"Smile, hypocrite, smile! It is no such hard labor,
While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor:
Faugh!—Fear not; we've no hearts in Vanity Fair."
MISS MULOCH.
We have been absent for a long time from Ashcliffe Hall. In fact, nothing has occurred there since Celia's departure of sufficient moment to be recorded. But on Easter Tuesday of 1712, Harry returned home for a short time. He brought plenty of town news, political and otherwise.
"Twelve new Tory peers were created on New Year's Day"—
The Squire swore at this piece of information.
"And the Duke of Marlborough[[1]] has fallen in disgrace"—
"So we heard, lad, so we heard," said his father, discontentedly. "Somebody ought to be ashamed of himself."
"And Prince Eugene[[2]] is come to England on a visit to Her Majesty, 'tis thought to plead for the Duke."
"O Harry! have you seen Prince Eugene?"
"Yes, Lucy, several times. Do you wish to know what he is like? Well, fancy a small, but well-made man, with a dark complexion, a large Roman nose, black eyes, lively and piercing, and black hair."
"Do you think the Queen will listen to his pleading for the Duke?"