"They are all now perfectly well, ma'am," replied Mr. Mountague, "except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight cold last week."

"But she is re-establish by your advise, I suppose? and she—did she recommend you to miladi?"

"No, madam," said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by mademoiselle's phraseology: "Lord George —— did me the honour to introduce me to Lady S——."

"Ah, Milord George! are you a long time acquainted wid milord?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have known Lord George many years."

"Ah, many year!—you be de family physician, apparemment?"

"The family physician! Oh no, ma'am!" said Mr. Mountague, smiling.

"Eh!" said mademoiselle, "but dat is being too modest. Many take de titre of physician, I'll engage, wid less pretensions. And," added she, looking graciously, "absolument, I will not have you call yourself de family apothicaire."

At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family apothecary by the hand, with an air of familiarity which astounded mademoiselle. "Qu'est ce que c'est?" whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his lordship: "is not dis his apothicaire?" Dashwood, at this question, burst into a loud laugh. "Mr. Mountague," cried he, "have you been prescribing for mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary."

Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially where there was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body superior to him in abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood's mirth; repeating the story, as "an excellent thing," to every one, as they came down to breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom he congratulated, the moment she entered the room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with an apothecary. "Here he is!" said he, pointing to Mr. Mountague.

"Ma chere amie! mon coeur! tink of my mistaking your Mr. Mountague for such a sort of person! If you had only told me, sir, dat you were Miladi Augusta's partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity of making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat could not find it out. Ma chere amie! Mon coeur! Miladi Augusta, will you make my excuse?"

"Ma chere amie! mon coeur!" repeated Mr. Mountague to himself: "is it possible that this woman can be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?" What was his surprise, when he discovered that Mlle. Panache had been her ladyship's governess! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some moments. "So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French governess!" said he to himself; "but that is her misfortune, not her fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might make her what he pleased." When Mr. Mountague recovered from his reverie, he heard the company, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk over the last night's ball. "You did not tire yourself last night with dancing, my lord," said Dashwood.

"No; I hate dancing," replied Lord George: "I wish the ladies would take to dancing with one another; I think that would be an excellent scheme." An aunt of his lordship, who was present, took great offence at this suggestion of her nephew. She had been used to the deference paid in former times to the sex; and she said she could not bear to see women give up their proper places in society. "Really, George," added she, turning to her nephew, "I wish you would not talk in this manner. The young men now give themselves the strangest airs. Lady S——, I will expose him; do you know, last night, he was lolling at his full length upon a bench in the ball-room, while three young handsome ladies were standing opposite to him, tired to death."

"They could not be more tired than I was, I am sure, ma'am."

"Why, you had not been dancing, and they had."

"Had they, ma'am? that was not my fault. I did not ask 'em to dance, and I don't see it was my business to ask 'em to sit down. I did not know who they were, at any rate," concluded his lordship, sullenly.

"You knew they were women, and as such entitled to your respect."

Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dashwood, and pulled up his boot.

"Another thing—you were in the house three weeks with Miss Earl last summer; you met her yesterday evening, and you thought proper not to take the least notice of her."

"Miss, Earl, ma'am; was she there?"

"Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to her."

"I did not see her, ma'am."

"Mrs. Earl spoke to you."

"I didn't hear her, ma'am."

"I told you of it at the moment."

"I didn't understand you, ma'am."

"Besides, ma'am," interposed Dashwood, "as to Miss Earl, if she meant that my lord should bow to her, she should have curtsied first to him."

"Curtsied first to him!"

"Yes, that's the rule—that's the thing now. The ladies are always to speak first."

"I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. Lady Augusta, what say you to all this?"

"Oh, that it's shocking to be sure!" said Lady Augusta, "if one thinks of it; so the only way is not to think about it."

"An excellent bon-mot!" exclaimed Dashwood. "It's thinking that spoils conversation, and every thing else."

"But," added Lady Augusta, who observed that her bon-mot was not so much admired by all the company as by Dashwood, "I really only mean, that one must do as other people do."

"Assurement," said mademoiselle; "not dat I approve of the want of gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. But, I tink, Mademoiselle Earl is as stiff as de poker, and I don't approve of dat, neider—Je n'aime pas les prudes, moi."

"But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of manners?" said the old lady, gravely.

"Dignite!—Oh, I don't say noting against dignite, neider; not but I tink de English reserve is de trop. I tink a lady of a certain rank has always good principes enough, to be sure, and as to the rest qu'importe?—dat's my notions."

Mr. Mountague looked with anxiety at Lady Augusta, to see what she thought of her governess's notions; but all that he could judge from her countenance was that she did not think at all. "Well, she has time enough before her to learn to think," said he to himself. "I am glad she did not assent to mademoiselle's notions, at least. I hope she has learnt nothing from her but 'the true French pronunciation.'"

No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George —— gave his customary morning yawn, and walked as usual to the window. "Come," said Dashwood, in his free manner—"come, mademoiselle, you must come down with us to the water-side, and Lady Augusta, I hope."

"Ay," whispered Lord George to Dashwood, "and let's settle our wager about mademoiselle and my blackamore—don't think I'll let you off that."

"Off!—I'm ready to double the bet, my lord," said Dashwood aloud, and in the same moment turned to mademoiselle with some high-flown compliment about the beauty of her complexion, and the dangers of going without a veil on a hot sunny day.

"Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you've persuaded mademoiselle to take the veil, we'll set out, if you please," said Lady Augusta.

Mr. Mountague, who kept his attention continually upon Lady Augusta, was delighted to see that she waited for the elderly lady, who, at breakfast, had said so much in favour of dignity of manners. Mr. Mountague did not, at this moment, consider that this elderly lady was Lord George's aunt, and that the attention paid to her by Lady Augusta might possibly proceed from motives of policy, not from choice. Young men of open tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived by coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the meanness of their artifices. As Mr. Mountague walked down to the river, Lady Augusta contrived to entertain him so completely, that Helen Temple never once came into his mind; though he had sense enough to perceive his danger, he had not sufficient courage to avoid it: it sometimes requires courage to fly from danger. From this agreeable tete-a-tete he was roused, however, by the voice of Mlle. Panache, who, in an affected agony, was struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both her hands—"No! no!—Non! non! I will not—I will not, I tell you, I will not."

"Nay, nay," said Dashwood; "but I have sworn to get you into the boat."

"Ah! into de boat a la bonne heure; but not wid dat vilain black."

"Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his man; and you'll acknowledge, my lord, in that case it's a drawn bet," said Dashwood.

"I! not I. I'll acknowledge nothing," replied his lordship; and he swore his black Tom should not be sent away: "he's a capital boatman, and I can't do without him."

"Den I won't stir," said mademoiselle, passionately, to Dashwood.

"Then I must carry you, must I?" cried Dashwood, laughing; and immediately, to Mr. Mountague's amazement, a romping scene ensued between this tutor and governess, which ended in Dashwood's carrying mademoiselle in his arms into the boat, amidst the secret derision of two footmen, and the undisguised laughter of black Tom, who were spectators of the scene.

Mr. Mountague trembled at the thoughts of receiving a wife from the hands of a Mlle. Panache; but, turning his eye upon Lady Augusta, he thought she blushed, and this blush at once saved her, in his opinion, and increased his indignation against her governess. Mademoiselle being now alarmed, and provoked by the laughter of the servants, the dry sarcastic manner of Lord George, the cool air of Mr. Mountague, and the downcast looks of her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high angry tone assured him, "that she had never seen nobody have so much assurance;" and she demanded, furiously—"how he could ever tink to take such liberties wid her? Only tell me how you could dare to tink of it?"

"I confess I did not think as I ought to have done, mademoiselle," replied Dashwood, looking an apology to Lady Augusta, which, however, he took great care mademoiselle should not observe. "But your bet, my lord, if you please," added he, attempting to turn it off in a joke: "there was no scream—my bet's fairly won."

"I assure you, sir, dis won't do: it's no good joke, I promise you. Ma chere amie, mon coeur," cried mademoiselle to Lady Augusta—"viens— come, let us go—Don't touch that," pursued she, roughly, to black Tom, who was going to draw away the plank that led to the shore. "I will go home dis minute, and speak to Miladi S——. Viens! viens, ma chere amie!"—and she darted out of the boat, whilst Dashwood followed, in vain attempting to stop her. She prudently, however, took the longest way through the park, that she might have a full opportunity of listening to reason, as Dashwood called it; and before she reached home, she was perfectly convinced of the expediency of moderate measures. "Let the thing rest where it is," said Dashwood: "it's a joke, and there's an end of it; but if you take it in earnest, you know the story might not tell so well, even if you told it, and there would never be an end of it." All this, followed by a profusion of compliments, ratified a peace, which the moment he had made, he laughed at himself for having taken so much trouble to effect; whilst mademoiselle rested in the blessed persuasion that Dashwood was desperately in love with her; nay, so little knowledge had she of the human heart as to believe that the scene which had just passed was a proof of his passion.

"I wonder where's Miladi Augusta? I thought she was wid me all this time," said she.

"She's coming; don't you see her at the end of the grove with Mr. Mountague? We have walked fast,"

"Oh, she can't never walk so fast as me; I tink I am as young as she is."

Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon the consequences of the attachment which he saw rising in Mr. Mountague's mind for Lady Augusta. If a man of sense were to gain an influence over her, Dashwood feared that all his hopes would be destroyed, and he resolved to use all his power over mademoiselle to prejudice her, and by her means to prejudice her pupil against this gentleman. Mademoiselle's having begun by taking him for an apothicaire, was a circumstance much in favour of Dashwood's views, because she felt herself pledged to justify, or at least to persist, in her opinion, that he did not look like un homme comme il faut.

In the mean time Mr. Mountague was walking slowly towards them with Lady Augusta, who found it necessary to walk as slowly as possible, because of the heat. He had been reflecting very soberly upon her ladyship's late blush, which, according to his interpretation, said, as plainly as a blush could say, all that the most refined sense and delicacy could dictate. Yet such is, upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the human mind, that he by no means felt sure that the lady had blushed at all. Her colour was, perhaps, a shade higher than usual; but then it was hot weather, and she had been walking. The doubt, however, Mr. Mountague thought proper to suppress; and the reality of the blush, once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed the foundation of several ingenious theories of moral sentiment, and some truly logical deductions. A passionate admirer of grace and beauty, he could not help wishing that he might find Lady Augusta's temper and understanding equal to her personal accomplishments. When we are very anxious to discover perfections in any character, we generally succeed, or fancy that we succeed. Mr. Mountague quickly discovered many amiable and interesting qualities in this fair lady, and, though he perceived some defects, he excused them to himself with the most philosophic ingenuity.

"Affectation," the judicious Locke observes, "has always the laudable aim of pleasing:" upon this principle Mr. Mountague could not reasonably think of it with severity. "From the desire of pleasing," argued he, "proceeds not only all that is amiable, but much of what is most estimable in the female sex. This desire leads to affectation and coquetry, to folly and vice, only when it is extended to unworthy objects. The moment a woman's wish to please becomes discriminative, the moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd, she not only ceases to be a coquette, but she exerts herself to excel in every thing that he approves, and, from her versatility of manners, she has the happy power of adapting herself to his taste, and of becoming all that his most sanguine wishes could desire." The proofs of this discriminative taste, and the first symptoms of this salutary attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd, Mr. Mountague thought he discerned very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he ever forget that she was but eighteen. "She is so very young," said he to himself, "that it is but reasonable I should constantly consider what she may become, rather than what she is." To do him justice, we shall observe, that her ladyship at this time, with all the address of which so young a lady was capable, did every thing in her power to confirm Mr. Mountague in his favourable sentiments of her.

Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he was at length determined by the generous enthusiasm, amiable simplicity, and candid good sense which Lady Augusta showed in speaking of a favourite friend of hers, of whom he could not approve. This friend, Lady Diana, was one of the rude ladies who had laughed with so much ill-nature at Helen's white and black shoes at the archery ball. She was a dashing, rich, extravagant, fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike manners, too often "touching the brink of all we hate," without exciting any passions allied to love. Her look was almost an oath—her language was suitable to her looks—she swore and dressed to the height of the fashion—she could drive four horses in hand—was a desperate huntress—and so loud in the praises of her dogs and horses, that she intimidated even sportsmen and jockeys. She talked so much of her favourite horse Spanker, that she acquired amongst a particular set of gentlemen the appellation of my Lady Di Spanker. Lady Augusta perceived that the soft affectations remarkable in her own manners were in agreeable contrast in the company of this masculine dame; she therefore cultivated her acquaintance, and Lady S—— could make no objection to a woman who was well received every where; she was rather flattered to see her daughter taken notice of by this dashing belle; consequently, Lady Di. Spanker, for by that name we also shall call her, frequently rode over from Cheltenham, which was some miles distant from S—— Hall. One morning she called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon her coming out to try her favourite horse. All the gentlemen went down immediately to assist in putting her ladyship on horseback: this was quite unnecessary, for Lady Diana took that office upon herself. Lady Augusta was all timidity, and was played off to great advantage by the rough raillery of her friend. At length she conquered her fears so much as to seat herself upon the side-saddle; her riding mistress gathered up the reins for her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands; then armed her with her whip, exhorting her, "for God's sake, not to be such a coward!" Scarcely was the word coward pronounced, when Lady Augusta, by some unguarded motion of her whip, gave offence to her high-mettled steed, which instantly began to rear: there was no danger, for Mr. Mountague caught hold of the reins, and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect safety. "How now, Spanker!" exclaimed Lady Di., in a voice calculated to strike terror into the nerves of a horse—"how now, Spanker!" and mounting him with masculine boldness of gesture—"I'll teach you, sir, who's your mistress," continued she; "I'll make you pay for these tricks!" Spanker reared again, and Lady Di. gave him what she called "a complete dressing!" In vain Lady Augusta screamed; in vain the spectators entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip; she persisted in beating Spanker till she fairly mastered him. When he was perfectly subdued, she dismounted with the same carelessness with which she had mounted; and, giving the horse to her groom, pushed back her hat, and looked round for applause. Lord George, roused to a degree of admiration, which he had never before been heard to express for any thing female, swore that, in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done; and Lady Di. Spanker received his congratulations with a loud laugh, and a hearty shake of the hand. "Walk him about, Jack," added she, turning to the groom, who held her horse; "walk him about, for he's all in a lather; and when he's cool, bring him up here again. And then, my dear child," said she to Lady Augusta, "you shall give him a fair trial."

"I!—Oh! never, never!" cried Lady Augusta, shrinking back with a faint shriek: "this is a trial to which you must not put my friendship. I must insist upon leaving Spanker to your management; I would not venture upon him again for the universe."

"How can you talk so like a child—so like a woman?" cried her friend.

"I confess, I am a very woman," said Lady Augusta, with a sigh: "and I fear I shall never be otherwise."

"Fear!" repeated Mr. Mountague, to whom even the affectation of feminine softness and timidity appeared at this instant charming, from the contrast with the masculine intrepidity and disgusting coarseness of Lady Diana Spanker's manners. The tone in which he pronounced the single word fear was sufficient to betray his feelings towards both the ladies. Lady Di. gave him a look of sovereign contempt. "All I know and can tell you," cried she, "is, that fear should never get a-horseback." Lord George burst into one of his loud laughs. "But as to the rest, fear may be a confounded good thing in its proper place; but they say it's catching; so I must run away from you, child," said she to Lady Augusta. "Jack, bring up Spanker. I've twenty miles to ride before dinner. I've no time to lose," pulling out her watch: "faith, I've fooled away an hour here; Spanker must make it up for me. God bless you all! Good bye!" and she mounted her horse, and galloped off full speed.

"God bless ye! good bye to ye, Lady Di. Spanker," cried Dashwood, the moment she was out of hearing. "Heaven preserve us from amazons!" Lord George did not say, Amen. On the contrary, he declared she was a fine dashing woman, and seemed to have a great deal of blood about her. Mr. Mountague watched Lady Augusta's countenance in silence, and was much pleased to observe that she did not assent to his lordship's encomium. "She has good sense enough to perceive the faults of her new friend, and now her eyes are open she will no longer make a favourite companion, I hope, of this odious woman," thought he. "I am afraid, I am sadly afraid you are right," said Lady Augusta, going up to the elderly lady, whom we formerly mentioned, who had seen all that had passed from the open windows of the drawing-room. "I own I do see something of what you told me the other day you disliked so much in my friend, Lady Di.;" and Lady Augusta gave the candid sigh of expiring friendship as she uttered these words.

"Do you know," cried Dashwood, "that this spanking horsewoman has frightened us all out of our senses? I vow to Heaven, I never was so much terrified in my life as when I saw you, Lady Augusta, upon that vicious animal."

"To be sure," said Lady Augusta, "it was very silly of me to venture; I almost broke my neck, out of pure friendship."

"It is well it is no worse," said the elderly lady: "if a fall from a horse was the worst evil to be expected from a friendship with a woman of this sort, it would be nothing very terrible."

Lady Augusta, with an appearance of ingenuous candour, sighed again, and replied—"It is so difficult to see any imperfections in those one loves! Forgive me, if I spoke with too much warmth, madam, the other day, in vindication of my friend. I own I ought to have paid more deference to your judgment and knowledge of the world, so much superior to my own; but certainly I must confess, the impropriety of her amazonian manners, as Mr. Dashwood calls them, never struck my partial eyes till this morning. Nor could I, nor would I, believe half the world said of her; indeed, even now, I am persuaded she is, in the main, quite irreproachable; but I feel the truth of what you said to me, madam, that young women cannot be too careful in the choice of their female friends; that we are judged of by our companions; how unfairly one must be judged of sometimes!" concluded her ladyship, with a look of pensive reflection.

Mr. Mountague never thought her half so beautiful as at this instant. "How mind embellishes beauty!" thought he; "and what quality of the mind more amiable than candour!—All that was wanting to her character was reflection; and could one expect so much reflection as this from a girl of eighteen, who had been educated by a Mlle. Panache?" Our readers will observe that this gentleman now reasoned like a madman, but not like a fool; his deductions from the appearances before him were admirable; but these appearances were false. He had not observed that Lady Augusta's eyes were open to the defects of her amazonian friend, in the very moment that Lord George —— was roused to admiration by this horseman belle. Mr. Mountague did not perceive that the candid reflections addressed to his lordship's aunt were the immediate consequence of female jealousy.

The next morning, at breakfast, Lord George was summoned three times before he made his appearance: at length he burst in, with a piece of news he had just heard from his groom—"That Lady Di. Spanker, in riding home full gallop the preceding day, had been thrown from her horse by an old woman. Faith, I couldn't believe the thing," added Lord George, with a loud laugh; "for she certainly sits a horse better than any woman in England; but my groom had the whole story from the grand-daughter of the old woman who was run over."

"Run over!" exclaimed Lady Augusta; "was the poor woman run over?—was she hurt?"

"Hurt! yes, she was hurt, I fancy," said Lord George. "I never heard of any body's being run over without being hurt. The girl has a petition that will come up to us just now, I suppose. I saw her in the back yard as I came in."

"Oh! let us see the poor child," said Lady Augusta: "do let us have her called to this window." The window opened down to the ground, and, as soon as the little girl appeared with the petition in her hand, Lady Augusta threw open the sash, and received it from her timid hand with a smile, which to Mr. Mountague seemed expressive of sweet and graceful benevolence. Lady Augusta read the petition with much feeling, and her lover thought her voice never before sounded so melodious. She wrote her name eagerly at the head of a subscription. The money she gave was rather more than the occasion required; but, thought Mr. Mountague,

"If the generous spirit flow Beyond where prudence fears to go Those errors are of nobler kind, Than virtues of a narrow mind[2]."

[Footnote 2: Soame Jenyns.]

By a series of petty artifices Lady Augusta contrived to make herself appear most engaging and amiable to this artless young man: but the moment of success was to her the moment of danger. She was little aware, that when a man of sense began to think seriously of her as a wife, he would require very different qualities from those which please in public assemblies. Her ladyship fell into a mistake not uncommon in her sex; she thought that "Love blinds when once he wounds the swain[3]." Coquettes have sometimes penetration sufficient to see what will please their different admirers: but even those who have that versatility of manners, which can be all things to all men, forget that it is possible to support an assumed character only for a time; the moment the immediate motive for dissimulation diminishes, the power of habit acts, and the real disposition and manners appear.

[Footnote 3: Collius's Eclogues.]

When Lady Augusta thought herself sure of her captive, and consequently when the power of habit was beginning to act with all its wonted force, she was walking out with him in a shrubbery near the house, and mademoiselle, with Mr. Dashwood, who generally was the gallant partner of her walks, accompanied them. Mademoiselle stopped to gather some fine carnations; near the carnations was a rose-tree. Mr. Mountague, as three of those roses, one of them in full blow, one half blown, and another a pretty bud, caught his eye, recollected a passage in Berkeley's romance of Gaudentio di Lucca. "Did you ever happen to meet with Gaudentio di Lucca? do you recollect the story of Berilla, Lady Augusta?" said he.

"No; I have never heard of Berilla: what is the story?" said she.

"I wish I had the book," said Mr. Mountague; "I cannot do it justice, but I will borrow it for you from Miss Helen Temple. I lent it to her some time ago; I dare say she has finished reading it."

At these words, Lady Augusta's desire to have Gaudentio di Lucca suddenly increased; and she expressed vast curiosity to know the story of Berilla. "And pray what put you in mind of this book just now?" said she.

"These roses. In Berkeley's Utopia, which he calls Mezzorania—(every philosopher, you know, Mr. Dashwood, must have a Utopia, under whatever name he pleases to call it)—in Mezzorania, Lady Augusta, gentlemen did not, as amongst us, make declarations of love by artificial words, but by natural flowers[4]. The lover in the beginning of his attachment declared it to his mistress by the offer of an opening bud; if she felt favourably inclined towards him, she accepted and wore the bud. When time had increased his affection—for in Mezzorania it is supposed that time increases affection for those that deserve it—the lover presented a half-blown flower; and, after this also was graciously accepted, he came, we may suppose not very long afterwards, with a full-blown flower, the emblem of mature affection. The ladies who accepted these full-blown flowers, and wore them, were looked upon amongst the simple Mezzoranians as engaged for life; nor did the gentlemen, when they offered their flowers, make one single protestation or vow of eternal love, yet they were believed, and deserved, it is said, to be believed."

[Footnote 4: Gaudentio di Lucca, p. 202.]

"Qu'est ce que c'est? Qu'est ce que c'est?" repeated mademoiselle several times to Dashwood, whilst Mr. Mountague was speaking: she did not understand English sufficiently to comprehend him, and Dashwood was obliged to make the thing intelligible to her in French. Whilst he was occupied with her, Mr. Mountague gathered three roses, a bud, a half-blown and a full-blown rose, and playfully presented them to Lady Augusta for her choice.—"I'm dying to see this Gaudentio di Lucca; you'll get the book for me to-morrow from Miss Helen Temple, will you?" said Lady Augusta, as she with a coquettish smile took the rose-bud, and put it into her bosom.

"Bon!" cried mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the full-blown rose, which Mr. Mountague threw away carelessly. "Bon! but it is great pity dis should be thrown away."

"It is not thrown away upon Mlle. Panache!" said Dashwood.

"Dat maybe," said mademoiselle; "but I observe, wid all your fine compliment, you let me stoop to pick it up for myself—a l'Anglaise!"

"A la Francaise, then," said Dashwood, laughing, "permit me to put it into your nosegay."

"Dat is more dan you deserve," replied mademoiselle.—"Eh! non, non. I can accommodate it, I tell you, to my own taste best." She settled and resettled the flower: but suddenly she stopped, uttered a piercing shriek, plucked the full-blown rose from her bosom, and threw it upon the ground with a theatrical look of horror. A black earwig now appeared creeping out of the rose; it was running away, but mademoiselle pursued, set her foot upon it, and crushed it to death. "Oh! I hope to Heaven, Mr. Mountague, there are none of these vile creatures in the bud you've given me!" exclaimed Lady Augusta. She looked at her bud as she spoke, and espied upon one of the leaves a small green caterpillar: with a look scarcely less theatrical than mademoiselle's, she tore off the leaf and flung it from her; then, from habitual imitation of her governess, she set her foot upon the harmless caterpillar, and crushed it in a moment.

In the same moment Lady Augusta's whole person seemed metamorphosed to the eyes of her lover. She ceased to be beautiful: he seemed to see her countenance distorted by malevolence; he saw in her gestures disgusting cruelty; and all the graces vanished.

When Lady Augusta was a girl of twelve years old, she saw Mlle. Panache crush a spider to death without emotion: the lesson on humanity was not lost upon her. From imitation, she learned her governess's foolish terror of insects; and from example, she was also taught that species of cruelty, by which at eighteen she disgusted a man of humanity who was in love with her. Mr. Mountague said not one word upon the occasion. They walked on. A few minutes after the caterpillar had been crushed, Lady Augusta exclaimed, "Why, mademoiselle, what have you done with Fanfan? I thought my dog was with us: for Heaven's sake, where is he?"

"He is run, he is run on," replied mademoiselle.

"Oh, he'll be lost! he'll run down the avenue, quite out upon the turnpike road.—Fanfan! Fanfan!"

"Don't alarm, don't distress yourself," cried Dashwood: "if your ladyship will permit me, I'll see for Fanfan instantly, and bring her back to you, if she is to be found in the universe."

"O Lord! don't trouble yourself; I only spoke to mademoiselle, who regularly loses Fanfan when she takes him out with her." Dashwood set out in search of the dog; and Lady Augusta, overcome with affectation, professed herself unable to walk one yard further, and sank down upon a seat under a tree, in a very graceful, languid attitude. Mr. Mountague stood silent beside her. Mademoiselle went on with a voluble defence of her conduct towards Fanfan, which lasted till Dashwood reappeared, hurrying towards them with the dog in his arms—"Ah, la voila! chere Fanfan!" exclaimed mademoiselle.

"I am sure I really am excessively obliged to Mr. Dashwood, I must say," cried Lady Augusta, looking reproachfully at Mr. Mountague.

Dashwood now approached with panting, breathless eagerness, announcing a terrible misfortune, that Fanfan had got a thorn or something in his fore-foot. Lady Augusta received Fanfan upon her lap, with expressions of the most tender condolence; and Dashwood knelt down at her feet to sympathize in her sorrow, and to examine the dog's paw. Mademoiselle produced a needle to extract the thorn.

"I wish we had a magnifying-glass," said Dashwood, looking with strained solicitude at the wound.

"Oh, you insensible monster! positively you shan't touch Fanfan," cried Lady Augusta, guarding her lapdog from Mr. Mountague, who stooped now, for the first time, to see what was the matter. "Don't touch him, I say; I would not trust him to you for the universe; I know you hate lapdogs. You'll kill him—you'll kill him."

"I kill him! Oh no," said Mr. Mountague; "I would not even kill a caterpillar."

Lady Augusta coloured at these words; but she recovered herself when Dashwood laughed, and asked Mr. Mountague how long it was since he had turned brahmin; and how long since he had professed to like caterpillars and earwigs.

"Bon Dieu!—earwig!" interrupted mademoiselle: "is it possible that monsieur or any body dat has sense, can like dose earwig?"

"I do not remember," answered Mr. Mountague, calmly, "ever to have professed any liking for earwigs."

"Well, pity; you profess pity for them," said Mr. Dashwood, "and pity, you know, is 'akin to love.'—Pray, did your ladyship ever hear of the man who had a pet toad?"[5]

[Footnote 5: Vide Smellie's Natural History, vol. ii.]

"Oh, the odious wretch!" cried Lady Augusta, affectedly; "but how could the man bring himself to like a toad?"

"He began by pitying him, I suppose," said Dashwood. "For my part, I own I must consider that man to be in a most enviable situation whose heart is sufficiently at ease to sympathize with the insect creation."

"Or with the brute creation," said Mr. Mountague, smiling and looking at Fanfan, whose paw Dashwood was at this instant nursing with infinite tenderness.

"Oh, gentlemen, let us have no more of this, for Heaven's sake!" said Lady Augusta, interposing, with affected anxiety, as if she imagined a quarrel would ensue. "Poor dear Fanfan, you would not have any body quarrel about you, would you, Fanfan?" She rose as she spoke, and, delivering the dog to Dashwood to be carried home, she walked towards the house, with an air of marked displeasure towards Mr. Mountague.

Her ladyship's displeasure did not affect him as she expected. Her image—her gesture stamping upon the caterpillar, recurred to her lover's mind many times in the course of the evening; and in the silence of the night, and whenever the idea of her came into his mind, it was attended with this picture of active cruelty.

"Has your ladyship," said Mr. Mountague, addressing himself to Lady S——, "any commands for Mrs. Temple? I am going to ride over to see her this morning."

Lady S—— said that she would trouble him with a card for Mrs. Temple; a card of invitation for the ensuing week. "And pray don't forget my kindest remembrances," cried Lady Augusta, "especially to Miss Helen Temple; and if she should have entirely finished the book we were talking of, I shall be glad to see it."

When Mr. Mountague arrived at Mrs. Temple's, he was shown into the usual sitting-room: the servant told him that none of the ladies were at home, but that they would soon return, he believed, from their walk, as they were gone only to a cottage at about half a mile's distance.

The room in which he had passed so many agreeable hours awakened in his mind a number of dormant associations—work, books, drawing, writing! he saw every thing had been going forward just as usual in his absence. All the domestic occupations, thought he, which make home delightful, are here: I see nothing of these at S—— Hall. Upon the table, near a neat work-basket, which he knew to be Helen's, lay an open book; it was Gaudentio di Lucca. Mr. Mountague recollected the bud he had given to Lady Augusta, and he began to whistle, but not for want of thought. A music-book on the desk of the piano-forte caught his eye; it was open at a favourite lesson of his, which he remembered to have heard Helen play the last evening he was in her company. Helen was no great proficient in music; but she played agreeably enough to please her friends, and she was not ambitious of exhibiting her accomplishments. Lady Augusta, on the contrary, seemed never to consider her accomplishments as occupations, but as the means of attracting admiration. To interrupt the comparison, which Mr. Mountague was beginning to enter into between her ladyship and Helen, he thought the best thing he could do was to walk to meet Mrs. Temple; wisely considering, that putting the body in motion sometimes stops the current of the mind. He had at least observed, that his schoolfellow, Lord George ——, seemed to find this a specific against thought; and for once he was willing to imitate his lordship's example, and to hurry about from place to place, without being in a hurry. He rang the bell, inquired in haste which way the ladies were gone, and walked after them, like a man who had the business of the nation upon his hands; yet he slackened his pace when he came near the cottage where he knew that he was to meet Mrs. Temple and her daughters. When he entered the cottage, the first object that he saw was Helen, sitting by the side of a decrepit old woman, who was resting her head upon a crutch, and who seemed to be in pain. This was the poor woman who had been ridden over by Lady Di. Spanker. A farmer who lived near Mrs. Temple, and who was coming homewards at the time the accident happened, had the humanity to carry the wretched woman to this cottage, which was occupied by one of Mrs. Temple's tenants. As soon as the news reached her, she sent for a surgeon, and went with her daughters to give that species of consolation which the rich and happy can so well bestow upon the poor and Miserable—the consolation not of gold, but of sympathy.

There was no affectation, no ostentation of sensibility, Mr. Mountague observed, in this cottage scene; the ease and simplicity of Helen's manner never appeared to him more amiable. He recollected Lady Augusta's picturesque attitude, when she was speaking to this old woman's grand-daughter; but there was something in what he now beheld that gave him more the idea of nature and reality: he heard, he saw, that much had actually been done to relieve distress, and done when there were no spectators to applaud or admire. Slight circumstances show whether the mind be intent upon self or not. An awkward servant girl brushed by Helen whilst she was speaking to the old woman, and with a great black kettle, which she was going to set upon the fire, blackened Helen's white dress, in a manner which no lady intent upon her personal appearance could have borne with patience. Mr. Mountague saw the black streaks before Helen perceived them, and when the maid was reproved for her carelessness, Helen's good-natured smile assured her "that there was no great harm done."

When they returned home, Mr. Mountague found that Helen conversed with him with all her own ingenuous freedom, but there was something more of softness and dignity, and less of sprightliness, than formerly in her manner. Even this happened to be agreeable to him, for it was in contrast with the constant appearance of effort and artificial brilliancy conspicuous in the manners of Lady Augusta. The constant round of cards and company, the noise and bustle at S—— Hall, made it more like town than country life, and he had often observed that, in the intervals between dressing, and visiting, and gallantry, his fair mistress was frequently subject to ennui. He recollected that, in the many domestic hours he had spent at Mrs. Temple's, he had never beheld this French demon, who makes the votaries of dissipation and idleness his victims. What advantage has a man, in judging of female character, who can see a woman in the midst of her own family, "who can read her history" in the eyes of those who know her most intimately, who can see her conduct as a daughter and a sister, and in the most important relations of life can form a certain judgment from what she has been, of what she is likely to be? But how can a man judge what sort of wife he may probably expect in a lady, whom he meets with only at public places, or whom he never sees even at her own house, without all the advantages or disadvantages of stage decoration? A man who marries a showy, entertaining coquette, and expects that she will make him a charming companion for life, commits as absurd a blunder as that of the famous nobleman, who, delighted with the wit and humour of Punch at a puppet-show, bought Punch, and ordered him to be sent home for his private amusement.

Whether all or any of these reflections occurred to Mr. Mountague during his morning visit at Mrs. Temple's we cannot pretend to say; but his silence and absence seemed to show that his thoughts were busily engaged. Never did Helen appear to him so amiable as she did this morning, when the dignity, delicacy, and simplicity of her manners were contrasted in his imagination with the caprice and coquetry of his new mistress. He felt a secret idea that he was beloved, and a sober certainty that Helen had a heart capable of sincere and permanent affection, joined to a cultivated understanding and reasonable principles, which would wear through life, and ensure happiness, with power superior to the magic of passion.

It was with some difficulty that he asked Helen for Gaudentio di Lucca, and with yet greater difficulty that he took leave of her. As he was riding towards S—— Hall, "revolving in his altered mind the various turns of fate below," he was suddenly roused from his meditations by the sight of a phaeton overturned in the middle of the road, another phaeton and four empty, and a group of people gathered near a bank by the road-side. Mr. Mountague rode up as fast as possible to the scene of action: the overturned phaeton was Lord George's, the other Lady Di. Spanker's; the group of people was composed of several servants, Lord George, Lady Di., and mademoiselle, all surrounding a fainting fair one, who was no other than Lady Augusta herself. Lord George was shaking his own arms, legs, and head, to make himself sure of their safety. Lady Di. eagerly told the whole story to Mr. Mountague, that Lord George had been running races with her, and by his confounded bad driving had overturned himself and Lady Augusta. "Poor thing, she's not hurt at all, luckily; but she's terrified to death, as usual, and she has been going from one fainting fit to another."

"Bon Dieu!" interrupted mademoiselle; "but what will Miladi S—— say to us? I wish Miladi Augusta would come to her senses."

Lady Augusta opened her beautiful eyes, and, just come sufficiently to her senses to observe who was looking at her, she put aside mademoiselle's smelling-bottle, and, in a soft voice, begged to have her own salts. Mademoiselle felt in one of her ladyship's pockets for the salts in vain: Lady Di. plunged her hand into her other pocket, and pulled out, in the first place, a book, which she threw upon the bank, and then came out the salts. In due time the lady was happily restored to the full use of her senses, and was put into her mother's coach, which had been sent for to convey her home. The carriages drove away, and Mr. Mountague was just mounting his horse, when he saw the book which had been pulled out of Lady Augusta's pocket, and which, by mistake, was left where it had been thrown upon the grass. What was his astonishment, when upon opening it, he saw one of the very worst hooks in the French language; a book which never could have been found in the possession of any woman of delicacy—of decency. Her lover stood for some minutes in silent amazement, disgust, and, we may add, terror.

These feelings had by no means subsided in his mind, when, upon his entering the drawing-room at S—— Hall, he was accosted by Mlle. Panache, who, with no small degree of alarm in her countenance, inquired whether he knew any thing of the book which had been left upon the road. No one was in the room but the governess and her pupil. Mr. Mountague produced the book, and Lady Augusta received it with a deep blush.

"Put a good face upon the matter at least," whispered her governess in French.

"I can assure you," said her ladyship, "I don't know what's in this book; I never opened it; I got it this morning at the circulating library at Cheltenham: I put it into my pocket in a hurry—pray what is it?"

"If you have not opened it," said Mr. Mountague, laying his hand upon the book; "I may hope that you never will—but this is the second volume."

"May be so," said Lady Augusta; "I suppose, in my hurry, I mistook—"

"She never had the first, I can promise you," cried mademoiselle.

"Never," said Lady Augusta. The assertions had not the power to convince; they were pronounced with much vehemence, but not with the simplicity of truth. Mr. Mountague was determined to have the point cleared up; and he immediately offered to ride back to Cheltenham, and return the second volume. At this proposal, Lady Augusta, who foresaw that her falsehood would be detected, turned pale; but mademoiselle, with a laugh of effrontery, which she thought was putting a good face upon the matter, exclaimed,

"Eh! listen to me—you may spare yourself de trouble of your ride," said she, "for the truth is, I have de first volume. Mon Dieu! I have not committed murder—do not look so shock—what signify what I read at my age?"

"But Lady Augusta, your pupil!" said Mr. Mountague.

"I tell you she has never read one word of it; and, after all, is she child now? When she was, Miladi S—— was very particular, and I, of consequence and of course, in de choice of her books; but now, oder affaire, she is at liberty, and my maxim is—Tout est sain aux sains."

Mr. Mountague's indignation was now strongly raised against this odious governess, and he looked upon her pupil with an eye of compassion. "So early, so young, tainted by the pernicious maxims of a worthless woman!"

"Eh, donc, what signify your silence and your salts?" cried mademoiselle, turning to her.

"If I could be spared this scene at present," said Lady Augusta, faintly—"I really am not well. We had better talk over this business some other time, Mr. Mountague:" to this he acceded, and the lady gained more by her salts and silence than her governess did by her garrulous effrontery.

When she talked over the business with Mr. Mountague, she threw all the blame upon mademoiselle, and she appeared extremely shocked and alarmed at the idea that she had lessened herself by her folly, as she called it, in the esteem of a man of superior sense and taste. It was perhaps possible that, at this moment of her life, her character might have taken a new turn, that she might really have been awakened to higher views and nobler sentiments than any she had ever yet known; but the baleful influence of her constant attendant and conductress prevailed against her better self. Mademoiselle continually represented to her, that she did not know or exert the whole of her power over Mr. Mountague; and she excited her to caprice and coquetry. The fate of trifling characters is generally decided by trifles: we must beg leave to relate the important history of a turban.

Mlle. Panache, who piqued herself much upon her skill as a milliner, made up a certain turban for Lady Augusta, which Dashwood admired extremely, but which Mr. Mountague had the misfortune not to think perfectly beautiful. Vexed that he should dare to differ from her in taste, Lady Augusta could not rest without endeavouring to make him give up his opinion: he thought that it was not worth while to dispute about a trifle; and though he could not absolutely say that it was pretty, he condescended so far as to allow that it might perhaps be pretty, if it were put on differently.

"This is the way I always wear it—every body wears it so—and I shall not alter it," said Lady Augusta, who was quite out of temper.

Mr. Mountague looked grave: the want of temper was an evil which he dreaded beyond measure in a companion for life. Smiles and dimples usually adorned Lady Augusta's face; but these were artificial smiles: now passions, which one should scarcely imagine such a trifle could excite, darkened her brow, and entirely altered the air of her whole person, so as to make it absolutely disagreeable to her admirer. Lord George, who was standing by, and who felt delighted with such scenes, winked at Dashwood, and, with more energy than he usually expressed upon any subject, now pronounced that, in his humble opinion, the turban was quite the thing, and could not be better put on. Lady Augusta turned a triumphant, insulting eye upon Mr. Mountague: he was silent—his silence she took as a token of submission—in fact, it was an expression of contempt. The next day, at dinner, her ladyship appeared in the same turban, put on sedulously in the same manner. Lord George seated himself beside her; and as she observed that he paid her unusual attention, she fancied that at length his icy heart would thaw. Always more intent upon making cages[6], Lady Augusta bent her mind upon captivating a new admirer. Mr. Mountague she saw was displeased, but she now really felt and showed herself indifferent to his opinion. How variable, how wretched, is the life of a coquette! The next day Lord George's heart froze again as hard as ever, and Lady Augusta lightened upon the impassive ice in vain. She was mortified beyond measure, for her grand object was conquest. That she might triumph over poor Helen, she had taken pains to attract Mr. Mountague. Dashwood, though far beneath her ladyship in fortune and in station, she deemed worth winning, as a man of wit and gallantry. Lord George, to be sure, had little wit, and less gallantry; but he was Lord George, and that was saying enough. In short, Lady Augusta exacted tribute to her vanity without any discrimination, and she valued her treasures by number, and not by weight. A man of sense is mortified to see himself confounded with the stupid and the worthless.

[Footnote 6: Swift]

Mr. Mountague, after having loved like a madman, felt it not in the least incumbent upon him to love like a fool; he had imprudently declared himself an admirer of Lady Augusta, but he now resolved never to unite himself to her without some more reasonable prospect of happiness. Every day some petty cause of disagreement arose between them, whilst mademoiselle, by her silly and impertinent interference, made matters worse. Mademoiselle had early expressed her strong abhorrence of prudes; her pupil seemed to have caught the same abhorrence; she saw that Mr. Mountague was alarmed by her spirit of coquetry, yet still it continued in full force. For instance, she would continually go out with Lord George in his phaeton, though she declared, every time he handed her in, "that she was certain he would break her neck." She would receive verses from Dashwood, and keep them embalmed in her pocket-book, though she allowed that she thought them "sad stuff."

However, in these verses something more was meant than met the ear. He began with addressing a poem to her ladyship, called The Turban, which her silly mother extolled with eagerness, and seemed to think by no means inferior to the Rape of the Lock. Lady Augusta wrote a few lines in answer to the Turban—reply produced reply—nonsense, nonsense—till Dashwood now and then forgot his poetical character. Lady Augusta forgave it; he, of course, forgot himself again into a lover in prose. For some time the sonnets were shown to Lady S——, but at length some were received, which it was thought as well not to show to any body. In short, between fancy, flattery, poetry, passion, jest, and earnest, Lady Augusta was drawn on till she hardly knew where she was; but Dashwood knew perfectly well where he was, and resolved to keep his ground resolutely.

When encouraged by the lady's coquetry, he first formed his plans; he imagined that a promise of a wedding-present would easily secure her governess: but this was a slight mistake; avarice happened not to be the ruling, or, at least at this time, the reigning passion of mademoiselle's mind; and quickly perceiving his error, he paid assiduous court to her vanity. She firmly believed that she had captivated him, and was totally blind to his real designs. The grand difficulty with Dashwood was, not to persuade her of his passion, but to prevent her from believing him too soon; and he thought it expedient to delay completing his conquest of the governess till he had gained an equally powerful influence over her pupil. One evening, Dashwood, passing through a sheltered walk, heard Lady Augusta and Mr. Mountague talking very loudly and eagerly: they passed through the grove so quickly that he could catch only the words "phaeton—imprudence."

"Pshaw! jealousy—nonsense."

"Reasonable woman for a wife."

"Pooh, no such thing."

"My unalterable resolution," were the concluding words of Mr. Mountague, in a calm but decided voice; and, "As you please, sir! I've no notion of giving up my will in every thing," the concluding words of Lady Augusta pronounced in a pettish tone, as she broke from him; yet pausing for a moment, Dashwood, to his great surprise and concern, heard her in a softer tone add a but, which showed she was not quite willing to break from Mr. Mountague for ever. Dashwood was alarmed beyond measure; but the lady did not long continue in this frame of mind, for, upon going into her dressing-room to rest herself, she found her governess at the glass.

"Bon Dieu!" exclaimed mademoiselle, turning round: "Miladi told me you was gone out—mais qu'est ce que c'est? vous voila pale—you are as white—blanc comme mon linge," cried she, with emphasis, at the same time touching a handkerchief, which was so far from white, that her pupil could not help bursting out into a laugh at the unfortunate illustration. "Pauvre petite! tenez," continued mademoiselle, running up to her with salts, apprehensive that she was going into fits.

"I am not ill, thank you," said Lady Augusta, taking the smelling bottle.

"But don't tell me dat," said mademoiselle: "I saw you walking out of de window wid dat man, and I know dis is some new demele wid him. Come, point de secret, mon enfant. Has not he being giving you one good lecture?"

"Lecture!" said Lady Augusta, rising with becoming spirit: "no, mademoiselle, I am not to be lectured by any body."

"No, to be sure; dat is what I say, and, surtout, not by a lover. Quel homme! why I would not have him to pay his court to me for all de world. Why, pauvre petite, he has made you look ten years older ever since he began to fall in love wid you. Dis what you call a lover in England? Bon, why, I know noting of de matter, if he be one bit in love wid you, mon enfant."

"Oh, as to that, he certainly is in love with me: whatever other faults he has, I must do him that justice."

"Justice! Oh, let him have justice, de tout mon caeur; but I say, if he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in love I ever happen to see; he eat, drink, sleep, talk, laugh, se possede tout comme un autre. Bon Dieu! I would not give noting at all myself for such a sort of a lover. Mon enfant, dis is not de way I would wish to see you loved; dis is not de way no man ought for to dare for to love you."

"And how ought I to be loved?" asked Lady Augusta, impatiently.

"La belle question! Eh! don't every body, de stupidest person in de world, know how dey ought to be love? Mais passionnement, eperdument—dere is a—a je ne sais quoi dat infailliblement distinguish de true lover from de false."

"Then," said Lady Augusta, "you really don't think that Mr. Mountague loves me?"

"Tink!" replied mademoiselle, "I don't tink about it; but have not I said enough? Open your eyes; make your own comparaisons."

Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a knock at the door from her maid came to let her know that Lord George was waiting.

"Ah! milord George! I won't keep you den: va t'en."

"But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that I was going out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made all this rout."

"Den let him make his rout; qu'importe? Miladi votre chere mere make no objections. Quelle impertinence! If he was milord duc he could not give himself no more airs. Va, man enfant—Dis a lover! Quel homme, quel tyran! and den, of course, when he grows to be a husband, he will be worserer and worserer, and badderer and badderer, when he grows to be your husband."

"Oh," cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves hastily, "my husband he shall never be, I am determined. So now I'll give him his coup de grace."

"Bon!" said mademoiselle, following her pupil, "and I must not miss to be by, for I shall love to see dat man mortify."

"You are going then?" said Mr. Mountague, gravely, as she passed.

"Going, going, going, gone!" cried Lady Augusta, who, tripping carelessly by, gave her hand to the sulky lord; then springing into the phaeton, said as usual—"I know, my lord, you'll break my neck;" at the same time casting a look at Mr. Mountague, which seemed to say—"I hope you'll break your heart, at least."

When she returned from her airing, the first glance at Mr. Mountague's countenance convinced her that her power was at an end. She was not the only person who observed this. Dashwood, under his air of thoughtless gaiety, watched all that passed with the utmost vigilance, and he knew how to avail himself of every circumstance that could be turned to his own advantage. He well knew that a lady's ear is never so happily prepared for the voice of flattery as after having been forced to hear that of sincerity. Dashwood contrived to meet Lady Augusta, just after she had been mortified by her late admirer's total recovery of his liberty, and, seizing well his moment, pressed his suit with gallant ardour. As he exhibited all those signs of passion which her governess would have deemed unequivocal, the young lady thought herself justified in not absolutely driving him to despair.

Where was Lady S—— all this time! Where?—at the card-table, playing very judiciously at whist. With an indolent security, which will be thought incredible by those who have not seen similar instances of folly in great families, she let every thing pass before her eyes without seeing it. Confident that her daughter, after having gone through the usual routine, would meet with some suitable establishment, that the settlements would then be the father's business, the choice of the jewels hers, she left her dear Augusta, in the meantime, to conduct herself; or, what was ten times worse, to be conducted by Mlle. Panache. Thus to the habitual indolence, or temporary convenience of parents, are the peace and reputation of a family secretly sacrificed. And we may observe, that those who take the least precaution to prevent imprudence in their children are most enraged and implacable when the evil becomes irremediable.

In losing Mr. Mountague's heart, Lady Augusta's vanity felt a double pang, from the apprehension that Helen would probably recover her captive. Acting merely from the impulse of the moment, her ladyship was perfectly a child in her conduct; she seldom knew her own mind two hours together, and really did not foresee the consequences of any one of her actions. Half a dozen incompatible wishes filled her heart, or, rather, her imagination. The most immediate object of vanity had always the greatest power over her; and upon this habit of mind Dashwood calculated with security.

In the pride of conquest, her ladyship had rejoiced at her mother's inviting Mrs. Temple and her daughters to an entertainment at S—— Hall, where she flattered herself that Mr. Mountague would appear as her declared admirer. The day, alas! came; but things had taken a new turn, and Lady Augusta was as impatient that the visit should be finished, as she had been eager to have the invitation sent. Lady S—— was not precisely informed of all that was going on in her own house, as we have observed; and she was, therefore, a little surprised at the look of vexation with which her daughter heard that she had pressed Mrs. Temple to stay all night. "My dear," said Lady S——, "you know you can sleep in mademoiselle's room for this one night, and Miss Helen Temple will have yours. One should be civil to people, especially when one sees them but seldom." Lady Augusta was much out of humour with her mother's ill-timed civility; but there was no remedy. In the hurry of moving her things at night, Lady Augusta left in her dressing table drawer a letter of Dashwood's—a letter which she would not have had seen by Miss Helen Temple for any consideration. Our readers may imagine what her ladyship's consternation must have been, when, the next morning, Helen put the letter into her hand, saying, "There's a paper you left in your dressing-table, Lady Augusta." The ingenuous countenance of Helen, as she spoke, might have convinced any one but Lady Augusta that she was incapable of having opened this paper; but her ladyship judged otherwise: she had no doubt that every syllable of the letter had been seen, and that her secret would quickly be divulged. The company had not yet assembled at breakfast. She retired precipitately to her own room, to consider what could possibly be done in this emergency. She at length resolved to apply to Mr. Mountague for assistance; for she had seen enough of him to feel assured that he was a man of honour, and that she might safely trust him. When she heard him go down stairs to breakfast, she followed, and contrived to give him a note, which he read with no small degree of surprise.

"How to apologize for myself I know not, nor have I one moment's time to deliberate. Believe me, I feel my sensibility and delicacy severely wounded; but an ill-fated, uncontrollable passion must plead my excuse. I candidly own that my conduct must appear to you in a strange light; but spare me, I beseech you, all reproaches, and pardon my weakness, for on your generosity and honour must I rely, in this moment of distress.

"A letter of mine—a fatal letter from Dashwood—has fallen into the hands of Miss Helen Temple. All that I hold most dear is at her mercy. I am fully persuaded that, were she to promise to keep my secret, nothing on earth would tempt her to betray me; but I know she has so much the habit of speaking of every thing to her mother, that I am in torture till this promise is obtained. Your influence I must depend upon. Speak to her, I conjure you, the moment breakfast is over; and assure yourself of my unalterable gratitude.

"AUGUSTA ——."

The moment breakfast was over, Mr. Mountague followed Helen into the library; a portfolio, full of prints, lay open on the table, and as he turned them over, he stopped at a print of Alexander putting his seal to the lips of Hephaestion, whom he detected reading a letter over his shoulder. Helen, as he looked at the print, said she admired the delicacy of Alexander's reproof to his friend; but observed, that it was scarcely probable the seal should bind Hephsestion's lips.

"How so?" said Mr. Mountague, eagerly.

"Because," said Helen, "if honour could not restrain his curiosity, it would hardly secure his secrecy."

"Charming girl!" exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with enthusiasm. Helen, struck with surprise, and a variety of emotions, coloured deeply. "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Mountague, changing his tone, "for being so abrupt. You found a letter of Lady Augusta's last night. She is in great, I am sure needless, anxiety about it."

"Needless, indeed; I did not think it necessary to assure Lady Augusta, when I returned her letter, that I had not read it. I gave it her because I thought she would not like to have an open letter left where it might fall into the hands of servants. As she has mentioned this subject to you, I hope, sir, you will persuade her of the truth; you seem to be fully convinced of it yourself."

"I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of the generosity, the simplicity of your mind. May I ask whether you formed any conjecture, whether you know whom that letter was from?"

Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied—"Yes, sir, I did form a conjecture—I thought it was from you."

"From me!" exclaimed Mr. Mountague. "I must undeceive you there: the letter was not mine. I am eager," continued he, smiling, "to undeceive you. I wish I might flatter myself this explanation could ever be half as interesting to you as it is to me. That letter was not mine, and I can never, in future, be on any other terms with Lady Augusta than those of a common acquaintance."

Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance of mademoiselle, followed by Dashwood, to whom she was talking with great earnestness. Mr. Mountague, when he had collected his thoughts sufficiently to think of Lady Augusta, wrote the following answer to her letter:—

"Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect to your note. Miss Helen Temple has not read it, nor has she, I am convinced, the slightest suspicion of its contents or its author. I beg leave to assure your ladyship, that I am sensible of the honour of your confidence, and that you shall never have any reason to repent of having trusted in my discretion. Yet permit me, even at the hazard of appearing impertinent, at the still greater hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my most earnest hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion, which I am persuaded would prove fatal to the happiness of your future life. I am, with much respect, Your ladyship's obedient servant, F. MOUNTAGUE."

Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the greatest eagerness: the first time she ran her eye over it, joy, to find her secret yet undiscovered, suspended every other feeling; but, upon a second perusal, her ladyship felt extremely displeased by the cold civility of the style, and somewhat alarmed at the concluding paragraph. With no esteem, and little affection for Dashwood, she had suffered herself to imagine that her passion for him was uncontrollable.

What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a man destitute equally of fortune and principle, she had never attempted to calculate; but there was something awful in the words—"I earnestly hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion which would prove fatal to your future happiness." Whilst she was pondering upon these words, Dashwood met her in the park, where she was walking alone. "Why so grave?" exclaimed he, with anxiety.

"I am only thinking—that—I am afraid—I think this is a silly business: I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn't think any more of it, and give me back my letters."

Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were dearer to him than life, and that the "last pang should tear them from his heart."

"But, if we go on with all this," resumed Lady Augusta, "it will at least break my mother's heart, and mademoiselle's into the bargain; besides, I don't half believe you; I really—"

"I really, what?" cried he, pouring forth protestations of passion, which put Mr. Mountague's letter entirely out of her head.

A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind in the most important actions of our lives; and faults are often attributed to passion which arise from folly. The pleasure of duping her governess, the fear of witnessing Helen's triumph over her lover's recovered affections, and the idea of the bustle and eclat of an elopement, all mixed together, went under the general denomination of love!—Cupid is often blamed for deeds in which he has no share.

"But," resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last pause of expiring prudence, "what shall we do about mademoiselle?"

"Poor mademoiselle!" cried Dashwood, leaning back against a tree to support himself, whilst he laughed violently—"what do you think she is about at this instant?—packing up her clothes in a band-box."

"Packing up her clothes in a band-box!"

"Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience to carry her off to Scotland, and at four o'clock to-morrow morning she trips down stairs out of the garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across the park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes refuge with her good friend, Miss Lacy, the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now, in the mean time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my real angel."

"Oh, no, upon my word," said Lady Augusta, so faintly, that Dashwood went on exactly in the same tone.

"I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on our trip to Scotland before mademoiselle's patience is half exhausted, and before Miladi S—— is quite awake."

Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and thus, by an unlucky stroke of humour, was the grand event of her life decided.

Marmontel's well-known story, called Heureusement, is certainly not a moral tale: to counteract its effects, he should have written Malheureusement, if he could.

Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta and Dashwood.

The next morning Lady S—— came down, according to her usual custom, late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Mountague, &c., were assembled. "Has not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?" said Lady S——. She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mlle. Panache and her daughter make their appearance; but she waited in vain. Neither mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, were any where to be found. Every body round the breakfast-table looked at each other in silence, waiting the event. "They are out walking, I suppose," said Lady S——, which supposition contented her for the first five minutes; but then she exclaimed, "It's very strange they don't come back!"

"Very strange—I mean rather strange," said Lord George, helping himself, as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, and then drumming upon the table; whilst Mr. Mountague, all the time, looked down, and preserved a profound silence.

At length the door opened, and Mlle. Panache, in a riding habit, made her appearance. "Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!" said she, looking round at the silent party, with a half terrified, half astonished countenance. Je vous demande mille pardons—Qu'est ce que c'est? I have only been to take a walk dis morning into de village to de milliner's. She has disappointed me of my tings, dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in time for breakfast, I hope?"

"But where is my daughter?" cried Lady S——, roused at last from her natural indolence—"where is Lady Augusta?"

"Bon Dieu! Miladi, I don't know. Bon Dieu! in her bed, I suppose. Bon Dieu!" exclaimed she a third time, and turned as pale as ashes. "But where den is Mr. Dashwood?" At this instant a note, directed to mademoiselle, was brought into the room: the servant said that Lady Augusta's maid had just found it upon her lady's toilette—mademoiselle tore open the note.

"Excuse me to my mother—you can best plead my excuse.

"You will not see me again till I am

'Augusta Dashwood.'"

"Ah scelerat! Ah scelerat! Il m'a trahi!" screamed mademoiselle: she threw down the note, and sunk upon the sofa in real hysterics; whilst Lady S——, seeing in one and the same moment her own folly and her daughter's ruin, fixed her eyes upon the words "Augusta Dashwood," and fainted. Mr. Mountague led Lord George out of the room with him, whilst Mrs. Temple, Helen, and her sister, ran to the assistance of the unhappy mother and the detected governess.

As soon as mademoiselle had recovered tolerable composure, she recollected that she had betrayed too violent emotion on this occasion. "Il m'a trahi," were words, however, that she could not recall; it was in vain she attempted to fabricate some apology for herself. No apology could avail: and whilst Lady S——, in silent anguish, wept for her own and her daughter's folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms, abused Dashwood, and reproached her pupil with having shown duplicity, ingratitude, and a bad heart.

"A bad education!" exclaimed Lady S——, with a voice of mingled anger and sorrow. "Leave the room, mademoiselle; leave my house. How could I choose such a governess for my daughter! Yet, indeed," added her ladyship, turning to Mrs. Temple, "she was well recommended to me, and how could I foresee all this?"

To such an appeal, at such a time, there was no reply to be made: it is cruel to point out errors to those who feel that they are irreparable; but it is benevolent to point them out to others, who have yet their choice to make.



THE KNAPSACK [1]

[Footnote 1: In the Travels of M. Beanjolin into Sweden, he mentions having, in the year 1790, met carriages laden with the knapsacks of Swedish soldiers, who had fallen in battle in Finland. These carriages were escorted by peasants, who were relieved at every stage, and thus the property of the deceased was conveyed from one extremity of the kingdom to the other, and faithfully restored to their relations. The Swedish peasants are so remarkably honest, that scarcely any thing is ever lost in these convoys of numerous and ill-secured packages.]



DRAMATIS PERSONAE

COUNT HELMAAR, a Swedish Nobleman. CHRISTIERN, a Swedish Soldier. ALEFTSON, Count Helmaar's Fool. THOMAS, a Footman.

ELEONORA, a Swedish Lady, beloved by Count Helmaar. CHRISTINA, Sister to Helmaar. ULRICA, an old Housekeeper. CATHERINE, Wife to Christiern.

KATE and ULRIC, the Son and Daughter of Catherine—they are six and seven years old.

Serjeant, and a Troop of Soldiers, a Train of Dancers, a Page, Peasants, &c.



ACT I.

SCENE—A cottage in Sweden.—CATHERINE, a young and handsome woman, is sitting at her spinning wheel.—A little Boy and Girl, of six and seven years of age, are seated on the ground eating their dinner.

CATHERINE sings, while she is spinning.

Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me, The wife that fondly waits for thee; Long are the years, and long each day, While my loved soldier's far away. Haste from the wars, &c.

Lone ev'ry field, and lone the bow'r; Pleasant to me nor sun nor show'r: The snows are gone, the flow'rs are gay— Why is my life of life away? Haste from the wars, &c.

Little Girl. When will father come home?

Little Boy. When will he come, mother? when? To-day? to-morrow?

Cath. No, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but soon, I hope, very soon; for they say the wars are over.

Little Girl. I am glad of that, and when father comes home, I'll give him some of my flowers.

Little Boy (who is still eating). And I'll give him some of my bread and cheese, which he'll like better than flowers, if he is as hungry as I am, and that to be sure he will be, after coming such a long, long journey.

Little Girl. Long, long journey! how long?—how far is father off, mother?—where is he?

Little Boy. I know, he is in—in—in—in—in Finland? how far off, mother?

Cath. A great many miles, my dear; I don't know how many.

Little Boy. Is it not two miles to the great house, mother, where we go to sell our faggots?

Cath. Yes, about two miles—and now you had best set out towards the great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, the housekeeper, to pay you the little bill she owes you for faggots—there's good children; and when you have been paid for your faggots, you can call at the baker's, in the village, and bring home some bread for to-morrow (patting the little boy's head)—you that love bread and cheese so much must work hard to get it.

Little Boy. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have enough for myself and father too, when he comes. Come along—come (to his sister)—and, as we come home through the forest, I'll show you where we can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we'll help one another.

Little Girl sings.

That's the best way, At work and at play, To help one another—I heard mother say— To help one another—I heard mother say—

[The children go off, singing these words.]

Cath. (alone.) Dear, good children, how happy their father will be to see them, when he comes back!—(She begins to eat the remains of the dinner, which the children have left.) The little rogue was so hungry, he has not left me much; but he would have left me all, if he had thought that I wanted it: he shall have a good large bowl of milk for supper. It was but last night he skimmed the cream off his milk for me, because he thought I liked it. Heigho!—God knows how long they may have milk to skim—as long as I can work they shall never want; but I'm not so strong as I used to be; but then I shall get strong, and all will be well, when my husband comes back (a drum beats at a distance). Hark! a drum!—some news from abroad, perhaps—nearer and nearer (she sinks upon a chair)—why cannot I run to see—to ask (the drum beats louder and louder)—fool that I am! they will be gone! they will be all gone! (she starts up.)

[Exit hastily.]

SCENE changes to a high road, leading to a village.—A party of ragged, tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them.

Serj. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a great way further to go:—keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, through yonder village. (The drum beats.)

[Soldiers exeunt.]

Serj. (alone.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them! the sad remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a musket. Ah! I've seen them march quite another guess sort of way, when they marched, and I amongst them, to face the enemy—heads up—step firm—thus it was—quick time—march!—(he marches proudly)—My poor fellows, how they lag now (looking after them)—ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower; they don't like going through the village; nor I neither; for, at every village we pass through, out come the women and children, running after us, and crying, "Where's my father?—What's become of my husband?"—Stout fellow as I am, and a Serjeant too, that ought to know better, and set the others an example, I can't stand these questions.

Enter CATHERINE, breathless.

Cath. I—I—I've overtaken him at last. Sir—Mr. Serjeant, one word! What news from Finland?

Serj. The best—the war's over. Peace is proclaimed.

Cath. (clasping her hands joyfully.) Peace! happy sound!—Peace! The war's over!—Peace!—And the regiment of Helmaar—(The Serjeant appears impatient to get away)—Only one word, good serjeant: when will the regiment of Helmaar be back?

Serj. All that remain of it will be home next week.

Cath. Next week?—But, all that remain, did you say?—Then many have been killed?

Serj. Many, many—too many. Some honest peasants are bringing home the knapsacks of those who have fallen in battle. 'Tis fair that what little they had should come home to their families. Now, I pray you, let me pass on.

Cath. One word more: tell me, do you know, in the regiment of Helmaar, one Christiern Aleftson?

Serj, (with eagerness.) Christiern Aleftson! as brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived, if it be the same that I knew.

Cath. As brave a fellow, and as good as ever lived! Oh, that's he! he is my husband—where is he? where is he?

Serj, (aside.) She wrings my heart!—(Aloud)—He was—

Cath. Was!

Serj. He is, I hope, safe.

Cath. You hope!—don't look away—I must see your face: tell me all you know.

Serj. I know nothing for certain. When the peasants come with the knapsacks, you will hear all from them. Pray you, let me follow my men; they are already at a great distance.

[Exit Serj. followed by Catherine.]

Cath. I will not detain you an instant—only one word more—

[Exit.]

SCENE.—_An apartment in Count Helmaar's Castle.—A train of dancers.—After they have danced for some time,

Enter a Page_.

Page. Ladies! I have waited, according to your commands, till Count Helmaar appeared in the ante-chamber—he is there now, along with the ladies Christina and Eleonora.

1st Dancer. Now is our time—Count Helmaar shall hear our song to welcome him home.

2nd Dancer. None was ever more welcome.

3rd Dancer. But stay till I have breath to sing.

SONG.

I.

Welcome, Helmaar, welcome home; In crowds your happy neighbours come, To hail with joy the cheerful morn, That sees their Helmaar's safe return.

II.

No hollow heart, no borrow'd face. Shall ever Helmaar's hall disgrace: Slaves alone on tyrants wait; Friends surround the good and great.

Welcome Helmaar, &c.

Enter ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, and COUNT HELMAAR.

Helmaar. Thanks, my friends, for this kind welcome.

1st Dancer (looking at a black fillet on Helmaar's head). He has been wounded.

Christina. Yes—severely wounded.

Helmaar. And had it not been for the fidelity of the soldier who carried me from the field of battle, I should never have seen you more, my friends, nor you, my charming Eleonora. (A noise of one singing behind the scenes.)—What disturbance is that without?

Christina. Tis only Aleftson, the fool:—in your absence, brother, he has been the cause of great diversion in the castle:—I love to play upon him, it keeps him in tune;—you can't think how much good it does him.

Helmaar. And how much good it does you, sister:—from your childhood you had always a lively wit, and loved to exercise it; but do you waste it upon fools?

Christina. I'm sometimes inclined to think this Aleftson is more knave than fool.

Eleon. By your leave, Lady Christina, he is no knave, or I am much mistaken. To my knowledge, he has carried his whole salary, and all the little presents he has received from us, to his brother's wife and children. I have seen him chuck his money, thus, at those poor children, when they have been at their plays, and then run away, lest their mother should make them give it back.

Enter ALEFTSON, the fool, in a fool's coat, fool's cap and bells, singing.

I.

There's the courtier, who watches the nod of the great; Who thinks much of his pension, and nought of the state: When for ribands and titles his honour he sells— What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

II.

There's the gamester, who stakes on the turn of a die His house and his acres, the devil knows why: His acres he loses, his forests he sells— What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

III.

There's the student so crabbed and wonderful wise, With his plus and his minus, his x's and y's: Pale at midnight he pores o'er his magical spells— What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

IV.

The lover, who's ogling, and rhyming, and sighing, Who's musing, and pining, and whining, and dying: When a thousand of lies ev'ry minute he tells— What is he, my friends, but a fool without bells?

V.

There's the lady so fine, with her airs and her graces, With a face like an angel's—if angels have faces: She marries, and Hymen the vision dispels— What's her husband, my friends, but a fool without bells?

Christina, Eleonora, Helmaar, &c.—Bravo! bravissimo!—excellent fool!—Encore.

[The fool folds his arms, and begins to cry bitterly.]

Christina. What now, Aleftson? I never saw you sad before—What's the matter?—Speak.

[Fool sobs, but gives no answer.]

Helm. Why do you weep so bitterly?

Aleft. Because I am a fool.

Helm. Many should weep, if that were cause sufficient.

Eleon. But, Aleftson, you have all your life, till now, been a merry fool.

Fool. Because always, till now, I was a fool, but now I am grown wise: and 'tis difficult, to all but you, lady, to be merry and wise.

Christina. A pretty compliment; 'tis a pity it was paid by a fool.

Fool. Who else should pay compliments, lady, or who else believe them?

Christina. Nay, I thought it was the privilege of a fool to speak the truth without offence.

Fool. Fool as you take me to be, I'm not fool enough yet to speak truth to a lady, and think to do it without offence.

Eleon. Why, you have said a hundred severe things to me within this week, and have I ever been angry with you?

Fool. Never; for, out of the whole hundred, not one was true. But have a care, lady—fool as I am, you'd be glad to stop a fool's mouth with your white hand this instant, rather than let him tell the truth of you.

Christina (laughing, and all the other ladies, except Eleonora, exclaim)—Speak on, good fool; speak on—