"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--_á l'Anglaise!_"

"_A la Française_, 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 voilà! chère_

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 books

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 voilà pâle_--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 _démêlé_ 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 passionnément,

éperdument_--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 chère mère_ 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 éclat 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 scélérat! Ah scélérat! 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--

_Helm_. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not to hear the

truth from either wise men or fools--Speak on.

_Fool_. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our count there

was killed in Finland--I, being a fool, was lying laughing, and thinking

of nothing at all, on the floor, in the west drawing-room, looking at

the count's picture--In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

_Eleon_. (stopping his mouth.) Oh! tell any thing but _that_, good fool.

_Helmaar_ (_kneels and kisses her hand_). Speak on, excellent fool.

_Christina and ladies_. Speak on, excellent fool--In came the Lady

Eleonora, all in tears.

_Fool_. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears--(_pauses and

looks round_). Why now, what makes you all so curious about these

tears?--Tears are but salt water, let them come from what eyes they

will--my tears are as good as hers--in came John Aleftson, all in tears,

just now, and nobody kneels to me--nobody kisses my hands--nobody cares

half a straw for my tears--(_folds his arms and looks melancholy_). I am

not one of those--I know the cause of my tears too well.

_Helm_. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return--hey?

_Fool_ (_scornfully_). No--I am not such a fool as that comes to. Don't

I know that, when you are at home, the poor may hold up their heads,

and no journeyman-gentleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing

those who live in cottages? No, no,--I am not such a fool as to cry

because Count Helmaar is come back; but the truth is, I cried because I

am tired and ashamed of wearing this thing--(_throwing down his fool's

cap upon the floor, changes his tone entirely_)--_I!_--who am brother

to the man who saved Count Helmaar's life--I to wear a fool's cap and

bells--Oh shame! shame!

{_The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment._}

_Christina_ (_aside_). A lucid interval--poor fool!--I will torment him

no more--he has feeling--'twere better he had none.

_Eleon_. Hush!--hear him!

_Aleft_. (_throwing himself at the counts feet_). Noble count, I have

submitted to be thought a fool; I have worn this fool's cap in your

absence, that I might indulge my humour, and enjoy the liberty of

speaking my mind freely to the people of all conditions. Now that you

are returned, I have no need of such a disguise--I may now speak the

truth without fear, and without a cap and bells.--I resign my salary,

and give back the ensign of my office--(_presents the fool's cap_).

{_Exit_.}

_Christina_. He might well say, that none but fools should pay

compliments--this is the best compliment that has been paid you,

brother.

_Eleon_. And observe, he has resigned his salary.

_Helm_. From this moment let it be doubled:--he made an excellent use of

money when he was a fool--may he make half as good a use of it now he is

a wise man.

_Christina_. Amen--and now I hope we are to have some more dancing.

{_Exeunt_.}

ACT II.

SCENE--_By moonlight--a forest--a castle illuminated at a distance.--A

group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack beside

him.--One peasant lies stretched on the ground_.

_1st Peasant_. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart

being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in that

plight--(_points to the sleeping peasant_)--it is a folly to think of

getting on further this evening.

_2nd Peasant_. And what I say is, it's folly to sleep here, seeing I

know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one mile at

furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey.

_1st Peasant_ (_pointing to the sleeper_). He can't walk a mile--he's

done for--dog tired--

_3rd Peasant_. Are you _certain_ sure we have only one mile further to

go?

_2nd Peasant_. Certain sure--

_All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant_. Oh, let us go on, then,

and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile.

_1st Peasant_. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all.

_All together_. So we will.

_2nd Peasant_. But first, do you see, let's waken him; for a sleeping

man's twice as heavy as one that's awake--Hollo, friend! waken!

waken!--(_he shakes the sleeper, who snores loudly_)--Good Lord, he

snores loud enough to waken all the birds in the wood.

{_All the peasants shout in the sleeper's ear, and he starts up, shaking

himself._}

_Charles_. Am I awake?--(_stretching_.)

_2nd Peasant_. No, not yet, man--Why, don't you know where you are? Ay;

here's the moon--and these be trees; and--I be a man, and what do you

call this? (_holding up a knapsack_.)

_Charles_. A knapsack, I say, to be sure:--I'm as broad awake as the

best of you.

_2nd Peasant_. Come on, then; we've a great way further to go before you

sleep again.

_Charles_. A great way further! further to-night!--No, no.

_2nd Peasant_. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast

asleep--You are to be carried, you and your knapsack.

{_They prepare to carry him_.}

_Charles_ (_starting up, and struggling with them_). I've legs to

walk--I won't be carried!--I, a Swede, and be carried!--No! No!--

_All together_. Yes! Yes!

_Charles_. No! No!--(_he struggles for his knapsack, which comes untied

in the struggle, and all the things fall out_.)--There, this comes of

playing the fool.

{_They help him to pick up the things, and exclaim,_}

_All_. There's no harm done--(_throwing the knapsack over his

shoulder_).

_Charles_. I'm the first to march, after all.

_Peasants_. Ay, in your sleep!

{_Exeunt, laughing._}

_Enter_ CATHERINE'S _two little Children_.

_Little Girl_. I am sure I heard some voices this way--suppose it was

the fairies!

_Little Boy_. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There are no such

things as fairies; but if there were any such, we have no need to fear

them.

_Little Boy sings_.

I.

Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm,

Have pow'r, or will, to work us harm;

For those who dare the truth to tell,

Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

II.

For us they spread their dainty fare,

For us they scent the midnight air;

For us their glow-worm lamps they light,

For us their music cheers the night.

_Little Girl sings_.

I.

Ye fays and fairies, hasten here,

Robed in glittering gossamere;

With tapers bright, and music sweet,

And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

II.

And, little Mable, let us view

Your acorn goblets fill'd with dew;

Nor warn us hence till we have seen

The nut-shell chariot of your queen:

III.

In which on nights of yore she sat,

Driven by her gray-coated gnat;

With spider spokes and cobweb traces,

And horses fit for fairy races.

IV.

And bid us join your revel ring,

And see you dance, and hear you sing:

Your fairy dainties let us taste,

And speed us home with fairy haste.

_Little Boy_. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my wish, I know what I should ask.

_Little Girl._ And so do I--I would ask them to send father home before

I could count ten.

_Little Boy_. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the

face of the whole army, "This is a brave man!" And father should hold up

his head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

{_As the little Boy marches, he stumbles_.}

_Little Girl_. Oh! take care!--come, let us march home:--but stay, I

have not found my faggot.

_Little Boy_. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you left it.

_Little Girl_. Yes, it was somewhere here, I'm sure, and I must find it,

to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to

bed.

_Little Boy_. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

_Little Girl_. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those

trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot.--When we get home,

I shall say, "Mother, do you know there is great news?--there's a great

many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing

and music in the great house, because the master's come home, and the

housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our

faggots; at last the butler--"

_Little Boy_. Heyday!--What have we here?--a purse, a purse, a heavy

purse.

_Little Girl_. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

_Little Boy_. No, no; it can't be mother's: mother has no purse full of

money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

_Little Girl_. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she

has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

_Little Boy_. Come, let us run back with it to her,--mother would tell

us to do so, I'm sure, if she was here.

_Little Girl_. But I'm afraid the housekeeper won't see us to-night.

_Little Boy_. Oh, yes; but I'll beg, and pray, and push, till I get into

her room.

_Little Girl_. Yes; but don't push me, or I shall knock my head against

the trees. Give me your hand, brother.--Oh, my faggot! I shall never

find you.

{_Exeunt_.}

SCENE--Catherine's _Cottage_.

CATHERINE, _spinning, sings_.

I.

Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel,

And leave my heart no time to feel;

Companion of my widow'd hour,

My only friend, my only dow'r.

II.

Thy lengthening thread I love to see,

Thy whirring sound is dear to me:

Oh, swiftly turn by night and day,

And toil for him that's far away.

_Catherine_. Hark! here come the children. No, 'twas only the wind.

What can keep these children so late?--but it is a fine moonlight

night--they'll have brave appetites for their supper when they come

back--but I wonder they don't come home.--Heigho! since their father

has been gone, I am grown a coward--(_a knock at the door heard_)--Come

in!--Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

_Enter_ CHARLES, _with a knapsack on his back_

_Charles_. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at

this time o' night, as I guess by the looks of ye--but I'm only a poor

fellow, that has been a-foot a great many hours.

_Cath_. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you're

welcome to.

{_She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair,

and flings his knapsack behind him_.}

_Charles_. 'Tis a choice thing to rest one's self:--I say, mistress,

you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many

leagues since break of day.

_Cath_. Indeed, you may well be tired--and where do you come from?--Did

you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming back from Finland?

_Charles (eats and speaks_). Not the soldiers themselves, I can't say as

I did; but we are them that are bringing home the knapsacks of the poor

fellows that have lost their lives in the wars in Finland.

_Cath._ (during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a chair.

_Aside_) Now I shall know my fate.

_Charles (eating and speaking)_. My comrades are gone on to the village

beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by the families of them

to whom they belonged, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistress,

as you know the folks here-abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this

is, here, behind me? (_looking up at Catherine_.)--Oons, but how pale

she looks! (_aside_). Here, sit ye down, do. (_Aside_) Why, I would not

have said a word if I had thought on it--to be sure she has a lover now,

that has been killed in the wars. (_Aloud_) Take a sup of the cold milk,

mistress.

_Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack_). 'Tis his! 'tis my

husband's!

{_She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with her hands_.}

_Charles_. Poor soul! poor soul!--(_he pauses_.) But now it is not clear

to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress:--these knapsacks be all

so much alike, I'm sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from

t'other--it is by what's in the inside only one can tell for certain.

(_Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, carries it towards

Catherine, and holds it before her face_.)--Look ye here, now; don't

give way to sorrow while there's hope left--Mayhap, mistress--look at

this now, can't ye, mistress?

{_Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees the

waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a swoon. The peasant

runs to support her.--At this instant the back door of the cottage

opens, and_ ALEFTSON _enters_.}

_Aleft_. Catherine!

_Charles_. Poor soul!--there, raise her head--give her air--she fell

into this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack--her husband's--he's

dead. Poor creature!--'twas my luck to bring the bad news--what shall we

do for her?--I'm no better than a fool, when I see a body this way.

_Aleft_. (_sprinkling water on her face_.) She'll be as well as ever she

was, you'll see, presently--leave her to me!

_Charles_. There! she gave a sigh--she's coming to her senses.

{_Catherine raises herself_.}

_Cath_. What has been the matter?--(_She starts at the sight of

Aleftson_.)--My husband!--no--'tis Aleftson--what makes you look so like

him?--you don't look like yourself.

_Aleft. (aside to the peasant_.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.

_Cath_. (_looking round, sees the knapsack_.) What's there?--Oh, I

recollect it all now.--(_To Aleftson_) Look there! look there! your

brother! your brother's dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.

_Aleft_. I wish I had none.

_Cath_. Oh, my husband!--shall I never, never see you more--never more

hear your voice--never more see my children in their father's arms?

_Aleft_. (_takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed_.) But we

are not sure this is Christiern's.

_Charles (snatching it from him_). Don't show it to her again,

man!--you'll drive her mad.

_Aleft. (aside_.) Let me alone; I know what I'm about. (_Aloud_) 'Tis

certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps--

_Cath_. It is his--it is his--too well I know it--my own work--I gave it

to him the very day he went away to the wars--he told me he would wear

it again the day of his coming home--but he'll never come home again.

_Aleft_. How can you be _sure_ of that?

_Cath_. How!--why, am not I sure, too sure?--hey!--what do you mean?--he

smiles!--have you heard any thing?--do you know any thing?--but he can

know nothing--he can tell me nothing--he has no sense. (_She turns to

the peasant_.) Where did you get this knapsack?--did you see--

_Aleft_. He saw nothing--he knows nothing--he can tell you

nothing:--listen to me, Catherine--see, I have thrown aside the dress of

a fool--you know I had my senses once--I have them now as clear as ever

I had in my life--ay, you may well be surprised--but I will surprise you

more--Count Helmaar's come home.

_Cath_. Count Helmaar!--impossible!

_Charles_. Count Helmaar!--he was killed in the last battle, in Finland.

_Aleft_. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle--he is safe at

home--I have just seen him.

_Cath_. Seen him!--but why do I listen to him, poor fool! he knows not

what he says--and yet, if the count be really alive--

_Charles_. Is the count really alive? I'd give my best cow to see him.

_Aleft_. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour you _shall_

see him.

_Cath. (clasping her hands_.) Then there _is_ hope for me--Tell me, is

there any news?

_Aleft_. There is.

_Cath_. Of my husband?

_Aleft_. Yes--ask me no more--you must hear the rest from Count Helmaar

himself--he has sent for you.

_Cath. (springs forward_.) This instant let me go, let me hear--(_she

stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her

passage_).--But what shall I hear?--there can be no good news for

me--this speaks too plainly.

{_Aleftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away_.}

_Charles_. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with you--I

won't be left behind--I'm wide awake now--I must have a sight of Count

Helmaar in his own castle--why, they'll make much of me in every cottage

on my road home, when I can swear to 'em I've seen Count Helmaar alive,

in his own castle, face to face--God bless him, he's _the poor man's

friend_.

{_Exeunt_.}

SCENE--_The housekeeper's room in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle_.

ULRICA _and_ CHRISTIERN.

CHRISTIERN _is drawing on his boots_.--_Mrs_. ULRICA _is sitting at a

tea-table making coffee_.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, well; I'll say no more: if you can't stay to-night,

you can't--but I had laid it all out in my head so cleverly, that you

should stay, and take a good night's rest here, in the castle; then, in

the morning, you'll find yourself as fresh as a lark.

_Christiern_. Oh! I am not at all tired.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Not tired! don't tell me that, now, for I know that you

_are_ tired, and can't help being tired, say what you will--Drink this

dish of coffee, at any rate--(_he drinks coffee_).

_Christiern_. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my little

ones--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want to see the

happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and don't come every

day, you know; and now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the

cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared out this night,

on no account or possibility.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Ma'am, the cook is hunting high and low for the

brandy-cherries.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Lord bless me! are not they there before those eyes of

yours?--But I can't blame nobody for being out of their wits a little

with joy such a night as this.

{_Exit Footman_.}

_Christiern_. Never man was better beloved in the regiment than Count

Helmaar.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay! ay! so he is every where, and so he deserves to be.

Is your coffee good? sweeten to your taste, and don't spare sugar, nor

don't spare any thing that this house affords; for, to be sure, you

deserve it all--nothing can be too good for him that saved my master's

life. So now that we are comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee,

pray be so very good as to tell me the whole story of my master's

escape, and of the horse being killed under him, and of your carrying

him off on your shoulders; for I've only heard it by bits and scraps, as

one may say; I've seen only the bill of fare, ha! ha! ha!--so now pray

set out all the good things for me, in due order, garnished and all;

and, before you begin, taste these cakes--they are my own making.

_Christiern (aside)_. 'Tis the one-and-twentieth time I've told the

story to-day; but no matter. (_Aloud_) Why, then, madam, the long and

the short of the story is--

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh, pray, let it be the _long_, not the _short_ of the

story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when

it concerns my master--'tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer

the finer, and the more I relish it--but I interrupt you, and you eat

none of my cake--pray go on--(_A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica!

Mrs. Ulrica!_)--Coming!--coming!--patience.

_Christiern_. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here--just

please to look; I've drawn the field of battle for you here, with

coffee, on the table--and you shall be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. I!--no--I'll not be the enemy--my master's enemy!

_Christiern_. Well, I'll be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. You!--Oh no, you sha'n't be the enemy.

_Christiern_. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The cake--my cake!--no, indeed.

_Christiern_. Well, let the candle be the enemy.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Well, let the candle be the enemy; and where was my

master, and where are you--I don't understand--what is all this great

slop?

_Christiern_. Why, ma'am, the field of battle; and let the coffee-pot be

my master: here comes the enemy--

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the dancers above.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. More refreshments!--more!--bless my heart, 'tis an

_un_possibility they can have swallowed down all I laid out, not an hour

ago, in the confectionary room.

_Footman_. Confectionary room! Oh, I never thought of looking there.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Look ye there, now!--why, where did you think of looking,

then?--in the stable, or the cockloft, hey?--{_Exit Footman_.}--But I

can't scold on such a night as this: their poor heads are all turned

with joy; and my own's scarce in a more proper_er_ condition--Well,

I beg your pardon--pray go on--the coffee-pot is my master, and the

candle's the enemy.

_Christiern_. So, ma'am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon Count

Helmaar.

{_A call without of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!_}

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!--can't you do without Mrs.

Ulrica one instant but you must call, call--(_Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs.

Ulrica!_)--Mercy on us, what do you want? I _must_ go for one instant.

_Christiern_. And I _must_ bid ye a good night.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Nay, nay, nay,--(_eagerly_)--you won't go--I'll be back.

_Enter Footman_.

_Footman_ Ma'am! Mrs. Ulrica! the key of the blue press.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. The key of the blue press--I had it in my hand just

now--I gave it--I--(_looks amongst a bunch of keys, and then all round

the room_)--I know nothing at all about it, I tell you--I must drink my

tea, and I will--{_Exit Footman_}. 'Tis a sin to scold on such a night

as this, if one could help it--Well, Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot's

my master.

_Christiern_. And the sugar-basin--why here's a key in the sugar-basin.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Lord bless me! 'tis the very key, the key of the blue

press--why dear me--(_feels in her pocket_)--and here are the sugar

tongs in my pocket, I protest--where was my poor head? Hers, Thomas!

Thomas! here's the key; take it, and don't say a word for your life, if

you can help it; you need not come in, I say--(_she holds the door--the

footman pushes in_).

_Footman_. But, ma'am, I have something particular to say.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why, you've always something particular to say--is it any

thing about my master?

_Footman_. No, but about your purse, ma'am.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. What of my purse?

_Footman_. Here's your little godson, ma'am, is here, who has found it.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Hold your foolish tongue, can't you?--don't

mention my little godson, for your life.

{_The little boy creeps in under the footman's arm; his sister Kate

follows him. Mrs. Ulrica lifts up her hands and eyes, with signs of

impatience_.}

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_aside_). Now I had settled in my head that their father

should not see them till to-morrow morning.

_Little Girl_. Who is that strange man?

_Little Boy_. He has made me forget all I had to say.

_Christiern_ (_aside_). What charming children!

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_asid_). He does not know them to be his--they don't know

him to be their father. (_Aloud_) Well, children, what brings you here

at this time of night?

_Little Boy_. What I was going to say was--(_the little boy looks at

the stranger between every two or three words, and Christiern looks at

him_)--what I was going to say was--

_Little Girl_. Ha! ha! ha!--he forgets that we found this purse in the

forest as we were going home.

_Little Boy_. And we thought that it might be yours.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Why should you think it was mine?

_Little Boy_. Because nobody else could have so much money in one purse;

so we brought it to you--here it is.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. 'Tis none of my purse. (_Aside_) Oh! he'll certainly find

out that they are his children--(_she stands between the children and

Christiern_). 'Tis none of my purse; but you are good, honest little

dears, and I'll be hanged if I won't carry you both up to my master

himself, this very minute, and tell the story of your honesty before all

the company.

{_She pushes the children towards the door. Ulric looks back._}

_Little Boy_. He has a soldier's coat on--let me ask him if he is a

soldier.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. No--what's that to you?

_Little Girl_. Let me ask him if he knows any thing about father.

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_puts her hand before the little girl's mouth_). Hold

your little foolish tongue, I say--what's that to you?

{_Exeunt, Mrs. Ulrica pushing forward the children._}

_Enter, at the opposite door,_ THOMAS, _the footman._

_Footman._ Sir, would you please to come into our servants'-hall, only

for one instant: there's one wants to speak a word to you.

_Christiern._ Oh, I cannot stay another moment: I must go home: who is

it?

_Footman_. 'Tis a poor man who has brought in two carts full of my

master's baggage; and my master begs you'll be so very good as to see

that the things are all right, as you know 'em, and no one else here

does.

_Christiern (with impatience)._ How provoking!--a full hour's work:--I

sha'n't get home this night, I see that:--I wish the man and the baggage

were in the Gulf of Finland. {_Exeunt._}

SCENE--_The apartment where the_ COUNT, ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, _&c., were

dancing._

_Enter Mrs._ ULRICA, _eading the two children._

_Christina._ Ha! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson.

_Mrs. Ulrica._ My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to interrupt; but

I was so proud of my little godson and his sister, though not my

goddaughter, that I couldn't but bring them up, through the very midst

of the company, to my master, to praise them according to their deserts;

for nobody can praise those that deserve it so well as my master--to my

fancy.

_Eleonora_ (_aside_). Nor to mine.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Here's a purse, sir, which this little boy and girl

of mine found in the woods as they were going home; and, like honest

children, as they are, they came back with it directly to me, thinking

that it was mine.

_Helmaar_. Shake hands, my honest little fellow--this is just what I

should have expected from a godson of Mrs. Ulrica, and a son of--

_Mrs. Ulrica (aside to the Count_). Oh, Lord bless you, sir, don't

tell him--My lady--(_to Christina_)--would you take the children out of

hearing?

_Eleon_. (_to the children_). Come with us, my dears.

{_Exeunt ladies and children._}

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Don't, sir, pray, tell the children any thing about their

father: they don't know that their father's here, though they've just

seen him; and I've been striving all I can to keep the secret, and to

keep the father here all night, that I may have the pleasure of seeing

the meeting of father and mother and children at their own cottage

to-morrow. I would not miss the sight of their meeting for fifty pounds;

and yet I shall not see it after all--for Christiern will go, all I can

say or do. Lord bless me! I forgot to bolt him in when I came up with

the children--the bird's flown, for certain--(_going in a great hurry_).

_Helmaar_. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed; your prisoner is

very safe, I can assure you, though you forgot to bolt him in: I have

given him an employment that will detain him a full hour, for I design

to have the pleasure of restoring my deliverer myself to his family.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! that will be delightful!--Then you'll keep him here

all night!--but that will vex him terribly; and of all the days and

nights of the year, one wouldn't have any body vexed this day or night,

more especially the man, who, as I may say, is the cause of all our

illuminations, and rejoicings, and dancings--no, no, happen what will,

we must not have him vexed.

_Helmaar_. He shall not be vexed, I promise you; and, if it be necessary

to keep your heart from breaking, my good Mrs. Ulrica, I'll tell you a

secret, which I had intended, I own, to have kept from you one half hour

longer.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. A secret! dear sir, half an hour's a great while, to

keep a secret from one when it's about one's friends: pray, if it be

proper--but you are the best judge--I should be very glad to hear just a

little hint of the matter, to prepare me.

_Helmaar_. Then prepare in a few minutes to see the happy meeting

between Christiern and his family: I have sent to his cottage for his

wife, to desire that she would come hither immediately.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Oh! a thousand thanks to you, sir; but I'm afraid the

messenger will let the cat out of the bag.

_Helmaar_. The man I have sent can keep a secret--Which way did the Lady

Eleonora go?--Are those peasants in the hall? {_Exit Count._}

_Mrs. Ulrica_ (_following_). She went towards the west drawing-room, I

think, sir.--Yes, sir, the peasants are at supper in the hall. (_Aside_)

Bless me! I wonder what messenger he sent, for I don't know many--men I

mean--fit to be trusted with a secret. {_Exit_.}

SCENE--_An apartment in Count_ HELMAAR'S

_Castle_.--ELEONORA.--CHRISTINA.--_Little_ KATE _and_ ULRIC _asleep on

the floor_.

_Eleon_. Poor creatures! they were quite tired by sitting up so late: is

their mother come yet?

_Christina._ Not yet; but she will soon be here, for my brother told

Aleftson to make all possible haste. Do you know where my brother

is?--he is not among the dancers. I expected to have found him sighing

at the Lady Eleonora's feet.

_Eleon_. He is much better employed than in sighing at any body's

feet; he is gone down into the great hall, to see and reward some

poor peasants who have brought home the knapsacks of those unfortunate

soldiers who fell in the last battle:--your good Mrs. Ulrica found out

that these peasants were in the village near us--she sent for them, got

a plentiful supper ready, and the count is now speaking to them.

_Christina_. And can you forgive my ungallant brother for thinking of

vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent on nothing but your bright

eyes?--then all I can say is, you are both of you just fit for one

another: every _fool_, indeed, saw that long ago.

{_A cry behind the scenes of "Long line Count Helmaar! Long live the

good count! long live the poor man's friend!_"}

_Christina (joins the cry_). Long live Count Helmaar!--join me,

Eleonora--long live the good count! long live the poor man's friend!

{_The little children waken, start up, and stretch themselves_.}

_Eleon_. There, you have wakened these poor children.

_Ulric_. What's the matter? I dreamed father was shaking hands with me.

_Enter Mrs_. ULRICA.

_Little Kate_. Mrs. Ulrica! where am I? I thought I was in my little bed

at home--I was dreaming about a purse, I believe.

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Was it about this purse you were dreaming?--(_shows the

purse which the children found in the wood_)--Come, take it into your

little hands, and waken and rouse yourselves, for you must come and

give this purse back to the rightful owner; I've found him out for

you--(_Aside to Christina and Eleonora_). And now, ladies, if you please

to go up into the gallery, you'll see something worth looking at.

{_Exeunt_.}

SCENE--_A hall in Count_ HELMAAR'S _Castle.--Peasants rising from supper

in the back scene_.

_1st Peasant_. Here's a health to the poor man's friend; and may

every poor man, every poor honest man--and there are none other in

Sweden--find as good a friend as Count Helmaar.

_Enter_ CHARLES, _eagerly_.

_Charles_. Count Helmaar! is he here?

_Omnes_. Heyday! Charles, the sleeper, broad awake! or is he walking in

his sleep?

_Charles_. Where's Count Helmaar, I say?--I'd walk in my sleep, or any

way, to get a sight of him.

_1st Peasant_. Hush! stand back!--here's some of the quality coming, who

are not thinking of you.

{_The peasants all retire to the back scene. Count_ HELMAAR, CHRISTINA,

_and_ ELEONORA, _appear, looking from a gallery. Enter_ ALEFTSON _and_

CATHERINE _at one door, Mrs._ ULRICA _at the opposite door, with_

CHRISTIERN, _followed by the two children._}

_Cath._ (_springs forward_.) Christiern! my husband! alive!--is it a

dream?

_Christiern_ (_embracing her_). Your own Christiern, dearest Catherine.

{_The children clap their hands, and run to their father._}

_Ulric._ Why, I thought he was my father; only he did not shake hands

with me.

_Kate._ And Mrs. Ulrica hid me hold my tongue.

_Christiern._ My Ulric! my little Kate!

_Mrs. Ulrica._ Ay, my little Kate, you may speak now as much as you

will.--(_Their father kisses them eagerly._)--Ay, kiss them, kiss them;

they are as good children as ever were born--and as honest: Kate, show

him the purse, and ask him if it be his.

_Kate._ Is it yours, father?--(_holds up the purse_).

_Christiern._ 'Tis mine; 'twas in my knapsack; but how it came here,

Heaven knows.

_Ulric._ We found it in the wood, father, as we were going home, just at

the foot of a tree.

_Charles_ (_comes forward_). Why, mayhap, now I recollect, I might

have dropped it there--more shame for me, or rather more shame for

them--(_looking back at his companions_)--that were playing the fool

with me, and tumbled out all the things on the ground. Master, I hope

there's no harm done: we poor peasant fellows have brought home all the

other knapsacks safe and sound to the relations of them that died; and

yours came by mistake, it seems.

_Christiern._ It's a very lucky mistake; for I wouldn't have lost a

waistcoat which there is in that knapsack for all the waistcoats in

Sweden. My Catherine, 'twas that which you gave me the day before I went

abroad--do you remember it?

_Charles._ Ay, that she does; it had like to have been the death of

her--for she thought you must be dead for certain when he saw it brought

home without you--but I knew he was not ead, mistress--did not I tell

you, mistress, not to give way to sorrow while there was hope left?

_Cath_. O joy! joy!--too much joy!

_Aleft_. Now are you sorry you came with me when I bade you?--but I'm a

fool!--I'm a fool!

_Ulric_. But where's the cap and coat you used to wear?

_Kate_. You are quite another man, uncle.

_Aleft_. The same man, niece, only in another coat.

_Mrs. Ulrica (laughing)_. How they stare!----Well, Christiern, you are

not angry with my master and me for keeping you now?--but angry or not,

I don't care, for I wouldn't have missed seeing this meeting for any

thing in the whole world.

_Enter Count_ HELMAAR, ELEONOKA, _and_ CHRISTINA.

_Christina_. Nor I.

_Eleon_. Nor I.

_Helmaar_. Nor I.

_The Peasants_. Nor any of us

_Helmaar (to little Ulric)_. My honest little boy, is that the purse

which you found in the wood?

_Ulric_. Yes, and it's my own father's.

_Helmaar_. And how much money is there in it?

{_The child opens the purse, and spreads the money on the floor_.}

_Ulric (to Mrs. Ulrica)_. Count you, for I can't count so much.

_Mrs. Ulrica (counts)_. Eight ducats, five rixdollars, and let me see

how many--sixteen carolines{2}:--'twould have been pity, Catherine, to

have lost all this treasure, which Christiern has saved for you.

{Footnote 2: A rixdollar is 4s. 6d. sterling; two rixdollars are equal

in value to a ducat; a caroline is 1s. 2d.}

_Helmaar_. Catherine, I beg that all the money in this purse may be

given to these honest peasants. (_To Kate_) Here, take it to them, my

little modest girl. As for you and your children, Catherine, you may

depend upon it that I will not neglect to make you easy in the world:

your own good conduct, and the excellent manner in which you have

brought up these children, would incline me to serve you, even if your

husband had not saved my life.

_Cath_. Christiern, my dear husband, and did _you_ save Count Helmaar's

life?

_Mrs. Ulrica_. Ay, that he did.

_Cath_. (_embracing him_.) I am the happiest wife, and--(_turning to

kiss her children_)--the happiest mother upon earth.

_Charles_ (_staring up in Count Helmaar's face_). God bless him! I've

seen him face to face at last; and now I wish in my heart I could see

his wife.

_Christina_. And so do I most sincerely: my dear brother, who has been

all his life labouring for the happiness of others, should now surely

think of making himself happy.

_Eleonora_ (_giving her hand to Helmaar_). No, leave that to me, for I

shall think of nothing else all my life.