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.