hariot of Venus--it
was with these arms and hands that she beckoned, repelled, entreated,
embraced, her admirers--no single one, for she was armed with her own
virtue, and with her father's valour, whose sword would have leapt from
its scabbard at any insult offered to his child--but the whole house;
which rose to her, as the phrase was, as she curtseyed and bowed, and
charmed it.

Thus she stood for a minute--complete and beautiful--as Pen stared at
her. "I say, Pen, isn't she a stunner?" asked Mr. Foker.

"Hush!" Pen said, "she's speaking."

She began her business in a deep sweet voice. Those who know the play
of the 'Stranger,' are aware that the remarks made by the various
characters are not valuable in themselves, either for their sound sense,
their novelty of observation, or their poetic fancy. In fact, if a man
were to say it was a stupid play, he would not be far wrong. Nobody
ever talked so. If we meet idiots in life, as will happen, it is a great
mercy that they do not use such absurdly fine words. The Stranger's talk
is sham, like the book he reads and the hair he wears, and the bank he
sits on, and the diamond ring he makes play with--but, in the midst
of the balderdash, there runs that reality of love, children, and
forgiveness of wrong, which will be listened to wherever it is preached,
and sets all the world sympathising.

With what smothered sorrow, with what gushing pathos, Mrs. Haller
delivered her part! At first, when as Count Wintersen's housekeeper, and
preparing for his Excellency's arrival, she has to give orders about the
beds and furniture, and the dinner, etc., to be got ready, she did so
with the calm agony of despair. But when she could get rid of the stupid
servants and give vent to her feelings to the pit and the house, she
overflowed to each individual as if he were her particular confidant,
and she was crying out her griefs on his shoulder: the little fiddler
in the orchestra (whom she did not seem to watch, though he followed her
ceaselessly) twitched, twisted, nodded, pointed about, and when she
came to the favourite passage, "I have a William too, if he be still
alive--Ah, yes, if he be still alive. His little sisters, too! Why,
Fancy, dost thou rack me so? Why dost thou image my poor children
fainting in sickness, and crying to--to--their mum--um--other," when
she came to this passage little Bows buried his face in his blue cotton
handkerchief, after crying out "Bravo."

All the