_Miss Als._ Delightful! the very language I wished for----Oh, how charmingly apropos was my accident! did you see when my tr.i.m.m.i.n.g in the pa.s.se-pied of a cotilion came luckily in contact with Billy Skim's great shoe-buckle--How it ripped away?

_Mrs. Blandish._ Did I see it?

_Miss Als._ One of the great feathers stuck fast on the shoe, and looked for all the world like the heel wing of a Mercury in a pantomime.

_Mrs. Blandish._ Oh! you witty creature, how you describe!

_Miss Als._ It was a most becoming rent!

_Mrs. Blandish._ And what a display of indifference; what an example for a woman of fortune, did you exhibit in the bustle of picking up the scattered fragments!

_Miss Als._ When the pearls were trundling about, and I insisted upon the company being no longer disturbed, but would leave what remained for fairy favours to the maid who swept the room. He! he! he! Do you think Lady Emily would have done that better?

_Mrs. Blandish._ Lady Emily? poor girl!--How soon must she submit to be the humble second of the family.

_Miss Als._ He! he! he! Do you sincerely think so, Blandish? And yet it would be strange if it were otherwise, for I could buy her ten times over.

_Chignon._ Madame, vat humeure vould you wear to-day?

_Miss Als._ Humour, Chignon? What am I dressed for now?

_Chignon._ The parfaite aimable, madam: but my bringing de point of de hair more down to de eye-brow, or adding a little blowse to de sides, I can give you de look severe, capricieuse--vat you please.

_Miss Als._ We'll put it off for half an hour, I am not quite decided.

I was in the capricieuse yesterday--I believe I shall keep on the perfect amiable. [_Exit CHIGNON._] Tiffany, take off my powdering gown----Ah! ho!----How the wench tugs--do you think you are pulling off the coachman's greatcoat?

_Mrs. Blandish._ My dear amiable!--do not let that sweet temper be ruffled--Why will you not employ me in these little offices. Delicacy like yours should be waited upon by the softness of a sylph.

[_During this Speech exit TIFFANY peevishly._

_Miss Als._ I am promised a creature to be about me out of the common way.

_Mrs. Blandish._ A new woman?

_Miss Als._ No; something to be raised much higher, and at the same time fitted better to receive one's ill-humour. An humble companion, well born, well educated, and perfectly dependent, is a most useful appurtenance in the best families.

_Mrs. Blandish._ Well, do not raise her to the rank of a friend, lest I should be jealous.

_Miss Als._ You may be perfectly secure--I shall take particular care that friendship shall be out of the question on both sides. I had once thought of a restoration of pages to sit in scarlet and silver (as one reads in former times) upon the forepart of the coach, and to hold up one's train--but I have a new male attendant in a valet de chambre, who has possession of my bust--My two women will have the charge from the point of the shoulder to the toe--So my person being provided for--the Countess of Gayville shall have an attendant to wait upon her mind.

_Mrs. Blandish._ I vow a most elegant and uncommon thought.

_Miss Als._ One that can pen a note in the familiar, the punctilious, or the witty--It's quite troublesome to be always writing wit for one's self--But above all, she is to have a talent for music.

_Mrs. Blandish._ Ay, your very soul is framed for harmony.

_Miss Als._ I have not quite determined what to call her--Governante of the private chamber, keeper of the boudoir, with a silver key at her breast----

_Enter CHIGNON._

_Chignon._ Madame, a young lady beg to know if you be visible.

_Miss Als._ A young lady--It is not Lady Emily Gayville?

_Chignon._ Non, madam, but if you were absente, and I had the adjustment of her head, she would be the most charmante personne I did ever see.

_Miss Als._ Introduce her. [_Exit CHIGNON._] Who can this be?

_Mrs. Blandish._ Some woman of taste, to inquire your correspondent at Paris--or--

_Enter MISS ALTON._

_MISS ALSCRIP courtesying respectfully; MISS ALTON retiring disconcerted._

_Miss Als._ Of taste indeed, by her appearance!--Who's in the antichamber? Why did they not open the folding doors?--Chignon, approach a fauteuil for the lady.

_Miss Alton._ Madam, I come!--

_Miss Als._ Madam, pray be seated--

_Miss Alton._ Excuse me, madam,--

_Miss Als._ Madam, I must beg--

_Miss Alton._ Madam, this letter will inform you how little pretension I have to the honours you are offering.

_Miss Als._ [Reads.] _Miss Alton, the bearer of this, is the person I recommended as worthy the honour of attending you as a companion._ [Eyes her scornfully.] _She is born a gentlewoman; I dare say her talents and good qualities will speak more in her favour, than any words I could use--I am, Madam, your most obedient_--um--um--. Blandish, was there ever such a mistake?

_Mrs. Blandish._ Oh! you dear, giddy, absent creature, what could you be thinking of?

_Miss Als._ Absent indeed. Chignon, give me the fauteuil; [_Throws herself into it._] Young woman, where were you educated?

_Miss Alton._ Chiefly, madam, with my parents.

_Miss Als._ But finished, I take it for granted, at a country boarding school; for we have, _young ladies_, you know Blandish, _boarded and educated_, upon blue boards, in gold letters, in every village; with a strolling player for a dancing master, and a deserter from Dunkirk, to teach the French grammar.

_Mrs. Blandish._ How that genius of yours does paint! nothing escapes you--I dare say you have antic.i.p.ated this young lady's story.

_Miss Alton._ It is very true, madam, my life can afford nothing to interest the curiosity of you two ladies; it has been too insignificant to merit your concern, and attended with no circ.u.mstances to excite your pleasantry.

_Miss Als._ [_Yawning._] I hope, child, it will be attended with such for the future as will add to your own--I cannot bear a mope about me.--I am told you have a talent for music--can you touch that harp--It stands here as a piece of furniture, but I have a notion it is kept in tune, by the man who comes to wind up my clocks.

_Miss Alton._ Madam, I dare not disobey you. But I have been used to perform before a most partial audience; I am afraid strangers will think my talent too humble to be worthy attention.

SONG.

_For tenderness framed in life's earliest day,_ _A parent's soft sorrows to mine led the way;_ _The lesson of pity was caught from her eye,_ _And ere words were my own, I spoke in a sigh._