Reverends Messrs. Gisborne and Chirol, and Dr.
Fordyce's " Discourse on the Character and
Conduct of the Female Sex" – that her educational
system ended in her permitting her pupils to do
pretty well as they liked. She was much
beloved by them, in consequence. Her favourite
work, after "Emile," was "Adelaide and Theodore,
or Letters upon Education:" that dreary simpering
old farrago of well-meaning inanities, in
which the baroness writes to Madame d'Ostalis
to tell her how Seraphine has bitten her little
brother, but how she has succeeded in "producing
perfection" in her daughter Adelaide, who is
"fourteen years old, an excellent musician,
drawing with amazing proficiency, speaking and
singing Italian like a native, and absolutely
cured of all little female deficiencies." Happy
Adelaide, and thrice happy baroness !

The worthy Bunnycastle died a year before
Rhododendron House was taken. His widow was
faithful to his memory, and brought up her three
daughters, Adelaide (so christened after the
baroness's paragon), Celia, and Barbara, in love and
reverence of their inoffensive papa's portrait,
with its shirt frill, and its hair powder (the latter
beautifully painted), and with the silver standish
"presented to him by the young ladies of
Ostrolenko Lodge, Camberwell, in slight testimony
of his unwearied exertions in teaching
them plain and ornamental writing, arithmetic
(on Mr. Walkingame's principle), the use of the
globes, and other polite accomplishments, for
many years." In this history's year 1836 the three
Miss Bunnycastles were all old maids. There is no
use in disguising the matter; it was palpable.
With Adelaide and with Celia the case was
hopeless. They were both past thirty, and had made
up their minds to celibacy. About Barbara, only,
who was barely twenty-five, could any faint and
feeble matrimonial hopes be entertained. When
such hopes were hinted in her presence by the
charitable-minded among her own sex – the
married ladies, bien entendu – Barbara shrugged
her pretty shoulders – she was pretty – and sometimes
smiled, and sometimes sighed. Meanwhile
she went on watching the pianoforte practice, and
the small-tooth combing (after sundry soap and
towel preliminaries) of the little ones on Saturday
nights. That was her department in the economy
of Rhododendron House. She did not murmur.
She was perfectly resigned. Only, if any eligible
young man had suddenly appeared before her, say
from the Planet Mars, or from the bowels of the
earth, and had said, " It is true that I am a
returned convict, a professed forger and coiner, and
a monster in human form – that I have a blighted
heart and a seared conscience – that I murdered
my great-aunt, and sold my country, and picked
a gentleman's pocket of a yellow bandanna at
Camberwell Fair; but still my intentions are
strictly honourable. I have a marriage license
in my right-hand trousers-pocket, and a ring
and a pair of white kid gloves in my left. There
is a glass-coach at the door, the pew-opener will
officiate as bridesmaid, and the beadle will be my
best man. Come, my beloved, and I will lead
thee to the hymeneal altar," I am inclined to
think that Barbara Bunnycastle would
incontinently have cast her arms about that eligible
young man's neck, and cried out "Take me,
interesting stranger !"

In 1836, Mrs. Bunnycastle was a very old
smiling lady, with glossy-white ringlets. Her
countenance was wrinkled, but it was rosy still.
She was still soft and sentimental, and much
addicted to the perusal of novels: standing, as
regards these characteristics in strong contra-
distinction to her eldest daughter, Adelaide, who
was an exceedingly practical spinster, and the
inflexible disciplinarian of the establishment.

I have said that " early to bed, and early to
rise," was the golden rule abided by at
Rhododendron House. The younger pupils retired to
rest at half-past seven. Those of medium age,
that is, under twelve, went to roost at eight.
By nine, the elder girls reached their dormitories.
At ten, the governesses and parlour-boarders bade
Mrs. Bunnycastle good night. At half-past ten,
the three daughters of that estimable and
venerable person kissed, each, her parent on the forehead;
and by eleven o'clock every light in Rhododendron
House was extinguished. All the girls
and their teachers were up by six o'clock in the
morning; the three sisters only indulged in half-
an-hour's extra somnolence; and, punctually at
eight o'clock, Mrs. Bunnycastle, in her unvarying
cap with yellow satin bows, and her white
ringlets arranged in faultless symmetry, made her
appearance at the common breakfast-table.

All their meals, with one exception, pupils and
preceptresses took together. Breakfast, dinner,
and tea, were served in the great bow-windowed
dining-room giving on to the lawn; but supper
was a special and exclusive meal which none of
the children partook of at all, which the parlour-
boarders and teachers consumed in a kind of
still-room adjoining the pantry, but which
Mrs. Bunnycastle and her daughters enjoyed in
their own little parlour. The meal was served
(tea having been got through at five) at nine
P.M. The mother and daughters loved to linger
over their meal, and, although they ate and
drank but little, it was often prolonged to close
upon the time for retiring to rest. It was the
only season throughout the weary monotonous
day when they were alone, and at their ease.
They were free from the constraint of keeping
on their countenance that expression of simulated
gravity, not to say severity, which all those
whose vocation it is to educate youth, whether
male or female, think it their bounden duty to
assume while occupying the rostrum of pedagogic
authority. This is why schoolmasters and school-
mistresses get prematurely worn, wrinkled, and
shrunken.

Supper-time, then, was an hour of unmingled
delectation for the Bunnycastle family. Then,
they were free from the heated and half-stifling
atmosphere of the schoolrooms; for ventilation,
as an adjunct to education, had not been thought