Feather-bed 'twixt castle wall And heavy brunt of cannon ball, while I, your earliest acquaintance in this intellectual family, ask of you how you like us all?” “A very comprehensive question, Miss Vernon, considering how short while I have been at Osbaldistone Hall.” “Oh, the philosophy of our family lies on the surface--there are minute shades distinguishing the individuals, which require the eye of an intelligent observer; but the species, as naturalists I believe call it, may be distinguished and characterized at once.” “My five elder cousins, then, are I presume of pretty nearly the same character.” “Yes, they form a happy compound of sot, gamekeeper, bully, horse-jockey, and fool; but as they say there cannot be found two leaves on the same tree exactly alike, so these happy ingredients, being mingled in somewhat various proportions in each individual, make an agreeable variety for those who like to study character.” “Give me a sketch, if you please, Miss Vernon.” “You shall have them all in a family-piece, at full length--the favour is too easily granted to be refused. Percie, the son and heir, has more of the sot than of the gamekeeper, bully, horse-jockey, or fool--My precious Thornie is more of the bully than the sot, gamekeeper, jockey, or fool--John, who sleeps whole weeks amongst the hills, has most of the gamekeeper--The jockey is powerful with Dickon, who rides two hundred miles by day and night to be bought and sold at a horse-race--And the fool predominates so much over Wilfred's other qualities, that he may be termed a fool positive.” “A goodly collection, Miss Vernon, and the individual varieties belong to a most interesting species. But is there no room on the canvas for Sir Hildebrand?” “I love my uncle,” was her reply: “I owe him some kindness (such it was meant for at least), and I will leave you to draw his picture yourself, when you know him better.” “Come,” thought I to myself, “I am glad there is some forbearance. After all, who would have looked for such bitter satire from a creature so young, and so exquisitely beautiful?” “You are thinking of me,” she said, bending her dark eyes on me, as if she meant to pierce through my very soul. “I certainly was,” I replied, with some embarrassment at the determined suddenness of the question, and then, endeavouring to give a complimentary turn to my frank avowal--“How is it possible I should think of anything else, seated as I have the happiness to be?”