CHAP. III.

Tis not the dress or mien my soul adores, "But the rich beauties of a British mind."

SHENSTONE.

THOUGH Miss Mandeville had by this time discovered, that, either owing to forgetfulness, or, as some would say, too great poetical powers, (for a certain coarse word must never be applied to the communications of a lady) the narratives of Lady Mackintosh were not strictly correct, not always so much alike as to enable one to discover she was talking of the same people whose adventures she had painted a week before in different col

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ours, she could not help applying to her as an historian would to old Geoffrey Monmouth when every other author was silent. But here her ladyship also was dumb, though she pleaded ignorance in such a manner as convinced Emily "she could a tale unfold." Her ladyship was one of those wonder-makers who are so often met with in society, and who seem to consider conversation, "not as the feast of reason or the flow of soul," but as the celebration of an ancient game, where every one contends who shall shoot his arrows and hurl his quoits farthest. Like the giants of old, they consider truth as a Jupiter, and pile Pelion on Ossa and Ossa on Olympus till they erect a pile to defy its omnipotence. If, to avoid sinking into total insignificance in such company, you venture to sport what you think a Patagonian bouncer, they instantly create a full

grown Brobdignag monster to oppose it, and your pigmy marvel at last looks only like Gulliver on the lap of Glumdalclitch. With the propensity to deal in prodigies, and with such an untold mystery to relate, as the story of a man of sense and courage seriously affected by love, what influence more potent than the rod of Hermes could chain the voluble tongue of Lady Mackintosh ?

They know little of the disposition of youth who suppose its imagination is circumscribed by meeting with dif ficulty and opposition. opposition. Sir Walter had begun to expatiate in praise of his friend during the first week of his niece's residence with him, but it was not till the inundation of company had subsided, and Emily discovered that there was something in the story which she could not know, that she gave up her whole thoughts to muse

on Lord Avondel. The interest she took in his glory was highly grateful to her guardian, who, by applying to her, received correct intelligence when the overland dispatches were expected. It had lately been whispered, that in consequence of a change in administration, letters of recall had been sent to India, and Sir Walter consoled the feelings of the patriot by indulging those of the friend. "He will certainly visit me," said the veteran, "if he lives to come home, and these old walls shall ring with joy when he enters my gate. I'll have an ox roasted, and we will tap the pipes of cyder saved for poor George's coming of age. All the country shall be called in, and we will go out to meet him with such a cavalcade as has never been seen since my grandfather met and feasted the king's army after it had beaten the Duke of Monmouth at Sedgemoor. Girl, you

shall see such bonfires, and hear such rejoicings! That's the way we old soldier's welcome our brave comrades. We shall talk over our campaigns, but pray don't you put in with foolish speeches, for I can tell you my lord has an utter aversion to ignorant people."

Roasting an ox, broaching pipes of cyder, calling in the tenants, and talking over campaigns, do not sound like amusements which a girl would prefer to Ranelagh and the Opera: but Emily's education had given her somewhat of a romantic turn, and it is certain the chance of seeing Lord Avondel was one unacknowledged motive for her continuing so perfectly satisfied with her present residence. The probability of that desired pleasure was regularly discussed in the family party after the arrival of the newspapers, but these faithful registers, or rather let me