An old gentleman called here this morning, who amused me so much by a dry good humour, which brought Mr. Bentley, and visions of my beloved Glenalta to memory, that I long to be better acquainted with him. I owe him my gratitude also for entering the lists most gallantly, in quality of my defender, and saying for me, to that tiresome Mr. Johnson, whom I have already introduced to you, what I never could have said for myself. They entered the library together, and found me reading the newspapers to my uncle, who, on perceiving that I was going to make my escape, gently restrained my movement by laying his hand on my arm, and desiring that I should stay and help him to entertain his visitors. When they came in, and the usual comments on the weather and state of the roads were ended, the old gentleman appeared occupied in conversation with my uncle, when the young one turned round to me, and taking up the paper which I had laid down, with that self-sufficient air of conscious superiority which so many young men ridiculously assume, and in a tone which implied as much contempt as indifference would permit him to express, drawled out “Pray, Miss Douglas, are you a politician?” I knew not what to say, and I suppose looked as foolish as I felt, which old Mr. Bolton appeared to observe, and with an alacrity of kindness worthy of the chivalrous ages, he made an answer for me, which, if it did not _satisfy_, at least silenced the enquirer. “I hope that Miss Douglas takes pleasure in reading the newspapers,” said my knight, “newspapers contain the history of the present time, and while that of the past is read by all who do not desire to be branded for their ignorance (here he cast a sidelong glance at the younger visitor), I see no reason why a lady should disdain useful knowledge, because it is not _yet_ presented to her in the form of a _book_;” then changing the subject, before I had power to speak, he added, “But, Miss Douglas, pray tell me how you like Hampshire, and what you think of John Bull, who, I am afraid, seems a rude sort of animal in your eyes?” This was said so gaily, that I did not suffer the least confusion, and resolving that I would not bring discredit by my _niaiserie_ on dear Ireland, I took courage, and replied, that Hampshire was beautiful, and when the _election_ was over I would tell him how I liked the inhabitants, as _then_ I might hope to become acquainted with them. Mr. Bolton laughed heartily, and answered with the pleasantest animation, “Be assured, my dear young lady, that the election which you deprecate, is a better friend than you think, and saves you from the fancy-ring and white mustard-seed, which are the favourite topics that have succeeded the Catholic question just _gone by_. Now I conceive, from your countenance, that you would not like the pugilistic platform better than the hustings, nor find the stomach a more interesting subject of conversation than the _poll_: what say you?”