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The Good French Governess
by
“Certainly,” said Mad. de Rosier: “if you exert yourself, you may be any thing you please.”
“Not any thing I please, for I should please to be as clever, and as good, and as amiable, and as estimable, too, as your Rosalie–but that’s impossible. Tell me, however, what she was at my age–and what sort of things she used to do and say–and what books she read–and how she employed herself from morning till night.”
“That must be for to-morrow,” said Mad. de Rosier; “I must now show Herbert the book of prints that he wanted to see.”
It was the first time that Herbert had ever asked to look into a book. Mad. de Rosier had taken him entirely out of the hands of Mrs. Grace, and finding that his painful associations with the sight of the syllables in his dog’s-eared spelling-book could not immediately be conquered, she prudently resolved to cultivate his powers of attention upon other subjects, and not to return to syllabic difficulties, until the young gentleman should have forgotten his literary misfortunes, and acquired sufficient energy and patience to ensure success.
“It is of little consequence,” said she, “whether the boy read a year sooner or later; but it is of great consequence that he should love literature.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Harcourt, to whom this observation was addressed; “I am sure you will manage all those things properly–I leave him entirely to you–Grace quite gives him up: if he read by the time we must think of sending him to school I shall be satisfied–only keep him out of my way,” added she, laughing, “when he is stammering over that unfortunate spelling-book, for I don’t pretend to be gifted with the patience of Job.”
“Have you any objection,” said Mad. de Rosier, “to my buying for him some new toys?”
“None in the world—buy any thing you will–do any thing you please–I give you carte blanche,” said Mrs. Harcourt.
After Mad. de Rosier had been some time at Mrs. Harcourt’s, and had carefully studied the characters, or, more properly speaking, the habits of all her pupils, she took them with her one morning to a large toy-shop, or rather warehouse for toys, which had been lately opened, under the direction of an ingenious gentleman, who had employed proper workmen to execute rational toys for the rising generation.
When Herbert entered “the rational toy-shop,” he looked all around, and, with an air of disappointment, exclaimed, “Why, I see neither whips nor horses! nor phaetons, nor coaches!”–“Nor dressed dolls!” said Favoretta, in a reproachful tone–“nor baby houses!”–“Nor soldiers–nor a drum!” continued Herbert.–“I am sure I never saw such a toy-shop,” said Favoretta; “I expected the finest things that ever were seen, because it was such a new great shop, and here are nothing but vulgar-looking things–great carts and wheel-barrows, and things fit for orange-women’s daughters, I think.”
This sally of wit was not admired as much as it would have been by Favoretta’s flatterers in her mother’s drawing-room:–her brother seized upon the very cart which she had abused, and dragging it about the room, with noisy joy, declared he had found out that it was better than a coach and six that would hold nothing; and he was even satisfied without horses, because he reflected that he could be the best horse himself; and that wooden horses, after all, cannot gallop, and they never mind if you whip them ever so much: “you must drag them along all the time, though you make believe,” said Herbert, “that they draw the coach of themselves; if one gives them the least push, they tumble down on their sides, and one must turn back, for ever and ever, to set them up upon their wooden legs again. I don’t like make-believe horses; I had rather be both man and horse for myself.” Then, whipping himself, he galloped away, pleased with his centaur character.