"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. "_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 ingenious young people should have much left to their own intelligent 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 afterwards 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 beautiful and accomplished daughter; she dwelt upon every circumstance, and, with anxious curiosity, asked a variety of questions. "I think I can form a perfect idea of her now," said Matilda, 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.