There was our friend Lord St. Jerome; of course his
stepmother, yet young, and some sisters, pretty as nuns. There were some
cousins from the farthest north, Northumbria's bleakest bound, who came
down upon Yorkshire like the Goths upon Italy, and were revelling in
what they considered a southern clime.
There was an M.P. in whom the Catholics had hopes. He had made a great
speech; not only a great speech, but a great impression. His matter
certainly was not new, but well arranged, and his images not singularly
original, but appositely introduced; in short, a bore, who, speaking
on a subject in which a new hand is indulged, and connected with the
families whose cause he was pleading, was for once courteously listened
to by the very men who determined to avenge themselves for their
complaisance by a cough on the first opportunity. But the orator was
prudent; he reserved himself, and the session closed with his fame yet
full-blown.
Then there were country neighbours in great store, with wives that
were treasures, and daughters fresh as flowers. Among them we would
particularise two gentlemen.
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