uncomfortable.’ Dr. John Bretton knows you
only as ’quiet Lucy’—’a
creature inoffensive as a shadow;’ he has said,
and you have heard him say it: ’Lucy’s
disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes and
manner—want of colour in character and costume.’
Such are your own and your friends’ impressions;
and behold! there starts up a little man, differing
diametrically from all these, roundly charging you
with being too airy and cheery—too volatile
and versatile—too flowery and coloury.
This harsh little man—this pitiless censor—gathers
up all your poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless
chiffon of rose-colour, your small fringe of a wreath,
your small scrap of ribbon, your silly bit of lace,
and calls you to account for the lot, and for each
item. You are well habituated to be passed by
as a shadow in Life’s sunshine: it its
a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand to
screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive
ray.”
MONSIEUR’S FETE.
I was up the next morning an hour before daybreak,
and finished my guard, kneeling on the dormitory floor
beside the centre stand, for the benefit of such expiring
glimmer as the night-lamp afforded in its last watch.
All my materials—my whole stock of beads
and silk—were used up before the chain
assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought
it double, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that
to, suit the particular taste whose gratification
was in view, an effective appearance was quite indispensable.
As a finish to the ornament, a little gold clasp was
needed; fortunately I possessed it in the fastening
of my sole necklace; I duly detached and re-attached
it, then coiled compactly the completed guard; and
enclosed it in a small box I had bought for its brilliancy,
made of some tropic shell of the colour called “nacarat,”
and decked with a little coronal of sparkling blue
stones. Within the lid of the box, I carefully
graved with my scissors’ point certain initials.
* * * *
*
The reader will, perhaps, remember the description
of Madame Beck’s fete; nor will he have forgotten
that at each anniversary, a handsome present was subscribed
for and offered by the school. The observance
of this day was a distinction accorded to none but
Madame, and, in a modified form, to her kinsman and
counsellor, M. Emanuel. In the latter case it
was an honour spontaneously awarded, not plotted and
contrived beforehand, and offered an additional proof,
amongst many others, of the estimation in which—despite
his partialities, prejudices, and irritabilities—the
professor of literature was held by his pupils.
No article of value was offered to him: he distinctly
gave it to be understood, that he would accept neither
plate nor jewellery. Yet he liked a slight tribute;
the cost, the money-value, did not touch him:
a diamond ring, a gold snuff-box, presented, with
pomp, would have pleased him less than a flower, or
a drawing, offered simply and with sincere feelings.
Such was his nature. He was a man, not wise in
his generation, yet could he claim a filial sympathy
with “the dayspring on high.”
