She and Miss Rose thus read together many delightful French and English

works, among which may be mentioned those of the learned Dr. Smollett,

of the ingenious Mr. Henry Fielding, of the graceful and fantastic

Monsieur Crebillon the younger, whom our immortal poet Gray so much

admired, and of the universal Monsieur de Voltaire. Once, when Mr.

Crawley asked what the young people were reading, the governess replied

"Smollett." "Oh, Smollett," said Mr. Crawley, quite satisfied. "His

history is more dull, but by no means so dangerous as that of Mr. Hume.

It is history you are reading?" "Yes," said Miss Rose; without,

however, adding that it was the history of Mr. Humphrey Clinker. On

another occasion he was rather scandalised at finding his sister with a

book of French plays; but as the governess remarked that it was for the

purpose of acquiring the French idiom in conversation, he was fain to

be content. Mr. Crawley, as a diplomatist, was exceedingly proud of

his own skill in speaking the French language (for he was of the world

still), and not a little pleased with the compliments which the

governess continually paid him upon his proficiency.

Miss Violet's tastes were, on the contrary, more rude and boisterous

than those of her sister. She knew the sequestered spots where the

hens laid their eggs. She could climb a tree to rob the nests of the

feathered songsters of their speckled spoils. And her pleasure was to

ride the young colts, and to scour the plains like Camilla. She was the

favourite of her father and of the stablemen. She was the darling, and

withal the terror of the cook; for she discovered the haunts of the

jam-pots, and would attack them when they were within her reach. She

and her sister were engaged in constant battles. Any of which

peccadilloes, if Miss Sharp discovered, she did not tell them to Lady

Crawley; who would have told them to the father, or worse, to Mr.

Crawley; but promised not to tell if Miss Violet would be a good girl

and love her governess.

With Mr. Crawley Miss Sharp was respectful and obedient. She used to

consult him on passages of French which she could not understand,

though her mother was a Frenchwoman, and which he would construe to her

satisfaction: and, besides giving her his aid in profane literature, he

was kind enough to select for her books of a more serious tendency, and

address to her much of his conversation. She admired, beyond measure,

his speech at the Quashimaboo-Aid Society; took an interest in his

pamphlet on malt: was often affected, even to tears, by his discourses

of an evening, and would say--"Oh, thank you, sir," with a sigh, and a

look up to heaven, that made him occasionally condescend to shake hands

with her. "Blood is everything, after all," would that aristocratic

religionist say. "How Miss Sharp is awakened by my words, when not one

of the people here is touched. I am too fine for them--too delicate. I

must familiarise my style--but she understands it. Her mother was a

Montmorency."




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