Penelope

CHAPTER V.

The day which followed immediately after the above-mentioned conversation, was destined for a grand dinner party at the mansion of Sir George Aimwell, Bart. Preparations were made for a splendid entertainment. It was not an easy matter to get together a large party in that neighbourhood without admitting to the table some individuals of dubious dignity. There was, for instance, the equivocal Mr Kipperson, at once landlord and tenant, gentleman and farmer; but then he was so zealous a friend to the interest of agriculture. He was so thoroughly enlightened on the corn question, that the great men of Smatterton and Neverden could not but respect him. Sir George Aimwell also liked Mr Kipperson, because he was a bad shot, and had so ardent a zeal against poachers.

This party was assembled, among other objects, for the purpose of welcoming to England the son of the rector of Neverden. But Robert Darnley was by no means in spirits for the enjoyment of festivity. He was sorry for what he had heard from Zephaniah Pringle, and he was angry that he was sorry, and then again sorry that he was angry.

It had been unfortunate for him that there had been such silence observed on the subject of his correspondence and acquaintance with Penelope. Scarcely any one but the parties concerned knew anything of the matter. Mr Kipperson suspected it, and the Smatterton family had been informed of it by Mr Darnley, because the reverend gentleman thought it but respectful to let them into the secret. As for Sir George Aimwell, he scarcely knew or thought of anything, except administering justice and killing birds. The Reverend Charles Pringle, rector of Smatterton, was also quite unaware of the existence of any correspondence between Robert Darnley and Penelope Primrose. No wonder then that, under the present awkward circumstances, and with the false account which Zephaniah, the critic, had brought from London, there should be in the hearing of Robert Darnley much conversation by no means agreeable to his feelings, or soothing to his mind.

When the party began to assemble they began also to talk: but at the first their talk was very desultory and common-place. The worthy baronet was congratulated by Mr Kipperson on having caught a poacher, and was condoled with by the same gentleman on having lost almost his whole brood of pheasants. It is astonishing that any one can be so simple as not to see that pheasants were obviously created to be shot by gentlemen and noblemen only, or their gamekeepers. There was also much talk about horses and dogs, and the poor-rates, and Mr Malthus, and parish settlements, and the agricultural interest.

It is very erroneously stated by many persons, both in writing and in speaking, that the period between the first arrival of the company and the serving up of the dinner is most weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. But as there is no spot of earth so barren as not to produce some curiosity to reward the toil and gratify the taste of the botanist, so there is no attitude or condition of our being which may not yield some fruit of instruction and amusement to the moral botanist. We deserve the thanks of our readers for much that we communicate in the way of information and amusement, but perhaps for nothing so much as for directing their attention to the great and valuable truth, that even the usually-considered dreary half hour before dinner is not absolutely barren and worthless. Peradventure also, by directing the attention to this matter, we may prevent many a dinner from being spoiled, because we thus present a strong inducement to an early arrival. He that arrives first is pretty certain that the rest of the company can have no opportunity of pulling his character to pieces behind his back. For when the host expresses to the rest of his party his wonder that Mr Smith is not come, then the good people who are hungry and impatient begin to talk about Mr Smith, and they use him ungently, treating his transgressions with no candour, and honoring his virtues with no encomium. There is also something very curious in observing the different effects which dining produces on different persons. Some will enter the drawing-room brimfull of intelligence, telling everybody everything that everybody knows, and nobody cares about. There are people who entertain the strange notion that tongues were made to talk about mere matters of fact; and when they have said their say, they are silent for the rest of the evening. There are again others who, before dinner, look as wise and as stupid as owls; who seem at a most painful loss what to do with their hands, or their feet, or their eyes; who having no motive to look at one object in the room more than at another, let their eyes roll unmeaningly and incessantly about as if they were endeavouring to keep them open without looking at anything. But when these apparently inanimate imitations of Chinese Mandarins have had their dinner, their looks are brightened and their tongues loosened, and as before dinner they seemed as if they were wishing most ardently for an opportunity to simper at something which might be said by another, they after dinner give forth that which interests and delights. The period before dinner is also one of great importance for the exhibition of personal decoration. Then, and then only, has dress its right display, and its full complement of observers. In this brief digression it is impossible to enter into one half, or one twentieth of the particulars which may interest and delight an observant mind. “Sermons in stones and good in everything,” is one of the most true and most valuable expressions which the pen of Shakspeare ever wrote. But to proceed.

There was, as we have said above, much miscellaneous talk before dinner at this “grand miscellaneous” entertainment, given by Sir George Aimwell. Mr Kipperson strutted about the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as wise as a conjuror and as pleased as Punch, saying something scientific or agricultural to every one there. The Reverend Charles Pringle made his appearance also time enough to show the company how possible it was to violate the decorum of clerical attire without actually transgressing the literal regulations. Lady Aimwell received much of that gentleman’s polite attention; and the daughters of Mr Darnley were also not unnoticed. The new rector of Smatterton was very clever at conundrums, some new ones of his own making were graciously communicated to the young ladies. Zephaniah Pringle, the critic, was pleased to look very important, and to feel his dignity and intellectuality mightily hurt, because the talk, such as it was, had no interest for him. He was much at a loss to think how it was possible for human beings to take an interest in such unintellectual things as corn, cattle, game and poor-laws; and he thought the people were great blockheads because they talked about what concerned themselves. Robert Darnley received the congratulations of his friends; but he received them coldly, for his mind was not at ease.

Now after much talk, miscellaneous and desultory, several of the party, while yet they were waiting for dinner, congregated together at one of the windows, and their talk was almost in whispers. Zephaniah Pringle was one of that select committee, and he was speaking very gravely and very knowingly, and Sir George Aimwell was looking as much as to say, “I am very sorry for it.” Mr Darnley the elder was also one of the whispering group, and looked as serious and solemn as any one of them; and every now and then he turned his eyes suspiciously and inquiringly towards his son. The young gentleman more than suspected what was the subject of their discourse; and as the rector of Neverden was the only one of the party who had any suspicion of the interest which Robert Darnley took in the person concerning whom the discussion was made, they did not very carefully subdue and suppress their voices, but they spoke loudly enough to be heard in their whispering, and the name of Primrose was heard by Robert Darnley, and in spite of his high spirit he felt sick at heart. And though he felt little appetite for dinner, he was glad of the announcement, which relieved him from hearing, or rather fancying that he heard, talk that told of the shame of Penelope.

Oh, that our pen could write strongly as our heart feels against those villanous, viper-souled, low-minded, merciless reptiles, who, from motives too grovelling and dirty to be analyzed, impertinently by their ill-digested calumnies, mutilate and mangle the fairest reputation, and sully the purest characters. Never can such vermin be sufficiently punished or adequately vituperated, for they are absolutely incapable of feeling such racking mental agonies as they inflict on others. What could such a heartless puppy as Zephaniah Pringle feel of mental and heart-rending agony, compared with that which Robert Darnley experienced, when he had reason to think that the high-minded, clear-souled Penelope, whom he had loved for her purity, her moral as well as personal beauty, had so far forgotten all good feelings and all high thoughts as to sink down into a character for which refined language has no name?

The baronet’s table was splendidly covered, and the guests were as well pleased in demolishing as the cook had been in constructing and compiling the various specimens of culinary art. Sir George Aimwell paid, as was proper, especial attention to Robert Darnley, and endeavoured to draw the young man into conversation, or, more properly speaking, to provoke him into narrative. To such questions as were asked he gave an ample and intelligent answer, but he proceeded no further; he did not seem desirous to obtrude himself upon the attention of the company.

Table-talk was by no means the forte of the worthy baronet; but when he had a party he generally exerted himself: and as he was very well aware that, in his own proper person, and from his own peculiar stores, he was by no means a man of talk, he very considerately endeavoured to set in motion other tongues than his own. On the present occasion he thought, that as Mr Robert Darnley had been long abroad, he would most likely be best able to entertain the guests. But when the hospitable host observed how very slowly and reluctantly the young man brought out the stores of his information, he next directed his attention to Zephaniah Pringle, who was not so reserved. He spoke fluently, and readily, and oracularly. Sir George, though not a man of letters, was ready enough to indulge his guests, or to suffer them, if they would, to indulge themselves, with literary conversation; and it was a great happiness to Zephaniah Pringle to let the inhabitants of Smatterton and Neverden know how great a man was in their company. Yet there was a little abatement from the purity and intensity of that enjoyment, in the observing how inapt they seemed to be in comprehending which were the first publications of the day, and which were productions of inferior note. Some of the party asked strange things about reviews and magazines, and Zephaniah was astonished that there should be in any part of Great Britain such complete, total darkness, and intellectual neglect, as that his own peculiar periodical should be altogether unknown even by name. He attributed their ignorance to mere spite, or thought that Lord Smatterton, being a Whig, had made it a point to conceal from his country neighbours the existence of that periodical, which, by the means of pastry-cooks and tobacconists, had an immense circulation in the metropolis. The daughters of Mr Darnley listened with much reverence to the oracles of Zephaniah the critic, and they thought him prodigiously wise, because he thought differently from everybody else. They asked his opinion of every book which they remembered having read: and they endeavoured to persuade themselves to entertain the same opinions as he did.

If our readers imagine that, from what we have said concerning the daughters of the rector of Neverden, these young ladies were superficial simpletons, we are desirous of removing such impression. They were not conceitedly confident in their own judgment; and, as they were not much in the way of seeing or hearing literary pretenders and intellectual quacks, they gave Zephaniah Pringle credit for all that he assumed. They did not think very highly of themselves, and therefore they readily yielded assent to the oracles of one who appeared so competent and able to give an opinion. Many others, besides the daughters of Mr Darnley, have been at a first, or even second interview with Zephaniah, very greatly deceived as to the height, the depth, and the breadth, of the critic’s understanding.

This part of our narrative, though not directly tending to the developement of the history, we could not consent to pass by unnoticed; for though it may not be very entertaining, it is instructive, and it affords us an opportunity of giving a valuable hint to our young readers. The hint to which we allude, is to caution them against too much modesty. Only suppose, for instance, that such an empty-headed coxcomb as Zephaniah Pringle had entertained a fair opinion of his own understanding, or that he had underrated his own intellectual powers and stores, who would ever have found out that he was superior to what he assumed? Who would have taken the trouble to urge him to assume a higher rank? Not one. But now that he set himself up for a great one, who was to detect the hollowness of his pretensions? Not above one in a hundred. And who would take the trouble to expose him? Not one in a thousand. And who would take notice of the exposure? Not one in ten thousand.

In our next edition we will cancel this last paragraph, if we find that modesty has ever made its owner rich or celebrated. Modesty is certainly very much to be praised, and if we were candidate for any situation of honor or emolument, or even for a good seat in a theatre, we should very much approve of the modesty of such as, having power to rival us, would meekly and quietly stand out of our way.

CHAPTER VI.

During the night which followed the grand dinner given by Sir George Aimwell, Robert Darnley scarcely slept a single hour. He retired to his apartment full of bitter and distracting thoughts, almost tempted to believe that there was truth in the foul libels that thoughtless blockheads have uttered and written concerning the gentler sex. He said to himself, “Frailty! thy name is woman.” He was so grieved, so pierced to the heart’s core, that he forgot for a while all that he had heard, read, or witnessed of woman’s devout affection, unwearied kindness, heroic attachment, and moral sublimity. And he thought not of the patience with which woman bears the peevishness of our infancy, the selfishness of our riper years, and the capricious fretfulness of our declining age. He was for a while angry and contemptuous, professing to himself an indifference which he did not feel, and fancying himself superior to that weakness under which he was writhing and labouring in bitter agony. Then there was a change in the complexion of his thoughts, and as the angry passions yielded to the approaching drowsiness which health must periodically experience, more tender and more gentle thoughts subdued him. The eyelids were scarcely closed, when imagination threw her rainbow light on past days, and there stood before him, not quite in a dream, the image of Penelope—lovely, bright, and living. The momentary vision melted him, and the effort to retain it banished it. Slowly his slumbers crept again upon him, and the vision was more distinct, and he could hear again that sweet voice with which he had been enraptured, and there was in his heart a repetition of that swell of feeling with which he had years ago taken his leave of her. So passed the night.

When morning came again, it found the young man unrefreshed and unrested. But in the family of the rector of Neverden there was great regularity and punctuality. Robert Darnley therefore made his appearance at breakfast at the usual hour. It was impossible not to see that his mind was painfully disturbed, and it was also equally impossible not to conjecture the cause of its agitation.

A very unpleasant restraint sat upon the whole party. Mr Darnley the elder would not speak on the subject of his son’s altered appearance, and Mrs Darnley and her daughters were reluctant to introduce any mention of the matter, unsanctioned by Mr Darnley. The hour of breakfast was usually to that family a season of social and cheerful talk, but on the present occasion there was silence and restraint; and as they abstained from addressing themselves to Robert, they also abstained from talking to one another. When breakfast was over Mr Darnley desired his son’s presence in the study.

Robert Darnley knew he was destined to undergo a lecture, and he braced himself up to bear it with filial resignation. The young man’s father prided himself on the fluency with which he could talk in the way of admonition, and we believe that he derived almost as much pleasure from these exhibitions as his auditors did profit. Sir George Aimwell used to say, that instead of sending poachers to gaol, it would be a better plan to send them to Mr Darnley to be talked to; for the worthy baronet thought that they would not readily expose themselves to the risk of a second infliction. Those of our readers who have never been talked to will not be able to sympathize with Robert Darnley; those who have, will pity him from the bottom of their hearts.

The young man promptly obeyed his father’s commands and delayed not to attend him in the study; for he naturally supposed that the sooner the lecture began the sooner it would be over. The father seated himself and desired his son to shut the door and seat himself too. These preliminary steps having been taken, and Mr Darnley having stirred and arranged the fire so amply as to preclude the necessity of any more attention to it for some time, thus began:

“Robert, my dear boy, I wish to have some little talk with you. I have not had much opportunity of speaking to you since you came home. Now, you know, I can have no other object in view than your welfare. I do not desire you to follow the advice I may give you, unless you are convinced of its propriety. You know of course what I am now alluding to—your unhappy attachment to that unfortunate young woman, Miss Primrose. For my part, I cannot say that I altogether approved of it in the first instance; but I said nothing. I knew the impetuosity of your character and the obstinacy of your disposition, and therefore I concluded that opposition might do more harm than good. I hoped that, in time, your own good sense would let you see that it was not a suitable connexion for you. I do not say indeed that I have ever observed anything absolutely improper in the conduct of Miss Primrose; but I must be permitted to say, that there was too much pride in her manner, considering her station and expectations. Of the young woman’s father I knew comparatively nothing, except that he had gambled away his property and broken his wife’s heart. Mr Primrose did call here, as you know; but I must confess to you I was not much pleased with his manners. I was under the disagreeable necessity of rebuking him for taking the name of the Lord in vain. As for the young woman herself, of course you must relinquish all thoughts of her after what you have heard from Mr Pringle. Now let me advise you to banish her from your mind at once. I am sorry to see that your thoughts are still too much dwelling upon her. You make your mother and your sisters and me very uncomfortable by these gloomy looks. Why can you not be cheerful as you used to be? What have you to regret? You ought rather to be grateful that you have been rescued from such a marriage, and that it cannot be said that the dissolution of the acquaintance arose from your own caprice. I think that the young woman did not manifest a very great sense of propriety when she so readily adopted the profession of a public singer. And what would the world say, should the report ever get abroad, that my son was desirous of marrying a public singer? I gave the young woman all the good advice I possibly could; but I fear it will be of no use to her. There were such very strong manifestations of her partiality for that profligate young man, Lord Spoonbill, that I am not at all surprised at what I hear from Mr Pringle. Now all that I can say is, that if after this you can retain any regard for Miss Primrose, you do not shew yourself a man of sense and prudence.”

Here Mr Darnley paused, not because he was out of breath, for he spoke very slowly and deliberately, but because he thought that he had said enough to induce his son to relinquish the thought of Penelope, and to make himself mightily happy under his disappointment. But it certainly is very provoking, after living three years or more in expectation of receiving the hand and heart of a lovely, amiable, and intelligent young lady, to find at last that all this bright anticipation is come to nought. It had been painful to Robert Darnley that several of his later communications had been unanswered; but he would not suffer that circumstance alone to weigh with him, considering it possible that the fault was in the irregular transmission of letters. When he came back to England and heard that Miss Primrose was in London with the Earl of Smatterton’s family, it appeared obvious enough that she had considered the correspondence as having ceased. But still it was not clear to the young man’s entire satisfaction that this had been a voluntary act on the part of Penelope. It was possible that his letters might not have reached their destination, and that Miss Primrose might be regarding him as the faithless one. Such was his spirit, that he would not rest under the imputation of such conduct, and he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of coming to an explanation. When, however, in addition to all that he had heard from his own family of the partiality manifested by Penelope for Lord Spoonbill, he heard also the tale told by Zephaniah Pringle, he wavered and hesitated. It was not probable, he thought, that such rumours could be totally unfounded, and it comported but too well with what Mr Darnley had already said.

The distress of mind which Robert Darnley suffered, and that gloominess of look which his father reprobated and lectured him upon, did not arise so much from the mere loss of Penelope, as from the harassing doubts to which he was exposed by the conflicting of external and internal evidence. It is a painful thing to doubt, because it is humiliating, and seems to question our discernment. It is also very perplexing to the mind when it sees evidence enough to prove that which it feels to be impossible, or very unlikely. In this dilemma Robert Darnley had been placed by what he had heard of Penelope Primrose. He knew, or at least very firmly believed her to be of decided character, good principle and high spirit. He felt it impossible that she should love a profligate or a blockhead, and he knew Lord Spoonbill to be both. But it was very clear that she was with Lord Smatterton’s family, and that she had certainly contemplated the public exercise of her musical talents.

To his fathers discourse therefore he listened with unresisting patience, and only replied when it was finished; “I can only say, sir, that if what Mr Pringle has said concerning Miss Primrose be true, I have been very much deceived in the estimate which I had formed of the young lady’s mind and character.”

“Certainly you were,” replied his father; “you are a young man and have seen but little of human nature. You are hasty, very hasty, in forming your judgment. You will grow wiser as you grow older. Now I was not deceived in Miss Primrose. I could see her real character. I always thought her very proud and vain and conceited. But she laboured under great disadvantages in her education. Her uncle was a worthy man, but he was a mere scholar, by no means a man of the world. And as for Mrs Greendale, she is a very weak woman.”

Robert Darnley knew his father too well to contradict him directly in anything which he might be pleased to assert; he therefore only ventured in a very circuitous way to insinuate the possibility that Mr Zephaniah Pringle might be erroneously informed, and that there might be some mistake or misapprehension. But the worthy rector of Neverden was not able to bear the slightest approach to contradiction or opposition. He had lived so long in absolute authority in his own house and parish, that he was perfectly sincere in believing that he could never be wrong and ought never to be contradicted. He therefore contributed very considerably to shorten the discussion, by saying:

“You are of age, and of course may do as you please; but, if you will condescend to take my advice, you will think no more of Miss Primrose. At all events, it is my particular request that I may hear no more of her.”

To this the young gentleman bowed respectfully. Now it does not appear to us that Mr Darnley adopted the best plan in the world to set his son’s heart at rest. Nor did Robert Darnley find any great alleviation in what his father had been pleased to say concerning Penelope’s actual situation and real character. It also occurred to the young gentleman’s mind, that his father had superfluously and unnecessarily quoted the fact of Mr Primrose having used irreverent and thoughtless language. It is not indeed, generally speaking, advisable to bring every possible accusation against an offending one; for by so doing we make known our own pettishness or malignity quite as much as we display the sins of the accused. If Miss Primrose had been in other respects a suitable wife for Robert Darnley, the fact that her father had spoken hastily and unadvisedly, would not have rendered her unsuitable. And if the situation of Penelope had been such as it had been represented by Mr Pringle, then there was quite enough to set Robert Darnley’s mind at rest upon the subject, without quoting Mr Primrose’s transgressions.

The disappointed lover had no sooner finished the task of hearing his father’s lecture, than he was destined to undergo a gabblement from his mother and sisters. Mrs Darnley was a worthy good creature as ever lived; but she would talk, and that not always consequentially. She always however meant well, though she might be clumsy in the manifestation of her well-meaning.

“Well, Robert,”—thus began Mrs Darnley,—“and so your father has been talking to you about poor Penelope Primrose. What a pity it is that such a nice young woman should turn out so. I really could hardly believe my senses when I first heard of it. Dear me, what a favorite she used to be here; your father used to think so highly of her.”

“I can’t say that I thought so very highly of her,” interrupted Miss Mary Darnley; “she was a great deal too haughty for my liking. Of course we were civil to her for Robert’s sake.”

Miss Mary was rude in thus interrupting her mother, but it was the general practice with the young ladies, and Mrs Darnley was so much in the habit of being interrupted, that she always expected it, and kept talking on till some one else of the party began. Now this remark of Miss Mary might be founded on truth, or it might be merely the result of an angry imagination. For there is in the human mind such a reluctance to acknowledge an error in judgment, that even when we have been really and palpably deceived in a human character, we generally find out or persuade ourselves that we “prophesied so,” though we never told any body.

The eldest Miss Darnley, however, had more candour. It was her opinion that, though Miss Primrose had not behaved exactly as she ought to do, yet she had too high a sense of propriety and decorum ever to transgress as was represented by Mr Pringle.

In this annunciation of opinions it was but right and regular that the youngest should speak in her turn; and notwithstanding the apparent deference which she had seemed on the previous day to yield to the oracular language of Zephaniah Pringle the critic, she said:

“I wonder who told Mr Pringle? I dare say Miss Primrose did not, and I should not think it likely that Lord Spoonbill did.”

“Oh dear,” replied Mary, “I dare say it is the general talk in London, and everbody knows it by this time.”

“Oh dear,” retorted Martha, “I dare say you know a great deal about London.”

“I know a great deal more about it than you do, Martha; I was there with papa nearly two months when we had lodgings in Wigmore street.”

Martha was inclined to be pert, and Mary to be pettish, and the two sisters would very likely have enjoyed a skirmish of tongues, had they not been stopped by the good humour of their brother, who was very happy to divert their tongues and thoughts to other topics. Robert Darnley therefore made an effort to suppress unpleasant feelings, and directed the conversation to affairs of a different description; and he amused his mother and sisters with anecdotes and narratives descriptive of the country from which he had recently arrived.

In assuming this composure, Robert Darnley was not a little aided by the suggestion thrown out by Martha. And he began to think it very possible that Mr Zephaniah Pringle might have been misinformed. He might have had wit enough to form that conjecture without the assistance of his youngest sister; but he was too much agitated to think calmly on the subject.

CHAPTER VII.

After the first passionate agitation of meeting had subsided, and Penelope was able to speak collectedly, and Mr Primrose was patient enough to listen to two successive sentences, the young lady explained to her father the situation in which she had been placed by the sudden decease of her uncle, and spoke of the kindness which she had experienced from the Earl and Countess of Smatterton, adding, that they had been so kind as to propose giving her the opportunity of meeting her father in London. She then informed her father that Lord Spoonbill was in the house, and would be happy to see him.

Mr Primrose was too happy at the meeting with his daughter to think anything of the awkward stories which he had heard of the young gentleman’s irregularities. He therefore expressed himself pleased with an opportunity of making his acknowledgments to any part of the family. The young lord therefore soon made his appearance. And such was the frank, gentlemanly aspect and bearing of Mr Primrose, that his lordship was quite delighted with him, and said with great sincerity much which he would otherwise have said with polite formality and hypocrisy.

Penelope exercised a considerable degree of self-command in introducing Lord Spoonbill so composedly to her father. And happy was it at this moment for Mr Primrose, that such was his cheerfulness and hilarity of feeling, that he was only sensible to that which was pleasant and agreeable.

“My Lord Spoonbill,” said he with one of his politest bows, and with the most agreeable intonation of voice that he could command, “I thank you most sincerely, and I beg that you will convey my most cordial and respectful thanks to the Earl and Countess of Smatterton for their kind and generous attention to my dear child.”

Even with similar politeness did Lord Spoonbill profess how truly happy the Earl and Countess had been in affording any accommodation to the neice of their late esteemed friend, the respected rector of Smatterton. By making mention of that good man, Lord Spoonbill brought tears into the eyes of Mr Primrose, who mournfully shook his head and replied:

“Ah, my lord, he was indeed a good man. I lament the loss of him most sincerely. So much kind feeling, blended with such strict integrity, and so high a degree of moral purity, I never have witnessed in any other. I have seen strictness of principle with severity of manners, and I have witnessed kindness of heart with moral carelessness; but the late Dr Greendale had the most finely attempered mind of any man I ever knew. He did, or desired to do, good to everybody, and that must have been a hard heart which he could not soften.”

It was well for Lord Spoonbill at this moment that he was not of so susceptible a temperament as Mr Primrose, or the remark last recorded would have distressed him. It was in another point of view ill for his lordship that he had not a little more sensibility, for if he had he might have been moved to contrition and reflection. His lordship very courteously assented to every compliment which Mr Primrose felt disposed to pay to the late Dr Greendale. And presently his lordship directed the talk to other matters; for though he had not sensibility to be moved, yet he had enough of that kind of feeling which rendered him awkward under reflections and recollections. The hereditary legislator was also especially desirous of knowing what was to be the immediate destination of Miss Primrose and her father; but found, after a long conversation and many indirect hints, that no arrangement of any determinate nature had entered the mind of Mr Primrose, who probably thought, that for the night ensuing, he might take up his abode at the town residence of Lord Smatterton.

At length, Lord Spoonbill, finding that it became time for him to return to dinner, and knowing that it would not be very agreeable to the Countess to take back with him father and daughter too, and suspecting also very strongly and very naturally that the two were not likely to be separated, began to make something like an apology to Mr Primrose for having brought him to an empty house, and offered such accommodation as the house might afford, expressing his great regret that he himself was under the necessity of returning to Lord Smatterton’s suburban villa.

These explanations and apologies roused Mr Primrose to his recollection, and he presently and promptly declined availing himself of his lordship’s kind offer, and expressed his intention of taking up his abode at a hotel, which he named.

Lord Spoonbill was satisfied. He now knew where to find Mr Primrose again; and so long as he was not at a loss where to seek Penelope, his lordship readily took his leave, with a promise that he would very shortly pay his respects again to his good friends.

Mr Primrose and his daughter then went to their hotel, and the overjoyed parent endeavoured to compose himself for the sobriety of narrative and interrogation. Many questions were asked, and multitudinous digressions and recommencements and interruptions rendered their discourse rather less instructive than entertaining. The father of Penelope walked restlessly about the room, and ever and anon would he stop and look with an indescribable earnestness on the face of his child, as if to fill his mind’s eye with her image, or to endeavour to trace her likeness to her departed mother. And from these momentary absorptions he would start into recollection, and utter such thrilling expressions of delight, that his poor child feared that the joy would be too much for him.

Some of the human species have suffered more from joy than from sorrow. Ecstacy has lifted the mind to that height and giddiness as to destroy its self-command, and to precipitate it into the depths and darkness of idiocy. Penelope entertained a fear of this kind for her father. For she had not been accustomed to witness or yield to any very strong emotions. Her uncle, with whom she had lived, had been a very quiet man; and, in his studious retirement, life had passed smoothly and placidly as the waveless current of a subterranean stream. Mrs Greendale had experienced and manifested occasional ebullitions, but they were merely culinary, domestic, common-place, and transitory. As for herself, poor girl, deep as her feelings might have been, and strongly, as in various instances, she might have been moved, these emotions were solitary and soon suppressed.

When therefore she saw her father in this state of agitation, much of her own joy was abated in thoughts and fears for him. But in time the violence of the emotion abated, and the father and daughter sat down together to dinner. This was a relief to them both. When the cloth was removed, Mr Primrose then bethought himself of Robert Darnley. Drawing closer to the fire, he said to Penelope; “Well, but, my dear child, I have not yet said a word about an old acquaintance of yours, whom report says you have not used handsomely. But I don’t mind what report says. Have you quite forgot your old neighbour Robert Darnley?”

Penelope sighed and shook her head, and replied, “Oh, no, my dear father; I have not forgotten him.”

“Then why did you not answer his letters?”

“I answered his letters, but he did not answer mine.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr Primrose; “do you say that he was the person who dropped the correspondence? You are wrong, my dear, you are wrong. Ay, ay, I see how it is—some letters have not been delivered. It is all a misunderstanding; but it will soon be set right. I have seen the young man. He is now at Neverden; and he tells me that you have not answered his letters. But we shall soon see him in town. He would have come with me, but he must needs stay to eat his Christmas dinner at the parsonage, just to please the old folks. That of course is right; and if children did but know how easily parents are pleased, and how happy they are when their children please them, there would not be so many undutiful children in the world.—And so, my dear Penelope, it is all a mere invention that you are attached to Lord Spoonbill?”

Recollecting what had that morning taken place, and from that also calling to mind what before she had not noticed, and what without that event she would have forgotten; thinking again how assiduously and politely attentive Lord Spoonbill had behaved towards her, she began to think that his lordship’s attentive behaviour had been seen and noticed by others when it had not been obvious to herself. And these thoughts confused and perplexed her. Therefore she did not immediately reply to her father’s interrogation. Her silence was observed by her anxious parent, and he hastily said:

“What then, is it true? But it is a great pity. Robert Darnley is a fine spirited young man; and I am sure he did not design to drop the correspondence. Well, well; you are like your father, you are very hasty. But never mind, it cannot be helped now. And what will you say to poor Darnley when he sees you again; for I fully expect him up in town as soon as Christmas is well over? I dare say he will be here in a week, or a little more. I told him that he would find us at this hotel. And has Lord Spoonbill really made proposals to you? And have you accepted his offer?”

The discovery which this talk of her father opened to the mind of Penelope moved her with feelings not describable. There was powerful and oppressive agitation, but whether painful or pleasurable she scarcely knew. Her heart was too full to speak, and her thoughts too hurried for utterance. The colour was in her cheeks, and the tears were silently falling, and presently the quick glancing eye of her father caught the expression of concern and deep feeling, and his impetuosity misinterpreted the emotion. With rapidity of utterance, and with kind tenderness of tone, he exclaimed, grasping her hand:

“Nay, nay, my dear Penelope, do not be so afflicted. You misunderstand me, indeed you do. I am not angry with you. If you are really attached to Lord Spoonbill, and if he has a regard for you, I would not for the world oppose your inclinations. If you are happy, I shall be so. I know comparatively very little of Robert Darnley. As to what I saw of his father, I certainly thought not favourably. The young man appeared not so proud and formal as the old gentleman. But Lord Spoonbill may be a very excellent man, and I am sure he would not be your choice if he were not so. I dare say that all these stories I have heard of his profligacies are not true.”

Hereat the young lady started; and she thought that she had some faint recollection of having heard some obscure hints on that subject; for these matters are not made the topic of explicit discourse in the presence of young ladies. And with this impression she hastened to undeceive her father as to the state of her affections, protesting very calmly and deliberately that there had not been any transfer of her attachment to Lord Spoonbill from Robert Darnley. And, as connectedly and circumstantially as she was able, she narrated the history of her life, from the decease of her worthy uncle to the moment of her meeting with her father.

Mr Primrose made his observations on these events, and expressed himself delighted in having arrived in England time enough to prevent his daughter from publicly exhibiting her musical talents. Now, in the course of Penelope’s narrative, mention had not been made, nor did it seem necessary to state the fact, of Lord Spoonbill’s declaration of devotedness, which his lordship had made that very morning. It was therefore unfortunate, though of no great consequence, that when the poor girl had finished her story, Mr Primrose said:

“And so then after all Lord Spoonbill has not said a word to you on the subject of attachment?”

It became necessary then to acknowledge what had passed in the morning; and the reluctance with which the acknowledgment was made very naturally excited some slight suspicion in the breast of Mr Primrose, that there was something more serious than had been acknowledged. A satisfactory explanation however was made, and all was right again.

This trifling incident would not have been mentioned, but for the illustration which it affords of the value of explicitness and candour, and for the proof which it presents that the purest and most upright mind may, from a false delicacy, involve itself in serious perplexity.

CHAPTER VIII.

They both agreed that, if the young man was still seriously attached, he would find some way of communicating with them now all parties were together in England. And so he certainly would have done, had it not been for the false report carried to Neverden by the loyal and religious Zephaniah Pringle, and corroborated by the almost unanimous and universal talk of the people of that village. Influenced by this tale, he remained at Neverden spending day after day in most clumsily doing nothing at all. His father talked to him, his mother talked to him, and his sisters talked to him, but all their talk amounted to nothing. Disappointed affection is a painful feeling, and talking cannot heal it; nor was it ever known in the course of human experience, that calling a man a fool has been the means of making him wise.

Whatever were the feelings of Robert Darnley on this sad blight of his fair hopes, he was wise enough to keep them to himself; he was indeed dull and listless, but he did not annoy others any farther than thus negatively. On the other hand, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill had no sooner accomplished the mighty feat of telling Miss Primrose how devoted he was to her, than he must needs again invade the luxurious and lounging solitude of his friend Erpingham in order again to talk over the subject. His lordship did not indeed on the very day after, but at as short an interval as possible consistent with other engagements, call upon his luxurious friend to enjoy the pleasure of talking about Miss Primrose.

Now Erpingham, as we have already intimated, was by no means a simpleton. He had wisdom enough to see through Lord Spoonbill, though his lordship was not always able to comprehend the logic of his old college companion. There is at Cambridge, as everybody knows, a species of animal called a tuft-hunter, that is, a plebeian man, who, for pence or pride, cultivates an acquaintance with the young green shoots of nobility that are sent to that place to learn horse-racing, card-playing, and mathematics, in order to make laws to preserve game and keep up the dignity of hereditary legislators. Now Erpingham was not one of that description. But there are, among the unfledged lordlings who honor that town and university with their superfine presence, some few individuals who, in order to enjoy a stronger sense and feeling of their own noble rank and exalted condition, seek for acquaintance among the untitled. Of this class was Lord Spoonbill, and his acquaintance thus and there formed, was Mr Erpingham.

To seek an acquaintance with any individual is generally felt, whether it be so considered or not, as an act of humiliation. It is at all events a homage paid to the acquaintance thus sought. He that voluntarily seeks after another, involuntarily pays that other a compliment. And frequently that compliment is taken by those who receive it for more than it is really worth. By this circumstance therefore that the acquaintance with Erpingham had been of Lord Spoonbill’s own seeking, the former did not quite so highly value and honor the young legislator as otherwise he might have done. And when once we can thoroughly and heartily take it into our heads that any man is a fool, it is no difficult matter to convince ourselves that he really is so. Plenty of illustrations are always at hand, if we be intimate with the person in question.

Now, in spite of all the reverence which Mr Erpingham felt for high rank, he could not help thinking that his lordship was no conjuror. Indeed it is no more to be wished than it is to be expected that the House of Lords should be all conjurors. As therefore Mr Erpingham thought but indifferently of the understanding of his right honorable friend, it is not to be wondered at that Lord Spoonbill should not always be treated with the most profound respect. At Cambridge, indeed, Erpingham thought it something of an honor to be acquainted with a nobleman; but by degrees, and especially after leaving the university, the gentleman thought otherwise, and diminished much of the homage which he had formerly paid to that right honorable hereditary pillar of the Protestant succession.

When therefore Lord Spoonbill made his appearance again, and threatened a tedious lack-a-daisical prating about love, Mr Erpingham almost laughed at him.

“Well, Spoonbill,” said the Epicurean, “and so you are coming to report progress. And what says this paragon of wit and beauty? I suppose you have made your arrangements: and am I to be honored by an introduction?”

Lord Spoonbill shook his head, and went on tediously to relate all the particulars of the journey to London and the introduction to Mr Primrose. To all this Mr Erpingham listened very attentively; and, when the narrative was concluded, he drawled out, “Well, Spoonbill, and what then?”

To that question the hereditary legislator made no direct or intelligible reply. His friend therefore repeated his question, adding: “Were you content with making a mere sentimental speech about your devotion to this young lady? And did not you give the slightest intimation of your designs?”

“How could I,” replied his lordship, “under these circumstances?”

“Then I will tell you, my good friend, that I have done more for you than you have done for yourself.”

Lord Spoonbill started and stared, and exclaimed: “Erpingham! what do you mean?”

“I mean what I say. Do you know Zephaniah Pringle, a literary prig, with whose vanity I sometimes amuse myself?”

“Certainly I do,” replied his lordship; “but what can he have to do with this matter?”

“A great deal,” replied Erpingham; “he is, as I suppose you know, an impertinent chatter-box, and whatever is trusted to him as a profound secret is sure to be known to all the world; so I communicated to him that Miss Primrose was in the high road to be placed under the protection of the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill, and by this time Smatterton and its adjoining village is already in possession of the important secret.”

On hearing this, Lord Spoonbill started, as if with a strong sense of moral indignation, and exclaimed: “Erpingham, are you mad? What could you mean by circulating such a report? Suppose I should intend to marry Miss Primrose!”

“Why, then you are less likely to have a rival.”

Although Lord Spoonbill was quite as profligate and unprincipled as Mr Erpingham, yet as his profligacy and want of principle were not managed and directed precisely after the model of the same vices in the conduct of his friend, his lordship took credit to himself that he could enjoy the pleasure of reproving the vicious principles of this Epicurean. But though he expressed a feeling of indignation at the cool, deliberate viciousness of this son of luxury and sensuality, he felt no little satisfaction in the thought that this report must infallibly reach the ears of Mr Robert Darnley, and thus prevent any further attempt on his part to renew the acquaintance with Penelope.

It may seem rather strange to some part of our readers, that a man who could descend to the meanness of intercepting letters, should lift up his voice and turn up his eyes at the sin of circulating false reports touching the character and situation of a young woman, and that this same man should deliberately meditate on schemes for placing that young woman in that situation which he professed to think so degrading. But there is a wonderful difference in the apprehension which men entertain of the same vices under different circumstances. There is also observable in the feelings of Lord Spoonbill, on the present occasion, the readiness and satisfaction with which a man will cheerfully avail himself of the benefits derivable from the vicious or unprincipled conduct of others.

The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill seemed to think that his friend Erpingham had behaved very unhandsomely and disrespectfully to Penelope by causing such a rumour to get into circulation; but, when it occurred to him that some advantage might be taken of the said rumour, his indignation was abated, and all his reproof was softened down into merely saying:

“Really, Erpingham, you are too bad.”

Everybody who is worse than ourselves is too bad; everybody, whose vices differ from ours, is too bad. Lord Spoonbill was selfish, sensual, and unprincipled; but he endeavoured to conceal his character, and, from attempting to deceive others, had come at last to deceive himself; and he really did flatter himself that there was some good in his character, and some good feelings in his heart. But Erpingham, on the other hand, did not play the hypocrite either to himself or to others; he was definite and decided, and he took to himself some little credit for the unblushing honesty of his conduct and character. He smiled contemptuously at the meanness and littleness of his friend Spoonbill’s vices; but this meanness was essential to the very existence of his vices, he would have been frightened at himself had he seen his own moral features without a mask.

There was this difference in the character of these two friends, that had Erpingham had the same object in view as Lord Spoonbill, he would have pursued it unblushingly, unhesitatingly, and without remorse. He would have intercepted letters, but he would not have shuddered when he had them in his possession; nor would he have hesitated to open them, if that would have forwarded his schemes. There would have been no demur or doubt, but everything would have been rendered subservient to his villanous purposes. But Lord Spoonbill was not so straitforward in his roguery, he was a more pusillanimous profligate. The difference between the two is, that Erpingham was an object of indignation, and Lord Spoonbill of contempt.

Seeing therefore how matters now stood, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill thought that he might as well pursue his first object with regard to Penelope, and not, at least for the present, think or say a word concerning marriage. And it was a great consolation to him in the course of his meditations to think how much more unprincipled Erpingham was than he.

From a long, and to the Epicurean a wearying discussion, Lord Spoonbill returned to his home; and on his return he found that the Countess was quite angry, and that her patience was exhausted in waiting for Penelope’s return. The young lady had indeed mentioned the subject to her father, but he did not think any further acknowledgments necessary than he had already personally made to the heir of the house of Smatterton. Nor could Mr Primrose persuade himself that any very high tribute of gratitude was due for that species of patronage which the Countess of Smatterton had proposed for his daughter. It was his feeling, that her ladyship had in view her own gratification quite as much as the welfare of Penelope.

When therefore Lord Spoonbill found that the Countess was still expecting either the return of Miss Primrose, or some grateful intimation that the proffered patronage was declined, he thought it an excellent opportunity to propose a call on Mr Primrose; and, after some of the usual prate about condescension and dignity, the young lord, on the following morning, rode up to town.

CHAPTER IX.

This was the situation of Penelope when Lord Spoonbill called upon her. Mr Primrose was not within: business demanded his attention in the City, and there he was likely to be detained some hours. The young lord, with well feigned seriousness, expressed his regret that he should be so unfortunate as not to meet with Mr Primrose, and he added that he would call again if Mr Primrose was likely soon to return. When however he heard that Penelope did not expect her father till dinner-time, he was more pleased with the information than he professed to be. Miss Primrose very respectfully enquired after the Earl and Countess of Smatterton; and, in replying to those enquiries, Lord Spoonbill took the opportunity of hinting that her ladyship felt somewhat anxious to know whether the return of Mr Primrose to England had induced Penelope to relinquish the thought of that profession which she had recently contemplated, and for which immediate preparation became otherwise necessary and important.

In reply to this enquiry, Penelope informed his lordship that her father had expressed himself decidedly of opinion that such pursuit would not be agreeable to himself or necessary for his daughter. Lord Spoonbill cared little for the disappointment, except that it would be in the way of his schemes, and render the arrangement which he meditated rather more difficult of execution. So far as expectation was concerned, he was prepared for this event; but he was not prepared with any plan that he might immediately pursue.

After the common-place talk was finished, his lordship thought that he ought to take his leave; but he was reluctant to go, and he did not know how to stay. Penelope also wished him gone, for she was afraid of a renewal of an unpleasant topic. The young lady also took no particular pains to conceal that wish, and his lordship was not quite so flat as not to discern that his presence was not very acceptable. In truth, his situation was grievously perplexing, and a wiser man than he would have been at a loss in such circumstances how to act. It was clear to him that Penelope had not quite forgotten Robert Darnley; it was also obvious that Lord Spoonbill was not yet essential to the happiness of Miss Primrose; he most earnestly desired to render himself agreeable to Miss Primrose, and he very well knew that nothing could be more agreeable than that he should take his leave; but that would not have been agreeable to himself; and greatly as he desired to do anything that might recommend him to the approbation of Miss Primrose, he was equally desirous of avoiding anything that might be disagreeable or unpleasant to himself.

Lord Spoonbill is not to be regarded in this instance as differing so very widely from the rest of the world. Other lovers frequently have the same ideas on the subject of the mutual accommodation of themselves and their adored ones. And if, after this observation, any individual of the gentler sex should be deceived by professions and protestations of disinterestedness, the fault will be hers and not ours.

In this embarrassing situation in which Lord Spoonbill was placed, it occurred to his most fertile imagination that it might greatly forward his designs upon Penelope, if, by any means, he could contrive to bring the young lady to think unhandsomely of Robert Darnley. It certainly would not do for his lordship to make any direct allusion to this young gentleman; for it was hardly supposed by Miss Primrose that there existed in the mind of his lordship any knowledge of the acquaintance between her and the son of the rector of Neverden; and such was his lordship’s clumsiness in the management of his irregularities, that he was even fearful of the most indirect allusion to Robert Darnley, lest, in making that allusion, he might betray himself.

At length it came into his lordship’s most sagacious head that, although it might be hazardous to make any allusion to Neverden, there could not be much risk incurred by enquiring after Mrs Greendale, therefore he ventured to ask, as if for want of something else to say, if Miss Primrose had lately heard from Smatterton, and in making this enquiry he endeavoured to watch the countenance of the young lady most narrowly, in order to observe whether the mention of Smatterton produced any deep emotion as connected with Neverden. Penelope answered with perfect composure, and informed the hereditary legislator that Mrs Greendale had not written to her since her departure from Smatterton.

After mentioning Mrs Greendale, his lordship proceeded to some more common talk, merely and obviously to delay his departure; and he manifested in this kind of talk that he had a great wish to recur to that topic which he had introduced on the morning of Mr Primrose’s meeting with his daughter. But if it was evident to Penelope that such was his lordship’s wish, it was quite as evident to his lordship that the young lady was equally uneasy under the apprehension, and dreaded the repetition of a discussion which at its first introduction had so distressed her thoughts.

And now it would have been absolutely and uncontrollably necessary for Lord Spoonbill to take his leave, and he must have taken his leave, not knowing when or how he might find Penelope again, had it not been for one of those unexpected and extraordinary accidents which often change the aspect of a whole life. This accident was neither more nor less than the sudden return of Mr Primrose to his hotel.

By the expression of Mr Primrose’s countenance, which seldom indeed concealed or belied the emotions of his mind, it was visible that some calamity had befallen him, or at least that something had occurred to discompose him. It might not be anything very serious; Penelope hoped it was not; for, during the short time that she had been with her father she had had abundant occasion of observing that such was the susceptibility of his feelings, that the expressions of joy and sorrow were soon excited, and that by a very slight and trifling occurrence.

But it was soon manifest that it was no trivial circumstance that oppressed the spirits of her father in the present instance. When he entered the apartment he scarcely noticed his daughter or Lord Spoonbill. He took the former by the hand, and to the latter he slightly bowed; and this was his only recognition of them, for he did not open his lips, and he scarcely directed his looks towards them. His lips were closely compressed, as if he feared that by opening them he should betray or give way to stronger expressions of grief than might well become him. He sat himself down upon a chair and looked listlessly out into the street, moving neither feature nor muscle, except that the vibration of his eyelids was more rapid than usual.

Lord Spoonbill was now at a loss whether to offer his sympathy or to take his departure. He could not, with any great propriety, leave the room without taking some notice of Mr Primrose; but such was the expression of the poor man’s countenance, that it seemed that merely to speak to him in the most common-place manner imaginable would be to distress his feelings, and to burst open that flood of grief which he seemed to endeavour to restrain. Directing therefore an enquiring look to Penelope, and again turning towards Mr Primrose, his lordship, by these looks and the movements which accompanied them, intimated an intention of departing, if his presence were a restraint. Seeing that Mr Primrose kept his position, and that no change was made in his features, his lordship was just whispering to Penelope that he was sorry to see her father under such depression, and that it might be agreeable that he should leave them, Mr Primrose hastily started up and said;

“I beg your pardon, Lord Spoonbill, for my rudeness, but I have met with a shock this morning that has completely subdued me.”

At this speech, Penelope caught her father’s hand with tender eagerness, and asked, as well as her feelings would allow, what was the nature of the misfortune that he had met with. Most tenderly, and with a tone which reached even the heart of Lord Spoonbill, Mr Primrose said;

“My dear, dear child, you are a dependent again, and God knows how soon you may be an orphan indeed.”

Before Penelope could speak, and indeed before she well comprehended her father’s meaning, the distressed man directed his speech to Lord Spoonbill, saying;

“Could you believe it possible, my lord, that such deliberate villains should exist in a Christian country, as to take from a man the little property which he had been toiling for years to accumulate, to take what they knew they never could restore. Those villains suffered me, but ten days ago, to deposit my all in their hands, and now they have stopped payment; and from all that I can hear in the City, I am not likely to receive above one shilling in the pound, and I may wait months, or perhaps years, for that.”

It may be in the recollection of the reader, that Lord Spoonbill was described in an early part of this narrative as being unduly and indecently pleased to hear of the illness of Dr Greendale, as exulting in the thought that the decease of that worthy, kind-hearted man would afford his lordship a more convenient opportunity of pursuing his schemes against the peace and innocence of Penelope Primrose. It will not therefore appear very surprizing if that same hereditary legislator should regard the present calamity of Mr Primrose as an agreeable circumstance to himself, and as greatly favouring his designs. There was however, in the contemplation of this misfortune of the father of Penelope, a desire also on the part of his lordship to contribute towards its alleviation. Lord Spoonbill was a profligate, and he was a mean, contemptible fellow; but he was not a devil incarnate, delighting in mischief or wickedness purely for its own sake. He wished Mr Primrose no ill, he had no desire to inflict any injuries or to give pain to any one, but he loved himself, and he pursued his own plans for his own pleasure, and he was pleased with whatever gave him promise or hope of success, even though that very circumstance should be the death or injury of another.

Seeing, therefore, that in the present circumstances there was something which afforded him promise, he was pleased, and being pleased he very kindly sympathised with Mr Primrose, and expressed a wish that matters might not be quite so bad as was expected.

Mr Primrose took his lordship’s sympathy very kindly, and his mind was soothed by it; and with rather more self-possession than might have been expected, he replied; “For myself, I care but little; but it is mortifying, after so long an absence from my native land, and after so much toil and perseverance for the sake of my own and only child, to find that all the fruit of that toil is swept away at once.”

Penelope, who had been overwhelmed by the suddenness of the intelligence, had scarcely spoken; but now assuming with great success a calmness and resolvedness of manner, said to her father:

“If that be all the calamity, my dear father, it is easily remedied. The Countess of Smatterton has been kind enough to promise me her high patronage, and to facilitate my efforts towards providing an independency, and Lord Spoonbill has but this moment, just before you returned, been enquiring whether or not I design to continue my preparation for that pursuit.”

“No, no, my Penelope, that is an occupation which I am sure can never suit your taste. I will not on any account consent to that. How can I bear to think of my own child exerting and wasting her strength to amuse the public, and to see her standing before a promiscuous and unfeeling multitude, exposed to the rudeness and insolence of loudly expressed disapprobation and extempore criticism?”

“Nay, my good sir,” said Lord Spoonbill in his pleasantest manner; “there is no danger, and there need be no fear, that Miss Primrose will ever incur disapprobation; whatever loud expressions there may be, will be expressions of applause and delight.”

“And that,” rejoined Mr Primrose, “is almost as bad. To stand up before a multitude and beg for their applause, even if the applause be gained, is to my feelings humiliating. To a female it is more painful still. I cannot brook the idea of being dependent on a multitude, a capricious mass of, perhaps, gross and indiscriminating individuals.”

Lord Spoonbill was so much delighted with the probability of Miss Primrose’s return to the condescending and discriminating patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, that the anticipation made him more than usually eloquent and logical; and there was something also in the manner of Mr Primrose that excited the hereditary legislator to use his utmost powers of persuasion. He therefore thus pursued the subject: