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--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.