call "going his rounds." She twisted her poor features into looks of
most desperate love towards Lysander; into those of wonder and offended
pride, when she turned them upon Demetrius; and finally settled them on
Helena, with the happiest possible imitation of an incensed rival, who
feels the impossibility of relieving her swollen heart by tears alone,
and is just about to have recourse to her nails.

No contrast could be stronger in looks, demeanour, and figure, than that
between Hermia and Helena. In the latter character, the beautiful form
and foreign dress of Miss Mowbray attracted all eyes. She kept her place
on the stage, as a sentinel does that which his charge assigns him; for
she had previously told her brother, that though she consented, at his
importunity, to make part of the exhibition, it was as a piece of the
scene, not as an actor, and accordingly a painted figure could scarce be
more immovable. The expression of her countenance seemed to be that of
deep sorrow and perplexity, belonging to her part, over which wandered
at times an air of irony or ridicule, as if she were secretly scorning
the whole exhibition, and even herself for condescending to become part
of it. Above all, a sense of bashfulness had cast upon her cheek a
colour, which, though sufficiently slight, was more than her countenance
was used to display; and when the spectators beheld, in the splendour
and grace of a rich Oriental dress, her whom they had hitherto been
accustomed to see attired only in the most careless manner, they felt
the additional charms of surprise and contrast; so that the bursts of
applause which were vollied towards the stage, might be said to be
addressed to her alone, and to vie in sincerity with those which have
been forced from an audience by the most accomplished performer.

"Oh, that puir Lady Penelope!" said honest Mrs. Blower, who, when her
scruples against the exhibition were once got over, began to look upon
it with particular interest,--"I am really sorry for her puir face, for
she gars it work like the sails of John Blower's vesshel in a stiff
breeze.--Oh, Doctor Cacklehen, dinna ye think she wad need, if it were
possible, to rin ower her face wi' a gusing iron, just to take the
wrunkles out o't?"

"Hush, hush! my good dear Mrs. Blower," said the Doctor; "Lady Penelope
is a woman of quality, and my patient, and such people always act
charmingly--you must understand there is no hissing at a private
the