"Yes," said he, apart to Count Altenberg, "I am proud to show you a specimen of a cultivated independent country gentleman and his family."

With his usual penetration, Lord Oldborough soon discerned the characteristics of each of the ladies of this family—the good sense and good breeding of Mrs. Percy, the wit and generous simplicity of Rosamond, the magnanimity and the superior understanding of Caroline. As instances of these different qualities appeared, his quick and brightening eye marked his approbation, sometimes by a glance at Count Altenberg, by a nod to Mr. Temple, or by a congratulatory smile as he turned to Mr. Percy.

"I now comprehend," said his lordship, "why Mr. Percy could never be induced to take a part in public business. Ladies, you have done a great injury to your country—you have made this gentleman too happy in domestic life."

Lord Oldborough spoke this in a tone of raillery, and with a smile—but the smile was succeeded by a deep sigh, and a dark gloom of countenance. At this moment one of his secretaries, Mr. Shaw, came in with papers to be signed. The minister reappeared. Lord Oldborough's mind turned instantly to business; he withdrew to a table apart, sat down, and began to look over the first paper that was laid before him. Mr. Percy rang the bell, and something was said about not intruding on his lordship's time—he looked up: "Mr. Temple, you are free. Mr. Shaw shall finish whatever letters it is necessary should be written this morning. You shall have the pleasure of being with your friends. It is a pleasure you deserve, sir, and can appreciate. Mrs. Percy expressed a wish to see the grounds—you will show them to these ladies. I am a prisoner still," said his lordship, looking down at his gouty hand, "and always shall be a prisoner," added he, turning his eye upon the papers which Mr. Shaw held.

The ladies, accompanied by Mr. Temple, and by Count Altenberg, went out to walk. Mr. Percy stayed one moment to express his sense of the extraordinary politeness and kindness with which Lord Oldborough had honoured him and his family.

"You owe me no thanks, my dear sir. Kindness can be repaid only by kindness. It is a species of debt, which in the course of my life I have seldom been called upon to pay."

This was said not in a voice either of sentiment or of compliment, but rather in an austere tone, and with a stern countenance of conquered emotion. Without looking at Mr. Percy, he received and answered the farewell shake of the hand; his lips were instantly after strongly compressed; and, taking up his pen, the man was again absorbed in the minister.

Mr. Percy joined the party who were going to walk in the park. Count Altenberg had been unusually silent in Lord Oldborough's company: with the becoming deference of a young man, in the presence of one superior in age, and in high station, he had listened, eager to learn, instead of impatient to talk. Attention of course now turned upon him, as the stranger and the foreigner.

With the same perfect taste and good-breeding with which he knew how to pay honour due, he received it, and appeared as much at his ease, whether he was in the shade or the light, whether he was unnoticed or the object of general attention. He had that air of self-possession, which characterizes a person secure of his own resources, and not afraid to produce his abilities.

The conversation turned at first upon the beauties of nature—Clermont-park was one of the really magnificent places in England which an Englishman may feel proud to show to a foreigner.

Count Altenberg politely and justly observed how different the country seats of our nobility are from the ruinous and comfortless chateaux of most of the French nobility.

Clermont-park, however, was not new to the count. Commissioner Falconer had the day after his arrival shown him every thing that was to be seen: his attention, therefore, as they pursued their walk, was not so much distracted by external objects as to prevent him from wishing to converse. Finding that Mr. Percy had travelled, he spoke of Switzerland and Italy; and, without any of the jargon of a connoisseur, showed that he felt with sensibility and enthusiasm the beautiful and sublime. It soon appeared that he had seen various countries, not merely with the eye of a painter and a poet, but of a philosophical traveller, who can allow for the differences of national taste, and discern how its variations are influenced by climate, education, government, and local circumstances. In his rapid panorama of foreign countries, he showed variety of knowledge, and without illiberal prejudice against any nation, an amiable predilection for his native country. Next to his own country he preferred England, which, as he said, by the mother's side, he might call his own. She had early instilled into him an admiration for our free constitution, and a love of our domestic habits; but he had never before visited this country, and he was particularly desirous to obtain an accurate knowledge of England, and of the manners and modes of life of its inhabitants. He seemed thus eager to obtain information, not merely to gratify a cursory or selfish curiosity, but with a view to the future, and with a hope of doing permanent good. It was clear that he was not only a philosophical but a benevolent traveller, to whom nothing that concerns his fellow-creatures is foreign or indifferent. His treasuring up all he had seen abroad, that could be useful at home, reminded Caroline of Colonel Hungerford; but she observed that Count Altenberg's views were more enlarged; he was unbiassed by professional habits; his sphere of action was higher; heir to extensive property, with all the foreign rights of territorial dominion hereditarily his; and with a probability of obtaining the political power of ministerial station; plans, which in other circumstances might have been romantic, with Count Altenberg's prospects and abilities, were within the bounds of sound judgment and actual practicability. But whatever these intentions might be, they were only to be inferred from his conversation; he scarcely spoke of himself, or of his own designs; whatever he was led to say on such subjects, he seemed, immediately after he had said it, to feel as an impropriety, not justified by the slight interest which the acquaintance of a few hours could inspire.

He changed the conversation by asking some questions about a celebrated English writer. In return for the information Mr. Percy gave him, he spoke of some recent foreign publications—related several anecdotes of literary foreigners. His anecdotes were interesting, because, in each, there was something characteristic of the individual, or illustrative of some general principle of human nature. To gratify Mr. Percy, the Count spoke of some public events of which he had had means of obtaining information. He had not neglected any of the opportunities he enjoyed, and whether he talked of civil or military affairs, he showed the same efficient knowledge, and the same superior ability.

Caroline, leaning on her father's arm, listened with a countenance full of intelligence, animation, and sympathy; she looked alternately at the Count and at her father, whose satisfaction she saw and enjoyed. Feeling that he was appreciated by the father, inspired by the charms of the daughter, and excited by the idea he had formed of her character, Count Altenberg had indeed been uncommonly agreeable, entertaining, and eloquent. During this walk, though Caroline said but little, yet that little, to a man of the Count's discernment, was sufficient to show good judgment and great capacity. This increased the admiration and interest which her beauty and manners, and all he had heard of her conduct, created.

It is said to be one of the characteristics of genius, that it is able quickly to discover and elicit genius, wherever it exists. It is certain that with the celerity of intuition, of sympathy, or of practised penetration, Count Altenberg perceived Caroline's intellectual superiority. He had been, at first, curious to discover whether her mental qualifications were equal to her extraordinary personal beauty; but he had soon forgotten his intention of trying her abilities, in anxiety to convince her of his own. The whole turn and style of his conversation now proved, more than any compliment could possibly have shown, the high opinion he had of her understanding, and of the elevation of her mind. A woman may always judge of the real estimation in which she is held, by the conversation which is addressed to her.

All this time, where were Rosamond, Mrs. Percy, and Mr. Temple? Mr. Temple had taken them to see a fine view; Mr. Percy proposed to sit down and quietly wait their return; Caroline and the Count seemed to have no objection to oblige him, and they placed themselves under a spreading beech. They had not been seated many minutes, before they were interrupted by the appearance of Commissioner Falconer, who came, by a cross path, from the house.

"At last I have found you. What a prodigious walk you have taken!" cried the commissioner, wiping his forehead. "But where's Mrs. Percy and the rest of your party? I have so walked to catch you—rode over on purpose to pay my compliments to the ladies before they return home—and I come charge d'affaires from Mrs. Falconer to Mrs. Percy. I must see Mrs. Percy—Oh! here she is, coming down the hill—ay, from the point of view—Mercy! how you have walked: I am not equal to the grand tour—it kills me. But I am so sorry I was not here time enough to do the honours of Clermont-park, as Lord Oldborough is confined. Who has Mrs. Percy for her cicerone? Ha! Mr. Temple—I thought he was always so busy—deputed by Lord Oldborough—really!—Hum—I hope Lord Oldborough did not conceive that there was any want of empressement on my part—I should have been here a full hour sooner, but that my ladies were so late at breakfast after sitting up—and I thought your ladies might have been fatigued too—but Miss Caroline Percy, I see, fresh as a rose—"

The commissioner then, as if half in jest, half in earnest, paid Caroline a profusion of compliments upon her appearance the preceding night—numbered on his fingers the conquests she had made, and the hearts she had broken. Mrs. Percy, Rosamond, and Mr. Temple came up; and as soon as they had expressed their raptures on the beauty of this view, the commissioner presented his note from Mrs. Falconer to Mrs. Percy, to which, he said, he was most anxious to be the bearer of a favourable answer, as he knew that he should otherwise be ill-received at home, and the disappointment would be great. The note contained a pressing invitation to a play, which the young people at Falconer-court had it in contemplation to represent. Whether it was to be Zara or Cato, they had not yet positively decided—for Cato they were in terrible distress for a Marcia—could Miss Caroline Percy be prevailed upon to try Marcia? She would look the part so well, and, no doubt, act it so well. Or if she preferred Zara, Miss Georgiana Falconer would, with pleasure, take the part of the confidante. Dresses in great forwardness, Turkish or Roman, convertible, in a few hours' notice—should wait Miss Percy's decision.

"Well, my dear Caroline, what say you?" cried Mrs. Percy.

Caroline was going to answer.

"No, no, don't answer yet," interrupted the commissioner: "let me add, what I find Mrs. Falconer took it for granted I would say, that there can be no possible difficulty or inconvenience about the goings and comings, and horses and carriages, and beds, and all that sort of thing—for our horses and carriages can have nothing to do whilst the ladies are rehearsing—shall attend you any day—any hour—and beds we can contrive: so, I beseech you, let none of these vulgar sublunary considerations deprive us of a Zara or a Marcia—But say, which shall it be?—Which character, my charming cousin, will you do us the honour and pleasure to take?"

Count Altenberg advanced a step, full of eager expectation. When he heard Caroline pronounce, with great politeness, a refusal, for the first moment he looked disappointed, but the next seemed satisfied and pleased. It would have highly gratified and interested him to have seen Caroline act either the sublime or the tender heroine, but he preferred seeing her support her own character with modest dignity.

Commissioner Falconer pleaded and pressed in vain; Caroline was steady in her refusal, though the manner of it was so gentle, that every instant he thought he should vanquish her reluctance. At length he turned from the ladies to the gentlemen for assistance.

"Mr. Temple, I am sure you will join my entreaties—Count Altenberg—"

Count Altenberg "would not presume to ask a favour, which had been refused to the commissioner and to Mrs. Falconer." Caroline understood, and gave him credit for his politeness.

"Then, if I must give up this point," said the commissioner, "at least do not let me return disappointed in every respect—let me hope that you will all favour us with your company at our play."

This invitation was accepted with many thanks.

"And, remember, you must not run away from us that night," added the commissioner. "Mrs. Falconer will have reason to be jealous of Clermont-park, if she finds that it draws our friends and relations away from Falconer-court."

The carriage, which had been ordered to the great gate of the park, was now waiting there, and the commissioner took leave of his relations, with many shakes of the hand and many expressions of regret. Count Altenberg continued talking to Caroline till the last moment; and after he had handed her into the carriage, as he took leave of Mr. Percy, he said that he had to thank him and his family for some of the most agreeable among the many agreeable hours he had passed since he came to England.

On their way home, this happy family-party eagerly talked over every thing and every body that had interested them—first and chiefly they spoke of Count Altenberg. Caroline said how often, during their walk, she had regretted her mother's and sister's absence. She recollected and reminded her father of some of the striking circumstances they had heard, and Mr. Percy and she repeated so many curious and interesting anecdotes, so many just observations and noble sentiments, that Mrs. Percy and Rosamond were quite charmed with the Count. Rosamond, however, was surprised by the openness and ease with which Caroline praised and talked of this gentleman.

"I will say nothing," thought she; "for I am determined to be prudent this time. But certainly here is no danger that her love should unsought be won. Only this I may and must think, that Caroline cannot, without affectation, avoid seeing that she has made a conquest."

Mistaken again, Rosamond—Caroline had neither seen nor suspected it. Count Altenberg's gratitude for the hospitality shown to his countrymen at the time of the shipwreck, his recent acquaintance with her brother Alfred, and all he had heard of her father from the grateful tenants at Percy-hall, accounted, as Caroline justly thought, for the eagerness he had shown to be introduced to her family. His conversing so much with her, she thought, was natural, as he was a stranger to most of the company, and had some subjects of conversation in common with her and her family. Caroline was not apt to imagine admiration in every word or look; she was not expert in construing every compliment into a declaration or an innuendo of love.

His conversation, during their walk, had been perfectly free from all compliment. It had been on subjects so interesting, that she had been carried on without having had time to think of love. A good and great character had opened to her view, and she had been so absorbed in sympathy, that though she had thought of nothing but Count Altenberg, she had never thought of him with any reference to herself.

The morning after their return home, Count Altenberg came to the Hills, accompanied by Mr. Temple. They stayed till it was late; for the Count seemed to forget the hour of the day, till reminded of it by Mr. Temple. Caroline, in her own family, at her home, pleased Count Altenberg particularly. The interest he felt about her increased, and he afterwards took or made frequent opportunities of calling at the Hills: his conversation was generally addressed to Mr. Percy, but he observed Caroline with peculiar attention—and Rosamond was confirmed in her opinion. A few weeks passed in this manner, while the play was preparing at Falconer-court. But before we go to the play, let us take a peep behind the scenes, and inquire what is and has been doing by the Falconer family. Even they who are used to the ennui subsequent to dissipation, even they who have experienced the vicissitudes of coquetry, the mortifications of rivalship, and the despair of disappointed vanity, can scarcely conceive the complication of disagreeable ideas and emotions with which Miss Georgiana Falconer awoke the morning after the magnificent ball.

The image of her beautiful rival disturbed her morning dreams, and stood before her fancy the moment she opened her eyes. Wakening, she endeavoured to recollect and compare all that had passed the preceding night; but there had been such tumult in her mind, that she had only a vague remembrance of the transactions: she had a confused idea that the Count was in love, and that he was not in love with her: she had fears that, during the heat of competition, she had betrayed unbecoming emotion; but gradually, habitual vanity predominated; her hopes brightened; she began to fancy that the impression made by her rival might be easily effaced, and that they should see no more of the fair phantom. That branch of the Percy family, she recollected, were to be considered only as decayed gentry; and she flattered herself that they would necessarily and immediately sink again into that obscurity from which her mother's ill-fated civility had raised them. Her mother, she knew, had invited these Percys against her will, and would be particularly careful on account of Sir Robert Percy (and Arabella) not to show them any further attention. Thus things would, in a day or two, fall again into their proper train. "No doubt the Count will call this morning, to know how we do after the ball."

So she rose, and resolved to dress herself with the most becoming negligence.

Very different was the result of her experienced mother's reflections. Mrs. Falconer saw that her daughter's chance of the Count was now scarcely worth considering; that it must be given up at once, to avoid the danger of utter ruin to other speculations of a more promising kind. The mother knew the unmanageable violence of her daughter's temper: she had seen her Georgiana expose herself the preceding night at the ball to her particular friends, and Mrs. Falconer knew enough of the world to dread reports originating from particular friends; she dreaded, also, that on some future similar occasion, the young lady's want of command over her jealousy should produce some terribly ridiculous scene, confirm the report that she had an unhappy passion for Count Altenberg, stigmatize her as a forlorn maiden, and ruin her chance of any other establishment. In this instance she had been misled by her own and her daughter's vanity. It was mortifying, to be sure, to find that she had been wrong; and still more provoking to be obliged to acknowledge that Mr. Falconer was right; but in the existing circumstances it was absolutely necessary, and Mrs. Falconer, with a species of satisfaction, returned to her former habits of thinking, and resumed certain old schemes, from which the arrival of the Count had diverted her imagination. She expected the two Mr. Clays at Falconer-court the next day. Either of them, she thought, might be a good match for Georgiana. To be sure, it was said that French Clay had gaming debts to a large amount upon his hands—this was against him; but, in his favour, there was the chance of his elder brother's dying unmarried, and leaving him Clay-hall. Or, take it the other way, and suppose English Clay to be made the object—he was one of the men who professedly have a horror of being taken in to marry; yet no men are more likely "to run into the danger to avoid the apprehension." Suppose the worst, and that neither of the Clays could be worked to any good purpose, Mrs. Falconer had still in reserve that pis aller Petcalf, whose father, the good general, was at Bath, with the gout in his stomach; and if he should die, young Petcalf would pop into possession of the general's lodge in Asia Minor [Footnote: A district in England so called.]: not so fine a place, to be sure, nor an establishment so well appointed as Clay-hall; but still with a nabob's fortune a great deal might be done—and Georgiana might make Petcalf throw down the lodge and build. So at the worst she might settle very comfortably with young Petcalf, whom she could manage as she pleased, provided she never let him see her penchant for Count Altenberg. Mrs. Falconer determined to turn the tables dexterously, and to make it appear that the Count admired Georgiana, but saw she could not be induced to leave England. "We must," said she to herself, "persuade English Clay that I would not for any consideration give my daughter to a foreigner."

In consequence of these plans and reflections, Mrs. Falconer began her new system of operations, by writing that note full of superfluous civility to Mrs. Percy, with which Commissioner Falconer had been charged: the pressing Caroline to play Zara or Marcia, the leaving to her the choice of dresses and characters, the assurance that Miss Georgiana Falconer would take the confidante's part with pleasure, were all strokes of Mrs. Falconer's policy. By these means she thought she could most effectually do away all suspicion of her own or her daughter's jealousy of Miss Caroline Percy. Mrs. Falconer foresaw that, in all probability, Caroline would decline acting; but if she had accepted, Mrs. Falconer would have been sincerely pleased, confident, as she was, that Caroline's inferiority to her Georgiana, who was an accomplished actress, would be conspicuously manifest.

As soon as Mrs. Percy's answer, and Caroline's refusal, arrived, Mrs. Falconer went to her daughter Georgiana's apartment, who was giving directions to her maid, Lydia Sharpe, about some part of Zara's dress.

"My dear," said Mrs. Falconer, looking carelessly at the dress, "you won't want a very expensive dress for Zara."

"Indeed, ma'am, I shall," cried Georgiana: "Zara will be nothing, unless she is well dressed."

"Well, my dear, you must manage as well as you can with Lydia Sharpe. Your last court-dress surely she can make do vastly well, with a little alteration to give it a Turkish air."

"Oh! dear me, ma'am!—a little alteration!" cried Lydia: "no alteration upon the face of Heaven's earth, that I could devise from this till Christmas, would give it a Turkish air. You don't consider, nor conceive, ma'am, how skimping these here court-trains are now—for say the length might answer, its length without any manner of breadth, you know, ma'am—look, ma'am, a mere strip!—only two breadths of three quarters bare each—which gives no folds in nature, nor drapery, nor majesty, which, for a Turkish queen, is indispensably requisite, I presume."

"Another breadth or two would make it full enough, and cotton velvet will do, and come cheap," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Cotton velvet!" cried Miss Georgiana. "I would not wear cotton velvet—like the odious, shabby Miss Chattertons, who are infamous for it."

"But on the stage, what eye could detect it, child?" said Mrs. Falconer.

"Eye, ma'am! no, to be sure, at that distance: but the first touch to any body that understands velvets would betray it—and them that is on the stage along with Miss Georgiana, or behind the scenes, will detect it. And I understood the ladies was to sup in their dresses, and on such an occasion I presumed you would like Miss Georgiana to have an entire cap a pie new dress, as the Lady Arlingtons and every body has seen her appear in this, and has it by heart, I may say—and the Count too, who, of course, will expect, to see Zara spick and span—But I leave it all to your own better judgment, ma'am—I am only just mentioning—"

"All I know is, that the play will be nothing unless it is well dressed," cried Miss Georgiana; "and I never will play Zara in old trumpery."

"Well, my dear, there's your amber satin, or your pink, or your green, or your white, or—I am sure you have dresses enough. Lydia, produce them, and let me see."

Lydia covered the bed with various finery; but to every dress that was produced some insuperable objection was started by the young lady or by her maid.

"I remember you had a lavender satin, that I do not see here, Georgiana," said Mrs. Falconer.

"The colour did not become me, ma'am, and I sold it to Lydia."

Sold! gave, perhaps some innocent reader may suspect that the young lady meant to say.—No: this buying and selling of finery now goes on frequently between a certain class of fashionable maids and mistresses; and some young ladies are now not ashamed to become old clothes-women.

"Vastly well," said Mrs. Falconer, smiling; "you have your own ways and means, and I am glad of it, for I can tell you there is no chance of my getting you any money from your father; I dare not speak to him on that subject—for he was extremely displeased with me about Mrs. Sparkes' last bill: so if you want a new dress for Zara, you and Lydia Sharpe must settle it as well as you can between you. I will, in the mean time, go and write a note, while you make your bargain."

"Bargain! Me, ma'am!" cried Lydia Sharpe, as Mrs. Falconer left the room; "I am the worst creature extant at bargaining, especially with ladies. But any thing I can do certainly to accommodate, I shall, I'm sure, be happy."

"Well, then," said Miss Georgiana, "if you take this white satin off my hands, Lydia, I am sure I shall be happy."

"I have no objection, ma'am—that is, I'm in duty bound to make no manner of objections," said Lydia, with a very sentimental air, hanging her head aside, and with one finger rubbing her under-lip slowly, as she contemplated the white satin, which her young mistress held up for sale. "I am really scrupulous—but you're sensible, Miss Georgiana, that your white satin is so all frayed with the crape sleeves. Lady Trant recommended—"

"Only a very little frayed."

"But in the front breadth, ma'am; you know that makes a world of difference, because there's no hiding, and with satin no turning—and not a bit neither to new body."

"The body is perfectly good."

"I beg pardon for observing, but you know, ma'am, you noticed yourself how it was blacked and soiled by wearing under your black lace last time, and that you could not wear it again on that account."

"I!—but you—"

"To be sure, ma'am, there's a great deal of difference between I and you: only when one comes to bargaining—"

She paused, seeing wrath gathering black and dire in her young lady's countenance; before it burst, she changed her tone, and continued, "All I mean to say, ma'am, is, that white satin being a style of thing I could not pretend to think of wearing in any shape myself, I could only take it to part with again, and in the existing circumstances, I'm confident I should lose by it. But rather than disoblige, I'll take it at whatever you please."

"Nay, I don't please about the matter, Lydia; but I am sure you had an excellent bargain of my lavender satin, which I had only worn but twice."

"Dear heart!—La, ma'am! if you knew what trouble I had with Mrs. Sparkes, the dress-maker, about it, because of the coffee-stain—And I vow to my stars I am ashamed to mention it; but Mrs. Scrags, Lady Trant's woman, and both the Lady Arlingtons' maids, can vouch for the truth of it. I did not make a penny, but lost, ma'am, last year, by you and Miss Bell; that is, not by you nor Miss Bell, but by all I bought, and sold to disadvantage; which, I am morally certain, you would not have permitted, had you known of it, as I told Mrs. Scrags, who was wondering and pitying of me: my young ladies, Mrs. Scrags, says I—"

"No matter," interrupted Georgiana; "no matter what you said to Mrs. Scrags, or Mrs. Scrags to you—but tell me at once, Lydia, what you can afford to give me for these three gowns."

"I afford to give!" said Lydia Sharpe. "Well, the times is past, to be sure, and greatly changed, since ladies used to give, but now it's their maids must give—then, suppose—let's see, ma'am—for the three, the old white satin, and the amber satin, and the black lace—why, ma'am, if you'd throw me the pink crape into the bargain, I don't doubt but I could afford to give you nine guineas, ma'am," said the maid.

"Then, Lydia Sharpe, you will never have them, I promise you," cried the mistress: "Nine guineas! how can you have the assurance to offer me such a sum? As if I had never bought a gown in my life, and did not know the value or price of any thing! Do you take me for a fool?"

"Oh! dear no, miss—I'm confident that you know the value and price to the uttermost penny—but only you forget that there's a difference betwixt the buying and selling price for ladies; but if you please, ma'am—I would do any thing to oblige and accommodate you—I will consult the Lady Arlingtons' women, Miss Flora, and Miss Prichard, who is judges in this line—most honourable appraisers; and if they praise the articles, on inspection, a shilling higher, I am sure I shall submit to their jurisdiction—if they say ten guineas, ma'am, you shall have it, for I love to be at a word and a blow—and to do every thing genteel: so I'll step and consult my friends, ma'am, and give you my ultimatum in half an hour."

So saying, whilst her young mistress stood flushed and swelling with pride and anger, which, however, the sense of her own convenience and interest controlled, the maid swept up the many coloured robes in her arms, and carried them up the back stairs, to hold her consultation with her friends, the most honourable of appraisers.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Falconer, returning as she heard the maid quit the room, "have you driven your bargain for the loan? Have you raised the supplies?"

"No, indeed, ma'am—for Lydia is grown a perfect Jew. She may well say she is related to Sharpe, the attorney—she is the keenest, most interested creature in the world—and grown very saucy too."

"Like all those people, my dear; but one can't do without them."

"But one can change them."

"But, to use their own language, one is not sure of bettering oneself—and then their wages are to be paid—and all one's little family secrets are at their mercy."

"It's very provoking—it is very provoking!" repeated Miss Georgiana, walking up and down the room. "Such an extortioner!—for my amber satin, and my white satin, and my black lace, and my pink crape, only nine guineas! What do you think of that, ma'am?"

"I think, my dear, you pay a prodigious premium for ready money; but nine guineas will dress Zara decently, I dare say, if that's your object."

"Nine guineas! ma'am," cried Miss Georgiana, "impossible! I can't act at all—so there's an end of the matter."

"Not an end of the matter quite," said Mrs. Falconer, coolly; "for in that case I must look out for another Zara."

"And where will you find one, ma'am?"

"The Lady Arlingtons have both fine figures—and, I dare say, would either of them oblige me."

"Not they. Lady Anne, with her indolence and her languor—a lady who looks as if she was saying, 'Quasha, tell Quaco to tell Fibba to pick up this pin that lies at my foot;' do you think she'd get a part by heart, ma'am, to oblige you—or that she could, if she would, act Zara?—No more than she could fly!"

"But her sister, Lady Frances, would and could," said Mrs. Falconer. "She is quick enough, and I know she longs to try Zara."

"Longs!—Lord, ma'am, she longs for fifty things in a minute!—Quick!—Yes, but don't depend on her, I advise you; for she does not know, for two seconds together, what she would have or what she would do."

"Then I have resource in one who, I am persuaded, will not disappoint me or any body else," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Whom can you mean, ma'am?"

"Miss Caroline Percy. Count Altenberg put it into my head: he observed that she would look the character remarkably well—and I will write to her directly."

Without power of articulating, Miss Georgiana Falconer fixed her eyes upon her mother for some moments.

"You think I have lost my senses this morning—I thought, and I am afraid so did many other people, that you had lost yours last night. Another such scene, your friends the Lady Arlingtons for spectators, you are ridiculous, and, of course, undone for life in the fashionable world—establishment, and every thing else that is desirable, irrevocably out of the question. I am surprised that a girl of your understanding and really polished manners, Georgiana, should, the moment any thing crosses or vexes you, show no more command of temper, grace, or dignity, than the veriest country girl. When things go wrong, do you see me lose all presence of mind; or rather, do you ever see me change a muscle of my countenance?"

"The muscles of some people's countenance, ma'am, I suppose, are differently made from others—mine will change with my feelings, and there is no remedy, for my feelings unfortunately are uncommonly acute."

"That is a misfortune, indeed, Georgiana; but not without remedy, I trust. If you will take my advice—"

"Were you ever in love, ma'am?"

"Properly—when every thing was settled for my marriage; but not improperly, or it might never have come to my wedding-day. Headstrong child! listen to me, or you will never see that day with Count Altenberg."

"Do you mean, ma'am, to ask Miss Caroline Percy to play Zara?"

"I will answer no question, Georgiana, till you have heard me patiently."

"I only hope, ma'am, you'll put it in the play-bill—or, if you don't, I will—Zara, Miss Caroline Percy—by particular desire of Count Altenberg."

"Whatever I do, you may hope and be assured, Georgiana, shall be properly done," cried Mrs. Falconer, rising with dignity; "and, since you are not disposed to listen to me, I shall leave you to your own inventions, and go and write my notes."

"La, mamma! dear mamma! dear'st mamma!" cried the young lady, throwing her arms round her mother, and stopping her. "You that never change a muscle of your countenance, how hasty you are with your own Georgiana!—sit down, and I'll listen patiently!"

Mrs. Falconer seated herself, and Miss Georgiana prepared to listen patiently, armed with a piece of gold fringe, which she rolled and unrolled, and held in different lights and varied festoons whilst her mother spoke, or, as the young lady would say, lectured. Mrs. Falconer was too well aware of the impracticableness of her daughter's temper to tell her upon this occasion the whole truth, even if her own habits would have permitted her to be sincere. She never mentioned to Georgiana that she had totally given up the scheme of marrying her to Count Altenberg, and that she was thoroughly convinced there was no chance of her winning him; but, on the contrary, she represented to the young lady that the Count had only a transient fancy for Miss Caroline Percy, which would never come to any serious proposal, unless it was opposed; that in a short time they should go to town, and the Count, of course, would return with Lord Oldborough: then the game would be in her own hands, provided, in the mean time, Georgiana should conduct herself with prudence and temper, and let no creature see or suspect any sort of anxiety; for that would give such an advantage against her, and such a triumph to Caroline and her friends, who, as Mrs. Falconer said, were, no doubt, all on the watch to "interpret," or misinterpret, "motions, looks, and eyes." "My dear," concluded the mother, "your play is to show yourself always easy and happy, whatever occurs; occupied with other things, surrounded by other admirers, and encouraging them properly—properly of course to pique the jealousy of your Count."

"My Count!" said Georgiana, with half a smile; "but Miss—You say this fancy of his will pass away—but when? When?"

"You young people always say, 'but when?' you have no idea of looking forward: a few months, a year, more or less, what does it signify? Georgiana, are you in such imminent danger of growing old or ugly?"

Georgiana turned her eyes involuntarily towards the glass, and smiled.

"But, ma'am, you were not in earnest then about getting another Zara."

"The offer I made—the compliments I paid in the note I wrote this morning, were all necessary to cover your mistakes of the night."

"Made! Wrote!" cried the young lady, with terror in her voice and eyes: "Good Heavens! mother, what have you done?"

"I had no doubt at the time I wrote," continued Mrs. Falconer, coolly, "I had no other idea, but that Miss Caroline Percy would decline."

"Oh! ma'am," cried Georgiana, half crying, then stamping with passion, "Oh! ma'am, how could you imagine, or affect to imagine, that that girl, that odious girl, who was born to be my plague, with all her affected humility, would decline?—Decline!—no, she will be transported to come sweeping in, in gorgeous tragedy—Zara! Marcia! If the whole family can beg or borrow a dress for her, we are undone—that's our only chance. Oh! mother, what possessed you to do this?"

"Gently, pretty Passionate, and trust to my judgment in future," putting into her daughter's hands Mrs. Percy's note.

"Miss Caroline Percy—sorry—out of her power!—Oh! charming!—a fine escape!" cried Georgiana, delighted. "You may be sure it was for want of the dress, though, mamma."

"No matter—but about yours, my dear?"

"Oh! yes, ma'am—my dress; that's the only difficulty now."

"I certainly wish you, my darling, to appear well, especially as all the world will be here: the two Clays—by-the-bye, here's their letter—they come to-morrow—and in short the whole world; but, as to money, there's but one way of putting your father into good-humour enough with you to touch upon that string."

"One way—well, if there be one way—any way."

"Petcalf!"

"Oh! Petcalf is my abhorrence—"

"There is the thing! He was speaking to your father seriously about you, and your father sounded me: I said you would never agree, and he was quite displeased—that and Mrs. Sparkes' bill completely overset him. Now, if you had your wish, Georgiana—what would be your taste, child?"

"My wish! My taste!—Oh! that would be for a delicate, delicate, soft, sentimental blue satin, with silver fringe, looped with pearl, for my first act; and in my last—"

"Two dresses! Oh! you extravagant! out of all possibility."

"I am only wishing, telling you my taste, dear mamma. You know there must be a change of dress, in the last act, for Zara's nuptials—now for my wedding dress, mamma, my taste would be

'Shine out, appear, be found, my lovely Zara,'

in bridal white and silver. You know, ma'am, I am only supposing."

"Well then, supposition for supposition," replied Mrs. Falconer: "supposing I let your father hope that you are not so decided to abhor poor Petcalf—"

"Oh! dear mamma, I am so persecuted about that Petcalf! and compared with Count Altenberg, my father must be blind, or think me an idiot."

"Oh! between him and the Count there is no comparison, to be sure; but I forgot to mention, that what your father builds upon is our poor old friend the general's death—Clay here, in a postscript, you see, mentions the gout in his stomach—so I am afraid he is as good as gone, as your father says, and then The Lodge in Asia Minor is certainly a pretty place to sit down upon if one could do no better."

"But, ma'am, the Count's vast possessions and rank!"

"I grant you all that, my dear; but our present object is the play—Zara's royal robes cannot be had for nothing, you know—you never listened to my infallible means of obtaining your wish: I think I can engage that the commissioner will not refuse us, if you will empower me to say to him, that by this time twelvemonth, if nothing better offers—mind my if—Petcalf shall be rewarded for his constancy."

"If—Oh! dear me! But before this time twelvemonth the Count—"

"Or one of the Clays might offer, and in that case, my if brings you off safe with your father."

"Well, then, mamma, upon condition that you will promise me, upon your word, you will lay a marked emphasis upon your if—I believe, for Zara's sake, I must—"

"I knew you would behave at last like a sensible girl," said Mrs. Falconer: "I'll go and speak to your father directly."

Mrs. Falconer thus fairly gained her point, by setting Georgiana's passion for dress against her passion for Count Altenberg; and having, moreover, under false pretences, extorted from the young lady many promises to keep her temper prudently, and to be upon the best terms possible with her rival, the mother went away perfectly satisfied with her own address.

The father was brought to perform his part, not without difficulty—Carte blanche for Zara's sentimental blue and bridal white robes was obtained, silver fringe and pearls inclusive: the triumphant Zara rang for the base confidante of her late distresses—Lydia Sharpe re-entered, with the four dresses upon sale; but she and her guineas, and the most honourable appraisers, all were treated with becoming scorn—and as Lydia obeyed her young lady's orders to replace her clothes in her wardrobe, and never to think of them more, they suddenly rose in value in her estimation, and she repented that she had been quite so much of an extortioner. She knew the difference of her mistress's tone when disappointed or successful, and guessed that supplies had been obtained by some means or other: "New dresses, I smell, are the order of the day," said Lydia Sharpe to herself; "but I'll engage she will want me presently to make them up: so I warrant I won't come down off my high horse till I see why—Miss Georgiana Falconer, ma'am, I beg pardon—you are the mistress—I meant only to oblige and accommodate when called upon—but if I'm not wanted, I'm not wanted—and I hope ladies will find them that will be more abler and willinger to serve them."

So saying, half flouncing, half pouting, she retired. Her young mistress, aware that Lydia's talents and expeditious performance, as a mantua-maker and a milliner, were essential to the appearance of Zara, suppressed her own resentment, submitted to her maid's insolence, and brought her into humour again that night, by a present of the famous white satin.

In due time, consequently, the Turkish dresses were in great forwardness. Lest we should never get to the play, we forbear to relate all the various frettings, jealousies, clashing vanities, and petty quarrels, which occurred between the actresses and their friends, during the getting up of this piece and its rehearsals. We need mention, only that the seeds of irreconcileable dislike were sown at this time, between the Miss Falconers and their dear friends, the Lady Arlingtons: there was some difficulty made by Lady Anne about lending her diamond crescent for Zara's turban—Miss Georgiana could never forgive this; and Lady Frances, on her part, was provoked, beyond measure, by an order from the duke, her uncle, forbidding her to appear on the stage. She had some reason to suspect that this order came in consequence of a treacherous hint in a letter of Georgiana's to Lady Trant, which went round, through Lady Jane Granville to the duke, who otherwise, as Lady Frances observed, "in the midst of his politics, might never have heard a word of the matter."

Mrs. Falconer had need of all her power over the muscles of her face, and all her address, in these delicate and difficult circumstances. Her daughter Arabella, too, was sullen—the young lady was subject to her brother John's fits of obstinacy. For some time she could not be brought to undertake the part of Selima; and no other Selima was to be had. She did not see why she should condescend to play the confidante for Georgiana's Zara—why she was to be sacrificed to her sister; and Sir Robert Percy, her admirer, not even to be invited, because the other Percys were to come.

Mrs. Falconer plied her well with flattery, through Colonel Spandrill; and at last Arabella was pacified by a promise that the following week "Love in a Village," or "The Lord of the Manor," should be acted, in which she should choose her part, and in which her voice and musical talents would be brought forward—and Sir Robert Percy and his friends should be the principal auditors.

Recovered, or partly recovered, from her fit of the sullens, she was prevailed upon to say she would try what she could do in Selima.

The parts were learnt by heart; the dresses, after innumerable alterations, finished to the satisfaction of the heroes and heroines of the drama.

Their quarrels, and the quarrels of their friends and of their servants, male and female, were at last hushed to temporary repose, and—the great, the important day arrived.

The preceding evening, Mrs. Falconer, as she sat quite exhausted in the green-room, was heard to declare, she was so tired, that she would not go through the same thing again, for one month, to be Queen of England.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

The theatre at Falconer-court was not very spacious, but it was elegantly fitted up, extremely well lighted, and had a good effect. There was a brilliant audience, an excellent band of music, and the whole had a gay and festive appearance.

The Percy family, as they came from a great distance, were late. The house was crowded. Mrs. Falconer was obliged to seat Mrs. Percy and her daughters with the Lady Arlingtons on a bench upon the stage: a conspicuous situation, which had been reserved for their ladyships.

Every eye instantly turned upon the beautiful Caroline. She bore the gaze of public admiration with a blushing dignity, which interested every body in her favour. Count Altenberg, who had anxiously expected the moment of her arrival, was, however, upon his guard. Knowing that he was watched by Mrs. Falconer's friends, he was determined that his secret thoughts should not be seen. One involuntary glance he gave, but immediately withdrew his eye, and continued his conversation with the gentleman next to him. After a few moments had elapsed, he could indulge himself in looking at Caroline unobserved, for the gaze of public admiration is as transient as it is eager. It is surprising how short a time any face, however beautiful, engages numbers who meet together to be seen.

The audience were now happily full of themselves, arranging their seats, and doing civilities to those of their friends who were worthy of notice.

"Lady Trant! won't your ladyship sit in the front row?"

"I'm vastly well, thank you."

"Lady Kew, I am afraid you won't see over my head."

"Oh! I assure you—perfectly—perfectly."

"Colonel Spandrill, I'll trouble you—my shawl."

"Clay, lend me your opera-glass.—How did you leave all at Bath?"

"I'm so glad that General Petcalf's gout in his stomach did not carry him off—for young Petcalf could not have acted, you know, to-night.—Mrs. Harcourt is trying to catch your eye, Lady Kew."

All those who were new to the theatre at Falconer-court, or who were not intimate with the family, were in great anxiety to inform themselves on one important point, before the prologue should begin. Stretching to those who were, or had the reputation of being, good authorities, they asked in whispers, "Do you know if there is to be any clapping of hands?—Can you tell me whether it is allowable to say any thing?"

It seems that at some private theatres loud demonstrations of applause were forbidden. It was thought more genteel to approve and admire in silence,—thus to draw the line between professional actors and actresses, and gentlemen and lady performers. Upon trial, however, in some instances, it had been found that the difference was sufficiently obvious, without marking it by any invidious distinction. Young and old amateurs have acknowledged, that the silence, however genteel, was so dreadfully awful, that they preferred even the noise of vulgar acclamations.

The cup of flattery was found so sweet, that objections were no longer made to swallowing it in public.

The overture finished, the prologue, which was written by Mr. Seebright, was received with merited applause. And, after a buzz of requests and promises for copies, the house was silent—the curtain drew up, and the first appearance of Zara, in the delicate sentimental blue satin, was hailed with plaudits, long and loud—plaudits which were reiterated at the end of her first speech, which was, indeed, extremely well recited. Count Altenberg leaned forward, and seemed to listen with delight; then stood up, and several times renewed his plaudits; at first, with an appearance of timidity, afterwards, with decision and energy. Miss Georgiana Falconer really acted uncommonly well, so that he could without flattery applaud; and if he did exaggerate a little in the expression of his admiration, he deemed it allowable. He had another object: he was absolutely determined to see whether or not Caroline was capable of the mean passions which had disgusted him in her rival. He reflected that he had seen her only when she was triumphant; and he was anxious to know how she would appear in different circumstances. Of her high intellectual endowments he could not doubt; but temper is not always a blessing given to the fair, or even to the wise. It may seem strange that a gallant man should think of a beauty's temper; and, probably, if Count Altenberg had considered Caroline only as a beauty, he would not have troubled himself to make, on this point, any severe and dangerous scrutiny.

The play went on—Zara sustaining the interest of the scene. She was but feebly supported by the sulky Selima, and the other parts were but ill performed. The faults common to unpractised actors occurred: one of Osman's arms never moved, and the other sawed the air perpetually, as if in pure despite of Hamlet's prohibition. Then, in crossing over, Osman was continually entangled in Zara's robe; or, when standing still, she was obliged to twitch her train thrice before she could get it from beneath his leaden feet. When confident that he could repeat a speech fluently, he was apt to turn his back upon his mistress; or, when he felt himself called upon to listen to his mistress, he would regularly turn his back upon the audience. But all these are defects permitted by the licence of a private theatre, allowable by courtesy to gentlemen-actors; and things went on as well as could be expected. Osman had not his part by heart, but still Zara covered all deficiencies: and Osman did no worse than other Osmans had done before him, till he came to the long speech, beginning with,

"The sultans, my great ancestors, bequeath'd Their empire to me, but their tastes they gave not."

Powerful prompting got him through the first six lines decently enough, till he came to

—"wasting tenderness in wild profusion, I might look down to my surrounded feet, And bless contending beauties,"

At this he bungled sadly—his hearing suddenly failing as well as his memory, there was a dead stop. In vain the prompter, the scene-shifter, the candle-snuffer, as loud as they could, and much louder than they ought, reiterated the next sentence,

"I might speak, Serenely slothful."

It was plain that Osman could not speak, nor was he "serene." He had begun, as in dangers great he was wont, to kick his left ankle-bone rapidly with his right heel; and through the pomp of Osman's oriental robes and turban young Petcalf stood confessed. He threw back an angry look at the prompter—Zara terrified, gave up all for lost—the two Lady Arlingtons retreated behind the scenes to laugh—the polite audience struggled not to smile. Count Altenberg at this moment looked at Caroline, who, instead of joining in the laugh, showed by her countenance and manner the most good-natured sympathy.

Zara, recovering her presence of mind, swept across the stage in such a manner as to hide from view her kicking sultan; and as she passed, she whispered the line to him so distinctly, that he caught the sound, left off kicking, went on with his speech, and all was well again. Count Altenberg forgot to join in the cheering plaudits, he was so much charmed at that instant by Caroline's smile.

Fortunately for Zara, and for the audience, in the next scenes the part of Lusignan was performed by a gentleman who had been well used to acting—though he was not a man of any extraordinary capacity, yet, from his habit of the boards, and his being perfect in his part, he now seemed quite a superior person. It was found unaccountably easier to act with this son of labour than with any other of the gentlemen-performers, though they were all natural geniuses.

The moment Zara appeared with Lusignan, her powers shone forth—nothing spoiled the illusion, the attention of the audience was fixed, their interest was sustained, their feelings touched. The exercise of the fan ceased in the front rows, glasses of lemonade were held untasted, and nobody consulted the play-bill. Excited by success, sympathy, and applause the most flattering, Zara went on with increasing eclat.

Meanwhile the Percy family, who were quite intent upon the play, began to find their situation disagreeable from some noise behind the scenes. A party of ladies, among whom was Lady Frances Arlington, stood whispering so loud close to Caroline that their voices were heard by her more distinctly than those of the actors. Lady Frances stood half hid between the side scenes, holding a little white dog in her arms.

"Hush!" cried her ladyship, putting her fingers on her lips—her companions became silent instantly. The house was now in profound attention. Zara was in the midst of her favourite speech,

"Would you learn more, and open all my heart? Know then that, spite of this renew'd injustice, I do not—cannot—wish to love you less; —That long before you look'd so low as Zara, She gave her heart to Osman."

At the name of Osman, the dog started and struggled—Lady Frances appeared to restrain him, but he ran on the stage—leaped up on Zara—and at the repetition of the name of Osman sat down on his hind legs, begged with his fore-paws, and began to whine in such a piteous manner that the whole audience were on the brink of laughter—Zara, and all her attendants and friends, lost their presence of mind.

Caroline sprang forward quite across the stage, caught the dog in her arms, and carried him off. Count Altenberg, no longer master of himself, clapped his hands, and the whole house resounded with applause.

Miss Georgiana Falconer misunderstood the cause of the plaudits, imagined that she was encored, cast down her eyes, and, as soon as there was silence, advanced and recommenced her speech, of which Count Altenberg did not hear one word.

This malicious trick had been contrived by Lady Frances Arlington, to revenge herself on Miss Georgiana Falconer for having prevented her from taking a part in the play. Her ladyship had, in the course of the rehearsals, privately drilled her dog to answer to the name of Osman, when that name was pronounced in Zara's tragic tone. The dog had been kept out of the way till Zara was in the midst of that speech in which she calls repeatedly on the name of Osman. This trick had been so well contrived, that all but those who were in the secret imagined that the appearance of the dog at this unlucky moment had been accidental. The truth began indeed to be soon whispered in confidence.

But to return to Count Altenberg. At the commencement of the play, when the idea of trying Caroline's temper had occurred to him, he had felt some anxiety lest all the high expectations he had formed, all the bright enchantment, should vanish. In the first act, he had begun by joining timidly in the general applause of Zara, dreading lest Caroline should not be blessed with that temper which could bear the praises of a rival "with unwounded ear." But the count applauded with more confidence in the second act; during the third was quite at his ease; and in the fifth could not forgive himself for having supposed it possible that Caroline could be liable to any of the foibles of her sex.

In the mean time Miss Georgiana Falconer, in high spirits, intoxicated with vanity, was persuaded that the Count had returned to his senses; and so little did she know of his character, or of the human heart, as to expect that a declaration of love would soon follow this public profession of admiration. Such was the confusion of her ideas, that she was confident Zara was on the point of becoming Countess of Altenberg.

After the play was over, and a thousand compliments had been paid and received, most of the company called for their carriages. The house emptied fast: there remained only a select party, who were to stay supper. They soon adjourned to the green-room to repeat their tribute of applause to the actors. High in the midst stood Miss Georgiana Falconer, receiving incense from & crowd of adorers. As Count Altenberg approached, she assumed a languishing air of softness and sensibility. The Count said all that could reasonably be expected, but his compliments did not seem quite to satisfy the lady. She was in hopes that he was going to say something more to her taste, when French Clay pressed forward, which he did with an air neither French nor English. He protested that he could not have conceived it possible for the powers of any actress upon earth to interest him for the English Zara; "but you, madam," said he, "have done the impossible; and now I should die content, if I could see your genius do justice to Zaire. How you would shine in the divine original, when you could do such wonders for a miserable translation!"

Several gentlemen, and among others Mr. Percy, would not allow that the English translation deserved to be called miserable. "The wrong side of the tapestry we cannot expect should be quite equal to the right side." said he: "Voltaire pointed out a few odds and ends here and there, which disfigured the work, and required to be cut off; but upon the whole, if I recollect, he was satisfied with the piece, and complimented Mr. Hill upon having preserved the general design, spirit, and simplicity of the original."

"Mere politeness in M. de Voltaire!" replied French Clay; "but, in effect, Zaire is absolutely incapable of any thing more than being done into English. For example, will any body have the goodness to tell me," said he, looking round, and fixing his look of appeal on Miss Caroline Percy, "how would you translate the famous 'Zaire!—vous pleurez!"

"Is not it translated," said Caroline, "by 'Zara! you weep?'"

"Ah! pardonnez moi!" cried French Clay, with a shrug meant to be French, but which English shoulders could not cleverly execute—"Ah! pardonnez! to my ears now that says nothing."

"To our feelings it said a great deal just now," said Caroline, looking at Zara in a manner which was lost upon her feelings, but not upon Count Altenberg's.

"Ah! indubitably I admit," cried Mr. Clay, "la beaute est toujours dans son pays, and tears fortunately need no translation; but when we come to words, you will allow me, ma'am, that the language of fine feeling is absolutely untranslateable, untransfusible."

Caroline seemed to wish to avoid being drawn forward to farther discussion, but Mr. Clay repeated, in a tone of soft condescension, "Your silence flatters me with the hope, ma'am, that we agree?"

Caroline could not submit to this interpretation of her silence, and blushing, but without being disconcerted, she answered, that she had always heard, and believed, it was the test of true feeling, as of true wit, that it can be easily understood, and that its language is universal.

"If I had ever doubted that truth," said Count Altenberg, "I should have been convinced of it by what I have seen and heard this night."

Miss Georgiana Falconer bowed her head graciously to the Count, and smiled, and sighed. Lady Frances Arlington and Rosamond smiled at the same moment, for they perceived by the universal language of the eye, that what Count Altenberg said was not intended for the lady who took it so decidedly to herself. This was the second time this night that Miss Georgiana Falconer's vanity had appropriated to herself a compliment in which she had no share. Yet, even at this moment, which, as she conceived, was a moment of triumph, while she was encircled by adorers, while the voice of praise yet vibrated in her ears, she felt anguish at perceiving the serenity of her rival's countenance; and, however strange it may appear, actually envied Caroline for not being envious.

Mrs. Falconer, skilled in every turn of her daughter's temper, which she was now obliged to follow and humour, or dexterously to counteract, lest it should ruin all schemes for her establishment, saw the cloud gathering on Zara's brow, and immediately fixed the attention of the company upon the beauty of her dress and the fine folds of her velvet train. She commenced lamentations on the difference between English and French velvets. French Clay, as she had foreseen, took up the word, and talked of velvets till supper was announced.

When Mrs. Falconer attended Lady Trant and Lady Kew to their rooms, a nocturnal conference was held in Lady Trant's apartment, where, of course, in the most confidential manner, their ladyships sat talking over the events of the day, and of some matters too interesting to be spoken of in general society. They began to congratulate Mrs. Falconer upon the impression which Zara had made on Count Altenberg; but the wily mother repressed their premature felicitations. She protested she was positively certain that the person in question had now no thoughts of Georgiana, such as their ladyships' partiality to her might lead them to suppose; and now, when the business was over, she might venture to declare that nothing could have persuaded her to let a daughter of hers marry a foreigner. She should have been sorry to give offence to such an amiable and well-informed young nobleman; and she really rejoiced that, if her sentiments had been, as no doubt by a person of his penetration they must have been, discovered, Count Altenberg had taken the hint without being offended: indeed, she had felt it a point of conscience to let the truth be seen time enough, to prevent his coming to a downright proposal, and having the mortification of an absolute refusal. Other mothers, she knew, might feel differently about giving a daughter to a foreigner, and other young ladies might feel differently from her Georgiana. Where there was so great an establishment in prospect, and rank, and fashion, and figure, to say nothing of talents, it could hardly be expected that such temptations should be resisted in a certain family, where it was so very desirable, and indeed necessary, to get a daughter married without a portion. Mrs. Falconer declared that on every account she should rejoice, if things should happen to turn out so. The present object was every way worthy, and charming. She was a young lady for whom, even from the little she had seen of her, she confessed she felt uncommonly interested—putting relationship out of the question.

Thus having with able generalship secured a retreat for herself and for her daughter, Mrs. Falconer retired to rest.

Early the next morning one of Lord Oldborough's grooms brought a note for Mr. Percy. Commissioner Falconer's confidential servant took the note immediately up to his master's bedchamber, to inquire whether it would be proper to waken Mr. Percy to give it to him, or to make the groom wait till Mr. Percy should come down to breakfast.

The commissioner sat up in his bed, rubbed his eyes, read the direction of the note, many times turned and returned it, and desired to see the man who brought it. The groom was shown in.

"How is my lord's gout?"

"Quite well, sir: my lord was out yesterday in the park—both a horseback and afoot."

"I am very happy to hear it. And pray, did any despatches come last night from town, can you tell, sir?"

"I really can't particularly say, sir—I was out with the horses."

"But about this note?" said the commissioner.

The result of the cross-examination that followed gave reason to believe that the note contained an invitation to breakfast, because he had heard Mr. Rodney, my lord's own gentleman, tell the man whose business it was to attend at breakfast, that my lord would breakfast in his own room, and expected a friend to breakfast with him.

"A friend—Hum! Was there no note to me?—no message?"

"None, sir—as I know."

"Very extraordinary." Mr. Falconer inclined to keep the man till breakfast-time, but he would not be kept—he had orders to return with an answer immediately; and he had been on the fidgets all the time the commissioner had been detaining him; for Lord Oldborough's messengers could nut venture to delay. The note was consequently delivered to Mr. Percy immediately, and Mr. Percy went to breakfast at Clermont-park. The commissioner's breakfast was spoiled by the curiosity this invitation excited, and he was obliged to chew green tea for the heartburn with great diligence. Meantime the company were all talking the play over and over again, till at last, when even Zara appeared satiated with the subject, the conversation diverged a little to other topics. Unluckily French Clay usurped so large a portion of attention, that Count Altenberg's voice was for some time scarcely heard—the contrast was striking between a really well-bred polished foreigner, and a man who, having kept bad company abroad, and having formed himself on a few bad models, presented an exaggerated imitation of those who were ridiculous, detested, or unknown, in good society at Paris; and whom the nation would utterly disclaim as representatives of their morals or manners. At this period of their acquaintance with Count Altenberg, every circumstance which drew out his character, tastes, and opinions, was interesting to the Percy family in general, and in particular to Caroline. The most commonplace and disagreeable characters often promoted this purpose, and thus afforded means of amusement, and materials for reflection. Towards the end of breakfast, the newspapers were brought in—the commissioner, who had wondered frequently what could make them so late, seized upon the government-paper directly, which he pocketed, and retired, after handing other newspapers to Count Altenberg and to the Mr. Clays. English Clay, setting down his well-sugared cup of tea, leaving a happily-prepared morsel of ham and bread and butter on his plate, turned his back upon the ladies; and comfortably settling himself with his arm over his chair, and the light full upon London news, began to read to himself. Count Altenberg glanced at Continental News, as he unfolded his paper, but instantly turned to Gazette Extraordinary, which he laid before Mrs. Falconer. She requested him, if it was not too much trouble, to read it aloud. "I hope my foreign accent will not make it unintelligible," said he; and without farther preface, or considering how he was to appear himself, he obeyed. Though he had not a perfectly English accent, he showed that he had a thoroughly English heart, by the joy and pride he took in reading an account of a great victory.

English Clay turned round upon his chair, and setting his arms a-kimbo, with the newspaper still fast in his hand, and his elbow sticking out across Lady Anne Arlington, sat facing the count, and listening to him With a look of surprise. "Why, d——m'me, but you're a good fellow, after all!" exclaimed he, "though you are not an Englishman!"

"By the mother's side I am, sir," replied Count Altenberg. "I may boast that I am at least half an Englishman."

"Half is better than the whole," said French Clay, scornfully.

"By the Lord, I could have sworn his mother, or some of his blood, was English!" cried English Clay. "I beg your pardon, ma'am—'fraid I annoy your ladyship?" added he, perceiving that the Lady Anne haughtily retreated from his offending elbow.

Then sensible of having committed himself by his sudden burst of feeling, he coloured all over, took up his tea, drank as if he wished to hide his face for ever in the cup, recovered his head with mighty effort, turned round again to his newspaper, and was cold and silent as before. His brother meanwhile was, or affected to be, more intent upon some eau sucree, that he was preparing for himself, than upon the fate of the army and navy of Spain or England. Rising from the breakfast table, he went into the adjoining room, and threw himself at full length upon a sofa; Lady Frances Arlington, who detested politics, immediately followed, and led the way to a work-table, round which the ladies gathered, and formed themselves in a few minutes into a committee of dress, all speaking at once; Count Altenberg went with the ladies out of the breakfast-room, where English Clay would have been happy to have remained alone; but being interrupted by the entrance of the servants, he could not enjoy peaceable possession, and he was compelled also to follow:—getting as far as he could from the female committee, he took Petcalf into a window to talk of horses, and commenced a history of the colts of Regulus, and of the plates they had won.

French Clay, rising from the sofa, and adjusting his cravat at a looking-glass, carelessly said, addressing himself to Count Altenberg, "I think, M. le Comte, I heard you say something about public feelings. Now, I do not comprehend precisely what is meant by public feelings; for my part, I am free to confess that I have none."

"I certainly must have expressed myself ill," replied Count Altenberg; "I should have said, love of our country."

Mrs. Percy, Rosamond, and Caroline, escaped from the committee of dress, were now eagerly listening to this conversation.

"And if you had, M. le Comte, I might, en philosophe, have been permitted to ask," replied French Clay, "what is love of our country, but a mere prejudice? and to a person of an emancipated mind, that word prejudice says volumes. Assuredly M. le Comte will allow, and must feel well, that no prejudice ever was or can be useful to mankind."

The Count fully admitted that utility is the best human test by which all sentiment, as well as every thing else, can be tried: but he observed that Mr. Clay had not yet proved love of our country to be a useless or pernicious principle of action: and by his own argument, if it can be proved to be useful, it should not be called, in the invidious sense of the word, a prejudice.

"True—but the labour of the proof fortunately rests with you, M. le Comte."

Count Altenberg answered in French, speaking very rapidly. "It is a labour saved me fortunately, by the recorded experience of all history, by the testimony of the wisest and the best in all, countries, ancient and modern—all agree in proclaiming love of our country to be one of the most powerful, most permanent motives to good and great actions; the most expansive, elevating principle—elevating without danger—expansive without waste; the principle to which the legislator looks for the preservative against corruption in states—to which the moralist turns for the antidote against selfishness in individuals. Recollect, name any great character, ancient or modern—is not love of his country one of his virtues? Can you draw—can you conceive a great character—a great or a good character, or even a safe member of society without it? A man hangs loose upon society, as your own Burke says—"

"Ah! M. le Comte!" cried Clay, shrinking with affected horror, "I repent—I see what I have brought upon myself; after Burke will come Cicero; and after Cicero all Rome, Carthage, Athens, Lacedemon. Oh! spare me! since I was a schoolboy, I could never suffer those names. Ah! M. le Comte, de grace!—I know I have put myself in the case to be buried alive under a load of quotations."

The Count, with that good humour which disappoints ridicule, smiled, and checked his enthusiasm.

"Is there not a kind of enthusiasm," said Mrs. Percy, "which is as necessary to virtue as to genius?"

French Clay shook his head. He was sorry to differ from a lady; as a gallant man, he knew he was wrong, but as a philosopher he could not patronize enthusiasm. It was the business, he apprehended, of philosophy to correct and extinguish it.

"I have heard it said," interposed Rosamond, "that it is a favourite maxim of law, that the extreme of justice is the extreme of injustice—perhaps this maxim may be applied to philosophy as well as to law."

"Why extinguish enthusiasm?" cried Caroline. "It is not surely the business of philosophy to extinguish, but to direct it. Does not enthusiasm, well directed, give life and energy to all that is good and great?"

There was so much life and energy in Caroline's beautiful countenance, that French Clay was for a moment silenced by admiration.

"After all," resumed he, "there is one slight circumstance, which persons of feeling should consider, that the evils and horrors of war are produced by this very principle, which some people think so useful to mankind, this famous love of our country."

Count Altenberg asked, whether wars had not more frequently arisen from the unlawful fancies which princes and conquerors are apt to take for the territories of their neighbours, than from the legitimate love of their own country?

French Clay, hurried by a smile he saw on Rosamond's lips, changed his ground again for the worse, and said he was not speaking of wars, of foreign conquests, but of defensive wars, where foolish people, from an absurd love of their own country, that is, of certain barren mountains, of a few acres of snow, or of collections of old houses and churches, called capital cities, will expose themselves to fire, flame, and famine, and will stand to be cut to pieces inchmeal, rather than to submit to a conqueror, who might, ten to one, be a more civilized or cleverer sort of a person than their own rulers; and under whom they might enjoy all the luxuries of life—changing only the name of their country for some other equally well-sounding name; and perhaps adopting a few new laws, instead of what they might have been in the habit from their childhood of worshipping, as a wittenagemote, or a diet, or a constitution. "For my part," continued French Clay, "I have accustomed myself to go to the bottom of things. I have approfondied. I have not suffered my understanding to be paralysed—I have made my own analysis of happiness, and find that your legislators, and moralists, and patriots, would juggle me out of many solid physical comforts, by engaging me to fight for enthusiasms which do me no manner of good."

Count Altenberg's countenance had flushed with indignation, and cooled with contempt, several times during Mr. Clay's Speech. Beginning in a low composed voice, he first answered, whatever pretence to reason it contained, in the analysis of human happiness, he observed, Mr. Clay had bounded his to physical comforts—this was reducing civilized man below even the savage, and nearly to the state of brutes. Did Mr. Clay choose to leave out all intellectual pleasures—all the pleasures of self-complacency, self-approbation, and sympathy? But, supposing that he was content to bound his happiness, inelegant and low, to such narrow limits, Count Altenberg observed, he did not provide for the security even of that poor portion. If he were ready to give up the liberty or the free constitution of the country in which he resided, ready to live under tyrants and tyranny, how could he be secure for a year, a day, even an hour, of his epicurean paradise?

Mr. Clay acknowledged, that, "in this point of view, it might be awkward to live in a conquered country; but if a man has talents to make himself agreeable to the powers that be, and money in his purse, that can never touch him, chacun pour soi—et honi soit qui mal y pense."

"Is it in England!—Oh! can it be in England, and from an Englishman, that I hear such sentiments!" exclaimed Count Altenberg. "Such I have heard on the continent—such we have heard the precursors of the ruin, disgrace, destruction of the princes and nations of Europe!"

Some painful reflections or recollections seemed to absorb the Count for a few moments.

"Foi d'honnete homme et de philosophe," French Clay declared, that, for his own part, he cared not who ruled or how, who was conqueror, or what was conquered, provided champagne and burgundy were left to him by the conqueror.

Rosamond thought it was a pity Mr. Clay was not married to the lady who said she did not care what revolutions happened, as long as she had her roast chicken, and her little game at cards.

"Happen what will," continued French Clay, "I have two hundred thousand pounds, well counted—as to the rest, it is quite indifferent to me, whether England be called England or France; for," concluded he, walking off to the committee of dress, "after all I have heard, I recur to my first question, what is country—or, as people term it, their native land?"

The following lines came full into Caroline's recollection as French Clay spoke:

"Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land? Whose heart has ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there he, go, mark him well; High though his titles, proud his fame, Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim, Despite these titles, power and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung. Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung."

Caroline asked Count Altenberg, who seemed well acquainted with English literature, if he had ever read Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel?

The Count smiled, and replied,

"'Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said'

any of those beautiful lines?"

Caroline, surprised that the Count knew so well what had passed in her mind, blushed.

At this moment Mrs. Falconer returned, and throwing a reconnoitring glance round the room to see how the company had disposed of themselves, was well pleased to observe French Clay leaning on the back of Georgiana's chair, and giving her his opinion about some artificial flowers. The ladies had been consulting upon the manner in which the characters in "Love in a Village,"—or, "The Lord of the Manor," should be dressed, and Miss Arabella Falconer had not yet completely determined which piece or which dress she preferred. She was glad that the Percys had been kept from this committee, because, as they were not to be asked to the entertainment, it was a subject she could not discuss before them. Whenever they had approached the table, the young ladies had talked only of fashions in general; and now, as Mrs. Percy and Caroline, followed by Count Altenberg, joined them, Mrs. Falconer put aside a volume of plays, containing "The Lord of the Manor," &c.; and, taking up another book, said something about the immortal bard to English Clay, who happened to be near her. He replied, "I have every edition of Shakspeare that ever was printed or published, and every thing that ever was written about him, good, bad, or indifferent, at Clay-hall. I made this a principle, and I think every Englishman should do the same. Your Mr. Voltaire," added this polite Englishman, turning to Count Altenberg, "made a fine example of himself by dashing at our Shakspeare?"

"Undoubtedly, Voltaire showed he did not understand Shakspeare, and therefore did not do him justice," replied Count Altenberg. "Even Voltaire had some tinge of national prejudice, as well as other men. It was reserved for women to set us, in this instance, as in many others, an example at once of superior candour and superior talent."

English Clay pulled up his boots, and, with a look of cool contempt, said, "I see you are a lady's man, monsieur."

Count Altenberg replied, that if a lady's man means an admirer of the fair sex, he was proud to feel that he deserved that compliment; and with much warmth he pronounced such a panegyric upon that sex, without whom "le commencement de la vie est sans secours, le milieu sans plaisir, et la fin sans consolation," that even Lady Anne Arlington raised her head from the hand on which it reclined, and every female eye turned upon him with approbation.

"Oh! what a lover he will make, if ever he is in love," cried Lady Frances Arlington, who never scrupled saying any thing that came into her head. "I beg pardon, I believe I have said something very shocking. Georgiana, my dear, I protest I was not thinking of—But what a disturbance I have made amongst all your faces, ladies—and gentlemen," repeated her ladyship, looking archly at the Count, whose face at this moment glowed manifestly; "and all because gentlemen and ladies don't mind their grammar and their tenses. Now don't you recollect—I call upon Mrs. Falconer, who really has some presence of—countenance—I call upon Mrs. Falconer to witness that I said 'if;' and, pray comprehend me, M. le Comte, else I must appear excessively rude, I did not mean to say any thing of the present or the past, but only of the future."

The Count, recovering his presence of mind, and presence of countenance, turned to a little Cupid on the mantel-piece; and, playfully doing homage before it, repeated,

"Qui que tu sois voici ton maitre, Il l'est, le fut—ou le doit etre."

"Oh! charming—oh! for a translation!" cried Mrs. Falconer, glad to turn the attention from Georgiana:—"Lady Frances—ladies some of you, Miss Percy, here's my pencil."

Here they were interrupted by Mr. Percy's return from Lord Oldborough's.

The commissioner followed Mr. Percy into the room, and asked, and was answered, a variety of questions about despatches from town; trying, but, in vain, to find out what had been going forward. At last he ended with a look of absence, and a declaration that he was quite happy to hear that Lord Oldborough had so completely got rid of his gout.

"Completely," said Mr. Percy; "and he desires me to tell you, that it will be necessary for him to return to town in a few days."

"In a few days!" cried the commissioner.

"In a few days!" repeated several voices, in different tones.

"In a few days!—Gracious Heaven! and what will become of 'the Lord of the Manor!'" cried Miss Falconer.

"Gently, my Arabella! never raise your voice so high—you, who are a musician," said Mrs. Falconer, "and so sweet a voice as you have—in general. Besides," added she, drawing her apart, "you forget that you should not speak of 'the Lord of the Manor' before the Percys, as they are not to be asked."

"To be sure. Pray keep your temper, Bell, if you can, for a minute," whispered Miss Georgiana; "you see they have rung for the carriage."

Mrs. Falconer began to entreat Mrs. Percy would not be in a hurry to run away; but to her great joy the carriage came to the door.

At parting with Count Altenberg, Mr. Percy said that he regretted that they were so soon to lose his company in this part of the world. "We, who live so much retired, shall feel the loss particularly."