 
 There is a young lady here, to he sure,” said Mrs. Bertrand, 
 but you can’t see her just at present, for she is talking on pct- 
 ticlar business with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs.” 
 
 “ ’Tis well,” said Dinah Plait: “ I would willingly restore 
 this purse, not to the young creature herself, but to some of her 
 friends, — for I fear she is not quite in a right state of mind. If 
 I could see any of the young lady’s friends.” 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Burrage,” cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so 
 loud that she could not avoid hearing it, ‘‘ are not you one of 
 the young lady’s friends?” 
 
 ‘‘ What young lady’s friend?” replied Miss Burrage, without 
 stirring from her seat. 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Burrage, here’s a purse for a young lady,” said Mrs. 
 Puffit. 
 
 ‘‘A purse for whom? Where?” said Miss Burrage, at last 
 deigning to rise, and come out of her recess. 
 
 There, ma’am,” said the milliner. ‘‘Now for her glass!” 
 whispered Mrs. Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it 
 had been predicted, Miss Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through 
 her glass, pretending not to know her. “ The purse is not mine,” 
 said she, coolly : “I know nothing of it — nothing.” 
 
 “Hetty!” exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still 
 eyed her through her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, 
 Dinah thought that, however strong the resemblance, she was 
 mistaken. “ No, it can’t be Hetty. I beg pardon, madam,’" 
 
 said she, “but I took you for Did not I hear you say the 
 
 name of Burrage, friend Puffit?” 
 
 “Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire,” said 
 the milliner, with malicious archness. 
 
 “ One of the Burrages . of Dorsetshire : I beg pardon. But 
 did you ever see such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor 
 niece, Hetty Burrage ?” 
 
L AMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 279 
 
 Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned 
 her back upon her aunt. “ A grotesque statue of starch, — one 
 of your quakers, I think, they call themselves : Bristol is full of 
 such primitive figures,” said Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and 
 she walked back to the recess and to Lady Di. 
 
 “So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester,” said Dinah 
 Plait, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. “ Though Hetty 
 has neglected me so of late, I have a tenderness for her ; we 
 cannot but have some for our own relations.” 
 
 “ Grotesque or not, ’tis a statue that seems to have a heart, 
 and a gude one,” said Clara Hope. 
 
 “I wish we could say the same of every body,” said Mrs. 
 Bertrand. 
 
 All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had 
 been silent: “Burrage of Dorsetshire !” said he; “ I’ll soon 
 see whether she be or no ; for Hetty has a wart on her 
 chin that I cannot forget, let her forget whom and what she 
 pleases.” 
 
 Mr. Barker, w'ho was a plain-spoken, determined man, fol- 
 lowed the young lady to the recess ; and, after looking her full 
 in the face, exclaimed in a loud voice, “ Here’s the wart ! — ’tis 
 Hetty!” 
 
 “Sir! — wart! — man! — Lady Di. !” cried Miss Burrage, in 
 accents of the utmost distress and vexation. 
 
 Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by 
 no means relinquish her hand ; but leading, or rather pulling 
 her forwards, he went on with barbarous steadiness : “ Dinah,” 
 said he, “ ’tis your own niece. Hetty, ’tis your own aunt, that 
 bred you up ! What, struggle — Burrage of Dorsetshire !” 
 
 “There certainly,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a 
 solemn tone, “is a conspiracy, this night, against my poor 
 nerves. These people, amongst them, will infallibly surprise 
 me to death. What is the matter now ? — why do you drag the 
 young lady, sir? She came here with me, sir, — with Lady 
 Diana Chillingworth ; and, consequently, she is not a person to 
 be insulted.” 
 
 “ Insult her!” said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was 
 not to be bafiled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss 
 Burrage, or by the imposing manner and awful name of Lady 
 
280 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, 
 
 Diana Chillingworth. Insult her ! why, ’tis she insults us ; 
 she won’t know us.” 
 
 How should Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any body here ?” 
 said Lady Diana, looking round, as if upon beings of a species 
 different from her own. 
 
 ‘‘ How should she know her own aunt that bred her up ?” 
 said the invincible John Barker, and me who have had her on 
 my knee a hundred times, giving her barley-sugar till she was 
 sick ?” 
 
 “ Sick ! I am sure you make me sick,” said Lady Diana. 
 ‘‘ Sir, that young lady is one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, as 
 good a family as any in England.” 
 
 Madam,” said John Barker, replying in a solemnity of tone 
 equal to her ladyship’s, “ that young lady is one of the Burrages 
 of Bristol, drysalters ; niece to Dinah Plait, who is widow to a 
 man, who was, in his time, as honest a cheesemonger as any in 
 England.” 
 
 Miss Burrage ! — My God! — don’t you speak !” cftied Lady 
 Diana, in a voice of terror. 
 
 “ The young lady is bashful, my lady, among strangers,” 
 said Mrs. Bertrand. 
 
 Oh, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee ?” said Dinah 
 Plait, with an accent of mixed sorrow and affection ; ‘‘ but thou 
 art my niece, and I forgive thee.” 
 
 ‘‘A chee^iemonger’s niece !” cried Lady Diana, with horror; 
 ‘‘how have I been deceived! But this is the consequence of 
 making acquaintance at Buxton, and those watering-places : 
 I’ve done with her, however. Lord bless me ! here comes my 
 sister. Lady Frances! Good heavens! my dear,” continued 
 her ladyship, going to meet her sister, and drawing her into the 
 recess at the farthest end of the room, “ here are more misfor- 
 tunes — misfortunes without end. What will the world say? 
 Here’s this Miss Burrage, — take no more notice of her, sister; 
 she’s an impostor; who do you think she turns out to be? 
 Daughter to a drysalter, niece to a cheesemonger ! Only con- 
 ceive ! — a person that has been going about with me every 
 where ! — What will the world say ?” 
 
 “ That it is very imprudent to have unknown friends, my 
 dear,” replied Lady Frances. “The best thing you can possi- 
 
l’amie inconnue. 
 
 281 
 
 bly do is to say nothing about the matter, and to receive this 
 penitent ward of yours without reproaches ; for if you talk of 
 her unknown friends^ the world will certainly talk of yours.” 
 
 Lady Diana drew back with haughtiness when her sister 
 offered to put Miss Warwick’s hands into hers ; but she conde- 
 scended to say, after an apparent struggle with herself, “ I am 
 happy to hear. Miss Warwick, that you have returned to your 
 senses. Lady Frances takes you under her protection, I under- 
 stand; at which, for all our sakes, I rejoice ; and I have only 
 
 one piece of advice. Miss Warwick, to give you ” 
 
 ‘‘ Keep it till after the play, my dear Diana,” whispered Lady 
 Frances; ‘‘it will have more effect.” 
 
 “The play! — Bless me !” said Lady Diana, “ why, you have 
 contrived to make Miss Warwick fit to be seen, I protest. But, 
 after all I have gone through to-night, how can I appear in 
 public ? My dear, this Miss Burrage’s business has given me 
 such a shock, — such nervous affections 1” 
 
 “ Nervous affections ! — Some people, I do believe, have none 
 but nervous affections,” thought Lady Frances. 
 
 “Permit me,” said Mrs. Dinah Plait, coming up to Lady 
 Frances, and presenting Miss Warwick’s purse — “permit me, 
 as thou seemest to be a friend to this young lady, to restore to 
 thee her purse, which she left by mistake at my house this 
 forenoon. I hope she is better, poor thing !” 
 
 “ She is better, and I thank you for her, madam,” said Lady 
 Frances, who was struck with the obliging manner and bene- 
 volent countenance of Dinah Plait, and who did not think herself 
 contaminated by standing in the same room with the widow of a 
 cheesemonger. 
 
 “Let me thank you myself, madam,” said Angelina; “I am 
 perfectly in my senses now., I can assure you ; and I shall never 
 forget the kindness which you and this benevolent gentleman 
 showed me when you thought I was in real distress.” 
 
 “ Some people are more grateful than other people,” said 
 Mrs. Puffit, looking at Miss Burrage, who in mortified, sullen 
 silence, followed the aunt and the benefactor of whom she was 
 ashamed, and who had reason to be ashamed of her. 
 
 We do not imagine that our readers can be much interested 
 for a young lady who was such a compound of pride and mean- 
 
282 
 
 ANGELINA; OR, l’aMIE INCONNUE. 
 
 ness ; we shall therefore only add, that her future life was spent 
 on St. Augustin’s Back, where she made herself at once as 
 ridiculous and as unhappy as she deserved to be. 
 
 As for our heroine, under the friendly and judicious care of 
 Lady Frances Somerset, she acquired that which is more useful 
 to the possessor than genius — good sense. Instead of rambling 
 over the world in search of an unknown friend^ she attached 
 herself to those of whose worth she received proofs more con- 
 vincing than a letter of three folio sheets, stuffed with sentimental 
 nonsense. In short, we have now, in the name of Angelina 
 Warwick, the pleasure to assure all those whom it may concern, 
 that it is possible for a young lady of sixteen to cure herself of 
 the affectation of sensibility, and the folly of romance. 
 
THE 
 
 GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robespierre, was 
 Mad. de Rosier, a lady of good family, excellent understanding, 
 and most amiable character. Her husband, and her only son, a 
 promising young man of about fourteen, were dragged to the 
 horrid prison of the Conciergerie, and their names, soon after- 
 ward, 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 
 ” fly for protection. English travellers have sometimes 
 been accused of forgetting the civilities which they receive in 
 foreign countries ; hut their conduct towards the French emi- 
 grants 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 ; hut 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 exer- 
 tions. 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 v/oman, 
 and continued to be a very fine lady ; she had good abilities, 
 
284 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 T 
 
 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 con- 
 fidence 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 know- 
 ledge 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. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 285 
 
 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 play- 
 thing 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 attract- 
 ing 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, pro- 
 nounced 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 over- 
 spread 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 I” — “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 pro- 
 phecies, 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 
 
286 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 agreeable in the drawing-room than in the nursery, for his 
 mother usually announced him to the company by the appro- 
 priate appellation of Roughhead ; and Werhext Roughhead hemg 
 assailed, at his entrance into the room, by a variety of petty 
 reproaches and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth appear- 
 ance, 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 sup- 
 plied 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, 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 287 
 
 and when he heard the encouraging tone of her voice, he ap- 
 proached, held his whip fast in his right hand, but very cor- 
 dially 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 espe- 
 cially 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 con- 
 versing 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 Me- 
 moria Technica, or else you never could have such a prodigious 
 quantity of dates in your head. Had you as much knowledge 
 chronology and history, when you were of my age, as — as—” 
 
288 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 “As you have?'’ said Mad. de Rosier : “ I do not know whe- 
 ther I had at your age, but 1 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. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 289 
 
 ‘‘A person,” continued Isabella, ‘‘could make no figure in 
 conversation, you know, amongst well-informed people, if she 
 didn’t know these things.” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ nor could she make 
 a figure amongst well-informed people, by telling them what, as 
 you observed just now, every body knows.” 
 
 “But I do not mean,” said Isabella, after a mortified pause, 
 “ that every body knows the remarkable events, though they may 
 have learnt the reigns of the kings by heart ; for I assure you, 
 the other day, I found it a great advantage, when somebody 
 was talking about the powder-tax, to be able to tell, in a room 
 full of company, that powder for the hair was first introduced 
 into England in the year 1614; and that potatoes, which, very 
 luckily for me, were next to powder in “ the Tablet of Memory,” 
 were first brought to England in the year 1586. And the very 
 same evening, when mamma was showing some pretty coloured 
 note paper, which she had just got, I had an opportunity of 
 saying, that white paper was first made in England in the year 
 1587 ; and a gentleman made me a bow, and said he would 
 give the world for my memory. So you see that these, at 
 least, are not to be counted amongst the useless things — are 
 they ?” 
 
 “Certainly not,” replied Mad. de Rosier: “we can form 
 some idea of the civilization of a country at any period, by 
 knowing that such a frivolous luxury as powder was then first 
 introduced : trifles become matters of importance to those who 
 have the good sense to know how to make them of use ; and as 
 for paper, that and the art of printing are so intimately con- 
 nected ” 
 
 “ Ah!” interrupted Isabella, “ if they had asked me, I could 
 have told them when the first printing-press was established in 
 Westminster Abbey — in 1474.” 
 
 “ And paper was made in England?” 
 
 “ Have you forgot so soon ? — ^in 1587.” 
 
 “ It is well worth remarking,” said Mad. de Rosier, “ that 
 literature in England must have, at that time, made but a very 
 slow progress, since a hundred years had elapsed between the 
 establishing of your printing-press, and the making of your white 
 paper; — I allow these are not useless facts.” 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 in- 
 genious young people should have much left to their own intel- 
 ligent 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 after- 
 wards 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 beau- 
 tiful and accomplished daughter ; she dwelt upon every cir- 
 cumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of 
 questions. 
 
 ‘‘ I think I can form a perfect idea of her now,” said Ma- 
 tilda, 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.” 
 
 1 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 291 
 
 only childish affection which is without esteem. Rosalie was 
 esteemed autant qu'aimee.'' 
 
 ‘‘ How I should have liked such a friend ! hut I am afraid 
 she would have been so much my superior, she would have 
 despised me — Isabella would have had all her conversation, be- 
 cause 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 hook of prints that he wanted to 
 see.” 
 
 It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to look into 
 a hook. 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 suf- 
 ficient 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 
 
 u 2 
 
292 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 unfor- 
 tunate 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 inge- 
 nious 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 reproach- 
 ful tone — nor baby houses !” ‘‘ Nor soldiers — nor a drmn !’' 
 
 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 grea^ 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 293 
 
 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 f 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 spec- 
 tators of this fit of disdain, she condescended to be pleased, and 
 spied a few things worthy of her notice. Bilboquets, battle- 
 dores, 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 magni- 
 fying 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 exclaim- 
 ing 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. 
 
294 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 Her- 
 bert 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 regu- 
 larly 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 asso- 
 ciations of pleasure which he would form with the types in the 
 little compositor’s stick, would efface the painful remembrance 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 295 
 
 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 inde- 
 pendent 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 impa- 
 tient 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 histo- 
 
296 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 rian, 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 ; hut I agree with you in thinking, that as people 
 who cannot judge for themselves are apt to be misled by names, 
 it would he advantageous to invent some new name for philo- 
 sophical novels, that they may no longer be contraband goods 
 — that they may not he 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; 
 hut 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 accus- 
 tomed to converse ; hut 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 know- 
 ledge, 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 297 
 
 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 Mrsi Harcourt, shrinking back, and looking at 
 Herbert’s hands, which were not as white as her own. v 
 
 “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 
 dressinff-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 he 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 he 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 
 
298 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 workwoman, fixed the mother’s pleased attention, and she, for a 
 moment, forgot that lier carriage was waiting. 
 
 “The carriage is at the door, ma’am,” said the footman. 
 
 “I must he 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 sha’n’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 somethings she now and then suffered them to 
 experience the misery of having nothing to do. The state of 
 ennuis 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 national 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 !” hut she prudently began by putting forbidden goods 
 entirely out of his reach : thus she, at least, prevented the 
 necessity for perpetual, instating prohibitions, and diminished 
 with the temptation the desire to disobey ; she gave him some 
 things for his own use, and scrupulously refrained from encroach- 
 ing upon his property : Isabella and Matilda followed her 
 example, in this respect, and thus practically explained to 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 299 
 
 Herbert the meaning of the words mine and yours, lie 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^,'* 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. 
 
 “To hear sxidi 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 uphol- 
 
 * Blackstone. 
 
300 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 sterer’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 Metiers, BufFon, and several books, which contained 
 good prints of animals, machines, and architecture ; these pro- 
 vided 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 
 
 “ 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 
 
 2 Vide Rousseau. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 SOI 
 
 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 com- 
 mandments.” 
 
 ril 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 Herbertiwg 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 2von''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 
 
302 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 nighty 
 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 wonder- 
 ing, 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, w^henever 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 303 
 
 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 theam- 
 selves up, and wear pearl powder, and false auburn hair, and 
 twenty things that are not to he 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 creme-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 inter- 
 ested 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 — 
 
304 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 ‘ Une femme douce et sage 
 A toujours tant d’avantage ! 
 
 Elle a pour clle en partage 
 L’agrement, ct la raison.’ ” 
 
 Isabella,” said Mrs. Harcourt, from whom a scarcely audi- 
 ble 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 /to, 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 Mrs. Har- 
 
 court 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 affec- 
 tion 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. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 305 
 
 We have already pointed out how she discouraged, in Isabella, 
 the vain desire to load her memory with historical and chrono- 
 logical facts, merely for the purpose of ostentation. She gra- 
 dually 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 i 
 success, she was inspired with courage to converse unreservedly. 
 
 An accidept pointed out to Mad. de Rosier another resource 
 in Matilda’s education. One day Herbert called his sister 
 Matilda to look at an an t,^ 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 con- 
 tinually, 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 
 
 X 
 
SOG 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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?” 
 
 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 Ma- 
 tilda’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 v/as not a 
 matter that admitted of the uncertainty which alarms timid 
 tempers. Mad. de Rosier began by asking her young arithme- 
 tician questions only when they were by themselves — but by 
 and by she appealed to her before the rest of the family. Ma- 
 tilda 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 fiiactions. 
 
 “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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 307 
 
 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 Flerbert’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 plea- 
 sure 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 gene- 
 rally 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 
 
 X 2 
 
308 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 impression upon Herbert, and she thought it a good oppor- 
 tunity, 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 asso- 
 ciations, 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 under- 
 standing, 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; 1 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.'' 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 309 
 
 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 choos- 
 ing 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 and who cannot, or 
 will not, tell why they choose it, I despise.” 
 
 “Oh, so do I!” said Favoretta: “you know, brother, when- 
 ever 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 rea- 
 son 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.” 
 
310 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 
 •yvho 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^ow,” 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 after- 
 wards 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 Dxeajl 
 it to you ?” 
 
 Mad. de Rosier consented, and Herbert read as follows 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 311 
 
 “ Much has been said of the stupid and stubborn disposition 
 of the ass, but we are greatly inclined to suspect that the asper- 
 sion 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 con- 
 veys 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 plea- 
 sure 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 some- 
 times 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. 
 AHthe by,” continued Herbert, who now seemed eager to re- 
 collect something by which he could show his readiness to 
 obey — by the by, Grace told me that my mother desired I 
 
312 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 should go to her, and have my hair comhed 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 he 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.” 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 313 
 
 ‘‘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, hut 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 organs lamp, I said, ‘ Dear ! Master 
 Herbert’s hair’s as rough as a porcupine’s ;’ and you said directly, 
 ma’am, if you recollect, ‘ I wish you would make that boy’s hair 
 fit to be seen those was your very words, ma’am, and I thought 
 you meant always, ma’am.” 
 
 “ You mistook me, Grace,” said Mrs. Harcourt, smiling at 
 her maid’s eager volubility : “ in future, you understand, that 
 Herbert is to be entire master of his own hair.” 
 
 “ Thank you, mother,” said Herbert. 
 
 “ Nay, my dear Herbert, thank Mad. de Rosier : I only speak 
 in her , name. You understand, I am sure, Grace, now,” said 
 Mrs. Harcourt, calling to her maid, who seemed to be in haste 
 to quit the room — “ you, I hope, understand, Grace, that Mad. 
 de Rosier and I are always of one mind about the children ; 
 therefore you need never be puzzled by contradictory orders — 
 hers are to be obeyed.” 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt was so much pleased when she looked at 
 Herbert, as she concluded this sentence, to see an expression 
 of great affection and gratitude, that she stooped instantly to 
 kiss him. 
 
 “ Another kiss ! 'two kisses to-day from my mother, and one 
 of her own accord!” exclaimed Herbert joyfully, running out 
 of the room to tell the news to Favoretta. 
 
 “That boy has a heart,” said Mrs. Harcourt, with some 
 
314 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 emotion ; ‘‘ you have found it out for me, Mad. de Rosier, and 
 I thank you.” 
 
 Mad. de Rosier seized the propitious moment to present a 
 card of invitation, which Herbert, with much labour, had printed 
 with his little printing-press. 
 
 ‘ What have we here ?” said Mrs. Harcourt, and she read 
 aloud — 
 
 ‘ Mr. Herbert Harcourt’s love to his dear mother, and, if 
 she he not engaged this evening, he should be exceedingly glad 
 of her company, to meet Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, and Mad. 
 de Rosier, who have promised to sup with him upon his own 
 radishes to-night. They are all very impatient ior your answer.’ ” 
 ‘‘My answer they shall have in an instant,” said Mrs. Har- 
 court : — “ why. Mad. de Rosier, this is the boy who could neither 
 read nor spell six months ago. Will you be my messenger ?” 
 added she, putting a card into Mad. de Rosier’s hand, which 
 she had written with rapidity : — 
 
 “ Mrs. Harcourt’s love to her dear little Herbert ; if she had 
 a hundred other invitations, she would accept of his.” 
 
 “Bless me!” said Mrs. Grace, when she found the feathers, 
 which she had placed with so much skill in her mistress’s hair, 
 lying upon the table half an hour afterward — “ why, I thought 
 my mistress was going out!” 
 
 Grace’s surprise deprived her even of the power of exclama- 
 tion, when she learned that her mistress stayed at home to sup 
 with Master Herbert upon radishes. At night she listened with 
 malignant curiosity, as she sat at work in her mistress’s dressing- 
 room, to the frequent hursts of laughter, and to the happy little 
 voices of the festive company who were at supper in an adjoining 
 apartment. 
 
 “This will never do!” thought Grace; hut presently the 
 laughter ceased, and listening attentively, she heard the voice 
 of one of the young ladies reading. “ Oh ho ! ” thought Grace, “ if 
 it comes to reading. Master Herbert will soon he asleep.” — 
 But though it had come to reading, Herbqrt was, at this instant, 
 broad awake. * 
 
 At supper, when the radishes were distributed, Favoretta was 
 very impatient to taste them ; the first which she tasted was hot^ 
 she said, and she did not quite like it. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 315 
 
 Hot!” cried Herbert, who criticized her language, in return 
 for her criticism upon his radishes, ‘‘ I don’t think you can call 
 a radish hot — it is cold, I think; I know what is meant by 
 tasting sweet, or sour, or bitter.” 
 
 ‘‘Well,” interrupted Favoretta, “what is the name for the 
 taste of this radish which bites my tongue?” 
 
 “ Pungent” said Isabella, and she eagerly produced a quota- 
 tion in support of her epithet — 
 
 “ ‘ Audi pungent radish biting infant’s tongue.’” 
 
 “I know for once,” said Matilda, smiling, “where you met 
 with that line, I believe : is it not in Shenstone’s Schoolmistress, 
 in the description of the old woman’s neat little garden?” 
 
 “ Oh ! I should like to hear about that old woman’s neat little 
 garden,” cried Herbert. 
 
 “And so should I,” said Mrs. Harcourt and Mad. de Rosier. 
 
 Isabella quickly produced the book after supper, and read 
 the poem. 
 
 Herbert and Favoretta liked the old woman and her garden, 
 and they were much interested for the little boy, who was 
 whipped for having been gazing at the pictures on the horn- 
 book, instead of learning his lesson ; but, to Isabella’s great 
 mortification, they did not understand above half of what she 
 read — the old English expressions puzzled them. 
 
 “ You would not be surprised at this, my dear Isabella,” said 
 Mad. de Rosier, “ if you ha,d made as many experiments upon 
 children as I have. It is quite a new language to them ; and 
 what you have just been reading is scarcely intelligible to me, 
 though you compliment me so much upon my knowledge of the 
 English language.” Mad. de Rosier took the book, and pointed 
 to several words which she had not understood — such as 
 “eftsoons,” Dan Phoebus,” and “ ne andy,” which had made 
 many lines incomprehensible. 
 
 Herbert, when he heard Mad. de Rosier confess her ignorance, 
 began to take courage, and came forward with his confessions. 
 
 Gingerbread y rare ” he thought, was some particular kind 
 of gingerbread; and '‘'■Apples with cabbage net y covered o'er” 
 presented no delightful image to his mind, because, as he said, 
 he did not know what the word netycovered could mean. 
 
316 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 These mistakes occasioned some laughter; hut as Herbert 
 perceived that he was no longer thought stupid, he took all the 
 laughter with good humour, and he determined to follow, in 
 future, Mad. de Rosier’s example, in pointing out the words 
 which were puzzling. 
 
 Grace was astonished, at the conclusion of the evening, to 
 find Master Herbert in such high spirits. The next day she 
 heard sounds of woe, sounds agreeable to her wishes — Favoretta 
 crying upon the stairs. It had been a rainy morning : Favoretta 
 and Herbert had been disappointed in not being able to walk 
 out ; and after having been amused the preceding evening, they 
 were less disposed to bear disappointment, and less inclined to 
 employ themselves than usual. Favoretta had finished her little 
 basket, and her mother had promised that it should appear at 
 the dessert ; but it wanted some hours of dinner-time ; and 
 between the making and the performance of a promise, how 
 long the time appears to an impatient child ! how many events 
 happen which may change the mind of the promiser ! 
 
 Mad. de Rosier had lent Favoretta and Herbert, for their 
 amusement, the first number of “The Cabinet of Quadrupeds,” 
 in which there are beautiful prints; but, unfortunately, some 
 dispute arose between the children. Favoretta thought her 
 brother looked too long at the hunchbacked camel ; he accused 
 her of turning over leaves before she had half seen the prints ; 
 but she listened not to his just reproaches, for she had caught a 
 glimpse of the royal tiger springing upon Mr. Munro, and she 
 could no longer restrain her impatience. Each party began to 
 pull at the book ; and the camel and the royal tiger were both 
 in imminent danger of being torn in pieces, when Mad. de Rosier 
 interfered, parted the combatants, and sent them into separate 
 rooms, as it was her custom to do, whenever they could not 
 agree together. 
 
 Grace, the moment she heard Favoretta crying, went up to 
 the room where she was, and made her tiptoe approaches, 
 addressing Favoretta in a tone of compassion, which, to a child’s 
 unpractised ear, might appear, perhaps, the natural voice of 
 sympathy. The sobbing child hid her face in Grace’s lap ; and 
 when she had told her complaint against Mad. de Rosier, Grace 
 comforted her for the loss of the royal tiger by the present of a 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS, 
 
 317 
 
 queen-cake. Grace did not dare to stay long in the room, lest 
 Mad. de Rosier should detect her ; she therefore left the little 
 girl, with a strict charge ‘‘ not to say a word of the queen-cake 
 to her governess.” 
 
 Favoretta kept the queen-cake, that she might divide it with 
 Herbert; for she now recollected that she had been most to 
 blame in the dispute about the prints. Herbert absolutely 
 refused, however, to have any share of the cake, and he strongly 
 urged his sister to return it to Grace. 
 
 Herbert had, /omer/y, to use his own expression, been accused 
 of being fond of eating, and so, perhaps, he was ; but since he 
 had acquired other pleasures, those of affection and employment, 
 his love of eating had diminished so much, that he had eaten 
 only one of his own radishes, because he felt more pleasure in 
 distributing the rest to his mother and sisters. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he prevailed upon Favoretta 
 to restore the queen-cake : the arguments that he used we shall 
 not detail, but he concluded with promising, that, if Favoretta 
 would return the cake, he would ask Mad. de Rosier, the next 
 time they passed by the pastrycook’s shop, to give them some 
 queen-cakes — “ and I dare say she will give us some, for she is 
 much more really good-natured than Grace.” 
 
 Favoretta, with this hope of a future queen-cake, in addition 
 to all her brother’s arguments, at last determined to return 
 Grace’s present — Herbert says I had better give it you back 
 again,” said she, ‘‘because Mad. de Rosier does not know it.” 
 
 Grace was somewhat surprised by the effect of Herbert’s 
 oratory, and she saw that she must change her ground. 
 
 The next day, when the children were walking with Mad. de 
 Rosier by a pastrycook’s shop, Herbert, with an honest coun- 
 tenance, asked Mad. de Rosier to give Favoretta and him a 
 queen-cake. She complied, for she was glad to find that he 
 always asked frankly for what he wanted ; and yet that he bore 
 refusals with good humour. 
 
 Just as Herbert was going to eat his queen-cake, he heard the 
 sound of music in the street ; he went to the door, and saw a 
 poor man who was playing on the dulcimer — a little boy was 
 with him, who looked extremely thin and hungry — he asked 
 Herbert for some halfpence. 
 
318 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 “I have no money of my own,” said Herbert, ‘^but I can 
 give you this, wbicb is my own.” 
 
 Mad. de Rosier held his hand back, which he had just stretched 
 out to offer his queen-cake ; she advised him to exchange it for 
 something more substantial ; she told him that he might have 
 two buns for one queen-cake. He immediately changed it for 
 two buns, and gave them to the little boy, who thanked him 
 heartily. The man who was playing on the dulcimer asked 
 where Herbert lived, and promised to stop at his door to play a 
 tune for him, which he seemed to like particularly. 
 
 Convinced by the affair of the queen-cake that Herbert’s 
 influence was a matter of some consequence in the family, Mrs. 
 Grace began to repent that she had made him her enemy, and 
 she resolved, upon the first convenient occasion, to make him 
 overtures of peace — overtures which, she had no doubt, would 
 be readily accepted. 
 
 One morning she heard him sighing and groaning, as she 
 thought, over some difficult sum, which Mad. de Rosier had set 
 for him ; he cast up one row aloud several times, but could not 
 bring the total twice to the same thing. When he took his sum 
 to Mad. de Rosier, who was dressing, he was kept waiting a few 
 minutes at the door, because Favoretta was not dressed. The 
 young gentleman became a little impatient, and when he gained 
 admittance his sum was wrong. 
 
 “Then I cannot make it right,” said Herbert, passionately. 
 
 “ Try,” said Mad. de Rosier; “go into that closet by yourself, 
 and try once more, and perhaps you will find that you can make 
 it right.” 
 
 Herbert knelt down in the closet, though rather unwillingly, 
 to this provoking sum. 
 
 “Master Herbert, my dear,” said Mrs. Grace, following him, 
 “ will you be so good as to go for Miss Favoretta’s scissors, if 
 you please, which she lent you yesterday ? — she wants ’em, my 
 dear.” 
 
 Herbert, surprised by the unusually good-natured tone of this 
 request, ran for the scissors, and at his return, found that his 
 difficult sum had been cast up in his absence ; the total was 
 written at the bottom of it, and he read these words, which he 
 knew to be Mrs. Grace’s writing — “ Rub out my figursj and 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 319 
 
 write them in your own.” Herbert immediately rubbed out 
 Mrs. Grace’s figures with indignation, and determined to do the 
 sum for himself. He carried it to Mad. de Rosier — it was wrong ; 
 Grace stared, and when she saw Herbert patiently stand beside 
 Mad. de Rosier and repeat his efforts, she gave up all idea of 
 obtaining any influence over him. 
 
 “Mad. de Rosier,” said she to herself, “has bewitched ^em 
 all ; I think it’s odd one can’t find out her art!” 
 
 Mrs. Grace seemed to think that she could catch the knack of 
 educating children, as she had surreptitiously learnt, from a 
 fashionable hairdresser, the art of dressing hair. Ever since 
 Mrs. Harcourt had spoken in such a decided manner respecting 
 Mad. de Rosier, her maid had artfully maintained the greatest 
 appearance of respect for that lady, in her mistress’s presence, 
 and had even been scrupulous, to a troublesome extreme, in 
 obeying the governesses orders ; and by a studied show of attach- 
 ment to Mrs. Harcourt, and much alacrity at her toilette, she 
 had, as she flattered herself, secured a fresh portion of favour. 
 
 One morning Mrs. Harcourt found, when she awoke, that 
 she had a headache, and a slight feverish complaint. She had 
 caught cold the night before in coming out of a warm assembly- 
 room. Mrs. Grace affected to be much alarmed at her mistress’s 
 
 indisposition, and urged her to send immediately for Dr. X . 
 
 To this Mrs. Harcourt half consented, and a messenger was sent 
 for him. In the meantime Mrs. Harcourt, who had been used 
 to be much attended to in her slight indispositions, expressed 
 some surprise that Mad. de Rosier, or some of her children, 
 when they heard that she was ill, had not come to see her. 
 
 “ Where is Isabella ? where is Matilda ? or Favoretta ? what 
 is become of them all ? do they know I am ill, Grace?” 
 
 “Oh dear! yes, ma’am; but they’re all gone out in the 
 coach, with Mad. de Rosier.” 
 
 “All?” said Mrs. Harcourt. 
 
 “All, I believe, ma’am,” said Grace; “though, indeed, I 
 can’t pretend to be sure, since I make it my business not to 
 scrutinize, and to know as little as possible of what’s going on 
 in the house, lest I should seem to be too particular.” 
 
 “ Did Mad. de Rosier leave any message for me before she 
 went out ?” 
 
320 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 Not with me, ma’am.” 
 
 Here the prevaricating waiting-maid told barely the truth in 
 words : Mad. de Rosier had left a message with the footman in 
 Grace’s hearing. 
 
 hope, ma’am,” continued Grace, ‘‘you weren’t disturbed 
 with the noise in the house early this morning?” 
 
 “ What noise ? — I heard no noise,” said Mrs. Harcourt. 
 
 “ No noise ! dear ma’am, I’m as glad as can possibly be of 
 that, at any rate ; but to be sure there was a great racket. I 
 was really afraid, ma’am, it would do no good to your poor 
 head.” 
 
 “What was the matter?” said Mrs. Harcourt, drawing back 
 the curtain. 
 
 “ Oh ! nothing, ma’am, that need alarm you — only music 
 and dancing.” 
 
 “ Music and dancing so early in the morning ! — Do, Grace, 
 say all you have to say at once, for you keep me in suspense, 
 which, I am sure, is not good for my head.” 
 
 “ La, ma’am, I was so afraid it would make you angry, 
 ma’am — that was what made me so backward in mentioning it ; 
 but, to be sure. Mad. de Rosier, and the young ladies, and 
 Master Herbert, I suppose, thought you couldn’t hear, because 
 it was in the back parlour, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Hear what? what was in the back parlour?” 
 
 “ Only a dulcimer man, ma’am, playing for the young ladies.” 
 “Did you tell them I was ill, Grace ?” 
 
 It was the second time Mrs. Harcourt had asked this question. 
 Grace was gratified by this symptom. 
 
 “ Indeed, ma’am,” she replied, “ I did make hold to tell 
 Master Herbert, that I was afraid you would hear him jumping 
 and making such an uproar up and down the stairs ; but to be 
 sure, I did not say a word to the young ladies — as Mad. de 
 Rosier was by, I thought she knew best.” 
 
 A gentle knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Grace’s charit- 
 able animadversions. 
 
 “ Bless me, if it isn’t the young ladies ! I’m sure I thought 
 they were gone out in the coach.” 
 
 As Isabella and Matilda came up to the side of their mother’s 
 bed, she said, in a languid voice — 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 321 
 
 “ I hope, Matilda, my dear, you did not stay at home on my 
 account Is Isabella there ? What book has she in her hand?” 
 
 ^‘Zeluco, mamma — I thought, perhaps, you would like to 
 hear some more of it — you liked what I read to you the other 
 day.” 
 
 ‘‘But you forget that I have a terrible headache Bray 
 
 don’t let me detain either of you, if you have any thing to do 
 for Mad. de Rosier.” 
 
 “Nothing in the world, mamma,” said Matilda; “she is 
 gone to take Herbert and Favoretta to Exeter Change.” 
 
 No farther explanation could take place, for, at this instant, 
 
 Mrs. Grace introduced Dr. X . Now Dr. X was not 
 
 one of those complaisant physicians who flatter ladies that 
 they are very ill when they have any desire to excite tender 
 alarm. 
 
 After satisfying himself that his patient was not quite so ill as 
 
 Mrs. Grace had affected to believe. Dr. X insensibly led 
 
 from medical inquiries to general conversation : he had much 
 playful wit and knowledge of the human heart, mixed with a 
 variety of information, so that he could with happy facility 
 amuse and interest nervous patients, who were beyond the 
 power of the solemn apothecary. 
 
 The doctor drew the young ladies into conversation by rally- 
 ing Isabella upon her simplicity in reading a novel openly in 
 her mother’s presence ; he observed that she did not follow the 
 example of the famous Serena, in “The Triumphs of Temper.” 
 “ Zeluco!” he exclaimed, in an ironical tone of disdain : “why 
 not the charming ‘Sorrows of Werter,’ or some of our fashion- 
 able hobgoblin romances?” 
 
 Isabella undertook the defence of her book with much enthu- 
 siasm — and either her cause, or her defence, was so much to Dr. 
 X ’s taste, that he gradually gave up his feigned attack. 
 
 After the argument was over, and every body, not excepting 
 Mrs. Harcourt, who had almost forgotten her headache, was 
 pleased with the vanquished doctor, he drew from his pocket- 
 book three or four small cards; they were tickets of admittance 
 to Lady N ’s French reading parties. 
 
 Lady N was an elderly lady, whose rank made literature 
 
 fashionable amongst many, who aspired to the honour of being 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 I 
 
 noticed by her. She was esteemed such an excellent judge of 
 manners, abilities, and character, that her approbation was 
 anxiously courted, more especially by mothers who were just 
 introducing their daughters into the world. She was fond of 
 encouraging youthful merit ; but she was nice, some thought 
 fastidious, in the choice of her young acquaintance. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt had been very desirous that Isabella and 
 Matilda should be early distinguished by a person, whose ap- 
 proving voice was of so much consequence in fashionable as 
 well as in literary society ; and she was highly flattered by Dr. 
 
 X ’s prophecy, that Isabella would be a great favourite of 
 
 this ‘‘nice judging” lady “Provided,” added he, turning 
 
 to Isabella, “you have the prudence not to be always, as you 
 have been this morning, victorious in argument.” 
 
 “ I think,” said Mrs. Harcourt — after the doctor had taken 
 his leave — “ I think I am much better — ring for Grace, and I 
 will get up.” 
 
 “ Mamma,” said Matilda, “ if you will give me leave, I will 
 give my ticket for the reading party to Mad. de Rosier, because, 
 I am sure, it is an entertainment she will like particularly — and, 
 
 you know, she confines herself so much with us ” 
 
 “ I do not wish her to confine herself so much, my dear, I 
 am sure,” said Mrs. Harcourt, coldly, for, at this instant, 
 Grace’s representations of the morning’s music and dancing, 
 and some remains of her former jealousy of Mad. de Rosier ’s 
 influence over her children’s affections, operated upon her mind. 
 Pride prevented her from explaining herself further to Isabella 
 or Matilda — and though they saw that she was displeased, they 
 had no idea of the reason. As she was dressing, Mrs. Harcourt 
 conversed with them about the books they were reading. Ma- 
 tilda was reading Hogarth’s Analysis of Beauty; and she gave 
 a distinct account of his theory. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt, when she perceived her daughter’s rapid im- 
 provement, felt a mixture of joy and sorrow. 
 
 “ My dears,” said she, “ you will all of you be much superior 
 to your mother — but girls were educated, in my days, quite in a 
 different style from what they are now.” 
 
 “ Ah ! there were no Mad. de Rosiers then,” said Matilda, 
 innocently. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 323 
 
 ‘‘ Wliat sort of a woman was your mother, mamma ?” said 
 Isabella, “ my grandmother, mamma?” 
 
 ‘‘ She — she was a very good woman.” 
 
 ‘‘Was she sensible ?” said Isabella. 
 
 “ Matilda, my dear,” said Mrs. Harcourt, “ I wish you would 
 see if Mad. de Rosier has returned — I should be very glad to 
 speak with her, for one moment, if she he not engaged.” 
 
 Under the veil of politeness, Mrs. Harcourt concealed her 
 real feelings, and declaring to Mad. de Rosier that she did not 
 feel in spirits, or sufficiently well, to go out that evening, she 
 requested that Mad. de Rosier would go, in her stead, to a 
 dinner, where she knew her company would be particularly 
 
 acceptable. “ You will trust me, will you, with your pupils 
 
 for one evening?” added Mrs. Harcourt. 
 
 The tone and manner in which she pronounced these words 
 revealed the real state of her mind to Mad. de Rosier, who im- 
 mediately complied with her wishes. 
 
 Conscious of this lady’s quick penetration, Mrs. Harcourt was 
 abashed by this ready compliance, and she blamed herself for 
 feelings which she could not suppress. 
 
 “ I am sorry that you were not at home this morning,” she 
 continued, in a hurried manner — “ you wnuld have been de- 
 lighted with Dr. X ; he is one of the most entertaining 
 
 men I am acquainted with — and you would have been vastly 
 proud of your pupil there,” pointing to Isabella; “ I assure you, 
 she pleased me extremely.” 
 
 In the evening, after Mad. de Rosier’s departure, Mrs. Har- 
 court was not quite so happy as she had expected. They who 
 have only seen children in picturesque situations, are not aware 
 how much the duration of this domestic happiness depends upon 
 those who have the care of them. People who, with the 
 greatest abilities and the most anxious affection, are unex- 
 perienced in education, should not be surprised or mortified if 
 their first attempts be not attended with success. Mrs. Har- 
 court thought that she was doing what was very useful in 
 hearing Herbert read ; he read with tolerable fluency, but he 
 stopped at the end of almost every sentence to weigh the exact 
 sense of the words. In this habit he had been indulged, or 
 rather encouraged, by his preceptress ; but his simple questions, 
 Y 2 
 
324 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 and his desire to have every word precisely explained, were far 
 from amusing to one who was little accustomed to the difficulties 
 and misapprehensions of a young reader. 
 
 Herbert was reading a passage, which Mad. de Rosier had 
 marked for him, in Xenophon’s Cyropsedia. With her explana- 
 tions, it might have been intelligible to him. Herbert read the 
 account of Cyrus’s judgment upon the two boys, who had quar- 
 relled about their great and little coats, much to his mother’s 
 satisfaction, because he had understood every word of it, except 
 the word constituted, 
 
 ‘‘ Constituted judge — what does that mean, mamma?” 
 
 ‘‘ Made a judge, my dear : go on.” 
 
 ‘‘ I saw a judge once, mamma, in a great wig — ^had Cyrus a 
 wig, when he was con — consti — made a judge ?” 
 
 Isabella and Mrs. Harcourt laughed at this question ; and 
 they endeavoured to explain the difference between a Persian 
 and an English judge. 
 
 Herbert with some difficulty separated the ideas, which he 
 had so firmly associated, of a judge and a great wig ; and when 
 he had, or thought he had, an abstract notion of a judge, he 
 obeyed his mother’s repeated injunctions of ‘‘ Go on — goon.” 
 He went on, after observing that what came next was not 
 marked by Mad. de Rosier for him to read. 
 
 Cyrus’s mother says to him : Child, the same things are not 
 
 accounted just with your grandfather here, and yonder in Persia” 
 At this sentence Herbert made a dead stop ; and, after pon- 
 dering for some time, saiff, ‘‘ I don’t understand what Cyrus’s 
 mother meant — what does she mean by accounted just? — Ae- 
 counted, Matilda, I thought meant only about casting up sums?” 
 “ It has another meaning, my dear,” Matilda mildly began. 
 
 “ Oh, for Heaven’s sake, spare me !” exclaimed Mrs. Har- 
 court ; do not let me hear all the meanings of all the words in 
 the English language. Herbert may look for the words that 
 he does not understand, in the dictionary, when he has done 
 reading. Go on, now, pray; for,” added she, looking at her 
 watch, ‘‘ you have been half an hour reading half a page : this 
 would tire the patience of Job.” 
 
 Herbert, perceiving that his mother was displeased, began in 
 the same instant to be frightened ; he hurried on as fast as he 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 325 
 
 could, without understanding one word more of what he was 
 reading ; his precipitation was worse than his slowness : he 
 stumbled over the words, missed syllables, missed lines, made 
 the most incomprehensible nonsense of the whole ; till, at 
 length, Mrs. Harcourt shut the book in despair, and soon after- 
 ward despatched Herbert, who was also in despair, to bed. At 
 this catastrophe, Favoretta looked very grave, and a general 
 gloom seemed to overspread the company. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt was mortified at the silence that prevailed, and 
 made several ineffectual attempts to revive the freedom and 
 gaiety of conversation: — ‘‘ Ah!” said she to herself, “ I knew 
 it would be so ; — they cannot he happy without Mad. de Rosier.” 
 Isabella had taken up a book. Cannot you read for our 
 entertainment, Isabella, my dear, as well as for your own ?” 
 said her mother: I assure you, I am as much interested 
 
 always in what you read to me, as Mad. de Rosier herself 
 can be.” 
 
 ‘‘ I was just looking, mamma, for some lines, that we read 
 the other day, which Mad. de Rosier said she was sure you 
 v/ould like. Can you find them, Matilda? You know Mad. de 
 Rosier said that mamma would like them, because she has been 
 at the opera.” 
 
 I have been at a great many operas,” said Mrs. Harcourt, 
 dryly ; ‘‘ but I like other things as well as operas — and I can- 
 not precisely guess what you mean by the opera — ^has it no 
 name?” 
 
 Medea and Jason, ma’am.” 
 
 The ballet of Medea and Jason. It’s a very fine thing, cer- 
 tainly ; but one has seen it so often. Read on, my dear.” 
 Isabella then read a passage, which, notwithstanding Mrs. 
 Harcourt’s inclination to be displeased, captivated her ear, and 
 seized her imagination. 
 
 Slow out of earth, before the festive crowds, 
 
 On wheels of fire, amid a night of clouds, 
 
 Drawn by fierce fiends, arose a magic car, 
 
 Received the queen, and, hov’ring, flamed in air. 
 
 As with raised hands the suppliant traitors kneel, 
 
 And fear the vengeance they deserved to feel ; 
 
326 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 Thrice, with parch’d lips, her guiltless babes she press’d, 
 
 And thrice she clasp’d them to her tortured breast. 
 
 Awhile with white uplifted eyes she stood. 
 
 Then plunged her trembling poniards in their blood. 
 
 Go, kiss your sire ! go, share the bridal mirth ! 
 
 She cried, and hurl’d their quiv’ring limbs on earth. 
 
 Hcbellowing thunders rock the marble tow’rs. 
 
 And red-tongued lightnings shoot their arrowy show’rs : 
 
 Earth yawns ! — the crashing ruin sinks ! — o’er all 
 Death with black hands extends his mighty pall.” 
 
 They are admirable lines, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Har- 
 court. 
 
 ‘‘ I knew, mamma, you would like them,” said Isabella; 
 “ and I’m sure I wish I had seen the ballet too.” 
 
 ‘‘You were never at an opera,” said Mrs. Harcourt, after 
 Isabella had finished reading ; “ should you, either of you, or 
 both, like to go with me to-night to the opera?” 
 
 “ To-night, ma’am !” cried Isabella, in a voice of joy. 
 
 “To-night, mamma!” cried Matilda, timidly; “but you 
 were not well this morning.” 
 
 “ But I am very well, now, my love ; at least quite well 
 enough to go out with you — ^let me give you some pleasure. 
 Ring for Grace, my dear Matilda,” added Mrs. Harcourt, look- 
 ing 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 con- 
 tinually, 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 conse- 
 quence, 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, 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 327 
 
 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 lec 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. 
 
328 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 con- 
 venience, and had placed it entirely to the account of his horses. 
 
 Mrs. Grace depended, rather imprudently, upon the coach- 
 man’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 indilFerence, 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 S29 
 
 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 noi 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.” 
 
 I “ There, mamma ! there ! that was not a mouse, surely !” said 
 1 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 con- 
 siderable energy. 
 
 “ Dear Miss Isabella, don’t ring so ; — dear ma’am, don’t be 
 
330 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 Favo- 
 retta — 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, “ ox 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 excul- 
 patory 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, Idid ring the bell, however,” said Isabella. 
 
 With much difficulty those who had so much to say, submitted 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 331 
 
 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 he 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, hut 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,” con- 
 
 tinued 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.” 
 
332 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 Flerbert 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 gen- 
 tleman 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 w^hich 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 under- 
 stand, when we have any thing to say that we do not choose 
 she should hear.” 
 
 “ After all this preparation,” said Mrs. Harcourt, in French, 
 “ my little mouse will make you laugh; it will not surprise or 
 frighten you, Matilda, quite so much as the mouse of last night. 
 You must know that I have been much disturbed by certain 
 noises.” 
 
 “More noises !” said Matilda, drawing closer, to listen. 
 
 “More noises!” said Mrs. Harcourt, laughing; “but the 
 noises which disturbed my repose were not heard in the dead 
 of the night, just as the clock struck twelve — the charming hour 
 for being frightened out of one’s wits, Matilda : my noises were 
 heard in broad daylight, about the time 
 
 ‘ When lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake.’ 
 
 Was not there music and dancing here, early yesterday morning, 
 when I had the headache, Isabella?” 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 “ 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. Har- 
 
331 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 court, 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, wpon 
 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 im- 
 movable 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 dis- 
 obey, and afterward to deceive me.” 
 
 Grace, little prepared for this calm decision, now in a fright- 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 335 
 
 ened, 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, bad already learned front this 
 cunning waiting-maid habits of deceit which could not be sud- 
 denly 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 ; hut 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 dan- 
 gerous innovations. She had placed her daughter at a boarding- 
 school in London, the expense of which was its chief recom- 
 mendation ; 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 pro- 
 priety ; 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 incontrovert- 
 ible 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 
 
336 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 tho- 
 roughly 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. Fan- 
 shaw a visit, as soon as they heard that her daughter was come 
 home. 
 
 Miss Fanshaw, an erect stiffened figure, made her entree ; 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 or- 
 dinary 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 conver- 
 sation ; 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 anxends 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 887 
 
 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 
 hea(i^ of Jupiter which Miss Fanshaw had just finished, and 
 Mrs. Flarcourt borrowed it for her to copy ; though Miss Fan- 
 shaw 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 lady- 
 ship 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 accomplish- 
 ments ; 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 hap- 
 pened 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 Sux- 
 
 z 
 
338 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 berry 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 intP^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 exer- 
 cises, 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 339 
 
 either ; and you have no oiit-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 
 he employed rather better than to be idle ; at which Miss Fan- 
 shaw laughed, and sarcastically said, ‘‘ You need not talk to me 
 as if your governess were by, for I’m not a tell-tale — I sha’n’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 w'hat 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 opi- 
 nion, “ 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, 
 z 2 
 
340 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 Lady N was in the coach which had excited Miss Fan- 
 
 shaw’s admiration ; and this young lady had a glorious oppor- 
 tunity 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 ; hut 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 atti- 
 tude ; 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 under- 
 standing. 
 
 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 sar- 
 castic 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 341 
 
 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 show- 
 ing 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 plough- 
 man ? — 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, isnH it odd to read English books to a French 
 governess?” continued this young lady, whose constrained taci- 
 turnity now gave way to a strong desire to show herself off 
 before Lady N . She had observed that Isabella and Ma- 
 
342 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 tilda 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, hut 
 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 hook-case — “ ‘ Journal Etranger’ — 
 dear me! are you translating o/’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 he 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. Fan- 
 shaw, 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 Ma- 
 tilda assured her that it was not a drawing. 
 
 It was Hogarth’s print of a country dance, which was pre- 
 fixed 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 wMle, 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 be- 
 lieve such things were ever worn.” 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 343 
 
 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 f 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 he most graceful.” She appealed to Isabella and Matilda. 
 
 They were so much struck with the impropriety of her man- 
 ner 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 unaflTected 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 sensi- 
 bility should not be suffered to evaporate in sighs, or in senti- 
 mental 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 ^ of the king of France 
 3 By Egginton. 
 
THE GOOD 
 
 344 
 
 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 con- 
 sidered 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. 
 
 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 impa- 
 tient 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.” 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS, 
 
 345 
 
 “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 re- 
 stored 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 
 
346 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 Je ne vois rien — lisez — vite ! — ma chere 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 expec- 
 tation. 
 
 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 I my son is alive !” said 
 the mother. 
 
 Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Hosier’s son ; 
 but when she reflected for an instant that this might also be the 
 name of some other persom her transport of joy was checked, 
 and seemed to he converted into despair. 
 
 Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind re- 
 turned. 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 re- 
 sided. 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 Hosier’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 shop- 
 man 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 347 
 
 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 
 
S48 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 ^om,” 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 gentle- 
 man 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. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 349 
 
 *‘Tell me,” said she, ‘‘where he lodges; I must see him 
 immediately.” 
 
 “ I am just come from him, and I’m going hack 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; 
 hut 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 hack 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 pre- 
 sent who had strength enough to open the door. 
 
 How sudden ! how powerful is the effect of joy ! The mo- 
 ther, 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.” 
 
S50 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 ‘‘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 em- 
 ployed to bring me food, seemed to look upon me with com- 
 passion ; 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 gentle- 
 man 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 lo( k 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 351 
 
 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 mardh 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 wbo 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 poudree ' — this calmed his 
 
352 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 rage ; and he remarked that I also had been horribly drenched 
 by the shower. I assured him that this was a trifle in com- 
 parison with my other sufferings. 
 
 ‘‘ He begged to hear my misfortunes, because I spoke French ; 
 and as I followed liim 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'*. 
 
 “ I resolved to apply to this benevolent man. When I first 
 went into his kitchen, I saw his cook, a man with a very im- 
 portant 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 hap- 
 pened afterward ; but when T 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, pre- 
 
 4 During Christinas 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 fi equented 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 w'as 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, hut 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. 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 353 
 
 vented 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 myselfi 
 
 ‘‘ 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 direc- 
 tion 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 rea 
 • sonable 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, 
 
 I 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 
 j| knowledge of literature, their confidence in my abilities increased. 
 
 I 1 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 
 I 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, 
 j “ 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 
 
 A a 
 
3o4 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 tooth- 
 pick-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 per- 
 fection. 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. 1 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 855 
 
 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 reflec- 
 tion, 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 — 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 
 A a 2 
 
356 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 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 hoy, ‘ 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 suc/i a one as he could not have buns to 
 give away to dogs!’ — Here the blind man vindicated his hoy, 
 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, 
 Csssar, 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 357 
 
 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 thin- 
 ness 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 consider- 
 ing 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 un- 
 equal 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 ac- 
 commodate 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 
 Hosier’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. 
 
358 
 
 THE GOOD 
 
 ‘‘ and I will introduce you to my friends to-morrow. My friends, 
 I say proudly — for I have made friends since I came to Eng- 
 land; 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 expe- 
 ditiously.” 
 
 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 Her- 
 bert 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 car- 
 riage I — 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 
 
FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 359 
 
 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 nar- 
 row 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 v/ould make every possible inquiry concerning the pro- 
 perty 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 accom- 
 plished 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 
 
360 
 
 THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS. 
 
 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 misfor- 
 tunes of our best friends there is always something that is not 
 disagreeable to us ; but I am afraid I must stand convicted of 
 selfishness, for in the good fortune of my best friend there is 
 something that I cannot feel to be perfectly agreeable.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 SECOND PART'. 
 
 The tendency of any particular mode of education is not always 
 perceived, before it is too late to change the habits or the cha- 
 racter of the pupil. To superficial observers, children of nearly 
 the same age often seem much alike in manners and disposition, 
 who, in a few years afterward, appear in every respect strikingly 
 different. We have given our readers some idea of the manner 
 in which Mrs. Temple educated her daughters, and some notion 
 of the mode in which Lady Augusta was managed by Mile. 
 Panache ; the difference between the characters of Helen and 
 Lady Augusta, though visible even at the early age of twelve 
 or thirteen to an intelligent mother, was scarcely noticed by 
 common acquaintance, who contented themselves with the usual 
 phrases, as equally applicable to both the young ladies. “ Upon 
 my word. Lady Augusta and Miss Helen Temple are both of 
 them very fine girls, and very highly accomplished, and vastly 
 well educated, as I understand. I really cannot tell which to 
 prefer. Lady Augusta, to be sure, is rather the taller of the 
 two, and her manners are certainly more womanly and fashioned 
 than Miss Helen’s ; but then, Miss Helen Temple has something 
 of simplicity about her that some people think very engaging. 
 For my part, I don’t pretend to judge — girls alter so ; there’s 
 no telling at twelve years old what they may turn out at sixteen.” 
 
 1 The first part is in the Parent’s Assistant, vol. iv. 
 
362 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 From twelve to sixteen, Lady Augusta continued under the 
 direction of Mile. Panache ; whilst her mother, content with her 
 daughter’s progress in external accomplishments, paid no atten- 
 tion to the cultivation of her temper or her understanding. 
 
 Lady S lived much in what is called the world ; was fond 
 
 of company, and fonder of cards, sentimentally anxious to be 
 thought a good mother, but indolently willing to leave her 
 daughter wholly to the care of a French governess, whose cha- 
 racter she had never taken the trouble to investigate. Not that 
 
 Lady S could be ignorant that, however well qualified to 
 
 teach the true French pronunciation, she could not be a perfectly 
 eligible companion for her daughter as she grew up : her lady- 
 ship intended to part with the governess when Lady Augusta 
 was fifteen ; but from day to day, and from year to year, this 
 
 was put off : sometimes Lady S thought it a pity to dismiss 
 
 mademoiselle, because she was the best creature in the world 
 sometimes she rested content with the idea, that six months 
 more or less could not signify ; till at length family reasons 
 obliged her to postpone mademoiselle’s dismission ; part of the 
 money intended for the payment of the governess’s salary had 
 been unfortunately lost by the mother at the card-table. Lady 
 Augusta consequently continued under the auspices of Mile. 
 Panache till her ladyship was eighteen, and till her education 
 was supposed to be entirely completed. 
 
 In the meantime Mile. Panache endeavoured, by all the 
 vulgar arts of flattery, to ingratiate herself with her pupil, in 
 hopes that from a governess she might become a companion. 
 The summer months seemed unusually long to the impatient 
 young lady, whose imagination daily anticipated the glories of 
 her next winter’s campaign. Towards the end of July, however, 
 a reinforcement of visitors came to her mother’s, and the present 
 began to engage some attention, as well as the future. Amongst 
 
 these visitors was Lord George , a young nobleman, near 
 
 twenty-one, who was heir to a very considerable fortune. We 
 mention his fortune firsts because it was his first merit, even in 
 his own opinion. Cold, silent, selfish, supercilious, and silly, 
 there appeared nothing in him to engage the affections, or to 
 strike the fancy of a fair lady ; but Lady Augusta’s fancy was 
 not fixed upon his lordship’s character or manners, and much 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 363 
 
 that might have disgusted consequently escaped her observation. 
 Her mother had not considered the matter very attentively ; 
 but she thought that this young nobleman might be no bad 
 match for her Augusta, and she trusted that her daughter's 
 charms would make their due impression on his heart. Some 
 weeks passed away in fashionable negligence of the lady on his 
 part, and alternate pique and coquetry on hers, whilst, during 
 these operations, her confidante and governess was too much 
 occupied with her own manoeuvres to attend to those of her 
 pupil. Lord George had with him upon this visit a Mr. Dash- 
 wood, who was engaged to accompany him upon his travels, 
 and who had had the honour of being his lordship’s tutor. At 
 the name of a tutor^ let no one picture to himself a gloomy 
 pedant ; or yet a man whose knowledge, virtue, and benevolence, 
 would command the respect, or win the affections, of youth. 
 Mr. Dashwood could not be mistaken for a pedant, unless a 
 coxcomb be a sort of pedant. Dashwood pretended neither to 
 win affection nor to command respect ; but he Avas, as his pupil 
 emphatically swore, the best fellow in the world.” Upon this 
 best fellow in the world. Mile. Panache fixed her sagacious 
 hopes ; she began to think that it would be infinitely better to 
 be the wife of the gallant Mr. Dashwood, than the humble com- 
 panion or the slighted governess of the capricious Lady Augusta. 
 Having thus far opened the views and characters of these various 
 personages, we shall now give our readers an opportunity of 
 judging of them by their words and actions. 
 
 ‘‘ You go with us, my lord, to the archery-meeting this 
 
 evening?” said Lady S , as she rose from breakfast — his 
 
 lordship gave a negligent assent. 
 
 ‘‘Ah!” exclaimed Mile. Panache, turning eagerly to Dash- 
 wood, “have you seen de uniforme? — Cest charmant ; and I 
 have no small hand in it.” 
 
 Dashwood paid the expected compliment to her taste. “ Ah ! 
 nonf said she, “ you are too good, too flattering; but you must 
 tell me your judgment without flattery ! Fous etes homme de 
 goutf though an Englishman — you see I have got no prejuges.^' 
 Dashwood bowed. Allans V said she, starting up with vast 
 gaiety : “ we have got no time to lose. I have de ruhans to put 
 to de bow ; I must go and attend my Diane.” 
 
364 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 ‘^Attend her Diane!” repeated Dashwood, the moment the 
 door was shut, and he was left alone with Lord George. ‘‘ At- 
 tend her Diane! a very proper attendant.” Lord George was 
 wholly indifferent to propriety or impropriety upon this, as 
 upon all other subjects. “ What are we to do with ourselves, I 
 wonder, this morning!” said he, with his customary yawn ; and 
 he walked towards the window. The labour of finding em- 
 ployment for his lordship always devolved upon his companion. 
 “ I thought, my lord,” said Dashwood, ‘‘ you talked yesterday 
 of going upon the water ; the river is very smooth, and I hope 
 we shall have a fine day.” 
 
 I hope so too ; but over the hill yonder it looks confounded 
 black, hey? Well, at any rate we may go down and make some 
 of them get ready to go with us. I’ll take my black Tom — he’s 
 a handy fellow.” 
 
 But if you take black Tom,” said Dashwood, laughing, ‘^we 
 must not expect to have the ladies of our party ; for you know 
 mademoiselle has an unconquerable aniipatyj as she calls it, to 
 a negro.” 
 
 Lord George declared that, for this very reason, he would 
 order black Tom down to the water-side, and that he should 
 enjoy her affectation, or her terror, whichever it was, of all 
 things. “ I suppose,” said he, she’ll scream as loud as Lady 
 Augusta screamed at a frog the other day.” 
 
 ‘‘I’ll lay you a wager I spoil your sport, my lord; I’ll lay 
 you a guinea I get mademoiselle into the boat without a single 
 scream,” said Dashwood. 
 
 “ Done !” said Lord George. “ Two to one she screams.” 
 
 “ Done!” said Dashwood; and he hoped that, by proposing 
 this bet, he had provided his pupil with an object for the whole 
 morning. But Lord George was not so easily roused imme- 
 diately after breakfast. “ It looks terribly like rain,” said he, 
 going back and forward irresolutely between the door and the 
 window. “ Do you think it will rain, hey ?” 
 
 “ No, no ; I’m sure it will not rain.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t lay two to one of that, however : look at this 
 great cloud that’s coming.” 
 
 “ Oh ! it will blow over.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that,” said Lord George, shaking his head 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 65 
 
 with great solemnity. Which way is the wind?” opening the 
 window. ‘‘ Well, I believe it may hold up, hey ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Certainly — I think so.” 
 
 “ Then I’ll call black Tom, hey ? — though I think one grows 
 tired of going upon the water,” muttered his lordship, as he left 
 the room. “ Couldn’t one find something better?” 
 
 Nothing better,” thought Dashwood, but to hang your- 
 self, my lord, which. I’ll be bound, you’ll do before you are 
 forty, for want of something better. But that’s not my affair.” 
 Where’s mademoiselle ?” cried Lady Augusta, entering 
 hastily, with a bow and arrow in her hand; “ I’ve lost my 
 quiver : where’s mademoiselle?” 
 
 “ Upon my word I don’t know,” said Dashwood, assuming an 
 air of interest. 
 
 ‘‘You don’t know, Mr. Dashwood!” said Lady Augusta, 
 sarcastically ; “ that’s rather extraordinary. I make it a rule, 
 whenever I wan’t mademoiselle, to ask where you are, and I 
 never found myself disappointed before.” 
 
 “ I am sorry, madam, you should ever be disappointed,” said 
 Dashwood, laughing. “ Is this your ladyship’s own taste?” 
 added he, taking the painted bow out of her hand. “ It’s un- 
 commonly pretty.” 
 
 “ Pretty or not. Lord George did not think it worth while to 
 look at it last night. His lordship will go through the world 
 mighty easily, don’t you think so, Mr. Dashwood?” Dashwood 
 attempted an apology for his pupil, but in such a sort, as if he 
 did not mean it to be accepted, and then, returning the bow to 
 her ladyship’s hand, paused, sighed, and observed, that, upon 
 the whole, it was happy for his lordship that he possessed so 
 much nonchalance. “ Persons of a different cast,” continued 
 he, “ cannot, as your ladyship justly observes, expect to pass 
 through life so easily.” This speech was pronounced in a tone 
 so different from Dashwood’s usual careless gaiety, that Lady 
 Augusta could not help being struck with it ; and by her vanity, 
 it was interpreted precisely as the gentleman wished. Rank 
 and fortune were her serious objects, but she had no objection 
 to amusing herself with romance. The idea of seeing the gay, 
 witty Mr. Dashwood metamorphosed, by the power of her 
 charms, into a despairing, sighing swain, played upon her 
 
36G 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 imagination, and she heard his first sigh with a look which 
 plainly showed how well she understood its meaning. 
 
 Why now, was there ever any thing so provoking!” cried 
 Lord George, swinging himself into the room. 
 
 “ What’s the matter, my lord?” said Dashwood. 
 
 ‘‘ Why, don’t you see, it’s raining as hard as it can rain?” 
 replied his lordship, with the true pathos of a man whose happi- 
 ness is dependent upon the weather. His scheme of going 
 upon the water being now impracticable, he lounged about the 
 room all the rest of the morning, supporting that miserable 
 kind of existence, wdiich idle gentlemen are doomed to support, 
 they know not how, upon a rainy day. Neither Lady Augusta 
 nor her mother, in calculating the advantages and disadvan- 
 tages of an alliance with his lordship, ever once considered 
 his habits of listless idleness as any objection in a companion 
 for life. 
 
 After dinner the day cleared up — the ladies were dressed in 
 their archery uniform — the carriages came to the door, and 
 Lord George was happy in the prospect of driving his new 
 phaeton. Dashwood handed the ladies to their coach ; for his 
 lordship was too much engaged in confabulation with his groom, 
 on the merits of his off-leader, to pay attention to any thing else 
 upon earth. 
 
 His phaeton was presently out of sight, for he gloried in 
 driving as fast as possible ; and, to reward his exertions, he had 
 the satisfaction of hearing two strangers, as he passed them, 
 say — Ha ! upon my word, those horses go well !” A postilion 
 at a turnpike gate, moreover, exclaimed to a farmer, who stood 
 with his mouth wide open — There goes Lord George I he cuts 
 as fine a figure on the road as e’er a man in England.” Such 
 was the style of praise of which this young nobleman was silly 
 enough to be vain. 
 
 I’ve been in these three quarters of an hour!” cried he, 
 exultingly, as Lady S got out of her coach. 
 
 ‘‘ There has been no shooting yet though, I hope?” said Lady 
 Augusta. 
 
 ‘‘No, no, ma’am,” replied Dashwood ; “ but the ladies are 
 all upon the green — a crowd of fair competitors ; but I’d bet a 
 thousand pounds upon your ladyship’s arrows. Make way 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 SG7 
 
 there — make way,” cried the man of gallantry, in an imperious 
 tone, to some poor people, who crowded round the carriage ; 
 and talking and laughing loud, he pushed forward, making as 
 much bustle in seating the ladies as they could have wished. 
 Being seated, they began to bow and nod to their acquaint- 
 ance. There’s Mrs. Temple and her daughters,” said Lady 
 S . 
 
 ‘‘ Where, ma’am?” said Lady Augusta : ‘‘ I’m sure I did not 
 expect to meet them here. Where are they?” 
 
 Just opposite to us. Pray, Mr. Dash wood, who is that 
 gentleman in brown, who is talking to Miss Helen Temple ?” 
 Upon my word I don’t know, madam ; he bowed just now 
 to Lord George.” 
 
 Did he?” said Lady Augusta. ‘‘ I wonder who he is!” 
 Lord George soon satisfied her curiosity, for, coming up to 
 them, he said negligently, “ Dashwood, there’s young Mountague 
 yonder.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ha! is that young Mountague? Well, is his father dead? 
 What has he done with that old quiz ?” 
 
 “ Ask him yourself,” said Lord George sullenly: I asked 
 
 him just now, and he looked as black as November.” 
 
 “ He was so fond of his father — it is quite a bore,” said Dash- 
 wood. “ I think he’ll be a quiz himself in due time.” 
 
 ‘‘ No,” said Lord George; “ he knows better than that too 
 in some things. He has a monstrous fine horse with him here ; 
 and that’s a good pretty girl that he’s going to marry.” 
 
 ‘‘ Is he going to be married to Miss Helen Temple ?” 
 
 said Lady S . ‘‘ Who is he, pray? I hope a suitable 
 
 match.” 
 
 That I can’t tell, for I don’t know what she replied 
 Lord George. ‘‘ But Mountague can afford to do as he pleases — 
 very good family — fine fortune.” 
 
 ‘‘Yes; old quiz made an excellent nurse to his estate,” 
 observed Dashwood; “ he owes him some gratitude for that.” 
 
 “ Is not he very young to settle in the world?” said Lady 
 
 S . 
 
 “ Young — yes — only a year older than I am,” said Lord 
 George ; “ but I knew he’d never be quiet till he got himself 
 noosed,'' 
 
368 
 
 MADEMOISEl LE PANACHE. 
 
 ‘‘ I suppose he’ll be at the ball to-night,” said Lady Augusta, 
 “ and then we shall see something of him, perhaps. It’s an 
 age since we’ve seen the Miss Temples any where. I wonder 
 whether there’s any thing more than report, my lord, in this 
 conquest of Miss Helen Temple ? Had you the thing from good 
 authority ?” 
 
 ^‘Authority!” said Lord George; ‘‘I don’t recollect my 
 authority, faith ! — somebody said so to me, I think. It’s nothing 
 to me, at any rate.” Lady Augusta’s curiosity, however, was not 
 quite so easily satisfied as his lordship’s ; she was resolved to study 
 Mr. Mountague thoroughly at the ball ; and her habitual disposi- 
 tion to coquetry, joined to a dislike of poor Helen, which originated 
 whilst they were children, made her form a strong desire to rival 
 Helen in the admiration of this young gentleman of — very 
 good family and fine fortune.” Her ladyship was just falling 
 into a reverie upon this subject, when she was summoned to join 
 the archeresses. 
 
 The prize was a silver arrow. The ladies were impatient to 
 begin — the green was cleared^ Some of the spectators took 
 their seats on benches under the trees, whilst a party of gentle- 
 men stood by, to supply the ladies with arrows. Three ladies 
 shot, but widely from the mark ; a fourth tried her skill, but 
 no applause ensued; a fifth came forward, a striking figure, 
 elegantly dressed, who, after a prelude of very becoming diffi- 
 dence, drew her bow, and took aim in the most graceful attitude 
 imaginable. 
 
 “ Who is that beautiful creature ?” exclaimed Mr. Mountague, 
 with enthusiasm ; and as the arrow flew from the bow, he started 
 up, wishing it success. 
 
 “ The nearest, by six inches, that has been shot yet,” cried 
 Dashwood. Here, sir ! here !” said he to Mr. Mountague, 
 who went up to examine the target, this is Lady Augusta 
 
 S ’s arrow, within the second circle, almost put out the 
 
 bull’s eye!” The clamour of applause at length subsiding, 
 several other arrows were shot, but none came near to Lady 
 Augusta’s, and the prize was unanimously acknowledged to 
 be hers. 
 
 The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, and 
 several gentlemen tried to reach it in vain : Mr. Mountague 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 369 
 
 sprung from the ground with great activity, brought down the 
 arrow, and presented it, with an air of gallantry, to the fair 
 victor. 
 
 ‘‘My dear Helen,” said Emma to her sister, in a low voice, 
 “you are not well.” 
 
 “ I !” replied Helen, turning quickly : “ why ! can you think 
 me so mean as to ” 
 
 “ Hush, hush ! you don’t consider how loud you are speaking.” 
 
 “ Am I ?” said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her tone ; “ but 
 then, why did you say I was not well?” 
 
 “Because you looked so pale.” 
 
 “ Pale ! I’m sure I don’t look pale,” said Helen — “ do I ?” 
 
 “ Not now, indeed,” said Emma, smiling. 
 
 “Was notit an excellent shot?” said Mr. Mountague, re- 
 turning to them ; “ but you were not near enough to see it ; do 
 come and look at it.” Mrs. Temple rose and followed him. — 
 “I can’t say,” continued he, “that I particularly admire lady 
 archeresses ; but this really is a surprising shot.” 
 
 “It really is a surprising shot,” said Helen, looking at it 
 quite at ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. 
 Mountague ’s eyes were not intent upon the surprising shot^ but 
 were eagerly turned to another side of the green, where, illumi- 
 nated by the rays of the setting sun, stood a beautiful figure, 
 playing with a silver arrow, totally unconscious, as he imagined, 
 either of her own charms or his admiration. — “ Are you ac- 
 quainted with Lady Augusta?” said Mr. Mountague. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mrs. Temple. “Are you?” 
 
 “ Not yet ; but I have met her mother often in town — a silly, 
 card-playing woman. I hope her daughter is as little like her 
 in her mind as in her person.” Here Mr. Mountague paused, 
 for they had walked up quite close to the seemingly unconscious 
 beauty. — “Oh, Mrs. Temple!” said she, starting, and then 
 recovering herself, with an innocent smile — “is it you? I beg 
 ten thousand pardons,” and, offering a hand to Helen and 
 Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involuntarily 
 drew back her hand, with as much coldness as she could 
 without being absolutely rude. 
 
 It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to begin 
 at ten, the ladies called for their carriages, that they might 
 
 B b 
 
370 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 drive to their lodgings, in an adjacent town, to change their 
 dress. In the crowd, Helen happened to he pretty close behind 
 
 Lady S , so close, that she could not avoid hearing her 
 
 conversation. 
 
 ‘‘ Dear ma’am !” an elderly lady in black was saying to her, 
 “ I can assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed. I 
 assure you, it is no such thing. He’s a relation of the family — 
 he has paid a long visit in this country, but then it is a parting 
 visit to his uncle: he sets out immediately for Italy, I’m told. 
 I assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed ; he and his 
 uncle are often at Mrs. Temple’s ; but depend upon it he has no 
 thoughts of Miss Helen.” 
 
 These words struck Helen to the heart : she walked on, leaning 
 upon her sister’s arm, who fortunately happened to know where 
 she was going. Emma helped her sister to recollect that it was 
 necessary to get into the carriage when the step was let down. 
 The carriage presently stopped with them at the inn, and they 
 were shown to their rooms. Helen sat down, the moment she 
 got up stairs, without thinking of dressing ; and her mother’s 
 hair was half finished, when she turned round and said, Why, 
 Helen, my dear ! you certainly will not be ready.” 
 
 ‘‘ Sha’n’t I, ma’am?” said Helen, starting up. “ Is there any 
 occasion that we should dress any more?” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, laughing, “look in the 
 glass at your hair ; it has been blown all over your face by the 
 wind.” 
 
 “ It is a great deal of useless trouble,” said Helen, as she 
 began the duties of the toilette. 
 
 “ Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness,” said her 
 mother. 
 
 “ No, indeed, mamma ; I’m not lazy. But I really don’t 
 think it signifies. Nobody will take notice how I am dressed, I 
 dare say.” 
 
 “ A sudden fit of humility, then ?” said Mrs. Temple, still 
 laughing. 
 
 “ No, ma’am ; but you have often told us how little it signifies. 
 When the ball is over, every thing about it is forgotten in a 
 few hours.” 
 
 “ Oh, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen ?” 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 371 
 
 “No, indeed, mother,” said Helen, sighing; “I’m sure I 
 don’t pretend to any philosophy.” 
 
 “Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?” 
 
 “No, indeed, ma’am !” 
 
 “No, indeed, ma’am !” said Mrs. Temple, still rallying her. — 
 “ Why, Helen, my dear, you have answered ‘ No, indeed, ma’am,’ 
 to every thing I’ve said this half hour.” 
 
 “No, indeed, mother,” said Helen; “but I assure you, 
 ma’am,” continued she, in a hurried manner, “if you would 
 
 only give me leave to explain ” 
 
 “My dear child,” said Mrs. Temple, “this is no time for 
 explanations : make haste and dress yourself, and follow me 
 down to tea.” Mr. Mountague was engaged to drink tea with 
 Mrs. Temple. 
 
 How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the mind in 
 the course of a few minutes ! 
 
 “I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust,” said Helen to herself. 
 “ Because Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, am I vexed? Why 
 should I be displeased with Mr. Mountague’s admiring her? I 
 will appear no more like a fool ; and Heaven forbid I should 
 become envious.” 
 
 As this last thought took possession of her mind, she finished 
 dressing herself, and went with Emma down to tea. The well- 
 wrought-up dignity with which Helen entered the parlour was, 
 however, thrown away upon this occasion ; for opposite to her 
 mother at the tea-table there appeared, instead of Mr. Moun- 
 tague, only an empty chair, and an empty teacup and saucer, 
 with a spoon in it. He was gone to the ball ; and when Mrs. 
 Temple and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the 
 bottom of the country dance, talking in high spirits to his 
 partner. Lady Augusta, who, in the course of the evening, cast 
 many looks of triumph upon Helen. But Helen kept to her 
 resolution of commanding her own mind, and maintained an 
 easy serenity of manner, which the consciousness of superior 
 temper never fails to bestow. Towards the end of the night, 
 she danced one dance with Mr. Mountague, and as he was 
 leading her to her place. Lady Augusta, and two or three of her 
 companions, came up, all seemingly stifling a laugh. “ What is 
 the matter?” said Helen. “ Why, my dear creature,” said Lady 
 B b 2 
 
372 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 Augusta, who still apparently laboured under a violent inclina- 
 tion to laugh, and whispering to Helen, but so loud that she 
 could distinctly be overheard — “you must certainly be in love.” 
 
 “ Madam !” said Helen, colouring, and much distressed. 
 
 “ Yes; you certainly must,” pursued Lady Augusta, rudely ; 
 for ladies of quality can be as rude, sometimes ruder, than other 
 people. “Must not she. Lady Di.,” appealing to one of her 
 companions, and laughing affectedly — “ must not she be either 
 in love, or out of her senses ? Pray, Miss Temple, put out your 
 foot.” Helen put out her foot. 
 
 “Ay, that’s the black one — well, the other.” Now the other 
 was white. The ill-bred raillery commenced. Helen, though 
 somewhat abashed, smiled with great good humour, and walked 
 on towards her seat. “ What is the matter, my dear?” said her 
 mother. 
 
 “Nothing, madam,” answered Mr. Mountague, “but that 
 Miss Helen Temple’s shoes are odd, and her temper — even.” 
 These few words, which might pass in a ball-room, were accom- 
 panied with a look of approbation, which made her ample amends 
 for the pain she had felt. He then sat down by Mrs. Temple, 
 and, without immediately adverting to any one, spoke with 
 indignation of coquetry, and lamented that so many beautiful 
 girls should be spoiled by affectation. 
 
 “If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame ?” said 
 Mrs. Temple. “ If young women were not deceived into a 
 belief that affectation pleases, they would scarcely trouble them- 
 selves to practise it so much.” 
 
 “ Deceived !” said Mr. Mountague — “ but is any body deceived 
 by a person’s saying, ‘ I have the honour to be, madam, your 
 obedient, humble servant?’ Besides, as to pleasing — what do 
 we mean ? pleasing for a moment, for a day, or for life ?” 
 
 “ Pleasing for a moment,” said Helen, smiling, “ is of some 
 consequence ; for, if we take care of the moments, the years will 
 take care of themselves, you know.” 
 
 “ Pleasing for one moment, though,” said Mr. Mountague, 
 “ is very different, as you must perceive, from pleasing every 
 moment.” 
 
 Here the country dance suddenly stopped, and three or four 
 couple were thrown into confusion. The gentlemen were stooping 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 373 
 
 down, as if looking for something on the floor. ‘‘ Oh, I beg, I 
 insist upon it; you can’t think how much you distress me!” 
 cried a voice which sounded like Lady Augusta’s. Mr. Moun- 
 tague immediately went to see what was the matter. “ It is 
 only my bracelet,” said she, turning to him. “ Don’t, pray 
 don’t trouble yourself,” cried she, as he stooped to assist in 
 collecting the scattered pearls, which she received with grace in 
 the whitest hand imaginable. ‘‘ Nay, now I must insist upon 
 it,” said she to Mr. Mountague, as he stooped again — “you 
 shall not plague yourself any longer.” And in her anxiety to 
 prevent him from plaguing himself any longer, she laid upon 
 his arm the white hand, which he had an instant before so much 
 admired. Whether all Mr. Mountague’s sober contempt of 
 coquetry was, at this moment, the prevalent feeling in his mind, 
 we cannot presume to determine ; we must only remark, that 
 the remainder of the evening was devoted to Lady Augusta ; he 
 sat beside her at supper, and paid her a thousand compliments, 
 which Helen in vain endeavoured to persuade herself meant 
 nothing more than — “ I am, madam, your obedient, humble 
 servant.” 
 
 “ It is half after two,” said Mrs. Temple, when she rose 
 to go. 
 
 “Half after two!” said Mr. Mountague, as he handed Mrs. 
 Temple to her carriage — “bless me ! can it be so late ?” 
 
 All the way home Emma and Mrs. Temple were obliged to 
 support the conversation ; for Helen was so extremely enter- 
 tained with watching the clouds passing over the moon, that 
 nothing else could engage her attention. 
 
 The gossiping old lady’s information respecting Mr. Mountague 
 was as accurate as the information of gossips usually is found to 
 he. Mr. Mountague, notwithstanding her opinion and sagacity, 
 had thoughts of Miss Helen Temple, During some months which 
 he had spent at his uncle’s, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, 
 he had had opportunities of studying Helen’s character and 
 temper, which he found perfectly well suited to his own ; but he 
 had never yet declared his attachment to her. Things were in 
 this undecided situation, when he saw, and was struck with the 
 
 beauty of Lady Augusta , at this archery-ball. Lord George 
 
 — introduced him to Lady S ; and, in consequence of a 
 
374 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 pressing invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to 
 spend a few days at S Hall. 
 
 So Mr. Mountagiie is going to spend a week at S Hall, 
 
 I find,” said Mrs. Temple, as she and her daughters were sitting 
 at work the morning after the archery-ball. To this simple 
 observation of Mrs. Temple a silence, which seemed as if it 
 never would be broken, ensued. 
 
 ‘‘ Helen, my dear!” said Mrs. Temple, in a soft voice. 
 
 “Ma’am!” said Helen, starting. 
 
 “ You need not start so, my dear ; I am not going to say any 
 thing very tremendous. When you and your sister were children, 
 if you remember, I often used to tell you that I looked forward, 
 with pleasure, to the time when I should live with you as friends 
 and equals. That time is come ; and I hope, now that your 
 own reason is sufficiently matured to be the guide of your con- 
 duct, that you do not think I any longer desire you to be go- 
 verned by my will. Indeed,” continued she, “ I consider you 
 as my equals in every respect but in age ; and I wish to make 
 that inequality useful to you, by giving you, as far as I can, that 
 advantage, which only age can give — experience.” 
 
 “ You are very kind, dear mother,” said Helen. 
 
 “But you must he sensible,” said Mrs. Temple, in a graver 
 tone, “ that it will depend upon yourselves, in a great measure, 
 whether I can be so much your friend as I shall wish.” 
 
 “Oh, mother,” said Helen, be my friend! I shall never 
 have a better; and, indeed, I want a friend,” added she, the 
 tears starting from her eyes. “ You’ll think me very silly, very 
 vain. He never gave me any reason. I’m sure, to think so ; 
 but I did fancy that Mr. Mountague liked me.” 
 
 “And,” said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter’s hand, 
 “ without being very silly or very vain, may not one sometimes 
 be mistaken ? Then you thought you had won Mr. Mountague ’s 
 heart ? But what did you think about your own ? Take care 
 you don’t make another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you thought 
 he never could win yours ?” 
 
 “ I never thought much about that,” replied Helen, “ till 
 yesterday.” 
 
 “ And to-day,” said Mrs. Temple — “what do you think about 
 it to-day ?” 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 375 
 
 Why,” said Helen, don’t you think, mother, that Mr. 
 Mountague has a great many good qualities?” 
 
 Yes ; a great many good qualities, a great many advantages, 
 and, amongst them, the power of pleasing you.” 
 
 ‘‘He would not think that any advantage,” said Helen; 
 “ therefore I should be sorry that he had it.” 
 
 “And so should I,” said Mrs. Temple, “be very sorry that 
 my daughter’s happiness should be out of her own power.” 
 
 “ It is the uncertainty that torments me,” resumed Helen, 
 after a pause. “ One moment I fancy that he prefers me^ the 
 next moment I am certain he prefers another. Yesterdayj when 
 we were coming away from the green, I heard Mrs. Hargrave 
 
 say to Lady S but why, mother, should I take up your time 
 
 with these minute circmnstances ? I ought not to think any 
 more about it.” 
 
 “Ought not!” repeated Mrs. Temple; “my dear, it is a 
 matter of prudence, rather than duty. By speaking to your 
 mother with so much openness, you secure her esteem and 
 affection ; and, amongst the goods of this life, you will find the 
 esteem and affection of a mother worth having,” concluded 
 Mrs. Temple, with a smile ; and Helen parted from her mother 
 with a feeling of gratitude, which may securely be expected 
 from an ingenuous well-educated daughter, who is treated with 
 similar kindness. 
 
 No one was ready for breakfast the morning that Mr. Moun- 
 tague arrived at S Hall, and he spent an hour alone in the 
 
 breakfast-room. At length the silence was interrupted by a 
 shrill female voice, which, as it approached nearer, he perceived 
 to be the voice of a foreigner half suffocated with ineffectual 
 desire to make her anger intelligible. He could only distinguish 
 the words — “ I ring, ring, ring, ay, twenty time, and nobody 
 mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all.” With a 
 violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, and Mile. 
 Panache, little expecting to find any body there, entered, volu- 
 bly repeating — “ Dey let me ring, ring, ring!” Surprised at 
 the sight of a gentleman, and a young gentleman, she repented 
 having been so loud in her anger. However, upon the second 
 reconnoitring glance at Mr. Mountague, she felt much in doubt 
 how to behave towards him. Mademoiselle boasted often of the 
 
376 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 well-bred instinct, by which she could immediately distinguish 
 “ im homme comme il faut ” from any other ; yet sometimes, like 
 Falstaff's, her instinct was fallacious. Recollecting that Lady 
 
 S had sent for an apothecary, she took it into her head that 
 
 Mr. Mountague was this apothecary. Miladi is not visible 
 yet, sir,” said she; “ does she know you are here?” 
 
 I hope not, ma’am ; for I should be very sorry she were to 
 be disturbed, after sitting up so late last night.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, pardonnez^ some 
 excellent white wine whey out of my own head last night, when 
 she got into her bed. I hope you don’t make no objection to 
 white wine whey, sir?” 
 
 I ! — not in the least, ma’am.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, I’m glad you don’t disapprove of what I’ve done! 
 You attend many family in dis country, sir ?” 
 
 “Madam!” said Mr. Mountague, taking an instant’s time to 
 consider what she could mean by attend. 
 
 “You visit many family in dis country, sir?” persisted made- 
 moiselle. 
 
 “ Very few, ma’am ; I am a stranger in this part of the world, 
 except at Mrs. Temple’s.” 
 
 “Madame Temple, ah, oui! I know her very well; she has 
 two fine daughters — I mean when dey have seen more of de 
 world. It’s a great pity, too, dey have never had de advantage 
 of a native, to teach de good pronunciation de la langue Frangaise. 
 Madame Temple will repent herself of dat when it is too late, 
 as I tell her always. But, sir, you have been at her house. I 
 am sorry we did not hear none of de family had been indis- 
 posed.” 
 
 “ They are all now perfectly well, ma’am,” replied Mr. 
 Mountague, “except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight 
 cold last week.” 
 
 “ But she is re-establish by your advise, I suppose ? and she — 
 did she recommend you to miladi?” 
 
 “No, madam,” said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by 
 mademoiselle’s phraseology : “ Lord George — did me the 
 honour to introduce me to Lady S .” 
 
 “ Ah, Milord George ! are you a long time acquainted wid 
 milord?” 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 377 
 
 Yes, ma’am, I have known Lord George many years.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah, many year ! — you be de family physician, apparem-- 
 ment f 
 
 The family physician ! Oh no, ma’am!” said Mr. Mounta- 
 gue, smiling. 
 
 “Eh!” said mademoiselle, “hut dat is being too modest. 
 Many take de litre of physician. I’ll engage, wid less pretensions. 
 And,” added she, looking graciously, absolumentj I will not 
 have you call yourself de family apothicaire,'' 
 
 At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family 
 apothecary by the hand, with an air of familiarity which as- 
 tounded mademoiselle. “ Quest ce que cestT' whispered she to 
 Dashwood, who followed his lordship : “ is not dis his apothi- 
 cairef Dashwood, at this question, burst into a loud laugh. 
 “Mr. Mountague,” cried he, “have you been prescribing for 
 mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary.” 
 
 Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially 
 where there was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body 
 superior to him in abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood’s 
 mirth ; repeating the story, as “ an excellent thing,” to every 
 one, as they came down to breakfast ; especially to Lady Au- 
 gusta, whom he congratulated, the moment she entered the 
 room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with an 
 apothecary. “Here he is!” said he, pointing to Mr. Moun- 
 tague. 
 
 “ Ma chere amie ! mon coeur ! tink of my mistaking your Mr. 
 Mountague for such a sort of person ! If you had only told me, 
 sir, dat you were Miladi Augusta’s partner last night, it would 
 have saved me de necessity of making ten million apologies for 
 my stupidity, dat could not find it out. Ma chere amie! mon 
 coeur I Miladi Augusta, will you make my excuse ?” 
 
 “ ATa chere amie ! mon coeur V' repeated Mr. Mountague to 
 himself : “is it possible that this woman can be an intimate 
 friend of Lady Augusta?” What was his surprise, when he 
 discovered that Mile. Panache had been her ladyship’s gover- 
 ness ! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some moments. 
 “ So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French 
 governess!” said he to himself; “hut that is her misfortune, 
 not her fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might 
 
378 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 make her what he pleased.” When Mr. Mountague recovered 
 from his reverie, he heard the company, as they seated them- 
 selves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk over the last night’s 
 ball. “You did not tire yourself last night with dancing, my 
 lord,” said Dashwood. 
 
 “No; I hate dancing,” replied Lord George: “ I wish the 
 ladies would take to dancing with one another; I think that 
 would be an excellent scheme.” An aunt of his lordship, who 
 was present, took great offence at this suggestion of her nephew. 
 She had been used to the deference paid in former times to the 
 sex ; and she said she could not bear to see women give up their 
 proper places in society. “ Really, George,” added she, turning 
 to her nephew, “ I wish you would not talk in this manner. The 
 
 young men now give themselves the strangest airs. Lady S , 
 
 I v/ill expose him ; do you know, last night, he was lolling at 
 his full length upon a bench in the ball-room, while three young 
 handsome ladies were standing opposite to him, tired to death.” 
 They could not be more tired than I was, I am sure, 
 ma’am.” 
 
 “Why, you had not been dancing, and they had.” 
 
 “Had they, ma’am? that was not my fault. I did not ask 
 ’em to dance, and I don’t see it was my business to ask ’em to 
 sit down. I did not know who they were, at any rate,” con- 
 cluded his lordship, sullenly. 
 
 “You knew they were women, and as such entitled to your 
 respect.” 
 
 Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dashwood, and 
 pulled up his boot. 
 
 “Another thing — you were in the house three weeks with 
 Miss Earl last summer; you met her yesterday evening, and 
 you thought proper not to take the least notice of her.” 
 
 “ Miss, Earl, ma’am ; was she there ?” 
 
 “ Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to her.” 
 
 “ I did not see her, ma’am.” 
 
 “Mrs. Earl spoke to you,” 
 
 “ I didn’t hear her, ma’am.” 
 
 “ I told you of it at the moment.” 
 
 “ I didn’t understand you, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Besides, ma’am,” interposed Dashwood, “ as to Miss Earl, 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 879 
 
 if she meant that my lord should bow to her, she should have 
 curtsied first to him.” 
 
 ‘‘ Curtsied first to him !” 
 
 Yes, that’s the rule — that’s the thing now. The ladies are 
 always to speak first.” 
 
 I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. Lady 
 Augusta, what say you to all this?” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, that it’s shocking to be sure!” said Lady Augusta, “if 
 one thinks of it ; so the only way is not to think about it.” 
 
 “An excellent bon-mot!” exclaimed Dashwood. “It’s 
 thinking that spoils conversation, and every thing else.” 
 
 “ But,” added Lady Augusta, who observed that her bon-mot 
 was not so much admired by all the company as by Dashwood, 
 “ I really only mean, that one must do as other people do.” 
 
 “ Assurement,'' said mademoiselle ; “not dat I approve of the 
 want of gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. But, I tink, 
 Mademoiselle Earl is as stiff as de poker, and I don’t approve of 
 dat, neider — Je naime pas les prudes, moi^ 
 
 “ But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of man- 
 ners?” said the old lady, gravely. 
 
 Dignite I — Oh, I don’t say noting against f/igmYe, neider ; 
 not but I tink de English reserve is de trop. I tink a lady of a 
 certain rank has always good enough, to be sure, and 
 
 as to the rest quimporte? — dat’s my notions.” 
 
 Mr. Mountague looked with anxiety at Lady Augusta, to see 
 what she thought of her governess’s notions ; but all that he 
 could judge from her countenance was that she did not think 
 at all. “ Well, she has time enough before her to learn to 
 think,” said he to himself. “ I am glad she did not assent to 
 mademoiselle’s notions, at least. I hope she has learnt nothing 
 from her but ‘ the true French pronunciation' ” 
 
 No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George gave 
 
 his customary morning yawn, and walked as usual to the 
 window. “ Come,” said Dashwood, in his free manner — “ come, 
 mademoiselle, you must come down with us to the water-side, 
 and Lady Augusta, I hope.” 
 
 “ Ay,” whispered Lord George to Dashwood, “ and let’s 
 settle our wager about mademoiselle and my blackamore — don’t 
 think I’ll let you off that.” 
 
380 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 “ Off! — I’m ready to double the bet, my lord,” said Dasli- 
 wood aloud, and in the same moment turned to mademoiselle 
 with some high-flown compliment about the beauty of her com- 
 plexion, and the dangers of going without a veil on a hot sunny 
 day. 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you’ve persuaded mademoi- 
 selle to take the veil, we’ll set out, if you please,” said Lady 
 Augusta. 
 
 Mr. Mountague, who kept his attention continually upon Lady 
 Augusta, was delighted to see that she waited for the elderly 
 lady, who, at breakfast, had said so much in favour of dignity 
 of manners. Mr. Mountague did not, at this moment, consider 
 that this elderly lady was Lord George’s aunt, and that the 
 attention paid to her by Lady Augusta might possibly proceed 
 from motives of policy, not from choice. Young men of open 
 tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived by 
 coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the meanness of 
 their artifices. As Mr. Mountague walked down to the river, 
 Lady Augusta contrived to entertain him so completely, that 
 Helen Temple never once came into his mind ; though he had 
 sense enough to perceive his danger, he had not sufiicient 
 courage to avoid it : it sometimes requires courage to fly from 
 danger. From this agreeable tete-h-tete he was roused, how- 
 ever, hy the voice of Mile. Panache, who, in an affected agony, 
 was struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both her 
 hands — “ No! no I — Non I non I I will not — I will not, I tell 
 you, I will not.” 
 
 “ Nay, nay,” said Dashwood ; hut I have sworn to get you 
 into the boat.” 
 
 “ Ah ! into de boat d la bonne Jieure ; but not wid dat vilain 
 black.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his man ; 
 and you’ll acknowledge, my lord, in that case it’s a drawn bet,” 
 said Dashwood. 
 
 ‘‘I! not I. I’ll acknowledge nothing,” replied his lordship ; 
 and he swore his black Tom should not be sent away : “ he’s 
 a capital boatman, and I can’t do without him.” 
 
 ‘‘ Den I won’t stir,” said mademoiselle, passionately, to 
 Dashwood. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 381 
 
 “ Then I must carry you, must I ?” cried Dashwood, laugh- 
 ing ; and immediately, to Mr. Mountague’s amazement, a romp- 
 ing scene ensued between this tutor and governess, which ended 
 in Dashwood’s carrying mademoiselle in his arms into the boat, 
 amidst the secret derision of two footmen, and the undisguised 
 laughter of black Tom, who were spectators of the scene. 
 
 Mr. Mountague trembled at the thoughts of receiving a wife 
 from the hands of a Mile. Panache ; hut, turning his eye upon 
 Lady Augusta, he thought she blushed, and this blush at once 
 saved her, in his opinion, and increased his indignation against 
 her governess. Mademoiselle being now alarmed, and provoked 
 by the laughter of the servants, the dry sarcastic manner of Lord 
 George, the cool air of Mr. Mountague, and the downcast looks 
 of her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high angry 
 tone assured him, that she had never seen nobody have so 
 much assurance;” and she demanded, furiously — ‘‘how he 
 could ever tink to take such liberties wid her ? Only tell me 
 how you could dare to tink of it ?” 
 
 “ I confess I did not think as I ought to have done, made- 
 moiselle,” replied Dashwood, looking an apology to Lady 
 Augusta, which, however, he took great care mademoiselle 
 should not observe. “ But your bet, my lord, if you please,” 
 added he, attempting to turn it off in a joke : “ there was no 
 scream — my bet’s fairly won.” 
 
 “ I assure you, sir, dis won’t do : it’s no good joke, I promise 
 you. Ma chere amie, mon coeur” cried mademoiselle to Lady 
 Augusta — “ viens — come, let us go Don’t touch that,” pur- 
 
 sued she, roughly, to black Tom, who was going to draw away 
 the plank that led to the shore. “ I will go home dis minute, 
 
 and speak to Miladi S . Viens! viens ^ ma chere amieV — 
 
 and she darted out of the boat, whilst Dashwood followed, in 
 vain attempting to stop her. She prudently, however, took the 
 longest way through the park, that she might have a full oppor- 
 tunity of listening to reason^ as Dashwood called it ; and before 
 she reached home, she was perfectly convinced of the expe- 
 diency of moderate measures. “ Let the thing rest where it 
 is,” said Dashwood: “ it’s a joke, and there’s an end of it; but 
 if you take it in earnest, you know the story might not tell so. 
 well, even if you told it, and there would never he an end of 
 
382 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 it.*’ All this, followed by a profusion of compliments, ratified 
 a peace, which the moment he had made, he laughed at himself 
 for having taken so much trouble to effect ; whilst mademoiselle 
 rested in the blessed persuasion that Dashwood was desperately 
 in love with her ; nay, so little knowledge had she of the human 
 heart as to believe that the scene which had just passed was a 
 proof of his passion. 
 
 “ I wonder where’s Miladi Augusta? I thought she was wid 
 me all this time,” said she. 
 
 ‘‘ She’s coming ; don’t you see her at the end of the grove 
 with Mr. Mountague ? We have walked fast,” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, she can’t never walk so fast as me; I tink I am as 
 young as she is.” 
 
 Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon the 
 consequences of the attachment which he saw rising in Mr. 
 Moimtague’s mind for Lady Augusta. If a man of sense were 
 to gain an influence over her, Dashwood feared that all his 
 hopes would be destroyed, and he resolved to use all his pov/er 
 over mademoiselle to prejudice her, and by her means to pre- 
 judice her pupil against this gentleman. Mademoiselle’s having 
 begun by taking him for an apothicaire, was a circumstance 
 much in favour of Dashwood’s views, because she felt herself 
 pledged to justify, or at least to persist, in her opinion, that he 
 did not look like un homme comme it faut. 
 
 In the mean time Mr. Mountague was walking slowly towards 
 them with Lady Augusta, who found it necessary to walk as 
 slowly as possible, because of the heat. He had been reflecting 
 very soberly upon her ladyship’s late blush, which, according to 
 his interpretation, said, as plainly as a blush could say, all that 
 the most refined sense and delicacy could dictate. Yet such is, 
 upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the human mind, that 
 he by no means felt sure that the lady had blushed at all. Her 
 colour was, perhaps, a shade higher than usual ; but then it was 
 hot weather, and she had been walking. The doubt, however, 
 Mr. Mountague thought proper to suppress ; and the reality of 
 the blush, once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed 
 the foundation of several ingenious theories of moral sentiment, 
 and some truly logical deductions. A passionate admirer of 
 grace and beauty, he could not help wishing that he might find 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 383 
 
 Lady Augusta’s temper and understanding equal to her personal 
 accomplishments. When we are very anxious to discover per- 
 fections in any character, we generally succeed, or fancy that 
 we succeed. Mr. Mountague quickly discovered many amiable 
 and interesting qualities in this fair lady, and, though he per- 
 ceived some defects, he excused them to himself with the most 
 philosophic ingenuity. 
 
 Affectation,” the judicious Locke observes, has always 
 the laudable aim of pleasing:” upon this principle Mr. Moun- 
 tague could not reasonably think of it with severity. ‘‘ From 
 the desire of pleasing,” argued he, “ proceeds not only all that 
 is amiable, but much of what is most estimable in the female 
 sex. This desire leads to affectation and coquetry, to folly and 
 vice, only when it is extended to unworthy objects. The mo- 
 ment a woman’s wish to please becomes discriminative, the 
 moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to the 
 vulgar herd, she not only ceases to be a coquette, but she exerts 
 herself to excel in every thing that he approves, and, from her 
 versatility of manners, she has the happy power of adapting 
 herself to his taste, and of becoming all that his most sanguine 
 wishes could desire.” The proofs of this discriminative taste, 
 and the first symptoms of this salutary attachment to a man 
 superior to the vulgar herd, Mr. Mountague thought he dis- 
 cerned very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he ever forget 
 that she was but eighteen. ‘‘ She is so very young,” said he to 
 I himself, ‘‘ that it is but reasonable I should constantly consider 
 
 I what she may become, rather than what she is.” To do him 
 
 I justice, we shall observe, that her ladyship at this time, with all 
 I the address of which so young a lady was capable, did every 
 thing in her power to confirm Mr. Mountague in his favourable 
 sentiments of her. 
 
 1 Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he was at 
 ! length determined by the generous enthusiasm, amiable simplicity, 
 j and candid good sense which Lady Augusta shov/ed in speaking 
 I of a favourite friend of hers, of whom he could not approve. 
 I This friend. Lady Diana, was one of the rude ladies who had 
 laughed with so much ill-nature at Helen’s white and black 
 shoes at the archery ball. She was a dashing, rich, extravagant, 
 fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike manners, too 
 
384 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 often “ touching the brink of all we hate,” without exciting any 
 passions allied to love. Her look was almost an oath — her 
 language was suitable to her looks — she swore and dressed to 
 the height of the fashion — she could drive four horses in hand — 
 was a desperate huntress — and so loud in the praises of her dogs 
 and horses, that she intimidated even sportsmen and jockeys. 
 She talked so much of her favourite horse Spanker^ that she 
 acquired amongst a particular set of gentlemen the appellation 
 of my Lady Di. Spanker. Lady Augusta perceived that the 
 soft affectations remarkable in her own manners were in agree- 
 able contrast in the company of this masculine dame; she 
 
 therefore cultivated her acquaintance, and Lady S could 
 
 make no objection to a woman who was well received every 
 where ; she was rather flattered to see her daughter taken notice 
 of by this dashing belle ; consequently. Lady Di. Spanker, for 
 by that name we also shall call her, frequently rode over from 
 
 Cheltenham, which was some miles distant from S Hall. 
 
 One morning she called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon 
 her coming out to try her favourite horse. All the gentlemen 
 went down immediately to assist in putting her ladyship on 
 horseback : this was quite unnecessary, for Lady Diana took 
 that office upon herself. Lady Augusta was all timidity, and 
 was played off to great advantage by the rough raillery of her 
 friend. At length she conquered her fears so much as to seat 
 herself upon the side-saddle ; her riding mistress gathered up 
 the reins for her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands ; 
 then armed her with her whip, exhorting her, “ for God’s sake, 
 not to he such a coward!” Scarcely was the word coward pro- 
 nounced, when Lady Augusta, by some unguarded motion of 
 her whip, gave offence to her high-mettled steed, which instantly 
 began to rear : there was no danger, for Mr. Mountague caught 
 hold of the reins, and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect 
 safety. “ How now. Spanker!” exclaimed Lady Di., in a voice 
 calculated to strike terror into the nerves of a horse — “ how 
 now. Spanker!” and mounting him with masculine boldness of 
 gesture — “I’ll teach you, sir, who’s your mistress,” continued 
 she; “I’ll make you pay for these tricks!” Spanker reared 
 again, and Lady Di. gave him what she called “ a complete 
 dressing!” In vain Lady Augusta screamed; in vain the 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 385 
 
 spectators entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip ; she 
 persisted in beating Spanker till she fairly mastered him. When 
 he was perfectly subdued, she dismounted with the same care- 
 lessness with which she had mounted ; and, giving the horse to 
 her groom, pushed back her hat, and looked round for applause. 
 Lord George, roused to a . degree of admiration, which he had 
 never before been heard to express for any thing female, swore 
 that, in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done ; 
 and Lady Di. Spanker received his congratulations with a loud 
 laugh, and a hearty shake of the hand. “Walk him about, 
 Jack,” added she, turning to the groom, who held her horse; 
 “ walk him about, for he’s all in a lather; and when he’s cool, 
 bring him up here again. And then, my dear child,” said she to 
 Lady Augusta, “you shall give him a fair trial.” 
 
 “I! — Oh! never, never!” cried Lady Augusta, shrinking 
 back with a faint shriek : “ this is a trial to which you must not 
 put my friendship. I must insist upon leaving Spanker to your 
 management ; I would not venture upon him again for the uni- 
 verse.” 
 
 “ How can you talk so like a child — so like a woman ?” cried 
 her friend. 
 
 “I confess, I am a very woman,” said Lady Augusta, with a 
 sigh : “ and I fear I shall never be otherwise.” 
 
 Fear repeated Mr. Mountague, to whom even the affec- 
 tation of feminine softness and timidity appeared at this instant 
 charming, from the contrast with the masculine intrepidity and 
 disgusting coarseness of Lady Diana Spanker’s manners. The 
 tone in which he pronounced the single word fear was sufficient 
 to betray his feelings towards both the ladies. Lady Di. gave 
 him a look of sovereign contempt. “ All I know and can tell 
 you,” cried she, “is, that fear should never get a-horseback.” 
 Lord George burst into one of his loud laughs. “ But as to the 
 rest,y<?ar may be a confounded good thing in its proper place; 
 but they say it’s catching ; so I must run away from you, child,” 
 said she to Lady Augusta. “Jack, bring up Spanker. I’ve 
 twenty miles to ride before dinner. I’ve no time to lose,” pull- 
 ing out her watch : “ faith. I’ve fooled away an hour here ; 
 Spanker must make it up for me. God bless you all ! good 
 bye!” and she mounted her horse, and galloped off full speed. 
 
 c c 
 
38G 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 God bless ye ! good bye to ye, Lady Di. Spanker,” cried 
 Dashwood, the moment she was out of hearing. “ Heaven pre- 
 serve us from amazons!” Lord George did not say. Amen. On 
 the contrary, lie declared she "was a fine dashing woman, and 
 seemed to have a great deal of blood about her. Mr. Mounta- 
 gue watched Lady Augusta’s countenance in silence, and was 
 much pleased to observe that she did not assent to his lordship’s 
 encomium. She has good sense enough to perceive the faults 
 of her new friend, and now her eyes are open she will no longer 
 make a favourite companion, I hope, of this odious woman,” 
 thought he. “I am afraid, I am sadly afraid you are right,” 
 said Lady Augusta, going up to the elderly lady, whom we 
 formerly mentioned, who had seen all that had passed from the 
 open windows of the drawing-room. I own I do see something 
 of what you told me the other day you disliked so much in my 
 friend. Lady Di. and Lady Augusta gave the candid sigh of 
 expiring friendship as she uttered these words. 
 
 ‘‘ Do you know,” cried Dashwood, “ that this spanking horse- 
 woman has frightened us all out of our senses? I vow to Hea- 
 ven, I never was so much terrified in my life as when I saw you. 
 Lady Augusta, upon that vicious animal.” 
 
 To be sure,” said Lady Augusta, “it was very silly of 
 me to venture ; I almost broke my neck, out oi pure friendship.'' 
 
 “ It is well it is no worse,” said the elderly lady : “ if a fall 
 from a horse was the worst evil to be expected from a friendship 
 with a woman of this sort, it would be nothing very terrible.” 
 
 Lady Augusta, with an appearance of ingenuous candour, 
 sighed again, and replied — “ It is so difficult to see any imper- 
 fections in those one loves I Forgive me, if I spoke with too 
 much warmth, madam, the other day, in vindication of my 
 friend. I own I ought to have paid more deference to your 
 judgment and knowledge of the world, so much superior to my 
 own ; but certainly I must confess, the impropriety of her ama- 
 zonian manners, as Mr. Dashwood calls them, never struck my 
 partial eyes till this morning. Nor could I, nor would I, believe 
 half the world said of her; indeed, even now, I am persuaded 
 she is, in the main, quite irreproachable ; but I feel the truth of 
 what you said to me, madam, that young women cannot be too 
 careful in the choice of their female friends ; that we are judged 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 387 
 
 of by our companions; how unfairly one must be judged of 
 sometimes!” concluded her ladyship, with a look of pensive 
 reflection. 
 
 Mr. Mountague never thought her half so beautiful as at this 
 instant. ‘‘How viind embellishes beauty!” thought he ; “and 
 what quality of the mind more amiable than candour ! — All that 
 was wanting to her character was reflection ; and could one 
 expect so much reflection as this from a girl of eighteen, who 
 had been educated by a Mile. Panache ?” Our readers will 
 observe that this gentleman now reasoned like a madman, but 
 not like a fool ; his deductions from the appearances before Wm 
 were admirable ; but these appearances were false. He had not 
 observed that Lady Augusta’s eyes were open to the defects of 
 her amazonian friend, in the very moment that Lord George 
 
 ■ was roused to admiration by this horseman belle. Mr. 
 
 Mountague did not perceive that the candid reflections addressed 
 to his lordship’s aunt were the immediate consequence of female 
 jealousy. 
 
 The next morning, at breakfast. Lord George was summoned 
 three times before he made his appearance : at length he burst 
 in, with a piece of news he had just heard from his groom — 
 “ That Lady Di. Spanker, in riding home full gallop the preced- 
 ing day, had been thrown from her horse by an old woman. 
 Faith, I couldn’t believe the thing,” added Lord George, with a 
 loud laugh ; “ for she certainly sits a horse better than any 
 woman in England ; but my groom had the whole story from 
 the grand-daughter of the old woman who was run over.” 
 
 “Run over!” exclaimed Lady Augusta; “was the poor 
 woman run over? — was she hurt?” 
 
 “ Hurt ! yes, she was hurt, I fancy,” said Lord George. “ I 
 never heard of any body’s being run over without being hurt. 
 The girl has a petition that will come up to us just now, I sup- 
 pose. I saw her in the back yard as I came in.” 
 
 “Oh! let us see the poor child,” said Lady Augusta: “do 
 let us have her called to this window.” The window opened 
 down to the ground, and, as soon as the little girl appeared with 
 the petition in her hand, Lady Augusta threw open the sash, 
 and received it from her timid hand with a smile, which to Mr. 
 Mountague seemed expressive of sweet and graceful benevo- 
 c c 2 
 
383 
 
 MADEMOISELLE TANACIIE. 
 
 lence. Lady Augusta read the petition with much feeling, and 
 her lover thought her voice never before sounded so melodious. 
 She wrote her name eagerly at the head of a subscription. The 
 money she gave was rather more than the occasion required ; 
 but, thought Mr. Mountague, 
 
 “ If the generous spirit flow 
 Beyond where prudence fears to go 
 Those errors are of nobler kind. 
 
 Than virtues of a narrow mind 2.” 
 
 By a series of petty artifices Lady Augusta contrived to make 
 hferself appear most engaging and amiable to this artless young 
 man : but the moment pf success was to her the moment of 
 danger. She was little av/are, that when a man of sense began 
 to think seriously of her as a wife, he would require very differ- 
 ent qualities from those which please in public assemblies. Her 
 ladyship fell into a mistake not uncommon in her sex ; she 
 thought that ‘‘ Love blinds when once he wounds the swain 
 Coquettes have sometimes penetration sufficient to see what will 
 please their different admirers : but even those who have that 
 versatility of manners, which can be all things to all men, forget 
 that it is possible to support an assumed character only for a 
 time ; the moment the immediate motive for dissimulation dimi- 
 nishes, the power of habit acts, and the real disposition and 
 manners appear. 
 
 When Lady Augusta thought herself sure of her captive, and 
 consequently when the power of habit was beginning to act with 
 all its wonted force, she was walking out with him in a shrub- 
 bery near the house, and mademoiselle, with Mr. Dashwood, 
 who generally was the gallant partner of her walks, accompanied 
 them. Mademoiselle stopped to gather some fine carnations ; 
 near the carnations was a rose-tree. Mr. Mountague, as three 
 of those roses, one of them in full blow, one half blown, and 
 another a pretty bud, caught his eye, recollected a passage in 
 Berkeley’s romance of Gaudentio di Lucca. Did you ever 
 happen to meet with Gaudentio di Lucca ? do you recollect the 
 story of Berilla, Lady Augusta?” said he. 
 
 ‘‘No; 1 have never heard of Berilla: what is the story?” 
 said she. 
 
 2 Soame Jenyns. 
 
 Collins's Eclogues. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 389 
 
 I wish I had the book,” said Mr. Mountague ; “ I cannot do 
 it justice, but I will borrow it for you from Miss Helen Temple. I 
 lent it to her some time ago ; I dare say she has finished reading it.” 
 At these words, Lady Augusta’s desire to have Gaudentio di 
 Lucca suddenly increased ; and she expressed vast curiosity to 
 know the story of Berilla. And pray what put you in mind 
 of this book just now?” said she. 
 
 These roses. In Berkeley’s Utopia, which he calls Mezzo- 
 rania — (every philosopher, you know, Mr. Dashwood, must have 
 a.Utopia, under whatever name he pleases to call it) — in Mezzo- 
 rania. Lady Augusta, gentlemen did not, as amongst us, make 
 declarations of love by artificial words, but by natural flowers^. 
 The lover in the beginning of his attachment declared it to his 
 mistress by the ofier of an opening bud ; if she felt favourably 
 inclined towards him, she accepted and wore the bud. When 
 time had increased his affection — for in Mezzorania it is supposed 
 that time increases affection for those that deserve it — the lover 
 presented a half-blown flower ; and, after this also was gra- 
 ciously accepted, he came, we may suppose not very long 
 afterwards, with a full-blown flower, the emblem of mature 
 affection. The ladies who accepted these full-blown flowers, 
 and wore them, were looked upon amongst the simple Mezzo- 
 ranians as engaged for life; nor did the gentlemen, when they 
 offered their flowers, make one single protestation or vow of 
 eternal love, yet they were believed, and deserved, it is said, to 
 be believed.” 
 
 ce que c'est? Quest ce que c'estf repeated made- 
 moiselle several times to Dashwood, whilst Mr. Mountague was 
 speaking : she did not understand English sufficiently to com- 
 prehend him, and Dashwood was obliged to make the thing 
 intelligible to her in French. Whilst he was occupied with her, 
 Mr. Mountague gathered three roses, a bud, a half-blown and a 
 full-blown rose, and playfully presented them to Lady Augusta 
 for her choice. — ‘‘I’m dying to see this Gaudentio di Lucca ; 
 you’ll get the book for me to-morrow from Miss Helen Temple, 
 will you?” said Lady Augusta, as she with a coquettish smile 
 took the rose-bud, and put it into her bosom. 
 
 Gaudentio di Lucca, p. 202. 
 
390 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 “ i?ow cried mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the full- 
 blown rose, which Mr. Mountague threw away carelessly. “ Bon ) 
 but it is great pity dis should be thrown away.” 
 
 It is not thrown away upon Mile. Panache !” said Dashwood. 
 
 “ Dat maybe,” said mademoiselle; ‘‘but I observe, wid all 
 your fine compliment, you let me stoop to pick it up for myself 
 — d I' Anglaise V 
 
 A la Frangaise, then,” said Dashwood, laughing, “permit 
 me to put it into your nosegay.” 
 
 “ Dat is more dan you deserve,” replied mademoiselle. — 
 “ Eh ! non, non. I can accommodate it, I tell you, to my own 
 taste best.” She settled and resettled the flower: but suddenly 
 she stopped, uttered a piercing shriek, plucked the full-blown 
 rose from her bosom, and threw it upon the ground with a 
 theatrical look of horror. A black earwig now appeared creeping 
 out of the rose ; it was running away, but mademoiselle pursued, 
 set her foot upon it, and crushed it to death. “ Oh ! I hope 
 to Heaven, Mr. Mountague, there are none of these vile creatures 
 in the bud you’ve given me!” exclaimed Lady Augusta. She 
 looked at her bud as she spoke, and espied upon one of the 
 leaves a small green caterpillar : with a look scarcely less 
 theatrical than mademoiselle’s, she tore off the leaf and flung 
 it from her ; then, from habitual imitation of her governess, she 
 set her foot upon the harmless caterpillar, and crushed it in a 
 moment. 
 
 In the same moment Lady Augusta’s whole person seemed 
 metamorphosed to the eyes of her lover. She ceased to be 
 beautiful : he seemed to see her countenance distorted by male- 
 volence ; he saw in her gestures disgusting cruelty ; and all the 
 graces vanished. 
 
 When Lady Augusta was a girl of twelve years old, she saw 
 Mile. Panache crush a spider to death without emotion : the 
 lesson on humanity was not lost upon her. From imitation, she 
 learned her governess’s foolish terror of insects ; and from 
 example, she was also taught that species of cruelty, by which 
 at eighteen she disgusted a man of humanity who was in love 
 with her. Mr. Mountague said not one word upon the occasion. 
 They walked on. A few minutes after the caterpillar had been 
 crushed. Lady Augusta exclaimed, “ Why, mademoiselle, what 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 391 
 
 have you done with Fanfan ? I thought my dog was with us : 
 for Heaven’s sake, where is he ?” 
 
 ‘‘ He is run, he is run on,” replied mademoiselle. 
 
 “ Oh, he’ll be lost! he’ll run down the avenue, quite out upon 
 the turnpike road. — Fanfan ! Fanfan !” 
 
 Don’t alarm, don’t distress yourself,” cried Dashwood : “if 
 your ladyship will permit me, I’ll see for Fanfan instantly, and 
 bring her back to you, if she is to be found in the universe.” 
 
 “O Lord I don’t trouble yourself; I only spoke to made- 
 moiselle, who regularly loses Fanfan when she takes him out 
 with her.” Dashwood set out in search of the dog; and Lady 
 Augusta, overcome with affectation, professed herself unable to 
 walk one yard further, and sank down upon a seat under a tree, 
 in a very graceful, languid attitude. Mr. Mountague stood 
 silent beside her. Mademoiselle went on with a voluble defence 
 of her conduct towards Fanfan, which lasted till Dashwood 
 reappeared, hurrying towards them with the dog in his arms — 
 Ahy la voildl chere Fanfan !” exclaimed mademoiselle. 
 
 “ I am sure I really am excessively obliged to Mr. Dashwood, 
 I must say,” cried Lady Augusta, looking reproachfully at Mr. 
 Mountague. 
 
 Dashwood now approached with panting, breathless eagerness, 
 announcing a terrible misfortune, that Fanfan had got a thorn 
 or something in his fore-foot. Lady Augusta received Fanfan 
 upon her lap, with expressions of the most tender condolence ; 
 and Dashwood knelt down at her feet to sympathize in her 
 sorrow, and to examine the dog’s paw. Mademoiselle produced 
 a needle to extract the thorn. 
 
 “ I wish we had a magnifying-glass,” said Dashwood, looking 
 with strained solicitude at the wound. 
 
 “Oh, you insensible monster! positively you sha’n’t touch 
 Fanfan,” cried Lady Augusta, guarding her lapdog from Mr. 
 Mountague, wdio stooped now, for the first time, to see what was 
 the matter. “Don’t touch him, I say; I would not trust him 
 to you for the universe ; I know you hate lapdogs. You’ll kill 
 him — you’ll kill him.” 
 
 “I kill him! Oh no,” said Mr. Mountague; “ I would not 
 even kill a caterpillar.” 
 
 Lady Augusta coloured at these words; but she recovered 
 
392 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 herself when Dashwood laughed, and asked Mr. Mountague 
 how long it was since he had turned brahmin ; and how long 
 since he had professed to like caterpillars and earwigs. 
 
 Bon Bieul — earwig!” interrupted mademoiselle: ‘‘is it 
 possible that monsieur or any body dat has sense, can like dose 
 earwig ?” 
 
 “ I do not remember,” answered Mr. Mountague, calmly, 
 “ ever to have professed any liking for earwigs.” 
 
 “ Well, •pity ; you profess pity for them,” said Mr. Dashwood, 
 “ and pity, you know, is ‘ akin to love.’ — Pray, did your ladyship 
 ever hear of the man who had a pet toad^ ?” 
 
 “Oh, the odious wretch!” cried Lady Augusta, affectedly; 
 “ but how could the man bring himself to like a toad?” 
 
 “ He began by pityinghim, I suppose,” said Dashwood. “ For 
 my part, I own I must consider that man to be in a most enviable 
 situation whose heart is sufficiently at ease to sympathize with 
 the insect creation.” 
 
 “ Or with the brute creation,” said Mr. Mountague, smiling 
 and looking at Fanfan, whose paw Dashwood was at this instant 
 nursing wdth infinite tenderness. 
 
 “ Oh, gentlemen, let us have no more of this, for Heaven’s 
 sake!” said Lady Augusta, interposing, with affected anxiety, 
 as if she imagined a quarrel would ensue. “ Poor dear Fanfan, 
 you would not have any body quarrel about you, would you, 
 Fanfan?” She rose as she spoke, and, delivering the dog to 
 Dashwood to be carried home, she walked towards the house, 
 with an air of marked displeasure towards Mr. Mountague. 
 
 Her ladyship’s displeasure did not affect him as she expected. 
 Her image — her gesture stamping upon the caterpillar, recurred 
 to her lover’s mind many times in the course of the evening ; 
 and in the silence of the night, and whenever the idea of her 
 came into his mind, it was attended with this picture of active 
 cruelty. 
 
 “ Has your ladyship,” said Mr. Mountague, addressing himself 
 
 to Lady S , “ any commands for Mrs. Temple ? I am going 
 
 to ride over to see her this morning.” 
 
 Lady S— said that she would trouble him with a card for 
 
 ® Vide Smellie’s Natural History, vol. ii. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 398 
 
 Mrs. Temple ; a card of invitation for tlie ensuing week. ‘‘ And 
 pray don’t forget my kindest remembrances,” cried Lady Au- 
 gusta, especially to Miss Helen Temple ; and if she should 
 have entirely finished the book we were talking of, I shall be 
 glad to see it.” 
 
 When Mr. Mountague arrived at Mrs. Temple’s, he was shown 
 into the usual sitting-room : the servant told him that none of 
 the ladies were at home, but that they would soon return, he 
 believed, from their walk, as they were gone only to a cottage 
 at about half a mile’s distance. 
 
 The room in which he had passed so many agreeable hours 
 awakened in his mind a number of dormant associations — work, 
 books, drawing, writing ! he saw every thing had been going 
 forward just as usual in his absence. All the domestic occupa- 
 tions, thought he, which make home delightful, are here ! I see 
 
 nothing of these at S Hall. Upon the table, near a neat 
 
 work-basket, which he knew to be Helen’s, lay an open book ; 
 it was Gaudentio di Lucca. Mr. Mountague recollected the bud 
 he had given to Lady Augusta, and he began to whistle, but 
 not for want of thought. A music-book on the desk of the 
 piano-forte caught his eye ; it was open at a favourite lesson of 
 his, which he remembered to have heard Helen play the last 
 evening he was in her company. Helen was no great proficient 
 in music ; but she played agreeably enough to please her friends, 
 and she was not ambitious of exhibiting her accomplishments. 
 Lady Augusta, on the contrary, seemed never to consider her 
 accomplishments as occupations, but as the means of attracting 
 admiration. To interrupt the comparison, which Mr. Mountague 
 was beginning to enter into between her ladyship and Helen, he 
 thought the best thing he could do was to walk to meet Mrs. 
 Temple ; wisely considering, that putting the body in motion 
 sometimes stops the current of the mind. He had at least 
 observed, that his schoolfellow, Lord George — — , seemed to 
 find this a specific against thought; and for once he was willing 
 to imitate his lordship’s example, and to hurry about from place 
 to place, without being in a hurry. He rang the bell, inquired 
 in haste which way the ladies were gone, and walked after them, 
 like a man who had the business of the nation upon his hands ; 
 yet he slackened his pace when he came near the cottage where 
 
394 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 lie knew that he was to meet Mrs. Temple and her daughters. 
 When he entered the cottage, the first object that he saw was 
 Helen, sitting by the side of a decrepit old woman, who was 
 resting her head upon a crutch, and who seemed to be in pain. 
 This was the poor woman who had been ridden over by Lady 
 Di. Spanker. A farmer who lived near Mrs. Temple, and who 
 was coming homewards at the time the accident happened, had 
 the humanity to carry the wretched woman to this cottage, which 
 was occupied by one of Mrs. Temple’s tenants. As soon as the 
 news reached her, she sent for a surgeon, and went with her 
 daughters to give that species of consolation which the rich and 
 happy can so well bestow upon the poor and miserable — the 
 consolation not of gold, but of sympathy. 
 
 There was no affectation, no ostentation of sensibility, Mr. 
 Mountague observed, in this cottage scene ; the ease and sim- 
 plicity of Helen’s manner never appeared to him more amiable. 
 He recollected Lady Augusta’s picturesque attitude, when she 
 was speaking to this old woman’s grand-daughter ; but there 
 was something in what he now beheld that gave him more the 
 idea of nature and reality : he heard, he saw, that much had 
 actually been done to relieve distress, and done when there were 
 no spectators to applaud or admire. Slight circumstances show 
 whether the mind be intent upon self or not. An awkward 
 servant girl brushed by Helen whilst she was speaking to the 
 old woman, and with a great black kettle, which she was going 
 to set upon the fire, blackened Helen’s white dress, in a manner 
 which no lady intent upon her personal appearance could have 
 borne with patience. Mr. Mountague saw the black streaks 
 before Helen perceived them, and when the maid was reproved 
 for her carelessness, Helen’s good-natured smile assured her 
 ‘‘that there was no great harm done.” 
 
 When they returned home, Mr. Mountague found that Helen 
 conversed with him with all her own ingenuous freedom, but 
 there was something more of softness and dignity, and less of 
 sprightliness, than formerly in her manner. Even this happened 
 to be agreeable to him, for it w'as in contrast with the constant 
 appearance of effort and artificial brilliancy conspicuous in the 
 manners of Lady Augusta. The constant round of cards and 
 company, the noise and bustle at S Hall, made it more 
 
MADEMOISELLE EANACIIE. 
 
 395 
 
 like town than country life, and he had often observed that, in 
 the intervals between dressing, and visiting, and gallantry, his 
 fair mistress was frequently subject to ennuL He recollected 
 that, in the many domestic hours he had spent at Mrs. Temple’s, 
 he had never beheld this French demon, who makes the votaries 
 of dissipation and idleness his victims. What advantage has a 
 man, in judging of female character, who can see a woman in 
 the midst of her own family, ‘‘ who can read her history” in 
 the' eyes of those who know her most intimately, who can see 
 her conduct as a daughter and a sister, and in the most im- 
 portant relations of life can form a certain judgment from 
 what she has been, of what she is likely to be ? But how can 
 a man judge what sort of wife he may probably expect in a 
 lady, whom he meets with only at public places, or whom he 
 never sees even at her own house, without all the advantages or 
 disadvantages of stage decoration f A man who marries a showy, 
 entertaining coquette, and expects that she wdll make him a 
 charming companion for life, commits as absurd a blunder as 
 that of the famous nobleman, who, delighted with the wit and 
 humour of Punch at a puppet-show, bought Punch, and ordered 
 him to be sent home for his private amusement. 
 
 Whether all or any of these reflections occurred to Mr. 
 Mountague during his morning visit at Mrs. Temple’s we cannot 
 pretend to say ; but his silence and absence seemed to show 
 that his thoughts were busily engaged. Never did Helen 
 appear to him so amiable as she did this morning, when the 
 dignity, delicacy, and simplicity of her manners were contrasted 
 in his imagination with the caprice and coquetry of his new 
 mistress. He felt a secret idea that he was beloved, and a 
 sober certainty that Helen had a heart capable of sincere and 
 permanent affection, joined to a cultivated understanding and 
 reasonable principles, which would wear through life, and ensure 
 happiness, with power superior to the magic of passion. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he asked Helen for Gaudentio 
 di Lucca, and with yet greater difficulty that he took leave of 
 
 her. As he was riding towards S Hall, ‘‘ revolving in his 
 
 altered mind the various turns of fate below,” he was suddenly 
 roused from his meditations by the sight of a phaeton over- 
 turned in the middle of the road, another phaeton and four 
 
396 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 empty, and a group of people gathered near a bank by the 
 road-side. Mr. Mountague rode up as fast as possible to the 
 scene of action : tlie overturned pliaeton was Lord George’s, 
 the other Lady Di. Spanker’s ; the group of people was com- 
 posed of several servants, Lord George, Lady Di., and made- 
 moiselle, all surrounding a fainting fair one, who was no other 
 than Lady Augusta herself. Lord George was shaking his 
 own arms, legs, and head, to make himself sure of their safety. 
 Lady Di. eagerly told the wliole story to Mr. Mountague, that 
 Lord George had been running races with her, and by his 
 confounded bad driving had overturned himself and Lady 
 Augusta. Poor thing, she’s not hurt at all, luckily ; but she’s 
 terrified to death, as usual, and she has been going from one 
 fainting fit to another.” 
 
 Bon DieuV' interrupted mademoiselle; ‘‘but what will 
 
 Miladi S say to us ? I wish Miladi Augusta would come 
 
 to her senses.” 
 
 Lady Augusta opened her beautiful eyes, and, just come 
 sufficiently to her senses to observe who was looking at her, 
 she put aside mademoiselle’s smelling-bottle, and, in a soft 
 voice, begged to have her own salts. Mademoiselle felt in one 
 of her ladyship’s pockets for the salts in vain : Lady Di. plunged 
 her hand into her other pocket, and pulled out, in the first 
 place, a book, which she threw upon the bank, and then came 
 out the salts. In due time the lady was happily restored to 
 the full use of her senses, and was put into her mother’s coach, 
 which had been sent for to convey her home. The carriages 
 drove away, and Mr. Mountague was just mounting his horse, 
 when he saw the book which had been pulled out of Lady 
 Augusta’s pocket, and which, by mistake, was left where it 
 had been thrown upon the grass. What was his astonishment, 
 when upon opening it, he saw one of the very w^orst books in 
 the French language ; a book which never could have been 
 found in the possession of any woman of delicacy — of decency. 
 Her lover stood for some minutes in silent amazement, disgust, 
 and, we may add, terror. 
 
 These feelings had by no means subsided in his mind, when, 
 
 upon his entering the drawing-room at S Hall, he was 
 
 accosted by Mile. Panache, who, with no small degree of alarm 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 397 
 
 in her countenance, inquired whether he knew any thing of the 
 book which had been left upon the road. No one was in the 
 room but the governess and her pupil. Mr. Mountague pro- 
 duced the book, and Lady Augusta received it with a deep 
 blush. 
 
 Put a good face upon the matter at least,” whispered her 
 governess in French. 
 
 I can assure you,” said her ladyship, I don’t know 
 what’s in this hook ; I never opened it ; I got it this morning 
 at the circulating library at Cheltenham : I put it into my pocket 
 in a hurry — pray what is it?” 
 
 “ If you have not opened it,” said Mr. Mountague, laying his 
 hand upon the book ; ‘‘I may hope that you never will — but 
 this is the second volume.” 
 
 May be so,” said Lady Augusta ; “I suppose, in my hurry, 
 I mistook ” 
 
 She never had the first, I can promise you,” cried made- 
 moiselle. 
 
 “ Never,” said Lady Augusta. The assertions had not the 
 power to convince ; they were pronounced with much vehe- 
 mence, but not with the simplicity of truth. Mr. Mountague 
 was determined to have the point cleared up ; and he imme- 
 diately offered to ride back to Cheltenham, and return the 
 second volume. At this proposal. Lady Augusta, who foresaw 
 that her falsehood would be detected, turned pale ; but made- 
 moiselle, with a laugh of effrontery, which she thought was 
 putting a good face upon the matter, exclaimed, 
 
 “ Eh ! listen to me — you may spare yourself de trouble of 
 your ride,” said she, “ for the truth is, I have de first volume. 
 Mon D'leu! I have not committed murder — do not look so 
 shock — what signify what I read at my age?” 
 
 “ But Lady Augusta, your pupil !” said Mr. Mountague. 
 
 ‘‘ I tell you she has never read one word of it ; and, after all, 
 is she child now ? When she was, Miladi S was very par- 
 
 ticular, and I, of consequence and of course, in de choice of her 
 books ; but now, oder affaire^ she is at liberty, and my maxim is 
 — Tout est sain aux sainsT 
 
 Mr. Mountague’s indignation was now strongly raised against 
 this odious governess, and he looked upon her pupil with an eye 
 
198 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 of compassion. So early, so young, tainted hy the pernicious 
 maxims of a worthless woman !” 
 
 Eh, done, what signify your silence and your salts?” cried 
 mademoiselle, turning to her. 
 
 ‘‘ If I could be spared this scene at present,” said* Lady 
 Augusta, faintly — I really am not well. We had better talk 
 over this business some other time, Mr. Moun'ague :” to this 
 he acceded, and the lady gained more by her salts and silence 
 than her governess did by her garrulous effrontery. 
 
 When she talked over the business with Mr. Mountague, she 
 threw all the blame upon mademoiselle, and she appeared ex- 
 tremely shocked and alarmed at the idea that she had lessened 
 herself by her folly^ as she called it, in the esteem of a man of 
 superior sense and taste. It was perhaps possible that, at this 
 moment of her life, her character might have taken a new turn, 
 that she might really have been awakened to higher views and 
 nobler sentiments than any she had ever yet known ; but the 
 baleful influence of her constant attendant and conductress pre- 
 vailed against her better self. Mademoiselle continually repre- 
 sented to her, that she did not know or exert the whole of her 
 power over Mr. Mountague ; and she excited her to caprice and 
 coquetry. The fate of trifling characters is generally decided 
 by trifles : we must beg leave to relate the important history of 
 a turban. 
 
 Mile. Panache, who piqued herself much upon her skill as a 
 milliner, made up a certain turban for Lady Augusta, which 
 Dashwood admired extremely, but which Mr. Mountague had 
 the misfortune not to think perfectly beautiful. Vexed that he 
 should dare to differ from her in taste. Lady Augusta could not 
 rest without endeavouring to make him give up his opinion : he 
 thought that it was not worth while to dispute about a trifle ; and 
 though he could not absolutely say that it was pretty, he con- 
 descended so far as to allow that it might perhaps be pretty, if 
 it were put on differently. 
 
 “ This is the way I always wear it — every body wears it so — 
 and I shall not alter it,” said Lady Augusta, who was quite out 
 of temper. 
 
 Mr. Mountague looked grave : the want of temper was ^n 
 evil which he dreaded beyond measure in a companion for life. 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 399 
 
 Smiles and dimples usually adorned Lady Augusta’s face ; but 
 these were artificial smiles : now passions, which one should 
 scarcely imagine such a trifle could excite, darkened her brow, 
 and entirely altered the air of her whole person, so as to make 
 it absolutely disagreeable to her admirer. Lord George, who 
 was standing by, and who felt delighted wdth such scenes, 
 winked at Dashwood, and, with more energy than he usually 
 expressed upon any subject, now pronounced that, in his humble 
 opinion, the turban was quite the thing, and could not be better 
 put on. Lady Augusta turned a triumphant, insulting eye upon 
 Mr. Mountague : he was silent — his silence she took as a token 
 of submission — in fact, it was an expression of contempt. The 
 next day, at dinner, her ladyship appeared in the same turban, 
 put on sedulously in the same manner. Lord George seated 
 himself beside her; and as she observed that he paid her un- 
 usual attention, she fancied that at length his icy heart would 
 thaw. Always more intent upon making cages®. Lady Augusta 
 bent her mind upon captivating a new admirer. Mr. Mountague 
 she saw was displeased, but she now really felt and showed her- 
 self indifferent to his opinion. How variable, how wretched, is 
 the life of a coquette ! The next day Lord George’s heart froze 
 again as hard as ever, and Lady Augusta lightened upon the 
 impassive ice in vain. She was mortified beyond measure, for 
 her grand object was conquest. That she might triumph over 
 poor Helen, she had taken pains to attract Mr. Mountague. 
 Dashwood, though far beneath her ladyship in fortune and in 
 station, she deemed worth winning, as a man of wit and gal- 
 lantry. Lord George, to be sure, had little wit, and less gal- 
 lantry ; but he was Lord George, and that was saying enough. 
 In short. Lady Augusta exacted tribute to her vanity without 
 any discrimination, and she valued her treasures by number, 
 and not by weight. A man of sense is mortified to see himself 
 confounded with the stupid and the worthless. 
 
 Mr. Mountague, after having loved like a madman, felt it not 
 in the least incumbent upon him to love like a fool ; he had 
 imprudently declared himself an admirer of Lady Augusta, but 
 he now resolved never to unite himself to her without some 
 
 6 Swift. 
 
400 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 more reasonable prospect of happiness. Every day some petty 
 cause of disagreement arose between them, whilst mademoiselle, 
 by her sill}^ and impertinent interference, made matters worse. 
 Mademoiselle had early expressed her strong abhorrence of 
 prudes ; her pupil seemed to have caught the same abhorrence ; 
 she saw that Mr. Mountague was alarmed by her spirit of co- 
 quetry, yet still it continued in full force. For instance, she 
 would continually go out with Lord George in his phaeton, 
 though she declared, every time he handed her in, “ that she 
 was certain he would break her neck.” She would receive 
 verses from Dashwood, and keep them embalmed in her pocket- 
 book, though she allowed that she thought them sad stuff.” 
 
 However, in these verses something more was meant than 
 met the ear. He began with addressing a poem to her ladyship, 
 called The Turban, which her silly mother extolled with eager- 
 ness, and seemed to think by no means inferior to the Rape of 
 the Lock. Lady Augusta wrote a few lines in answer to the 
 Turban — reply produced reply — nonsense, nonsense — till Dash- 
 wood now and then forgot his poetical character. Lady Augusta 
 forgave it ; he, of course, forgot himself again into a lover in 
 
 prose. For some time the sonnets were shown to Lady S , 
 
 but at length some were received, which it was thought as well 
 not to show to any body. In short, between fancy, flattery, 
 poetry, passion, jest, and earnest. Lady Augusta was drawn on 
 till she hardly knew where she was ; but Dashwood knew per- 
 fectly well where he was, and resolved to keep his ground reso- 
 lutely. 
 
 When encouraged by the lady’s coquetry, he first formed his 
 plans ; he imagined that a promise of a wedding-present would 
 easily secure her governess : but this was a slight mistake ; 
 avarice happened not to be the ruling, or, at least at this time, 
 the reigning passion of mademoiselle’s mind; and quickly per- 
 ceiving his error, he paid assiduous court to her vanity. She 
 firmly believed that she had captivated him, and was totally 
 blind to his real designs. The grand difficulty with Dashwood 
 was, not to persuade her of his passion, but to prevent her from 
 believing him too soon ; and he thought it expedient to delay 
 completing his conquest of the governess till he had gained an 
 equally powerful influence over her pupil. One evening. Dash- 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 401 
 
 wood, passing through a sheltered walk, heard Lady Augusta 
 and Mr. Mountague talking very loudly and eagerly : they 
 passed through the grove so quickly that he could catch only 
 the words “ phaeton — imprudence.” 
 
 ‘‘Pshaw! jealousy — nonsense.” 
 
 “ Reasonable woman for a wife.” 
 
 “Pooh, no such thing.” 
 
 “ My unalterable resolution,” were the concluding words of 
 Mr. Mountague, in a calm but decided voice ; and, “ As you 
 please, sir ! I’ve no notion of giving up my will in every thing,” 
 ilie concluding words of Lady Augusta pronounced in a pettish 
 tone, as she broke from him ; yet pausing for a moment. Dash- 
 wood, to his great surprise and concern, heard her in a softer 
 tone add a hut^ which showed she was not quite willing to break 
 from Mr. Mountague for ever. Dashwood was alarmed beyond 
 measure ; but the lady did not long continue in this frame of 
 mind, for, upon going into her dressing-room to rest herself, she 
 . found her governess at the glass. 
 
 Bon D'leuV exclaimed mademoiselle, turning round : “ Mi- 
 ladi told me you was gone out — mais quest ce que c'est? vous 
 voila pale — you are as white — blanc comme mon tinge,’' cried she, 
 with emphasis, at the same time touching a handkerchief, which 
 was so far from white, that her pupil could not help bursting out 
 into a laugh at the unfortunate illustration. “ Pauvre petite ! 
 tcnez,” continued mademoiselle, running up to her with salts, 
 apprehensive that she was going into fits. 
 
 “ I am not ill, thank you,” said Lady Augusta, taking the 
 smelling bottle. 
 
 “But don’t tell me dat,” said mademoiselle: “I saw you 
 walking out of de window wid dat man, and I know dis is some 
 new demele wid him. Come, point de secret, mon enfant. Has 
 not he being giving you one good lecture ?” 
 
 “Lecture I” said Lady Augusta, rising with becoming spirit: 
 “ no, mademoiselle, I am not to be lectured by any body.” 
 
 “ No, to be sure ; dat is what I say, and, surtout, not by a 
 lover. Q,uel homme ! why I would not have him to pay his 
 court to me for ail de world. Why, pauvre petite, he has made 
 you look ten years older ever since he began to fall in love wid 
 you. Dis what you call a lover in England ? Bon, why, I know 
 
 D d 
 
402 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 noting of de matter, if he be one bit in love wid you, mon 
 enfant” 
 
 “ Ob, as to that, be certainly is in love with me : whatever 
 other faults be has, I must do him that justice.” 
 
 Justice! Ob, let him have justice, de tout mon coear; but I 
 say, if he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in love I ever 
 happen to see ; he eat, drink, sleep, talk, laugh, se possMe tout 
 comme un autre. Bon Dieu ! I W’ould not give noting at all 
 myself for such a sort of a lover. Mon enfant^ dis is not de way 
 I would wish to see you loved ; dis is not de way no man ought 
 for to dare for to love you.” 
 
 And how ought I to be loved ?” asked Lady Augusta, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 “ La belle question ! Eh ! don’t every body, de stupidest 
 person in de world, know how dey ought to be love ? Mais 
 passionnement., eperdument — dere is a — o.je ne snis quoi dat infail- 
 liblement distinguish de true lover from de false.” 
 
 ‘‘Then,” said Lady Augusta, “you really don’t think that 
 Mr. Mountague loves me ?” 
 
 “Tink!” replied mademoiselle, “I don’t tink about it; hut 
 have not I said enough ? Open your eyes ; make your own 
 comparaisons.” 
 
 Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a knock at 
 the door from her maid came to let her know that Lord George 
 was waiting. 
 
 “Ah! milord George ! I won’t keep you den : va Ven.” 
 
 “ But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that 
 I was going out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made 
 all this rout.” 
 
 “ Den let him make his rout ; quimporte ? Miladi votre chere 
 mere make no objections. Quelle impertinence! If he was 
 milord due he could not give himself no more airs. Va, mon 
 enfant — Dis a lover ! Quel homme, quel tyran ! and den, of 
 course, when he grows to be a husband, he wdll be worserer and 
 worserer, and badderer and badderer, when he grows to be your 
 husband.” 
 
 ‘ Oh,” cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves hastily, 
 “ my husband he shall never be, I am determined. So now I’ll 
 give him his coup de grace.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 403 
 
 Bon!'' said mademoiselle, following her pupil, ‘‘and I must 
 not miss to be by, for I shall love to see dat man mortify.” 
 
 “ You are going then?” said Mr. Mountague, gravely, as she 
 passed. 
 
 “Going, going, going, gone!” cried Lady Augusta, who, 
 tripping carelessly by, gave her hand to the sulky lord ; then 
 springing into the phaeton, said as usual — “ I know, my lord, 
 you’ll break my neck;” at the same time casting a look at Mr. 
 Mountague, which seemed to say — “ I hope you’ll break yowr 
 hearty at least.” 
 
 When she returned from her airing, the first glance at Mr. 
 Mountague ’s countenance convinced her that her power was at 
 an end. She was not the only person who observed this. Dash- 
 wood, under his air of thoughtless gaiety, watched all that passed 
 with the utmost vigilance, and he knew how to avail himself of 
 every circumstance that could be turned to his own advantage. 
 He well knew that a lady’s ear is never so happily prepared for 
 the voice of flattery as after having been forced to hear that of 
 sincerity. Dashwood contrived to meet Lady Augusta, just 
 after she had been mortified by her late admirer’s total recovery 
 of his liberty, and, seizing well his moment, pressed his suit 
 with gallant ardour. As he exhibited all those signs of passion 
 which her governess would have deemed unequivocal, th^ young 
 lady thought herself justified in not absolutely driving him to 
 despair. 
 
 Where was Lady S all this time ! Where ? — at the card- 
 
 table, playing very judiciously at whist. With an indolent 
 security, which will be thought incredible by those who have 
 not seen similar instances of folly in great families, she let every 
 thing pass before her eyes without seeing it. Confident that her 
 daughter, after having gone through the usual routine, would 
 meet with some suitable establishment, that the settlements 
 would then be the father’s business, the choice of the jewels 
 hers, she left her dear Augusta, in the meantime, to conduct 
 herself ; or, what was ten times worse, to be conducted by Mile. 
 Panache. Thus to the habitual indolence, or temporary conve- 
 nience of parents, are the peace and reputation of a family 
 secretly sacrificed. And we may observe, that those who take 
 the least precaution to prevent imprudence in their children are 
 D d 2 
 
404 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 most enraged and implacable when the evil becomes irreme- 
 diable. 
 
 In losing Mr. Mountague’s heart, Lady Augusta’s vanity felt 
 a double pang, from the apprehension that Helen would pro- 
 bably recover her captive. Acting merely from the impulse of 
 the moment, her ladyship was perfectly a child in her conduct ; 
 she seldom knew her own mind two hours together, and really 
 did not foresee the consequences of any one of her actions. 
 Half a dozen incompatible wishes filled her heart, or, rather, 
 her imagination. The most immediate object of vanity had 
 always the greatest power over her ; and upon this habit of 
 mind Dashwood calculated with security. 
 
 In the pride of conquest, her ladyship had rejoiced at her 
 mother’s inviting Mrs. Temple and her daughters to an enter- 
 tainment at S Hall, where she flattered herself that Mr. 
 
 Mountague would appear as her declared admirer. The day, 
 alas ! came ; but things had taken a new turn, and Lady Augusta 
 was as impatient that the visit should be finished, as she had 
 
 been eager to have the invitation sent. Lady S was not 
 
 precisely informed of all that was going on in her own house, 
 as we have observed ; and she was, therefore, a little surprised 
 at the look of vexation with which her daughter heard that she 
 had pressed Mrs. Temple to stay all night. ‘‘My dear,” said 
 
 Lady S , “ you know you can sleep in mademoiselle’s room 
 
 for this one night, and Miss Helen Temple will have yours. 
 One should be civil to people, especially when one sees them 
 but seldom.” Lady Augusta was much out of humour with her 
 mother’s ill-timed civility ; but there was no remedy. In the 
 hurry of moving her things at night. Lady Augusta left in her 
 dressing-table drawer a letter of Dashwood’s — a letter which 
 she would not have had seen by Miss Helen Temple for any 
 consideration. Our readers may imagine what her ladyship’s 
 consternation must have been, when, the next morning, Helen 
 put the letter into her hand, saying, “ There’s a paper you left 
 in your dressing-table. Lady Augusta.” The ingenuous counte- 
 nance of Helen, as she spoke, might have convinced any one 
 but Lady Augusta that she was incapable of having opened this 
 paper ; but her ladyship judged otherwise : she had no doubt 
 that every syllable of the letter had been seen, and that her 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 405 
 
 secret would quickly be divulged. The company had not yet 
 assembled at breakfast. She retired precipitately to her own 
 room, to consider what could possibly be done in this emergency. 
 She at length resolved to apply to Mr. Mountague for assistance ; 
 for she had seen enough of him to feel assured that he was a 
 man of honour, and that she might safely trust him. When she 
 heard him go down stairs to breakfast, she followed, and con- 
 trived to give him a note, which he read with no small degree 
 of surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ How to apologize for myself I know not, nor have I one 
 moment’s time to deliberate. Believe me, I feel my sensibility 
 and delicacy severely wounded ; but an ill-fated, uncontrollable 
 passion must plead my excuse. I candidly own that my conduct 
 must appear to you in a strange light ; but «pare me, I beseech 
 you, all reproaches, and pardon my weakness, for on your gene- 
 rosity and honour must I rely, in this moment of distress. 
 
 “ A letter of mine — a fatal letter from Dashwood — has fallen 
 into the hands of Miss Helen Temple. All that I hold most 
 dear is at her mercy. I am fully persuaded that, were she to 
 promise to keep my secret, nothing on earth would tempt her 
 to betray me ; but I know she Has so much the habit of speaking 
 of every thing to her mother, that I am in torture till this 
 promise is obtained. Your influence I must depend upon. 
 Speak to her, I conjure you, the moment breakfast is over ; and 
 assure yourself of my unalterable gratitude. 
 
 “ Augusta 
 
 The moment breakfast was over, Mr. Mountague followed 
 Helen into the library ; a portfolio, full of prints, lay open on 
 the table, and as he turned them over, he stopped at a print of 
 Alexander putting his seal to the lips of Hephaestion, whom he 
 detected reading a letter over his shoulder. Helen, as he looked 
 at the print, said she admired the delicacy of Alexander’s reproof 
 to his friend ; but observed, that it was scarcely probable the 
 seal should bind Hephaestion ’s lips. 
 
 “How so?” said Mr. Mountague, eagerly. 
 
 “Because,” said Helen, “if honour could not restrain his 
 curiosity, it would hardly secure his secrecy.” 
 
 “Charming girl!” exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with enthu- 
 
406 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 siasm. Helen, struck with surprise, and a variety of emotions, 
 coloured deeply. I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Mountague, 
 changing his tone, “for being so abrupt. You found a letter 
 of Lady Augusta’s last night. She is in great, I am sure need- 
 less, anxiety about it.” 
 
 “Needless, indeed; I did not think it necessary to assure 
 Lady Augusta, when I returned her letter, that I had not read 
 it. I gave it her because I thought she would not like to have 
 an open letter left where it might fall into the hands of servants. 
 As she has mentioned this subject to you, I hope, sir, you will 
 persuade her of the truth ; you seem to be fully convinced of it 
 yourself.” 
 
 “ I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of the 
 generosity, the simplicity of your mind. May I ask whether 
 you formed any conjecture, whether you know whom that letter 
 was from ?” 
 
 Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied — “Yes, sir, I did form 
 a conjecture — I thought it was from you.” 
 
 “ From me !” exclaimed Mr. Mountague. “ I must undeceive 
 you there: the letter was not mine. I am eager,” continued 
 he, smiling, “ to undeceive you.* I wish I might flatter myself 
 this explanation could ever be half as interesting to you as it is 
 to me. That letter was not mine, and I can never, in future, be 
 on any other terms with Lady Augusta than those of a 
 common acquaintance.” 
 
 Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance of made- 
 moiselle, followed by Dashwood, to whom she was talking with 
 great earnestness. Mr. Mountague, when he had collected his 
 thoughts sufficiently to think of Lady Augusta, wrote the fol- 
 lowing answer to her letter : — 
 
 “ Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect to your 
 note. Miss Helen Temple has not read it, nor has she, I am 
 eonvinced, the slightest suspicion of its contents or its author. 
 I beg leave to assure your ladyship, that I am sensible of the 
 honour of your confidence, and that you shall never have any 
 reason to repent of having trusted in my discretion. Yet permit 
 me, even at the hazard of appearing impertinent, at the still 
 greater hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my most 
 earnest hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion, 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 407 
 
 which I am persuaded would prove fatal to the happiness of your 
 future life. I am, with much respect, 
 
 “ Your ladyship’s obedient servant, 
 
 ‘‘ F. Mountague.” 
 
 Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the greatest 
 eagerness : the first time she ran her eye over it, joy, to find her 
 secret yet undiscovered, suspended every other feeling ; but, 
 upon a second perusal, her ladyship felt extremely displeased 
 by the cold civility of the style, and somewhat alarmed at the 
 concluding paragraph. With no esteem, and little affection for 
 Dashwood, she had suffered herself to imagine that her passion 
 for him was uncontrollable. 
 
 What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a man 
 destitute equally of fortune and principle, she had never attempted 
 to calculate ; but there was something awful in the words — ‘‘ I 
 earnestly hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion 
 which would prove fatal to your future happiness.” Whilst she 
 was pondering upon these words, Dashwood met her in the park, 
 where she. was walking alone. Why so grave ?” exclaimed he, 
 with anxiety. 
 
 I am only thinking — that — I am afraid — I think this is 
 a silly business : I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn’t think any 
 more of it, and give me back my letters.” 
 
 Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were dearer to 
 him than life, and that the ‘‘ last pang should tear them from 
 his heart.” 
 
 ‘‘But, if we go on with all this,” resumed Lady Augusta, 
 “ it will at least break my mother’s heart, and mademoi- 
 selle’s into the bargain ; besides, I don’t half believe you ; I 
 really ” 
 
 ‘I really, what?” cried he, pouring forth protestations of 
 passion, which put Mr. Mountague ’s letter entirely out of her 
 head. 
 
 A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind in 
 the most important actions of our lives ; and faults are often 
 attributed to passion which arise from folly. The pleasure of 
 duping her governess, the fear of witnessing Helen’s triumph 
 over her lover’s recovered affections, and the idea of the bustle 
 
4C8 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 and eclat of an elopement, all mixed together, went under the 
 general denomination of love ! — Cupid is often blamed for deeds 
 in which he has no share. 
 
 ** But,” resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last pause 
 of expiring prudence, what shall we do about mademoiselle?” 
 
 Poor mademoiselle!” cried Dashwood, leaning back against 
 a tree to support himself, whilst he laughed violently — “ what 
 do you think she is about at this instant ? — packing up her clothes 
 in a band-box.” 
 
 Packing up her clothes in a hand-box!” 
 
 “ Yes ; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience 
 to carry her off to Scotland, and at four o’clock to-morrow 
 morning she trips down stairs out of the garden-door, of which 
 she keeps the key, flies across the park, scales the gate, gains 
 the \dllage, and takes refuge with her good friend. Miss Lacy, 
 the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now, in the mean 
 time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my real 
 angel.” 
 
 “ Oh, no, upon my word,” said Lady Augusta, so faintly, 
 that Dashwood went on exactly in the same tone. 
 
 I fly to you, my angel, and we shall he half way on our 
 trip to Scotland before mademoiselle’s patience is half exhausted, 
 and before Miladi S is quite awake.” 
 
 Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and 
 thus, by an unlucky stroke of humoiu:, was the grand event of 
 her life decided. 
 
 ^iarmontel’s well-known story, called Heureusement, is cer- 
 tainly not a moral tale : to counteract its effects, he should have 
 written Malheur eusement^ if he could. 
 
 Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta 
 and Dashwood. 
 
 The next morning Lady S came down, according to her 
 
 usual custom, late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, 
 Lord George, Mr. Mountague, &c., were assembled. “ Has 
 
 not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?” said Lady S . 
 
 She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mile. Panache 
 and her daughter make their appearance ; but she waited in 
 vain. Neither mademoiselle. Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, 
 were any where to be foimd. Every body round the breakfast- 
 
MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 409 
 
 table looked at each other in silence, waiting the event. ‘‘ They 
 are out walking, I suppose,” said Lady S , which suppo- 
 
 sition contented her for the first five minutes ; but then she 
 exclaimed, It’s very strange they don’t come back!” 
 
 a Very strange — I mean rather strange,” said Lord George, 
 helping himself, as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, 
 and then drumming upon the table ; whilst Mr. Mountague, all 
 the time, looked down, and preserved a profound silence. 
 
 At length the door opened, and Mile. Panache, in a riding 
 habit, made her appearance. Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!'' 
 said she, looking round at the silent party, with a half terrified, 
 half astonished countenance. Je vous demande mille pardons — 
 Qu'est ce que cest f I have only been to take a walk dis morn- 
 ing into de village to de milliner’s. She has disappointed me 
 of my tings, dat kept me waiting ; but I am come back in time 
 for breakfast, I hope ?” 
 
 ‘‘ But where is my daughter?” cried Lady S , roused at 
 
 last from her natural indolence — ‘‘ where is Lady Augusta?” 
 
 • Bon Dieu! Miladi, I don’t know. Bon JDieu! in her bed, 
 I suppose. Bon Dieu! ' exclaimed she a third time, and turned 
 as pale as ashes. ‘‘ But where den is Mr. Dashwood?” At 
 this instant a note, directed to mademoiselle, was brought into 
 the room : the servant said that Lady Augusta’s maid had just 
 found it upon her lady’s tcilette — mademoiselle tore open the 
 note. 
 
 Excuse me to my mother — you can best plead my excuse. 
 ‘‘You will not see me again till I am 
 
 “ Augusta Dashwood.” 
 
 Ah scelerat ! Ah scelerat ! II matrahi!" screamed made- 
 moiselle : she threw down the note, and sunk upon the sofa in 
 
 real hysterics ; whilst Lady S , seeing in one and the same 
 
 moment her own folly and her daughter’s ruin, fixed her eyes 
 upon the words “ Augusta Dashwood,” and fainted. Mr. 
 Mountague led Lord George out of the room with him, whilst 
 Mrs. Temple, Helen, and her sister, ran to the assistance of the 
 unhappy mother and the detected governess. 
 
 As soon as mademoiselle had recovered tolerable composure, 
 she recollected that she had betrayed too violent emotion on 
 
410 
 
 MADEMOISELLE PANACHE. 
 
 this occasion. “ II inia trahij'* were words, however, that she 
 could not recall ; it was in vain she attempted to fabricate some 
 apology for herself. No apology could avail : and whilst Lady 
 
 S , in silent anguish, wept for her own and her daughter’s 
 
 folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms, abused Dashwood, 
 and reproached her pupil with having shown duplicity, ingrati- 
 tude, and a bad heart. 
 
 ‘‘A bad education!” exclaimed Lady S , with a voice of 
 
 mingled anger and sorrow. Leave the room, mademoiselle ; 
 leave my house. How could I choose such a governess for my 
 daughter! Yet, indeed,” added her ladyship, turning to Mrs. 
 Temple, ‘‘ she was well recommended to me, and how could I 
 foresee all this ?” 
 
 To such an appeal, at such a time, there was no reply to he 
 made : it is cruel to point out errors to those who feel that they 
 are irreparable ; but it is benevolent to point them out to others, 
 who have yet their choice to make. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Count Helmaar, a S-jedish Nobleman. 
 
 Christiern, a Sicedkli Soldier. 
 
 Aleftson, Count Helmaar'' s Fool. 
 
 Thomas, a Footman. 
 
 Eleonora, a Swcdhli Lady., beloved by Count Helmaar. 
 
 Christina, Sister to Helmaar. 
 
 Ulrica, an old Househeeper. 
 
 Catherine, Wife to Christiern. 
 
 Kate and Ui-ric, the Son and Daughter of Catherinet—ihey are six and 
 seven years old. 
 
 Serjeaiit, and a Troop of Soldiers., a Train of Dancers., a Page., 
 Peasants., ^c. 
 
THE KNAPSACK' 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE — A cottage in Sweden . — Catherine, a young and liand^ 
 some luoman, is sitting at her spinning wheel. — A little Boy and 
 Girl, of six and seven years of age, are seated on the ground 
 eating their dinner. 
 
 Catherine sings, while she is spinning. 
 
 Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me, 
 
 The wife that fondly waits for thee ; 
 
 Long are the years, and long each day, 
 
 While my loved soldier’s far away. 
 
 Haste from the wais, &c. 
 
 Lone ev’ry field, and lone the bow’r ; 
 
 Pleasant to me nor sun nor show’r ; 
 
 The snows are gone, the flow’rs are gay — 
 
 Why is my life of life away 
 
 Haste from the wars, &c. 
 
 Little Girl. When will father come home ? 
 
 Little Boy. When will he come, mother? when? To-day? 
 to-morrow ? 
 
 ^ In the Travels of M. Beaujolin into Sweden, he mentions having, in 
 the ycu" 1790, met carriages laden with the knapsacks of Swedish soldiers, 
 who had fallen in battle in Finland. These carriages were escorted by 
 peasants, who were relieved at every stage, and thus the property of the 
 deceased was conveyed from one extremity of the kingdom to the other, 
 and faithfully restored to their relations. The Swedish peasants are so 
 remarkably honest, that scarcely any thing is ever lost in these convoys of 
 numerous and ill-secured packages. 
 
414 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Cath, No, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but soon, I hope, very 
 soon ; for they say the wars are over. 
 
 Little Girl. I am glad of that, and when father comes home. 
 I’ll give him some of my flowers. 
 
 Little Boy {who is still eating). And I’ll give him some of my 
 bread and cheese, which he’ll like better than flowers, if he is as 
 hungry as I am, and that to be sure he will be, after coming 
 such a long, long journey. 
 
 Little Girl. Long, long journey! how long? — how far is 
 father off, mother ? — where is he ? 
 
 Little Boy. I know, he is in — in — in — in — ^in Finland? how 
 far off, mother? 
 
 Cath. A great many miles, my dear ; I don’t know how 
 many. 
 
 Little Boy. Is it not two miles to the great house, mother, 
 where we go to sell our faggots ? 
 
 Cath. Yes, about two miles — and now you had best set out 
 towards the great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, the housekeeper, 
 to pay you the little bill she owes you for faggots — there’s good 
 children ; and when you have been paid for your faggots, you 
 can call at the baker’s, in the village, and bring home some 
 bread for to-morrow {patting the little boy'^s head) — you that love 
 bread and cheese so much must work hard to get it. 
 
 Little Boy. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have 
 enough for myself and father too, when he comes. Come along 
 — come {to his sister) — and, as we come home through the forest. 
 I’ll show you where we can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, 
 and we’ll help one another. 
 
 Little Girl sings. 
 
 That’s the best way, 
 
 At work and at play, 
 
 To help one another — I heard mother say — 
 
 To help one another — I heard mother say — 
 
 f The children go off, singing these words. 
 
 Cath. {alone.) Dear, good children, how happy their father 
 will be to see them, when he comes back I — {She begins to eat the 
 remains of the dinner, which the children have left.) The little 
 rogue was so hungry, he has not left me much ; but he would 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 415 
 
 have left me all, if lie had thought that I wanted it : he shall 
 have a good large bowl of milk for supper. It was hut last night 
 he skimmed the cream off his milk for me, because he thought I 
 liked it. Heigho ! — God knows how long they may have milk 
 to skim — as long as I can work they shall never want ; hut I’m 
 not sp strong as I used to be ; but then I shall get strong, and 
 all will be well, when my husband comes back {a drum beats at 
 a distance). Hark ! a drum ! — some news from abroad, perhaps 
 — nearer and nearer {she sinks upon a chair) — why cannot I run 
 to see — to ask {the drum beats louder and louder) — fool that I am ! 
 they will be gone ! they will be all gone ! {she starts up.) 
 
 \JExit hastily. 
 
 SCENE changes to a high road^ leading to a village. — A party of 
 
 ragged^ tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them. 
 
 Serj. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a 
 great way further to go : — keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, 
 through yonder village. {The drum beats.) 
 
 \Soldiers exeunt. 
 
 Serj. {alone.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them ! the 
 sad remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a mus- 
 ket. Ah ! I’ve seen them march quite another guess sort of 
 way, when they marched, and I amongst them, to face the 
 enemy — heads up — step firm — thus it was — quick time — march ! 
 — {he marches proudly) — My poor fellows, how they lag now 
 {looking after them) — ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower ; 
 they don’t like going through the village ; nor I neither ; for, at 
 every village we pass through, out come the women and chil- 
 dren, running after us, and crying, ‘^Where’s my father? — 
 What’s become of my husband?” — Stout fellow as I am, and a 
 Serjeant too, that ought to know better, and set the others an 
 example, I can’t stand these questions. 
 
 Enter Catherine, breathless. 
 
 Cath. I — I — I’ve overtaken him at last. Sir — Mr. Serjeant, 
 one word ! What news from Finland? 
 
 Serj. The best — the war’s over. Peace is proclaimed. 
 
416 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Cath. {clasping her hands joyfully.) Peace ! liappy sound ! — 
 Peace ! The war’s over ! — Peace ! — And the regiment of HeP 
 maar — {The serjeant appears impatient to get away) — Only one 
 word, good serjeant: when will the regiment of Helmaar be 
 back ? 
 
 Scrj. All that remain of it will be home next week. 
 
 Cath. Next week? — But, all that remain^ did you say? — 
 Then many have been killed ? 
 
 Serj. Many, many — too many. Some honest peasants are 
 bringing home the knapsacks of those who have fallen in battle. 
 ’Tis fair that what little they had should come home to their 
 families. Now, I pray you, let me pass on. 
 
 Cath. One word more : tell me, do you know, in the regiment 
 of Helmaar, one Christiern Aleftson ? 
 
 Serj. {ivith eagerness.) Christiern Aleftson ! as brave a fellow, 
 and as good as ever lived, if it be the same that I knew. 
 
 Cath. As brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived ! Oh, 
 that’s he ! he is my husband — where is he ? where is he ? 
 
 Serj. {aside.) She wrings my heart ! — {Aloud) — He was 
 
 Cath. Was ! 
 
 Serj. He is, I hope, safe. 
 
 Cath. You hope! — don’t look away — I must see your face: 
 tell me all you know. 
 
 Se?j. I know nothing for certain. When the peasants come 
 with the knapsacks, you will hear all from them. Pray you, let 
 me follow my men ; they are already at a great distance. 
 
 l^Ejcit Serj . followed hy Catheiine. 
 
 Cath. I will not detain you an instant — only one word 
 more \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE. — An apartment in Count Helmaar's Castle. — A train of 
 dancers. — After they have danced for some time. 
 
 Enter a Page. 
 
 Page. Ladies ! I have waited, according to your commands, 
 till Count Helmaar appeared in the ante-chamber — ^he is there 
 now, along with the ladies Christina and Eleonora. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 417 
 
 Dancer, Now is our time — Count Helmaar shall hear our 
 song to welcome him home. 
 
 2nd Dancer. None was ever more welcome. 
 
 Zrd Dancer. But stay till I have breath to sing. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home ; 
 
 In crowds your happy neighbours come, 
 
 To hail with joy the cheerful morn. 
 
 That sees their Helmaar’s safe return. 
 
 II. 
 
 No hollow heart, no borrow’d face. 
 
 Shall ever Helmaar’s hall disgrace : 
 
 Slaves alone on tyrants wait ; 
 
 Friends surround the good and great. 
 
 Welcome Helmaar, &c. 
 
 Enter FiLEONORA, Christina, and Count Helmaar. 
 
 Helmaar. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome. 
 
 1st Dancer {looking at a black fillet on Helmaar’s head). He 
 has been wounded. 
 
 Christina. Yes — severely wounded. 
 
 Helmaar. And had it not been for the fidelity of the soldier 
 who carried me from the field of battle, I should never have 
 seen you more, my friends, nor you, my charming Eleonora. 
 {A noise of one singing behind the scenes .) — What disturbance is 
 that without ? 
 
 Christina. ’Tis only Aleftson, the fool : — in your absence, 
 brother, he has been the cause of great diversion in the castle : — 
 I love to play upon him, it keeps him m tune ; — you can’t think 
 how much good it does him. 
 
 Helmaar. And how much good it does you, sister : — from 
 your childhood you had always a lively wit, and loved to exer- 
 cise it ; but do you waste it upon fools ? 
 
 Christina. I’m sometimes inclined to think this Aleftson is 
 more knave than fool. 
 
 Eleon. By your leave. Lady Christina, he is no knave, or I 
 am much mistaken. To my knowledge, he has carried his 
 
 E e 
 
418 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 whole salary, and all the little presents he has received from us, 
 to his brother’s wife and children. I have seen him chuck his 
 money, thus, at those poor children, when they have been at 
 their plays, and then run away, lest their mother should make 
 them give it hack. 
 
 Enter Aleftson, the fool, in a fooVs coat,fooVs cap and hells, 
 singing, 
 
 I. 
 
 There’s the courtier, who watches the nod of the great ; 
 
 Who thinks much of his pension, and nought of the state : 
 
 When for ribands and titles his honour he sells — 
 
 What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells ? 
 
 II. 
 
 There’s the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die 
 His house and his acres, the devil knows why : 
 
 His acres he loses, his forests he sells — 
 
 What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells 
 
 III. 
 
 There's the student so crabbed and wonderful wise, 
 
 With his plus and his minus, his oc% and ys : 
 
 Pale at midnight he pores o’er his magical spells — 
 
 What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 The lover, who’s ogling, and rhyming, and sighing, 
 
 Who’s musing, and pining, and whining, and dying : 
 
 When a thousand of lies ev’ry minute he tells — 
 
 What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells ? 
 
 V. 
 
 There’s the lady so fine, with her airs and her graces, 
 
 With a face like an angel’s— if angels have faces : 
 
 She marries, and Hymen the vision dispels — 
 
 What’s her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells? 
 
 Christina, Eleonora, Helmaar, ^c, — Bravo ! bravissimo ! — ex- 
 cellent fool ! — Encore. 
 
 \_The fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly, 
 Christina, What now, Aleftson ? I never saw you sad before 
 —What’s the matter ? — Speak. 
 
 \_Fool sobs, but gives no answer 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 419 
 
 Helm. Why do you weep so bitterly ? 
 
 Aleft. Because I am a fool. 
 
 Helm. Many should weep, if that were cause sufficient. 
 
 Eleon. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, been a 
 merry fool. i 
 
 Fool. Because always, till now, I was a fool, hut now I am 
 grown wise : and ’tis difficult, to all but you, lady, to be merry 
 and wise. 
 
 Christina. A pretty compliment ; ’tis a pity it was paid by a 
 fool. 
 
 Fool. Who else should pay compliments, lady, or who else 
 believe them ? 
 
 Christina. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a fool to 
 speak the truth without offence. 
 
 Fool. Fool as you take me to he, I’m not fool enough yet to 
 speak truth to a lady, and think to do it without offence. 
 
 Fleon. Why, you have said a hundred severe things to me 
 within this week, and have I ever been angry with you ? 
 
 Fool. Never; for, out of the whole hundred, not one Was 
 true. But have a care, lady — fool as I am, you’d be glad to 
 stop a fool’s mouth with your white hand this instant, rather 
 than let him tell the truth of you. 
 
 Christina {laughings and all the other ladies, except Eleonora, 
 exclaim) — Speak on, good fool ; speak on — 
 
 Helm. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not 
 to hear the truth from either wise men or fools — Speak on. 
 
 Fool. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our 
 count there was killed in Finland — I, being a fool, was lying 
 laughing, and thinking of nothing at all, on the floor, in the 
 west drawing-room, looking at the count’s picture — In comes 
 the Lady Eleonora, all in tears. 
 
 Fleon. {stopping his mouth.) Oh ! tell any thing but that, 
 good fool. 
 
 Helmaar {kneels and kisses her hand). Speak on, excellent 
 fool. 
 
 Christina and ladies. Speak on, excellent fool — In came the 
 Lady Eleonora, all in tears. 
 
 Fool. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears — {pauses and 
 looks round). Why now, what makes you all so curious about 
 E e 2 
 
420 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 these tears? — Tears are but salt water, let them come from what 
 eyes they will — my tears are as good as hers — in came John 
 Aleftson, all in tears, just now, and nobody kneels to me — 
 nobody kisses my hands — nobody cares half a straw for my 
 tears — (folds his arms and looJcs melancholy). I am not one of 
 those — I know the cause of my tears too well. 
 
 Helm. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return — 
 hey? 
 
 Fool (scornfully). No — I am not such a fool as that comes 
 to. Don’t I know that, when you are at home, the poor may 
 hold up their heads, and no journeyman-gentleman of an agent 
 dares then to go about plaguing those who live in cottages? 
 No, no, — I am not such a fool as to cry because Count Helmaar 
 is come back ; but the truth is, I cried because I am tired and 
 ashamed of wearing this thing — (throwing down his fooFs cap 
 upon the floor, changes his tone entirely) — 1 1 — who am brother to 
 the man who saved Count Helmaar’s life — I to wear a fool’s cap 
 and bells — Oh shame ! shame ! 
 
 \The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment. 
 
 Christina (aside). A lucid interval — poor fool ! — I will tor- 
 ment him no more — he has feeling — ’twere better he had none. 
 
 Eicon. Hush ! — hear him ! 
 
 Aleft. (throwing himself at the counfs feet). Noble count, I 
 have submitted to be thought a fool ; I have worn this fool’s 
 cap in your absence, that I might indulge my humour, and 
 enjoy the liberty of speaking my mind freely to the people of all 
 conditions. Now that you are returned, I have no need of such 
 a disguise — I may now speak the truth without fear, and with- 
 out a cap and bells. — I resign my salary, and give back the 
 ensign of my office — (presents the fooVs cap). {Exit. 
 
 Christina. He might well s^^, that none but fools should pay 
 compliments — this is the best compliment that has been paid 
 you, brother. 
 
 Eicon. And observe, he has resigned his salary. 
 
 Helm. From this moment let it be doubled : — he made an 
 excellent use of money when he was a fool — may he make half 
 as good a use of it now he is a wise man. 
 
 Chnstina Amen — and now I hope we are to have some more 
 dancing. {Exeunt. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 421 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE — By moonlight — a forest — a castle illuminated at a distance. 
 
 — A group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack 
 
 beside him. — One peasant lies stretched on the ground. 
 
 1st Peasant. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart 
 being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in 
 that plight — {points to the sleeping peasant) — it is a folly to think 
 of getting on further this evening. 
 
 2nd Peasant. And what I say is, it’s folly to sleep here, seeing 
 I know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one 
 mile at furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey. 
 
 1^^ Peasant {pointing to the sleeper). He can’t walk a mile — 
 he’s done for — dog tired 
 
 Zrd Peasant. Are you certain sure we have only one mile 
 further to go ? 
 
 2nd Peasant. Certain sure 
 
 All, except the sleeper and the \st Peasant. Oh, let us go on, then, 
 and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile. 
 
 1st Peasant. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all. 
 
 All together. So we will. 
 
 2nd Peasant. But first, do you see, let’s waken him ; for a 
 sleeping man’s twice as heavy as one that’s awake — Hollo, 
 friend ! waken ! waken ! — {he shakes the sleeper, who snores 
 loudly) — Good Lord, he snores loud enough to waken all the 
 birds in the wood. \_All the peasants shout in the sleeper^ s ear, 
 and he starts up, shaking himself. 
 
 Charles. Am I awake? — {stretching.) 
 
 2nd Peasant. No, not yet, man — Why, don’t you know where 
 you are ? Ay; here’s the moon — and these be trees; and — I 
 be a man, and what do you call this ? {holding up a knapsack.) 
 
 Charles. A knapsack, I say, to be sure : — I’m as broad awake 
 as the best of you. 
 
 2nd Peasant. Come on, then ; we’ve a great way further to 
 go before you sleep again. 
 
 Charles. A great way further ! further to-night ! — No, no. 
 
 2nd Peasant. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast 
 asleep — You are to be carried, you and your knapsack. 
 
 [ They prepare to carry him. 
 
422 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Charles {starting up, and struggling with them). I’ve legs to 
 walk — I won’t be carried ! — I, a Swede, and be carried !■ — No I 
 No! 
 
 All together. Yes! Yes! 
 
 Charles. No ! No ! — {he struggles for his knapsack j which comes 
 untied in the struggle, and all the things fall out.) — There, this 
 comes of playing the fool. \f^hey help him to pick up the 
 
 things, and exclaim, 
 
 All. There’s no harm done — {throwing the knapsack over his 
 shoulder), 
 
 Charles, I’m the first to march, after all. 
 
 Peasants, Ay, in your sleep ! \_Exeunt, laughing. 
 
 Enter Catherine’s two little Children, 
 
 Little Girl. I am sure I heard some voices this way — suppose 
 It was the fairies ! 
 
 Little Boy. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There 
 are no such things as fairies; but if there were any such, we 
 have no need to fear them. 
 
 Little Boy sings, 
 
 I. 
 
 Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm, 
 
 Have pow’r, or will, to work us harm ; 
 
 For those who dare the truth to tell, 
 
 Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well. 
 
 II. 
 
 For us they spread their dainty fare. 
 
 For us they scent the midnight air ; 
 
 For us their glow-worm lamps they light, 
 
 For us their music cheers the night. 
 
 Little Girl sings, 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye fays and fairies, hasten here, 
 
 Robed in glittering gossamere ; 
 
 With tapers bright, and music sweet. 
 
 And frolic dance, and twinkling feet. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 423 
 
 II. 
 
 And, little Mable, let us view 
 Your acorn goblets fill’d with dew; 
 Nor warn us hence till we have seen 
 The nut-shell chariot of your queen : 
 
 III. 
 
 In which on nights of yore she sat, 
 Driven by her gray-coated gnat ; 
 
 With spider spokes and cobweb traces. 
 And horses fit for fairy races. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And bid us join your revel ring. 
 
 And see you dance, and hear you sing : 
 
 Your fairy dainties let us taste. 
 
 And speed us home with fairy haste. 
 
 Little Boy, If there were really fairies, and if they would 
 give me my wish, I know what I should ask. 
 
 Little Girl. And so do I — I would ask them to send father 
 home before I could count ten. 
 
 Little Boy. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, 
 in the face of the whole army, “This is a brave man!” And 
 father should hold up his head as I do now, and march thus by 
 the side of his general. [^As the little Boy marches^ he stumbles. 
 
 Little Girl. Oh I take care ! — come, let us march home : — 
 but stay, I have not found my faggot. 
 
 Little Boy. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you 
 left it. 
 
 Little Girl. Yes, it was somewhere here, Fm sure, and I 
 must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her 
 before she goes to bed. 
 
 Little Boy. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late. 
 
 Little Girl. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under 
 those trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot. — When 
 we get home, I shall say, “ Mother, do you know there is great' 
 news? — there’s a great many, many candles in the windows of 
 the great house, and dancing and music in the great house, 
 because the master’s come home, and the housekeeper had not 
 
424 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our faggots; at 
 last the butler ” 
 
 Little Boy. Heyday ! — What have we here ? — a purse, a 
 purse, a heavy purse. 
 
 Little Girl. Whose can it he ? let us carry it home to mother. 
 
 Little Boy. No, no; it can’t be mother’s: mother has no 
 purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at the great 
 house. 
 
 Little Girl. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, 
 for she has m(^re purses and money than any body else in the 
 world. 
 
 Little Boy. Come, let us run hack with it to her, — mother 
 would tell us to do so. I’m sure, if she was here. 
 
 Little Girl. But I’m afraid the housekeeper won’t see us 
 to-night. 
 
 Little Boy. Oh, yes ; hut I’ll beg, and pray, and push, till I 
 get into her room. 
 
 Little Girl. Yes; but don’t push me, or I shall knock my 
 head against the trees. Give me your hand, brother. — Oh, my 
 faggot ! I shall never find you. , {Lxeuni. 
 
 SCENE — Catherine’s Cottage. 
 
 Catherine, spinning, sings. 
 
 I. 
 
 Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel, 
 
 And leave my heart no time to feel ; 
 
 Companion of my widow’d hour, 
 
 My only friend, my only dow’r. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy lengthening thread I love to see. 
 
 Thy whirring sound is dear to me : 
 
 Oh, swiftly turn by night and day, 
 
 And toil for him that’s far away. 
 
 Catherine. Hark! here come the children. No, ’twas only 
 the wind. What can keep these children so late ? — but it is a 
 fine moonlight night — they’ll have brave appetites for their 
 supper when they come back — but I wonder they don’t come 
 
THE KNAPSACK 
 
 425 
 
 home. — Heigho ! since their father has been gone, I am grown 
 a coward — {a knock at the door heard) — Come in ! — Why does 
 every knock at the door startle me in this way ? 
 
 Enter Charles, with a knapsack on his back 
 
 Charles, Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a 
 stranger at this time o’ night, as I guess by the looks of ye — 
 hut I’m only a poor fellow, that has been a-foot a great many 
 hours. 
 
 Cath, Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have 
 you’re welcome to. 
 
 [^She sets milky ^c., on a table, Charles throws himself into 
 a chair, and flings his knapsack behind him, 
 
 Charles, ’Tis a choice thing to rest one’s self : — 1 say, mistress, 
 you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a 
 many, many leagues since break of day. 
 
 Cath, Indeed, you may well he tired — and where do you 
 come from ? — Did you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming 
 back from Finland? 
 
 Charles {eats a7id speaks). Not the soldiers themselves, I can’t 
 say as I did ; but we are them that are bringing home the 
 knapsacks of the poor fellows that have lost their lives in the 
 wars in Finland. 
 
 Cath, {during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a chair, 
 — Aside) Now I shall know my fate. 
 
 Charles {eating and speaking). My comrades are gone on to 
 the village beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by 
 the families of them to whom they belonged, as it stands to 
 reason and right. Pray, mistress, as you know the folks here- 
 abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this is, here, behind 
 me? {looking up at Catherine,) — Oons, but how pale she looks ! 
 {aside). Here, sit ye down, do. {Aside) Why, I would not 
 have said a word if I had thought on it — to be sure she has a 
 lover now, that has been killed in the wars. {Aloud) Take a 
 sup of the cold milk, mistress. 
 
 Catherine {goes fearfully towards the knapsack), ’Tis his ! ’tis 
 my husband’s * \_She smks down on a chair, and hides her 
 
 face with her hands. 
 
42G 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Charles, Poor soul ! poor soul ! — {he jiauses.) But now it is 
 not clear to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress : — these 
 knapsacks be all so much alike, I’m sure I could not, for the 
 soul of me, tell one from t’other — it is by what’s in the inside 
 only one can tell for certain. {Charles opens the knapsack^ pulls 
 out a waistcoat, carries it towards Catherine, and holds it before her 
 face.) — Look ye here, now; don’t give way to sorrow while 
 there’s hope left — Mayhap, mistress — look at this now, can’t 
 ye, mistress ? 
 
 {Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees 
 the waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a 
 swoon. The peasant runs to support her. — At this instant 
 the back door of the cottage opens, and Aleftson enters. 
 
 Aleft. Catherine ! 
 
 Charles. Poor soul ! — there, raise her head — give her air — 
 she fell into this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack — her 
 husband’s — ^lie’s dead. Poor creature ! — ’twas my luck to bring 
 the bad news — what shall we do for her? — I’m no better than a 
 fool, when I see a body this way. 
 
 Aleft. {sprinkling water on her face.) She’ll be as well as ever 
 she was, you’ll see, presently — ^leave her to me ! 
 
 Charles. There ! she gave a sigh — she’s coming to her senses. 
 
 {Catherine raises herself. 
 
 Caih. What has been the matter? — {She starts at the sight of 
 Aleftson.) — My husband ! — no — ’tis Aleftson — what makes you 
 look so like him ? — you don’t look like yourself. 
 
 Aleft. {aside to the peasant.) Take that waistcoat out of the way. 
 
 Cath. {looking round, sees the knapsack.) What's there ? — Oh, 
 I recollect it all now. — {To Aleftson) Look there ! look there ! 
 your brother ! your brother’s dead ! Poor fool, you have no 
 ^eeling. 
 
 Aleft. I wish I had none. 
 
 Cath. Oh, my husband ! — shall I never, never see you more 
 — never more hear your voice — never more see my children in 
 their father’s arms? 
 
 Aleft. {takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed.) But 
 we are not sure this is Christiern’s. 
 
 Charles {snatching it from him). Don’t show it to her again, 
 man ! — you’ll drive her mad. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 427 
 
 Aleft {aside.) Let me alone ; I know what I’m about. 
 {Aloud) ’Tis certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear ; 
 but perhaps 
 
 Cath. It is his — it is his — too well I know it — my own work 
 — I gave it to him the very day he went away to the wars — he 
 told me he would wear it again the day of his coming home — 
 but he’ll never come home again. 
 
 Aleft. How can you be sure of that? 
 
 Cath. How ! — why, am not I sure, too sure ? — hey ! — what 
 do you mean ? — he smiles ! — have you heard any thing ? — do 
 you know any thing ? — but he can know nothing — he can tell 
 me nothing — he has no sense. {She turns to the 'peasant.) Where 
 did you get this knapsack ? — did you see 
 
 Aleft. He saw nothing — he knows nothing — he can tell you 
 nothing : — listen to me, Catherine — see, I have thrown aside the 
 dress of a fool — you know I had my senses once — I have them 
 now as clear as ever I had in my life — ay, you may well be 
 
 surprised — but I will surprise you more Count Helmaar’s 
 
 come home. 
 
 Cath. Count Helmaar ! — impossible ! 
 
 Charles. Count Helmaar ! — he was killed in the last battle, 
 in Finland. 
 
 Aleft. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle — ^he is safe at 
 home — I have just seen him. 
 
 Cath. Seen him ! — hut why do I listen to him, poor fool ! 
 he knows not what he says — and yet, if the count be really 
 alive 
 
 Charles. Is the count really alive ? I’d give my best cow to 
 see him. 
 
 Aleft. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour 
 you shall see him. 
 
 Cath. {clasping her hands.) Then there is hope for me— — 
 Tell me, is there any news ? 
 
 Aleft. There is. 
 
 Cath. Of my husband ? 
 
 Aleft. Yes — ask me no more — you must hear the rest from 
 Count Helmaar himself — he has sent for you. 
 
 Cath. {springs forward.) This instant let me go, let me hear 
 {she stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her 
 
428 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 passage). But what shall I hear? — there can be no good news 
 for me — this speaks too plainly. 
 
 \Aleftson pulls her arm between hisy and leads her away. 
 
 Charles. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with 
 you — I won’t be left behind — I’m wide awake now — I must have 
 a sight of Count Helmaar in his own castle — why, they’ll make 
 much of me in every cottage on my road home, when I can 
 swear to ’em I’ve seen Count Helmaar alive, in his own castle, 
 face to face — God bless him, he’s the poor man s friend. 
 
 [^Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE — The housekeeper's room in Count Helmaar’s Castle. 
 
 Ulrica and Christiern. 
 
 Christiern is drawing on his boots. — Mrs. Ulrica is sitting at a 
 tea-table making coffee. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Well, well ; I’ll say no more : if you can’t 
 stay to-night, you can’t — but I had laid it all out in my head so 
 cleverly, that you should stay, and take a good night’s rest here, 
 in the castle ; then, in the morning, you’ll find yourself as fresh 
 as a lark. 
 
 Christiern. Oh ! I am not at all tired. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Not tired ! don’t tell me that, now, for I know 
 that you are tired, and can’t help being tired, say what you will 
 — Drink this dish of coffee, at any rate — {Jie drinks coffee). 
 
 Christiern. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my 
 little ones 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want 
 to see the happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and 
 don’t come every day, you know ; and now, in the morning, I 
 could go along with you to the cottage, but you must be sensible 
 I could not be spared out this night, on no account or possibility. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Footman. Ma’am, the cook is hunting high and low for the 
 brandy-cherries. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me ! are not they there before those 
 eyes of yours? — But I can’t blame nobody for being out of their 
 wits a little with joy such a night as this. \_Exit Footman. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 429 
 
 Christiern. Never man was better beloved in tbe regiment 
 than Count Helmaar. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Ay ! ay ! so he is every where, and so he 
 deserves to be. Is your coffee good ? sweeten to your taste, 
 and don’t spare sugar, nor don’t spare any thing that this house 
 affords ; for, to be sure, you deserve it all — nothing can be too 
 good for him that saved my master’s life. So now that we are 
 comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee, pray be so very 
 good as to tell me the whole story of my master’s escape, and 
 of the horse being killed under him, and of your carrying him 
 off on your shoulders ; for I’ve only heard it by bits and scraps, 
 as one may say; I’ve seen only the bill of fare, ha ! ha! ha ! — ■ 
 so now pray set out all the good things for me, in due order, 
 garnished and all ; and, before you begin, taste these cakes — 
 they are my own making. 
 
 Christiern {aside). ’Tis the one-and-twentieth time I’ve told 
 the story to-day ; but no matter. {Aloud) Why, then, madam, 
 the long and the short of the story is ” 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Oh, pray, let it be the long, not the short of the 
 story, if you please : a story can never be too long for my taste, 
 when it concerns my master — ’tis, as one may say, fine spun 
 sugar, the longer the finer, and the more I relish it — but I inter- 
 rupt you, and you eat none of my cake — pray go on — {A call 
 behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica I Mrs. Ulrica 1) — Coming ! — 
 coming !—-patience. 
 
 Christiern. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, 
 here — -just please to look ; I’ve drawn the field of battle 
 for you here, with coffee, on the table — and you shall be the 
 enemy. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. I ! — no — I’ll not be the enemy — my master’s 
 enemy ! 
 
 Christiern. Well, I’ll be the enemy. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. You! — Oh no, you sha’n’t be the enemy. 
 
 Christiern. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. The cake — my cake ! — no, indeed. 
 
 Christiern. Well, let the candle be the enemy. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Well, let the candle be the enemy ; and where 
 was my master, and where are you — I don’t understand — what 
 is all this great slop ? 
 
430 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Christicrn. Why, ma’am, the field of battle ; and let the coffee- 
 pot be my master : here comes the enemy 
 
 Enter Footman, 
 
 Footman. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the 
 dancers above. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. More refreshments ! — more ! — bless my heart, 
 ’tis an wwpossibility they can have swallowed down all I laid 
 out, not an hour ago, in the confectionary room. 
 
 Footman. Confectionary room ! Oh, I never thought of look- 
 ing there. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Look ye there, now! — why, where did you think 
 of looking, then ? — in the stable, or the cockloft, hey ? — {Exit 
 Footman.^ — But I can’t scold on such a night as this ; their 
 poor heads are all turned with joy ; and my own’s scarce in a 
 
 more propercr condition Well, I beg your pardon — pray 
 
 go on — the coffee-pot is my master, and the candle’s the enemy. 
 
 Christicrn. So, ma’am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon 
 Count Helmaar. 
 
 {A call without of Mrs. Ulrica ! Mrs. Ulrica I Mrs, Ulrica ! 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Mrs. Ulrica ! Mrs. Ulrica ! — can’t you do with- 
 out Mrs. Ulrica one instant but you must call, call — l^Mrs. 
 Ulrica ! Mrs. Ulrica 1) — Mercy on us, what do you want ? I 
 must go for one instant. 
 
 Christicrn. And I must bid ye a good night. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Nay, nay, nay, — [eagerly ) — you won’t go — I’ll 
 be back. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Footman. Ma’am ! Mrs. Ulrica ! the key of the blue press. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. The key of the blue press — I had it in my hand 
 just now — I gave it — I — {looks amongst a hunch of keys, and then 
 all round the room) — I know nothing at all about it, I tell you 
 ■ — I must drink my tea, and I will — {Exit Footman~\. ’Tis a sin 
 
 to scold on such a night as this, if one could help it Well, 
 
 Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot’s my master. 
 
 Christicrn. And the sugar-basin — why here’s a key in the 
 siigar-basin. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me ! ’tis the very key, the key of the 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 431 
 
 blue press — ^why dear me — {feels in her pocket) — and here are 
 the sugar tongs in my pocket, I protest — where was my poor 
 head ? Here, Thomas ! Thomas ! here’s the key ; take it, and 
 don’t say a word for your life, if you can help it ; you need not 
 come in, I say — {she holds the door — the footmmi pushes in). 
 
 Footman, But, ma’am, I have something particular to 
 say. 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica, Why, you’ve always something particular to say 
 — is it any thing about my master ? 
 
 Footman, No, but about your purse, ma’am. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. What of my purse ? 
 
 Footman, Here’s your little godson, ma’am, is here, who has 
 found it. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {aside). Hold your foolish tongue, can’t you? — 
 don’t mention my little godson, for your life. 
 
 [ The little boy creeps in under the footmarks arm ; his sister 
 Kate follows him, Mrs, Ulrica lifts up her hands and eyes, 
 with signs of impatience, 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica {aside). Now I had settled in my head that their 
 father should not see them till to-morrow morning. 
 
 Little Girl, Who is that strange man ? 
 
 Little Boy, He has made me forget all I had to say. 
 
 Chiistiern {aside). What charming children ! 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {aside). He does not know them to be his — they 
 don’t know him to be their father. {Aloud) Well, children, 
 what brings you here at this time of night ? 
 
 Little Boy, What I was going to say was — {the little boy looks 
 at the stranger between every two or three words, and Christiern 
 looks at him) — what I was going to say was 
 
 Little Girl, Ha ! ha ! ha ! — he forgets that we found this purse 
 in the forest as we were going home. 
 
 Little Boy. And we thought that it might be yours. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Why should you think it was mine ? 
 
 Little Boy. Because nobody else could have so much money in 
 one purse ; so we brought it to you — here it is. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. ’Tis none of my purse. {Aside) Oh ! he’ll cer- 
 tainly find out that they are his children — {she stands between 
 the children and Christiern). ’Tis none of my purse ; but you are 
 good, honest little dears, and I’ll be hanged if 1 won’t carry you 
 
432 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 both up to my master himself, this very minute, and tell th 
 story of your honesty before all the company. 
 
 [lS'/^e pushes the children towards the door, Ulric looks hack. 
 
 Little Boy. He has a soldier’s coat on — let me ask him if he 
 is a soldier. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. No — what’s that to you ? 
 
 Little Girl. Let me ask him if he knows any thing about 
 father. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {puts her hand before the little girVs mouth). Hold 
 your little foolish tongue, I say — what’s that to you ? 
 
 \_Exeuntf Mrs. Ulrica pushing forward the children. 
 
 Enter, at the opposite door, Thomas, the footman. 
 
 Footman. Sir, would you please to come into our servants’- 
 hall, only for one instant : there’s one wants to speak a word 
 to you. 
 
 Christiern. Oh, I cannot stay another moment : I must go 
 home : who is it ? # 
 
 Footman. ’Tis a poor man who has brought in two carts full 
 of my master’s baggage ; and my master begs you’ll be so very 
 good as to see that the things are all right, as you know *em, 
 and no one else here does. 
 
 Christiern {with impatience). How provoking ! — a full hour’s 
 work :• — I sha’n’t get home this night, I see that : — I wish the 
 man and the baggage were in the Gulf of Finland. [^Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE — The apartment where the Count, Eleonora, Christina, 
 ^c., were dancing. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Ulrica, leading the two children. 
 
 Christina. Ha ! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to inter- 
 rupt ; but I was so proud of my little godson and his sister, 
 though not my goddaughter, that I couldn’t but bring them 
 up, through the very midst of the company, to my master, to 
 praise them according to their deserts ; for nobody can praise 
 those that deserve it so well as my master — to my fancy. 
 
 Eleonora {aside). Nor to mine. 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 433 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica. Here’s a purse, sir, which this little boy and 
 girl of mine found in the woods as they were going home ; and, 
 like honest children, as they are, they came back with it directly 
 to me, thinking that it was mine. 
 
 Helmaar. Shake hands, my honest little fellow — this is just 
 what I should have expected from a godson of Mrs. Ulrica, and 
 a son of 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {aside to the Count). Oh, Lord bless you, sir, 
 
 don’t tell him My lady — {to Christina) — would you take the 
 
 children out of hearing ? 
 
 Eleon. {to the children). Come with us, my dears. 
 
 \_Exeunt ladies and children. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Don’t, sir, pray, tell the children any thing 
 about their father : they don’t know that their father’s here, 
 though they’ve just seen him; and I’ve been striving all I can 
 to keep the secret, and to keep the father here all night, that I 
 may have the pleasure of seeing the meeting of father and 
 mother and children at their own cottage to-morrow. I would 
 not miss the sight of their meeting for fifty pounds ; and yet I 
 ! shall not see it after all — for Christiern will go, all I can say or 
 : do. Lord bless me 1 I forgot to bolt him in when I came up 
 
 with the children — the bird’s flown, for certain — {going in a great 
 hurry). 
 
 Helmaar. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed ; your 
 ; prisoner is very safe, I can assure you, though you forgot to 
 bolt him in : I have given him an employment that will detain 
 : him a full hour, for I design to have the pleasure of restoring 
 
 my deliverer myself to his family. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica. Oh ! that will be delightful ! — Then you’ll keep 
 him here all night ! — but that will vex him terribly ; and of all 
 i the days and nights of the year, one wouldn’t have any body 
 vexed this day or night, more especially the man, who, as I 
 I may say, is the cause of all our illuminations, and rejoicings, 
 i and dancings — no, no, happen what will, we must not have him 
 vexed. 
 
 : Helmaar. He shall not he vexed, I promise you ; and, if it 
 
 I be necessary to keep your heart from breaking, my good Mrs. 
 I Ulrica, I’ll tell you a secret, which I had intended, I own, to 
 have kept from you one half hour longer. 
 
 F f 
 
434 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica, A secret ! dear sir, half an hour’s a great while 
 to keep a secret from one when it’s about one’s friends : pray, if 
 it be proper — but you are the best judge — I should be very glad 
 to hear just a little hint of the matter, to prepare me. 
 
 Helmaar, Then prepare in a few minutes to see the happy 
 meeting between Christiern and his family: I have sent to his 
 cottage for his wife, to desire that she would come hither imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica, Oh ! a thousand thanks to you, sir ; but I’m 
 afraid the messenger will let the cat out of the bag. 
 
 Helmaar. The man I have sent can keep a secret Which 
 
 way did the Lady Eleonora go ?— Are those peasants in the 
 hall ? \_Exit Count, 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica {following). She went tow^ards the west drawing- 
 room, I think, sir. Yes, sir, the peasants are at supper in the 
 
 hall. {Aside) Bless me ! I wonder what messenger he sent, for 
 I don’t know many — men I mean — fit to be trusted with a 
 secret. [^Exit, 
 
 SCENE — An apartment in Count Helmaar’s Castle. — Eleonora. 
 
 — Christina. — Little Kate and Ulric asleep on the floor, 
 
 Eicon, Poor creatures ! they were quite tired by sitting up 
 so late : is their mother come yet ? 
 
 Christina. Not yet ; but she will soon be here, for my brother 
 told Aleftson to make all possible haste. Do you know where 
 my brother is ? — ^he is not among the dancers. I expected to 
 have found him sighing at the Lady Eleonora’s feet. 
 
 Eicon, He is much better employed than in sighing at any 
 body’s feet; he is gone down into the great hall, to see and 
 reward some poor peasants who have brought home the knap- 
 sacks of those unfortunate soldiers who fell in the last battle : — 
 your good Mrs. Ulrica found out that these peasants were in the 
 village near us — she sent for them, got a plentiful supper ready, 
 and the count is now speaking to them. 
 
 Christina, And can you forgive my ungallant brother for 
 thinking of vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent on nothing 
 but your bright eyes ? — then all I can say is, you are both of 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 435 
 
 you just fit for one another : every fool, indeed, saw that long 
 ago. 
 
 [_A cry behind the scenes of^‘ Long live Count Helmaar ! long 
 live the good count! long live the poor man^s friend 
 Christina {joins the cry). Long live Count Helmaar! — join 
 me, Eleonora — long live the good count ! long live the poor 
 man’s friend ! 
 
 \The little children waken, start up, and stretch themselves, 
 Eleon, There, you have wakened these poor children. 
 
 Ulric, What’s the matter ? I dreamed father was shaking 
 hands with me. 
 
 Enter Mrs, Ulrica. 
 
 Little Kate, Mrs. Ulrica ! where am I ? I thought I was in 
 my little bed at home — I was dreaming about a purse, I believe. 
 
 Mrs, Ulrica, Was it about this purse you were dreaming? — 
 {shows the purse which the children found in the wood) — Come, 
 take it into your little hands, and waken and rouse yourselves, 
 for you must come and give this purse back to the rightful 
 owner; I’ve found him out for you — {Aside to Chnstina and 
 Eleonora), And now, ladies, if you please to go up into the 
 gallery, you’ll see something worth looking at. [Ea^eunt, 
 
 SCENE — A hall in Count Helmaar’s Castle, — Peasants rising 
 from supper in the hack scene, 
 
 1st Peasant, Here’s a health to the poor man’s friend ; and 
 may every poor man, every poor honest man — and there are 
 none other in Sweden — find as good a friend as Count Helmaar. 
 
 Enter Charles, eagerly, 
 
 Charles, Count Helmaar ! is he here ? 
 
 Omnes, Heyday ! Charles, the sleeper, broad awake ! or is 
 he walking in his sleep ? 
 
 Charles, Where’s Count Helmaar, I say? — I’d walk in my 
 sleep, or any way, to get a sight of him. 
 
 1st Peasant, Hush I stand back ! — here’s some of the quality 
 coming, who are not thinking of you. 
 
 [The peasants all retire to the back scene. — Count Helmaar, 
 Christina, and Eleonora, appear, looking from a gallery. 
 
436 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Enter Aleftson and Catherine at one door, Mrs, Ulrica at 
 
 the opposite door, with Christ: iy.kh, followed bp the two children. 
 
 Cath. {springs forward.) Christiern ! my husband ! alive ! — is 
 it a dream ? 
 
 Christiern {embracing her). Your own Christiern, dearest 
 Catherine. 
 
 [The children clap their hands, and run to their father. 
 
 Ulric. Why, I thought he was my father ; only he did not 
 shake hands with me. 
 
 Kate. And Mrs. Ulrica hid me hold my tongue. 
 
 Christiern. My Ulric ! my little Kate ! 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica, Ay, my little Kate, you may speak now as 
 much as you will. — {Their father kisses them eagerly.) — Ay, kiss 
 them, kiss them ; they are as good children as ever were born 
 —and as honest : Kate, show him the purse, and ask him if it 
 be his. 
 
 Kate, Is it yours, father? — {folds up the purse). 
 
 Christiern. ’Tis mine ; ’twas in my knapsack ; but how it 
 came here. Heaven knows. 
 
 Ulric. Ve found it in the wood, father, as we were going 
 home, just at the foot of a tree. 
 
 Charles {comes forward). Why, mayhap, now I recollect, I 
 might have dropped it there — more shame for me, or rather 
 more shame for them — {looking back at his companions) — that 
 were playing the fool with me, and tumbled out all the things 
 on the ground. Master, I hope there’s no harm done : we poor 
 peasant fellows have brought home all the other knapsacks safe 
 and sound to the relations of them that died ; and yours came 
 by mistake, it seems. 
 
 Christiern. It’s a very lucky mistake ; for I wouldn’t have 
 lost a waistcoat which there is in that knapsack for all the waist- 
 coats in Sweden. My Catherine, ’twas that which you gave me 
 the day before I went abroad — do you remember it ? 
 
 Charles. Ay, that she does ; it had like to have been the 
 death of her — for she thought you must he dead for certain when 
 she saw it brought home without you — but I knew he was not 
 dead, mistress — did not I tell you, mistress, not to give way 1o 
 sorrow while there was hope left ? 
 
THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 4 . 5 / 
 
 Caih. O joy ! joy ! — too much joy ! 
 
 Aleft. Now are you sorry you came with me vvhen I bade 
 you ? — but I’m a fool ! — I’m a fool ! 
 
 Ulnc, But where’s the cap and coat you used to wear ? 
 
 Kate. You are quite another man, uncle. 
 
 Aleft. The same man, niece, only in another coat. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {laughing). How they stare ! Well, Christiern, 
 
 you are not angry with my master and me for keeping you now ? 
 — hut angry or not, I don’t care, for I wouldn’t have missed 
 seeing this meeting for any thing in the whole world. 
 
 Enter Count Helmaar, ELEONdRA, and Christina. 
 
 Christina. Nor I. 
 
 Eleon. Nor I. 
 
 Helmaar. Nor I. 
 
 The Peasants. Nor any of us 
 
 Helmaar {to little Ulric). My honest little hoy, is that the 
 purse which you found in the wood ? 
 
 Ulric. Yes, and it’s my own father’s. 
 
 Helmaar. And how much money is there in it ? 
 
 [ The child opens the purse, and spreads the money on the floor. 
 
 Ulric {to Mrs. Ulrica). Count you, for I can’t count so 
 much. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica {counts). Eight ducats, five rixdollars, and let 
 me see how many — sixteen Carolines — ’twould have been pity, 
 Catherine, to have lost all this treasure, which Christiern has 
 saved for you. 
 
 Helmaar. Catherine, I beg that all the money in this purse 
 may be given to these honest peasants. {To Kate) Here, take 
 it to them, my little modest girl. As for you and your children, 
 Catherine, you may depend upon it that I will not neglect to 
 make you easy in the world : your own good conduct, and the 
 excellent manner in which you have brought up these children, 
 would incline me to serve you, even if your husband had not 
 saved my life. 
 
 Cath. Christiern, my dear husband, and did ymi save Count 
 Helmaar’s life ? 
 
 2 A rixdollar is 4^. 6d. sterling ; two rixdollars are equal in value to a 
 ducat ; a Caroline is H. 2d. 
 
4;38 
 
 THE KNAPSACK. 
 
 Mrs. Ulrica, Ay, that he did 
 
 Cath. {embracing him.) I am the happiest wife," and — {turning 
 to /ass her children) — the happiest mother upon earth. 
 
 Charles {staring up in Count Helmaar^s face). God bless him ! 
 I’ve seen him face to face at last; and now I wish in my heart 
 I could see his wife. 
 
 Christina. And so do I most sincerely : my dear brother, who 
 has been all his life labouring for the happiness of others, should 
 now surely think of making himself happy. 
 
 Eleonora {giving her hand to Helmaar). No, leave that to me, 
 for I shall think of nothing else all my life. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Gilbert & Rivington, Printers St. John’s Square, London. 
 


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