He has continued to this day a bachelor. In spite of all intrigue, all solicitation, all persecution, he has remained, in this one instance, obstinate. In all others he is a real Weathercock. He builds cottages, apparently with no object but pulling them down; and pulls them down, apparently with no object but that of building them up: he is a Tory one hour and a Whig the next, and takes in the Chronicle and Courier alternately; he seldom reads more than half a number of a periodical work, and never wears the same coat above a month. In his conversation he pursues the same plan—or rather want of plan—

Modo reges atque tetrarchas,
Omnia magna, loquens; modo “sit mihi mensa tripes, et
Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,
Quamvis crassa, queat ——.”
[Pg 155]

In short—in manner, in language, in business, and in pleasure, he sets an admirable example of mutability, which we shall always make it our study to imitate—especially when we take up our pens.

Of Sir Wilfrid’s nephew and heir we shall here say nothing, as his character has been elsewhere noticed by another hand, under the name of Arthur Clavering. We pass on, therefore, to the Baronet’s maiden sister, Lady Rachel Weathercock, who is nowise deficient in the peculiarities for which her family is remarkable. Lady Rachel has now attained her fiftieth year; the caprices and follies of her youth have gradually subsided; and, in many points, she has become more stationary than a Weathercock ought to be. Her character, however, is just saved by one little ingredient, by which a person who is unacquainted with her habits may be not a little puzzled. Lady Rachel is an inveterate reader, an inveterate talker, and an inveterate arguer. You might therefore suppose that few subjects could be started upon which the lady would not ground a dispute; but it is no such thing. Her ladyship possesses such a delightful pliability of opinion, that it is hardly possible to differ from her upon any topic. We have heard her advocate and abuse every school of painting or poetry in almost immediate succession. She combats to-day the very opinions she maintained yesterday; yet, upon the first semblance of a contradiction, she veers round forthwith, and proves herself a more accommodating antagonist, if possible, than the Neapolitans. Mr. Oakley was three hours in conversation with her; and though the burden of his song was No, No, No, he was unable to pick a quarrel. Like Sir Robert Bramble and Job, “they couldn’t disagree—and so they parted.”

The only remaining member of the family is Sir Wilfrid’s niece. How delightful is your mutability, charming Leonora! You are like a chess-board which is checquered with black and white squares alternately; or a melodrama, in which the tears of Tragedy are relieved by the follies of Farce; or a day in April which blends rain with sunshine, summer with winter; or the Etonian, in which the serious is united with the absurd, and pathos is intermingled with puns. What a wardrobe must be yours! To-day you assume the costume of the victim Mary[Pg 156]—to-morrow that of the executioner Elizabeth; you put off the diamonds of the queen for the garland of the peasant, the curls of the coquette for the veil of the nun. Your voice has a thousand tones; your lips have a thousand smiles—all of them distinct, yet all of them engaging! You are always the same, yet always varying; consistent only in your inconsistency! Be always so! We will build a fane in the most beautiful region of Fancy, where no two flowers shall wear the same hue, no two days be of the same length or temperature: light gales shall breathe from all points of the compass by turns, and clear streams shall vary their course every hour; stability shall be sacrilege—and Leonora shall be the Goddess of the Temple.

GOLIGHTLY’S ESSAY ON BLUES.
A FRAGMENT.

Lady Dabble is a True Blue. She is a meddler in literature of every sort and description. Poetry and prose, pamphlets and plays, sermons and satires, overtures and odes—all are her hobbies, all are the objects of her patronage, all are subjects of her harangues. At her house is the synod held: where criticism and tea are poured out together, where sweet sugar and sweeter sonnets melt in delicious unison. It is delightful to spend a few hours at Lady Babble’s conversazione. All inferior wits and witlings flit around her like twinkling stars; while her ladyship, with her full-moon face—but it strikes us that this is a very old simile.

Of all Blues we think the Light Blue is our favourite. Mark the surprising difference which exists between Emilia, the Light Blue, and her sister Sophia, the Dark Blue. Sophia is a fine vessel, properly supplied with everything requisite for a long voyage; but a villanous slow sailer. Emilia is the same vessel, but certainly it has thrown out a vast quantity of ballast. To speak in plainer language, Sophia talks learnedly, and puzzles you; Emilia talks[Pg 157] learnedly, and amuses you; the latter sets you a laughing, and the former sends you to sleep. A good painter will select for his picture only the most agreeable parts of the landscape which lies before him; a good talker will notice the more pleasing points of his subject, while he will throw aside the tedious. But, alas! Emilia will describe a statue, while Sophia is treating of a finger; and the Light Blue will analyse the “Iliad,” while the Dark Blue is discussing the Digamma.

Fannia is a fair one, who endeavours to unite the extreme of fashionable dress with the extreme of unfashionable Blue-ism. Mr. Hodgson made a vile pun (as usual) when he denominated her a Blue Belle.